THE COMPLETE PLAYS OF SHAKESPEARE

By

William Shakespeare

Illustrated with Extensive Critical and Historical Commentary

The Complete Works Collection

©2011

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE COMPLETE TRAGEDIES

TITUS ANDRONICUS

ROMEO AND JULIET

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JULIUS CAESAR

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE

KING LEAR

THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH

THE LIFE OF TIMON OF ATHENS

THE TRAGEDY OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA

THE TRAGEDY OF CORIOLANUS

THE COMPLETE HISTORIES

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF RICHARD THE SECOND

THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH

THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH

THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH

THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE EIGHTH

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF RICHARD THE THIRD

THE COMPLETE COMEDIES

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

AS YOU LIKE IT

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

LOVE’S LABOUR ’S LOST

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

TWELFTH NIGHT OR, WHAT YOU WILL

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

THE COMPLETE ROMANCES

PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE

CYMBELINE

THE WINTER’S TALE

THE TEMPEST

A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO SHAKESPEARE

Illustrations

The Complete Tragedies

By

William Shakespeare

TITUS ANDRONICUS

ROMEO AND JULIET

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JULIUS CAESAR

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE

KING LEAR

THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH

THE LIFE OF TIMON OF ATHENS

THE TRAGEDY OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA

THE TRAGEDY OF CORIOLANUS

Titus Andronicus

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. ROME. BEFORE THE CAPITOL.

ACT II

SCENE I. ROME. BEFORE THE PALACE.

SCENE II. A FOREST NEAR ROME. HORNS AND CRY OF HOUNDS HEARD.

SCENE III. A LONELY PART OF THE FOREST.

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FOREST.

ACT III

SCENE I. ROME. A STREET.

SCENE II. A ROOM IN TITUS’S HOUSE. A BANQUET SET OUT.

ACT IV

SCENE I. ROME. TITUS’S GARDEN.

SCENE II. THE SAME. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

SCENE III. THE SAME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE IV. THE SAME. BEFORE THE PALACE.

ACT V

SCENE I. PLAINS NEAR ROME.

SCENE II. ROME. BEFORE TITUS’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. COURT OF TITUS’S HOUSE. A BANQUET SET OUT.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Saturninus, son to the late Emperor of Rome, afterwards Emperor.

Bassianus, brother to Saturninus.

Titus Andronicus, a noble Roman.

Marcus Andronicus, Tribune of the People, and brother to Titus.

Lucius, Quintus, Martius, Mutius, sons to Titus Andronicus.

Young Lucius, a boy, son to Lucius.

Publius, son to Marcus Andronicus.

Sempronius, Caius, Valentine, kinsmen to Titus.

Aemilius, a noble Roman.

Alarbus, Demetrius, Chiron, sons to Tamora.

Aaron, a Moor, beloved by Tamora.

A Captain.

A Messenger.

A Clown.

Tamora, Queen of the Goths.

Lavinia, daughter to Titus Andronicus.

A Nurse, and a black Child.

Romans and Goths, Senators, Tribunes, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants.

Scene: Rome and the neighbourhood.

ACT I

SCENE I. ROME. BEFORE THE CAPITOL.

The Tomb of the Andronici appearing; the Tribunes and Senators aloft. Enter, below, from one side, Saturninus and his Followers; and, from the other side, Bassianus and his Followers; with drum and colours

Saturninus

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:

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.

Bassianus

Romans, friends, followers, favorers of my right,

If ever Bassianus, Caesar’s son,

Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome,

Keep then this passage to the Capitol

And suffer not dishonour to approach

The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate,

To justice, continence and nobility;

But let desert in pure election shine,

And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice.

Enter Marcus Andronicus, aloft, with the crown

Marcus Andronicus

Princes, that strive by factions and by friends

Ambitiously for rule and empery,

Know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand

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:

A nobler man, a braver warrior,

Lives not this day within the city walls:

He by the senate is accit’d home

From weary wars against the barbarous Goths;

That, with his sons, a terror to our foes,

Hath yoked a nation strong, train’d up in arms.

Ten years are spent since first he undertook

This cause of Rome and chastised with arms

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 horror’s spoils,

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.

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.

Saturninus

How fair the tribune speaks to calm my thoughts!

Bassianus

Marcus Andronicus, so I do ally

In thy uprightness and integrity,

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,

That I will here dismiss my loving friends,

And to my fortunes and the people’s favor

Commit my cause in balance to be weigh’d.

Exeunt the followers of Bassianus

Saturninus

Friends, that have been thus forward in my right,

I thank you all and here dismiss you all,

And to the love and favor of my country

Commit myself, my person and the cause.

Exeunt the followers of Saturninus

Rome, be as just and gracious unto me

As I am confident and kind to thee.

Open the gates, and let me in.

Bassianus

Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor.

Flourish. Saturninus and Bassianus go up into the Capitol

Enter a Captain

Captain

Romans, make way: the good Andronicus.

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,

And brought to yoke, the enemies of Rome.

Drums and trumpets sounded. 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, Demetrius, Chiron, Aaron, and other Goths, prisoners; Soldiers and people following. The Bearers set down the coffin, and Titus speaks

Titus Andronicus

Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds!

Lo, as the bark, that hath discharged her fraught,

Returns with precious jading to the bay

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.

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,

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 amongst their ancestors:

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?

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,

Sweet cell of virtue and nobility,

How many sons of mine hast thou in store,

That thou wilt never render to me more!

Lucius

Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths,

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 unappeased,

Nor we disturb’d with prodigies on earth.

Titus Andronicus

I give him you, the noblest that survives,

The eldest son of this distressed queen.

Tamora

Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious conqueror,

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!

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,

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:

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.

Titus Andronicus

Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me.

These are their brethren, whom you Goths beheld

Alive and dead, and for their brethren slain

Religiously they ask a sacrifice:

To this your son is mark’d, and die he must,

To appease their groaning shadows that are gone.

Lucius

Away with him! and make a fire straight;

And with our swords, upon a pile of wood,

Let’s hew his limbs till they be clean consumed.

Exeunt Lucius, Quintus, Martius, and Mutius, with Alarbus

Tamora

O cruel, irreligious piety!

Chiron

Was ever Scythia half so barbarous?

Demetrius

Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome.

Alarbus goes to rest; and we survive

To tremble under Titus’ threatening looks.

Then, madam, stand resolved, but hope withal

The self-same gods that arm’d the Queen of Troy

With opportunity of sharp revenge

Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent,

May favor Tamora, the Queen of Goths —

When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen —

To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes.

Re-enter Lucius, Quintus, Martius and Mutius, with their swords bloody

Lucius

See, lord and father, how we have perform’d

Our Roman rites: Alarbus’ limbs are lopp’d,

And entrails feed the sacrificing fire,

Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky.

Remaineth nought, but to inter our brethren,

And with loud ’larums welcome them to Rome.

Titus Andronicus

Let it be so; and let Andronicus

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!

Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells,

Here grow no damned grudges; here are no storms,

No noise, but silence and eternal sleep:

In peace and honour rest you here, my sons!

Enter Lavinia

Lavinia

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;

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!

Titus Andronicus

Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserved

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!

Enter, below, Marcus Andronicus and Tribunes; re-enter Saturninus and Bassianus, attended

Marcus Andronicus

Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother,

Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome!

Titus Andronicus

Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother Marcus.

Marcus Andronicus

And welcome, nephews, from successful wars,

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,

That hath aspired 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,

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:

Be candidatus then, and put it on,

And help to set a head on headless Rome.

Titus Andronicus

A better head her glorious body fits

Than his that shakes for age and feebleness:

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?

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,

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.

Marcus Andronicus

Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the empery.

Saturninus

Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou tell?

Titus Andronicus

Patience, Prince Saturninus.

Saturninus

Romans, do me right:

Patricians, draw your swords: and sheathe them not

Till Saturninus be Rome’s emperor.

Andronicus, would thou wert shipp’d to hell,

Rather than rob me of the people’s hearts!

Lucius

Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good

That noble-minded Titus means to thee!

Titus Andronicus

Content thee, prince; I will restore to thee

The people’s hearts, and wean them from themselves.

Bassianus

Andronicus, I do not flatter thee,

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.

Titus Andronicus

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,

The people will accept whom he admits.

Titus Andronicus

Tribunes, I thank you: and this suit I make,

That you create your emperor’s eldest son,

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,

Crown him and say ‘Long live our emperor!’

Marcus Andronicus

With voices and applause of every sort,

Patricians and plebeians, we create

Lord Saturninus Rome’s great emperor,

And say ‘Long live our Emperor Saturnine!’

A long flourish till they come down

Saturninus

Titus Andronicus, for thy favors done

To us in our election this day,

I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts,

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,

Rome’s royal mistress, mistress of my heart,

And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse:

Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee?

Titus Andronicus

It doth, my worthy lord; and in this match

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

My sword, my chariot and my prisoners;

Presents well worthy Rome’s imperial lord:

Receive them then, the tribute that I owe,

Mine honour’s ensigns humbled at thy feet.

Saturninus

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,

Romans, forget your fealty to me.

Titus Andronicus

[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.

Saturninus

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,

Thou comest not to be made a scorn in Rome:

Princely shall be thy usage every way.

Rest on my word, and let not discontent

Daunt all your hopes: madam, he comforts you

Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths.

Lavinia, you are not displeased with this?

Lavinia

Not I, my lord; sith true nobility

Warrants these words in princely courtesy.

Saturninus

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

Bassianus

Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine.

Seizing Lavinia

Titus Andronicus

How, sir! are you in earnest then, my lord?

Bassianus

Ay, noble Titus; and resolved withal

To do myself this reason and this right.

Marcus Andronicus

‘suum cuique’ is our Roman justice:

This prince in justice seizeth but his own.

Lucius

And that he will, and shall, if Lucius live.

Titus Andronicus

Traitors, avaunt! Where is the emperor’s guard?

Treason, my lord! Lavinia is surprised!

Saturninus

Surprised! by whom?

Bassianus

By him that justly may

Bear his betroth’d from all the world away.

Exeunt Bassianus and Marcus with Lavinia

Mutius

Brothers, help to convey her hence away,

And with my sword I’ll keep this door safe.

Exeunt Lucius, Quintus, and Martius

Titus Andronicus

Follow, my lord, and I’ll soon bring her back.

Mutius

My lord, you pass not here.

Titus Andronicus

What, villain boy!

Barr’st me my way in Rome?

Stabbing Mutius

Mutius

Help, Lucius, help!

Dies

During the fray, Saturninus, Tamora, Demetrius, Chiron and Aaron go out and re-enter, above

Re-enter Lucius

Lucius

My lord, you are unjust, and, more than so,

In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son.

Titus Andronicus

Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine;

My sons would never so dishonour me:

Traitor, restore Lavinia to the emperor.

Lucius

Dead, if you will; but not to be his wife,

That is another’s lawful promised love.

Exit

Saturninus

No, Titus, no; the emperor needs her not,

Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock:

I’ll trust, by leisure, him that mocks me once;

Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons,

Confederates all thus to dishonour me.

Was there none else in Rome to make a stale,

But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus,

Agree these deeds with that proud brag of thine,

That said’st I begg’d the empire at thy hands.

Titus Andronicus

O monstrous! what reproachful words are these?

Saturninus

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,

To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome.

Titus Andronicus

These words are razors to my wounded heart.

Saturninus

And therefore, lovely Tamora, queen of Goths,

That like the stately Phoebe ’mongst her nymphs

Dost overshine the gallant’st dames of Rome,

If thou be pleased with this my sudden choice,

Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride,

And will create thee empress of Rome,

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

In readiness for Hymenaeus stand,

I will not re-salute the streets of Rome,

Or climb my palace, till from forth this place

I lead espoused my bride along with me.

Tamora

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.

Saturninus

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:

There shall we consummate our spousal rites.

Exeunt all but Titus

Titus Andronicus

I am not bid to wait upon this bride.

Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone,

Dishonour’d thus, and challenged of wrongs?

Re-enter Marcus, Lucius, Quintus, and Martius

Marcus Andronicus

O Titus, see, O, see what thou hast done!

In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son.

Titus Andronicus

No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine,

Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed

That hath dishonour’d all our family;

Unworthy brother, and unworthy sons!

Lucius

But let us give him burial, as becomes;

Give Mutius burial with our brethren.

Titus Andronicus

Traitors, away! he rests not in this tomb:

This monument five hundred years hath stood,

Which I have sumptuously re-edified:

Here none but soldiers and Rome’s servitors

Repose in fame; none basely slain in brawls:

Bury him where you can; he comes not here.

Marcus Andronicus

My lord, this is impiety in you:

My nephew Mutius’ deeds do plead for him

He must be buried with his brethren.

Quintus

Martius

And shall, or him we will accompany.

Titus Andronicus

‘And shall!’ what villain was it that spake that word?

Quintus

He that would vouch it in any place but here.

Titus Andronicus

What, would you bury him in my despite?

Marcus Andronicus

No, noble Titus, but entreat of thee

To pardon Mutius and to bury him.

Titus Andronicus

Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest,

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.

Martius

He is not with himself; let us withdraw.

Quintus

Not I, till Mutius’ bones be buried.

Marcus and the Sons of Titus kneel

Marcus Andronicus

Brother, for in that name doth nature plead,—

Quintus

Father, and in that name doth nature speak,—

Titus Andronicus

Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed.

Marcus Andronicus

Renowned Titus, more than half my soul,—

Lucius

Dear father, soul and substance of us all,—

Marcus Andronicus

Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter

His noble nephew here in virtue’s nest,

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

Did graciously plead for his funerals:

Let not young Mutius, then, that was thy joy

Be barr’d his entrance here.

Titus Andronicus

Rise, Marcus, rise.

The dismall’st day is this that e’er I saw,

To be dishonour’d by my sons in Rome!

Well, bury him, and bury me the next.

Mutius is put into the tomb

Lucius

There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends,

Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb.

All

[Kneeling] No man shed tears for noble Mutius;

He lives in fame that died in virtue’s cause.

Marcus Andronicus

My lord, to step out of these dreary dumps,

How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths

Is of a sudden thus advanced in Rome?

Titus Andronicus

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

That brought her for this high good turn so far?

Yes, and will nobly him remunerate.

Flourish. Re-enter, from one side, Saturninus attended, Tamora, Demetrius, Chiron and Aaron; from the other, Bassianus, Lavinia, and others

Saturninus

So, Bassianus, you have play’d your prize:

God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride!

Bassianus

And you of yours, my lord! I say no more,

Nor wish no less; and so, I take my leave.

Saturninus

Traitor, if Rome have law or we have power,

Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape.

Bassianus

Rape, call you it, my lord, to seize my own,

My truth-betrothed love and now my wife?

But let the laws of Rome determine all;

Meanwhile I am possess’d of that is mine.

Saturninus

’Tis good, sir: you are very short with us;

But, if we live, we’ll be as sharp with you.

Bassianus

My lord, what I have done, as best I may,

Answer I must and shall do with my life.

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;

That in the rescue of Lavinia

With his own hand did slay his youngest son,

In zeal to you and highly moved to wrath

To be controll’d in that he frankly gave:

Receive him, then, to favor, Saturnine,

That hath express’d himself in all his deeds

A father and a friend to thee and Rome.

Titus Andronicus

Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds:

’Tis thou and those that have dishonour’d me.

Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge,

How I have loved and honour’d Saturnine!

Tamora

My worthy lord, if ever Tamora

Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine,

Then hear me speak in indifferently for all;

And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past.

Saturninus

What, madam! be dishonour’d openly,

And basely put it up without revenge?

Tamora

Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend

I should be author to dishonour you!

But on mine honour dare I undertake

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,

Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart.

Aside to Saturninus

be won at last;

Dissemble all your griefs and discontents:

You are but newly planted in your throne;

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,

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,

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;

Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart

That dies in tempest of thy angry frown.

Saturninus

Rise, Titus, rise; my empress hath prevail’d.

Titus Andronicus

I thank your majesty, and her, my lord:

These words, these looks, infuse new life in me.

Tamora

Titus, I am incorporate in Rome,

A Roman now adopted happily,

And must advise the emperor for his good.

This day all quarrels die, Andronicus;

And let it be mine honour, good my lord,

That I have reconciled your friends and you.

For you, Prince Bassianus, I have pass’d

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,

You shall ask pardon of his majesty.

Lucius

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.

Marcus Andronicus

That, on mine honour, here I do protest.

Saturninus

Away, and talk not; trouble us no more.

Tamora

Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be friends:

The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace;

I will not be denied: sweet heart, look back.

Saturninus

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: 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.

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.

Titus Andronicus

To-morrow, an it please your majesty

To hunt the panther and the hart with me,

With horn and hound we’ll give your grace bonjour.

Saturninus

Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too.

Flourish. Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. ROME. BEFORE THE PALACE.

Enter Aaron

Aaron

Now climbeth Tamora Olympus’ top,

Safe out of fortune’s shot; and sits aloft,

Secure of thunder’s crack or lightning flash;

Advanced above pale envy’s threatening reach.

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;

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,

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

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.

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 shipwreck and his commonweal’s.

Holloa! what storm is this?

Enter Demetrius and Chiron, braving

Demetrius

Chiron, thy years want wit, thy wit wants edge,

And manners, to intrude where I am graced;

And may, for aught thou know’st, affected be.

Chiron

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

To serve, and to deserve my mistress’ grace;

And that my sword upon thee shall approve,

And plead my passions for Lavinia’s love.

Aaron

[Aside] Clubs, clubs! these lovers will not keep the peace.

Demetrius

Why, boy, although our mother, unadvised,

Gave you a dancing-rapier by your side,

Are you so desperate grown, to threat your friends?

Go to; have your lath glued within your sheath

Till you know better how to handle it.

Chiron

Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have,

Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare.

Demetrius

Ay, boy, grow ye so brave?

They draw

Aaron

[Coming forward] Why, how now, lords!

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:

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.

For shame, put up.

Demetrius

Not I, till I have sheathed

My rapier in his bosom and withal

Thrust these reproachful speeches down his throat

That he hath breathed in my dishonour here.

Chiron

For that I am prepared and full resolved.

Foul-spoken coward, that thunder’st with thy tongue,

And with thy weapon nothing darest perform!

Aaron

Away, I say!

Now, by the gods that warlike 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?

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?

Young lords, beware! and should the empress know

This discord’s ground, the music would not please.

Chiron

I care not, I, knew she and all the world:

I love Lavinia more than all the world.

Demetrius

Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner choice:

Lavinia is thine elder brother’s hope.

Aaron

Why, are ye mad? or know ye not, in Rome

How furious and impatient they be,

And cannot brook competitors in love?

I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths

By this device.

Chiron

Aaron, a thousand deaths

Would I propose to achieve her whom I love.

Aaron

To achieve her! how?

Demetrius

Why makest thou it so strange?

She is a woman, therefore may be woo’d;

She is a woman, therefore may be won;

She is Lavinia, therefore must be loved.

What, man! more water glideth by the mill

Than wots the miller of; and easy it is

Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know:

Though Bassianus be the emperor’s brother.

Better than he have worn Vulcan’s badge.

Aaron

[Aside] Ay, and as good as Saturninus may.

Demetrius

Then why should he despair that knows to court it

With words, fair looks and liberality?

What, hast not thou full often struck a doe,

And borne her cleanly by the keeper’s nose?

Aaron

Why, then, it seems, some certain snatch or so

Would serve your turns.

Chiron

Ay, so the turn were served.

Demetrius

Aaron, thou hast hit it.

Aaron

Would you had hit it too!

Then should not we be tired with this ado.

Why, hark ye, hark ye! and are you such fools

To square for this? would it offend you, then

That both should speed?

Chiron

Faith, not me.

Demetrius

Nor me, so I were one.

Aaron

For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar:

’Tis policy and stratagem must do

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.

A speedier course than lingering languishment

Must we pursue, and I have found the path.

My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand;

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:

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,

Will we acquaint with all that we intend;

And she shall file our engines with advice,

That will not suffer you to square yourselves,

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;

There serve your lusts, shadow’d from heaven’s eye,

And revel in Lavinia’s treasury.

Chiron

Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice,

Demetrius

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 NEAR ROME. HORNS AND CRY OF HOUNDS HEARD.

Enter Titus Andronicus, with Hunters, & c., Marcus, Lucius, Quintus, and Martius

Titus Andronicus

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

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:

I have been troubled in my sleep this night,

But dawning day new comfort hath inspired.

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:

I promised your grace a hunter’s peal.

Saturninus

And you have rung it lustily, my lord;

Somewhat too early for new-married ladies.

Bassianus

Lavinia, how say you?

Lavinia

I say, no;

I have been broad awake two hours and more.

Saturninus

Come on, then; horse and chariots let us have,

And to our sport.

To Tamora

Madam, now shall ye see

Our Roman hunting.

Marcus Andronicus

I have dogs, my lord,

Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase,

And climb the highest promontory top.

Titus Andronicus

And I have horse will follow where the game

Makes way, and run like swallows o’er the plain.

Demetrius

Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor hound,

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

Aaron

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

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

Hides the gold

That have their alms out of the empress’ chest.

Enter Tamora

Tamora

My lovely Aaron, wherefore look’st thou sad,

When every thing doth make a gleeful boast?

The birds chant melody on every bush,

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,

And, whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds,

Replying shrilly to the well-tuned horns,

As if a double hunt were heard at once,

Let us sit down and mark their yelping noise;

And, after conflict such as was supposed

The wandering prince and Dido once enjoy’d,

When with a happy storm they were surprised

And curtain’d with a counsel-keeping cave,

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

Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep.

Aaron

Madam, though Venus govern your desires,

Saturn is dominator over mine:

What signifies my deadly-standing eye,

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?

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,

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

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;

Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty,

Which dreads not yet their lives’ destruction.

Tamora

Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life!

Aaron

No more, great empress; Bassianus comes:

Be cross with him; and I’ll go fetch thy sons

To back thy quarrels, whatsoe’er they be.

Exit

Enter Bassianus and Lavinia

Bassianus

Who have we here? Rome’s royal empress,

Unfurnish’d of her well-beseeming troop?

Or is it Dian, habited like her,

Who hath abandoned her holy groves

To see the general hunting in this forest?

Tamora

Saucy controller of our private steps!

Had I the power that some say Dian had,

Thy temples should be planted presently

With horns, as was Actaeon’s; and the hounds

Should drive upon thy new-transformed limbs,

Unmannerly intruder as thou art!

Lavinia

Under your patience, gentle empress,

’Tis thought you have a goodly gift in horning;

And to be doubted that your Moor and you

Are singled forth to try experiments:

Jove shield your husband from his hounds to-day!

’Tis pity they should take him for a stag.

Bassianus

Believe me, queen, your swarth Cimmerian

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,

Accompanied but with a barbarous Moor,

If foul desire had not conducted you?

Lavinia

And, being intercepted in your sport,

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.

Bassianus

The king my brother shall have note of this.

Lavinia

Ay, for these slips have made him noted long:

Good king, to be so mightily abused!

Tamora

Why have I patience to endure all this?

Enter Demetrius and Chiron

Demetrius

How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious mother!

Why doth your highness look so pale and wan?

Tamora

Have I not reason, think you, to look pale?

These two have ’ticed me hither to this place:

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:

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,

But straight they told me they would bind me here

Unto the body of a dismal yew,

And leave me to this miserable death:

And then they call’d 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,

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.

Demetrius

This is a witness that I am thy son.

Stabs Bassianus

Chiron

And this for me, struck home to show my strength.

Also stabs Bassianus, who dies

Lavinia

Ay, come, Semiramis, nay, barbarous Tamora,

For no name fits thy nature but thy own!

Tamora

Give me thy poniard; you shall know, my boys

Your mother’s hand shall right your mother’s wrong.

Demetrius

Stay, madam; here is more belongs to her;

First thrash the corn, then after burn the straw:

This minion stood upon her chastity,

Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty,

And with that painted hope braves your mightiness:

And shall she carry this unto her grave?

Chiron

An if she do, I would I were an eunuch.

Drag hence her husband to some secret hole,

And make his dead trunk pillow to our lust.

Tamora

But when ye have the honey ye desire,

Let not this wasp outlive, us both to sting.

Chiron

I warrant you, madam, we wil l make that sure.

Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy

That nice-preserved honesty of yours.

Lavinia

O Tamora! thou bear’st a woman’s face,—

Tamora

I will not hear her speak; away with her!

Lavinia

Sweet lords, entreat her hear me but a word.

Demetrius

Listen, fair madam: let it be your glory

To see her tears; but be your heart to them

As unrelenting flint to drops of rain.

Lavinia

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;

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.

Chiron

What, wouldst thou have me prove myself a bastard?

Lavinia

’Tis true; the raven doth not hatch a lark:

Yet have I heard,— O, could I find it now!—

The lion moved with pity did endure

To have his princely paws pared all away:

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!

Tamora

I know not what it means; away with her!

Lavinia

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.

Tamora

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;

But fierce Andronicus would not relent;

Therefore, away with her, and use her as you will,

The worse to her, the better loved of me.

Lavinia

O Tamora, be call’d a gentle queen,

And with thine own hands kill me in this place!

For ’tis not life that I have begg’d so long;

Poor I was slain when Bassianus died.

Tamora

What begg’st thou, then? fond woman, let me go.

Lavinia

’Tis present death I beg; and one thing more

That womanhood denies my tongue to tell:

O, keep me from their worse than killing lust,

And tumble me into some loathsome pit,

Where never man’s eye may behold my body:

Do this, and be a charitable murderer.

Tamora

So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee:

No, let them satisfy their lust on thee.

Demetrius

Away! for thou hast stay’d us here too long.

Lavinia

No grace? no womanhood? Ah, beastly creature!

The blot and enemy to our general name!

Confusion fall —

Chiron

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

Tamora

Farewell, my sons: see that you make her sure.

Ne’er let my heart know merry cheer indeed,

Till all the Andronici be made away.

Now will I hence to seek my lovely Moor,

And let my spleenful sons this trull deflow’r.

Exit

Re-enter Aaron, with Quintus and Martius

Aaron

Come on, my lords, the better foot before:

Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit

Where I espied the panther fast asleep.

Quintus

My sight is very dull, whate’er it bodes.

Martius

And mine, I promise you; were’t not for shame,

Well could I leave our sport to sleep awhile.

Falls into the pit

Quintus

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 dew distill’d on flowers?

A very fatal place it seems to me.

Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall?

Martius

O brother, with the dismall’st object hurt

That ever eye with sight made heart lament!

Aaron

[Aside] Now will I fetch the king to find them here,

That he thereby may give a likely guess

How these were they that made away his brother.

Exit

Martius

Why dost not comfort me, and help me out

From this unhallowed and blood-stained hole?

Quintus

I am surprised with an uncouth fear;

A chilling sweat o’er-runs my trembling joints:

My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.

Martius

To prove thou hast a true-divining heart,

Aaron and thou look down into this den,

And see a fearful sight of blood and death.

Quintus

Aaron is gone; and my compassionate heart

Will not permit mine eyes once to behold

The thing whereat it trembles by surmise;

O, tell me how it is; for ne’er till now

Was I a child to fear I know not what.

Martius

Lord Bassianus lies embrewed here,

All on a heap, like to a slaughter’d lamb,

In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit.

Quintus

If it be dark, how dost thou know ’tis he?

Martius

Upon his bloody finger he doth wear

A precious ring, that lightens all the hole,

Which, like a taper in some monument,

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 bathed in maiden blood.

O brother, help me with thy fainting hand —

If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath —

Out of this fell devouring receptacle,

As hateful as Cocytus’ misty mouth.

Quintus

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.

I have no strength to pluck thee to the brink.

Martius

Nor I no strength to climb without thy help.

Quintus

Thy hand once more; I will not loose again,

Till thou art here aloft, or I below:

Thou canst not come to me: I come to thee.

Falls in

Enter Saturninus with Aaron

Saturninus

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

Into this gaping hollow of the earth?

Martius

The unhappy son of old Andronicus:

Brought hither in a most unlucky hour,

To find thy brother Bassianus dead.

Saturninus

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.

Martius

We know not where you left him all alive;

But, out, alas! here have we found him dead.

Re-enter Tamora, with Attendants; Titus Andronicus, and Lucius

Tamora

Where is my lord the king?

Saturninus

Here, Tamora, though grieved with killing grief.

Tamora

Where is thy brother Bassianus?

Saturninus

Now to the bottom dost thou search my wound:

Poor Bassianus here lies murdered.

Tamora

Then all too late I bring this fatal writ,

The complot of this timeless tragedy;

And wonder greatly that man’s face can fold

In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny.

She giveth Saturninus a letter

Saturninus

[Reads] ‘An if we miss to meet him handsomely —

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

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?

This is the pit, and this the elder-tree.

Look, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out

That should have murdered Bassianus here.

Aaron

My gracious lord, here is the bag of gold.

Saturninus

[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 devised

Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them.

Tamora

What, are they in this pit? O wondrous thing!

How easily murder is discovered!

Titus Andronicus

High emperor, upon my feeble knee

I beg this boon, with tears not lightly shed,

That this fell fault of my accursed sons,

Accursed if the fault be proved in them,—

Saturninus

If it be proved! you see it is apparent.

Who found this letter? Tamora, was it you?

Tamora

Andronicus himself did take it up.

Titus Andronicus

I did, my lord: yet let me be their bail;

For, by my father’s reverend tomb, I vow

They shall be ready at your highness’ will

To answer their suspicion with their lives.

Saturninus

Thou shalt not bail them: see thou follow me.

Some bring the murder’d body, some the murderers:

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.

Tamora

Andronicus, I will entreat the king;

Fear not thy sons; they shall do well enough.

Titus Andronicus

Come, Lucius, come; stay not to talk with them.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FOREST.

Enter Demetrius and Chiron with Lavinia, ravished; her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out

Demetrius

So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak,

Who ’twas that cut thy tongue and ravish’d thee.

Chiron

Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so,

An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe.

Demetrius

See, how with signs and tokens she can scrowl.

Chiron

Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands.

Demetrius

She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash;

And so let’s leave her to her silent walks.

Chiron

An ’twere my case, I should go hang myself.

Demetrius

If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord.

Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron

Enter Marcus

Marcus

Who is this? my niece, that flies away so fast!

Cousin, a word; where is your husband?

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

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

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,

Coming and going with thy honey breath.

But, sure, some Tereus hath deflowered 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,

As from a conduit with three issuing spouts,

Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan’s face

Blushing to be encountered with a cloud.

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 an oven stopp’d,

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;

A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met,

And he hath cut those pretty fingers off,

That could have better sew’d than Philomel.

O, had the monster seen those lily hands

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

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;

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

O, could our mourning ease thy misery!

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. ROME. A STREET.

Enter Judges, Senators and Tribunes, with Martius and Quintus, bound, passing on to the place of execution; Titus going before, pleading

Titus Andronicus

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;

And for these bitter tears, which now you see

Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks;

Be pitiful to my condemned sons,

Whose souls are not corrupted as ’tis thought.

For two and twenty sons I never wept,

Because they died in honour’s lofty bed.

Lieth down; the Judges, & c., pass by him, and Exeunt

For these, these, tribunes, in the dust I write

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.

O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain,

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

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;

And let me say, that never wept before,

My tears are now prevailing orators.

Lucius

O noble father, you lament in vain:

The tribunes hear you not; no man is by;

And you recount your sorrows to a stone.

Titus Andronicus

Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead.

Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you,—

Lucius

My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.

Titus Andronicus

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;

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:

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.

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?

Lucius

To rescue my two brothers from their death:

For which attempt the judges have pronounced

My everlasting doom of banishment.

Titus Andronicus

O happy man! they have befriended thee.

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,

From these devourers to be banished!

But who comes with our brother Marcus here?

Enter Marcus and Lavinia

Marcus Andronicus

Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep;

Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break:

I bring consuming sorrow to thine age.

Titus Andronicus

Will it consume me? let me see it, then.

Marcus Andronicus

This was thy daughter.

Titus Andronicus

Why, Marcus, so she is.

Lucius

Ay me, this object kills me!

Titus Andronicus

Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her.

Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand

Hath made thee handless in thy father’s sight?

What fool hath added water to the sea,

Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?

My grief was at the height before thou camest,

And now like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds.

Give me a sword, I’ll chop off my hands too;

For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain;

And they have nursed this woe, in feeding life;

In bootless prayer have they been held up,

And they have served 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;

For hands, to do Rome service, are but vain.

Lucius

Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr’d thee?

Marcus Andronicus

O, that delightful engine of her thoughts

That blabb’d them with such pleasing eloquence,

Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,

Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung

Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear!

Lucius

O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed?

Marcus Andronicus

O, thus I found her, straying in the park,

Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer

That hath received some unrecuring wound.

Titus Andronicus

It was my deer; and he that wounded her

Hath hurt me more than had he killed me dead:

For now I stand as one upon a rock

Environed with a wilderness of sea,

Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,

Expecting ever when some envious surge

Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.

This way to death my wretched sons are gone;

Here stands my other son, a banished man,

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,

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

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

Upon a gather’d lily almost wither’d.

Marcus Andronicus

Perchance she weeps because they kill’d her husband;

Perchance because she knows them innocent.

Titus Andronicus

If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful

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.

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,

Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks

How they are stain’d, as meadows, yet not dry,

With miry slime left on them by a flood?

And in the fountain shall we gaze so long

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

Pass the remainder of our hateful days?

What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues,

Plot some deuce of further misery,

To make us wonder’d at in time to come.

Lucius

Sweet father, cease your tears; for, at your grief,

See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.

Marcus Andronicus

Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes.

Titus Andronicus

Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot

Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,

For thou, poor man, hast drown’d it with thine own.

Lucius

Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.

Titus Andronicus

Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs:

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.

O, what a sympathy of woe is this,

As far from help as Limbo is from bliss!

Enter Aaron

Aaron

Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor

Sends thee this word,— that, if thou love thy sons,

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;

And that shall be the ransom for their fault.

Titus Andronicus

O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron!

Did ever raven sing so like a lark,

That gives sweet tidings of the sun’s uprise?

With all my heart, I’ll send the emperor My hand:

Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?

Lucius

Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine,

That hath thrown down so many enemies,

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.

Marcus Andronicus

Which of your hands hath not defended Rome,

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

To ransom my two nephews from their death;

Then have I kept it to a worthy end.

Aaron

Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along,

For fear they die before their pardon come.

Marcus Andronicus

My hand shall go.

Lucius

By heaven, it shall not go!

Titus Andronicus

Sirs, strive no more: such wither’d herbs as these

Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.

Lucius

Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son,

Let me redeem my brothers both from death.

Marcus Andronicus

And, for our father’s sake and mother’s care,

Now let me show a brother’s love to thee.

Titus Andronicus

Agree between you; I will spare my hand.

Lucius

Then I’ll go fetch an axe.

Marcus Andronicus

But I will use the axe.

Exeunt Lucius and Marcus

Titus Andronicus

Come hither, Aaron; I’ll deceive them both:

Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.

Aaron

[Aside] If that be call’d deceit, I will be honest,

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’s hand

Re-enter Lucius and Marcus

Titus Andronicus

Now stay your strife: what shall be is dispatch’d.

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.

As for my sons, say I account of them

As jewels purchased at an easy price;

And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.

Aaron

I go, Andronicus: and for thy hand

Look by and by to have thy sons with thee.

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.

Exit

Titus Andronicus

O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven,

And bow this feeble ruin to the earth:

If any power pities wretched tears,

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,

And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds

When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.

Marcus Andronicus

O brother, speak with possibilities,

And do not break into these deep extremes.

Titus Andronicus

Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom?

Then be my passions bottomless with them.

Marcus Andronicus

But yet let reason govern thy lament.

Titus Andronicus

If there were reason for these miseries,

Then into limits could I bind my woes:

When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o’erflow?

If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,

Threatening the welkin with his big-swoln face?

And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?

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;

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

To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.

Enter a Messenger, with two heads and a hand

Messenger

Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid

For that good hand thou sent’st the emperor.

Here are the heads of thy two noble sons;

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

Marcus Andronicus

Now let hot Aetna cool in Sicily,

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;

But sorrow flouted at is double death.

Lucius

Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound,

And yet detested life not shrink thereat!

That ever death should let life bear his name,

Where life hath no more interest but to breathe!

Lavinia kisses Titus

Marcus Andronicus

Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless

As frozen water to a starved snake.

Titus Andronicus

When will this fearful slumber have an end?

Marcus Andronicus

Now, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus;

Thou dost not slumber: see, thy two sons’ heads,

Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here:

Thy other banish’d son, with this dear sight

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:

Rend off thy silver hair, thy other hand

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?

Titus Andronicus

Ha, ha, ha!

Marcus Andronicus

Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour.

Titus Andronicus

Why, I have not another tear to shed:

Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,

And would usurp upon my watery eyes

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

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,

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 I will bear.

Lavinia, thou shalt be employ’d: these arms!

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:

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

Lucius

Farewell Andronicus, my noble father,

The wofull’st man that ever lived in Rome:

Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again,

He leaves his pledges dearer than his life:

Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister;

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;

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 revenged on Rome and Saturnine.

Exit

SCENE II. A ROOM IN TITUS’S HOUSE. A BANQUET SET OUT.

Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia and Young Lucius, a boy

Titus Andronicus

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:

Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,

And cannot passionate our tenfold grief

With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine

Is left to tyrannize upon my breast;

Who, 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!

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,

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.

Marcus Andronicus

Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay

Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Titus Andronicus

How now! has sorrow made thee dote already?

Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.

What violent hands can she lay on her life?

Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands;

To bid Aeneas tell the tale twice o’er,

How Troy was burnt and he made miserable?

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,

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;

She says she drinks no other drink but tears,

Brew’d with her sorrow, mesh’d upon her cheeks:

Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;

In thy dumb action will I be as perfect

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

And by still practise learn to know thy meaning.

Young Lucius

Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments:

Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

Marcus Andronicus

Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved,

Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness.

Titus Andronicus

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?

Marcus Andronicus

At that that I have kill’d, my lord; a fly.

Titus Andronicus

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

Becomes not Titus’ brother: get thee gone:

I see thou art not for my company.

Marcus Andronicus

Alas, my lord, I have but kill’d a fly.

Titus Andronicus

But how, if that fly had a father and mother?

How would he hang his slender gilded wings,

And buzz lamenting doings in the air!

Poor harmless fly,

That, with his pretty buzzing melody,

Came here to make us merry! and thou hast kill’d him.

Marcus Andronicus

Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favor’d fly,

Like to the empress’ Moor; therefore I kill’d him.

Titus Andronicus

O, O, O,

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

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,

But that between us we can kill a fly

That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.

Marcus Andronicus

Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him,

He takes false shadows for true substances.

Titus Andronicus

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 begin to dazzle.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. ROME. TITUS’S GARDEN.

Enter young Lucius, and Lavinia running after him, and the boy flies from her, with books under his arm. Then enter Titus and Marcus

Young Lucius

Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia

Follows me every where, I know not why:

Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes.

Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.

Marcus Andronicus

Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt.

Titus Andronicus

She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.

Young Lucius

Ay, when my father was in Rome she did.

Marcus Andronicus

What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?

Titus Andronicus

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

Read to her sons than she hath read to thee

Sweet poetry and Tully’s Orator.

Marcus Andronicus

Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?

Young Lucius

My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,

Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her:

For I have heard my grandsire say full oft,

Extremity of griefs would make men mad;

And I have read that Hecuba of Troy

Ran mad through sorrow: that made me to fear;

Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt

Loves me as dear as e’er my mother did,

And would not, but in fury, fright my youth:

Which made me down to throw my books, and fly —

Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt:

And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,

I will most willingly attend your ladyship.

Marcus Andronicus

Lucius, I will.

Lavinia turns over with her stumps the books which Lucius has let fall

Titus Andronicus

How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means this?

Some book there is that she desires to see.

Which is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy.

But thou art deeper read, and better skill’d

Come, and take choice of all my library,

And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens

Reveal the damn’d contriver of this deed.

Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?

Marcus Andronicus

I think she means that there was more than one

Confederate in the fact: ay, more there was;

Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.

Titus Andronicus

Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?

Young Lucius

Grandsire, ’tis Ovid’s Metamorphoses;

My mother gave it me.

Marcus Andronicus

For love of her that’s gone,

Perhaps she cull’d it from among the rest.

Titus Andronicus

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:

And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.

Marcus Andronicus

See, brother, see; note how she quotes the leaves.

Titus Andronicus

Lavinia, wert thou thus surprised, sweet girl,

Ravish’d and wrong’d, as Philomela was,

Forced 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!—

Pattern’d by that the poet here describes,

By nature made for murders and for rapes.

Marcus Andronicus

O, why should nature build so foul a den,

Unless the gods delight in tragedies?

Titus Andronicus

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?

Marcus Andronicus

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:

This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst

This after me, when I have writ my name

Without the help of any hand at all.

He writes his name with his staff, and guides it with feet and mouth

Cursed be that heart that forced us to this shift!

Write thou good niece; and here display, at last,

What God will have discover’d for revenge;

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

Titus Andronicus

O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ?

‘stuprum. Chiron. Demetrius.’

Marcus Andronicus

What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora

Performers of this heinous, bloody deed?

Titus Andronicus

Magni Dominator poli,

Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?

Marcus Andronicus

O, calm thee, gentle lord; although I know

There is enough written upon this earth

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 woful fere

And father of that chaste dishonour’d dame,

Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece’ rape,

That we will prosecute by good advice

Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,

And see their blood, or die with this reproach.

Titus Andronicus

’Tis sure enough, an you knew how.

But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware:

The dam will wake; and, if she wind you once,

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.

You are 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

Will blow these sands, like Sibyl’s leaves, abroad,

And where’s your lesson, then? Boy, what say you?

Young Lucius

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.

Marcus Andronicus

Ay, that’s my boy! thy father hath full oft

For his ungrateful country done the like.

Young Lucius

And, uncle, so will I, an if I live.

Titus Andronicus

Come, go with me into mine armoury;

Lucius, I’ll fit thee; and withal, my boy,

Shalt carry from me to the empress’ sons

Presents that I intend to send them both:

Come, come; thou’lt do thy message, wilt thou not?

Young Lucius

Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire.

Titus Andronicus

No, boy, not so; I’ll teach thee another course.

Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house:

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 Young Lucius

Marcus Andronicus

O heavens, can you hear a good man groan,

And not relent, or not compassion him?

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.

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 side, Young Lucius, and an Attendant, with a bundle of weapons, and verses writ upon them

Chiron

Demetrius, here’s the son of Lucius;

He hath some message to deliver us.

Aaron

Ay, some mad message from his mad grandfather.

Young Lucius

My lords, with all the humbleness I may,

I greet your honours from Andronicus.

Aside

And pray the Roman gods confound you both!

Demetrius

Gramercy, lovely Lucius: what’s the news?

Young Lucius

[Aside] That you are both decipher’d, that’s the news,

For villains mark’d with rape.— May it please you,

My grandsire, well advised, hath sent by me

The goodliest weapons of his armoury

To gratify your honourable youth,

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:

And so I leave you both:

Aside

like bloody villains.

Exeunt Young Lucius, and Attendant

Demetrius

What’s here? A scroll; and written round about?

Let’s see;

Reads

‘Integer vitae, scelerisque purus,

Non eget Mauri jaculis, nec arcu.’

Chiron

O, ’tis a verse in Horace; I know it well:

I read it in the grammar long ago.

Aaron

Ay, just; a verse in Horace; right, you have it.

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 wrapped about with lines,

That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick.

But were our witty empress well afoot,

She would applaud Andronicus’ conceit:

But let her rest in her unrest awhile.

And now, young lords, was’t not a happy star

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.

Demetrius

But me more good, to see so great a lord

Basely insinuate and send us gifts.

Aaron

Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius?

Did you not use his daughter very friendly?

Demetrius

I would we had a thousand Roman dames

At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust.

Chiron

A charitable wish and full of love.

Aaron

Here lacks but your mother for to say amen.

Chiron

And that would she for twenty thousand more.

Demetrius

Come, let us go; and pray to all the gods

For our beloved mother in her pains.

Aaron

[Aside] Pray to the devils; the gods have given us over.

Trumpets sound within

Demetrius

Why do the emperor’s trumpets flourish thus?

Chiron

Belike, for joy the emperor hath a son.

Demetrius

Soft! who comes here?

Enter a Nurse, with a blackamoor Child in her arms

Nurse

Good morr ow, lords:

O, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor?

Aaron

Well, more or less, or ne’er a whit at all,

Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now?

Nurse

O gentle Aaron, we are all undone!

Now help, or woe betide thee evermore!

Aaron

Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep!

What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine arms?

Nurse

O, that which I would hide from heaven’s eye,

Our empress’ shame, and stately Rome’s disgrace!

She is deliver’d, lords; she is deliver’d.

Aaron

To whom?

Nurse

I mean, she is brought a-bed.

Aaron

Well, God give her good rest! What hath he sent her?

Nurse

A devil.

Aaron

Why, then she is the devil’s dam; a joyful issue.

Nurse

A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue:

Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad

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.

Aaron

’Zounds, ye whore! is black so base a hue?

Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom, sure.

Demetrius

Villain, what hast thou done?

Aaron

That which thou canst not undo.

Chiron

Thou hast undone our mother.

Aaron

Villain, I have done thy mother.

Demetrius

And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone.

Woe to her chance, and damn’d her loathed choice!

Accursed the offspring of so foul a fiend!

Chiron

It shall not live.

Aaron

It shall not die.

Nurse

Aaron, it must; the mother wills it so.

Aaron

What, must it, nurse? then let no man but I

Do execution on my flesh and blood.

Demetrius

I’ll broach the tadpole on my rapier’s point:

Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dispatch it.

Aaron

Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up.

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

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,

Shall seize this prey out of his father’s hands.

What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys!

Ye white-limed walls! ye alehouse painted signs!

Coal-black is better than another hue,

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.

Tell the empress from me, I am of age

To keep mine own, excuse it how she can.

Demetrius

Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus?

Aaron

My mistress is my mistress; this myself,

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.

Demetrius

By this our mother is forever shamed.

Chiron

Rome will despise her for this foul escape.

Nurse

The emperor, in his rage, will doom her death.

Chiron

I blush to think upon this ignomy.

Aaron

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 framed of another leer:

Look, how the black slave smiles 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,

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.

Nurse

Aaron, what shall I say unto the empress?

Demetrius

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.

Aaron

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

Demetrius

How many women saw this child of his?

Aaron

Why, so, brave lords! when we join in league,

I am a lamb: but if you brave the Moor,

The chafed boar, the mountain lioness,

The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms.

But say, again; how many saw the child?

Nurse

Cornelia the midwife and myself;

And no one else but the deliver’d empress.

Aaron

The empress, the midwife, and yourself:

Two may keep counsel when the third’s away:

Go to the empress, tell her this I said.

He kills the nurse

Weke, weke! so cries a pig prepared to the spit.

Demetrius

What mean’st thou, Aaron? wherefore didst thou this?

Aaron

O Lord, sir, ’tis a deed of policy:

Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours,

A long-tongued babbling gossip? no, lords, no:

And now be it known to you my full intent.

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:

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 advanced,

And be received for the emperor’s heir,

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; ye see I have given her physic,

Pointing to the nurse

And you must needs bestow her funeral;

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.

The midwife and the nurse well made away,

Then let the ladies tattle what they please.

Chiron

Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air

With secrets.

Demetrius

For this care of Tamora,

Herself and hers are highly bound to thee.

Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron bearing off the Nurse’s body

Aaron

Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies;

There to dispose this treasure in mine arms,

And secretly to greet the empress’ friends.

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

To be a warrior, and command a camp.

Exit

SCENE III. THE SAME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter Titus, bearing arrows with letters at the ends of them; with him, Marcus, Young Lucius, Publius, Sempronius, Caius, and other Gentlemen, with bows

Titus Andronicus

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 Astraea reliquit:

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 catch her in the sea;

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:

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,

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.

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.

Marcus Andronicus

O Publius, is not this a heavy case,

To see thy noble uncle thus distract?

Publius

Therefore, my lord, it highly us concerns

By day and night to attend him carefully,

And feed his humour kindly as we may,

Till time beget some careful remedy.

Marcus Andronicus

Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy.

Join with the Goths; and with revengeful war

Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,

And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.

Titus Andronicus

Publius, how now! how now, my masters!

What, have you met with her?

Publius

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,

So that perforce you must needs stay a time.

Titus Andronicus

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.

Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we

No big-boned men framed of the Cyclops’ size;

But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back,

Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear:

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 Jovem,’ 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;

You were as good to shoot against the wind.

To it, boy! Marcus, loose when I bid.

Of my word, I have written to effect;

There’s not a god left unsolicited.

Marcus Andronicus

Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court:

We will afflict the emperor in his pride.

Titus Andronicus

Now, masters, draw.

They shoot

O, well said, Lucius!

Good boy, in Virgo’s lap; give it Pallas.

Marcus Andronicus

My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon;

Your letter is with Jupiter by this.

Titus Andronicus

Ha, ha!

Publius, Publius, what hast thou done?

See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus’ horns.

Marcus Andronicus

This was the sport, my lord: when Publius shot,

The Bull, being gall’d, gave Aries such a knock

That down fell both the Ram’s horns in the court;

And who should find them but the empress’ villain?

She laugh’d, and told the Moor he should not choose

But give them to his master for a present.

Titus Andronicus

Why, there it goes: God give his lordship joy!

Enter a Clown, with a basket, and two pigeons in it

News, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come.

Sirrah, what tidings? have you any letters?

Shall I have justice? what says Jupiter?

Clown

O, the gibbet-maker! he says that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hanged till the next week.

Titus Andronicus

But what says Jupiter, I ask thee?

Clown

Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter; I never drank with him in all my life.

Titus Andronicus

Why, villain, art not thou the carrier?

Clown

Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else.

Titus Andronicus

Why, didst thou not come from heaven?

Clown

From heaven! alas, sir, I never came there God forbid I should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I am going with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the emperial’s men.

Marcus Andronicus

Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for your oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to the emperor from you.

Titus Andronicus

Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the emperor with a grace?

Clown

Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life.

Titus Andronicus

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.

Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplication?

Clown

Ay, sir.

Titus Andronicus

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.

Clown

I warrant you, sir, let me alone.

Titus Andronicus

Sirrah, hast thou a knife? come, let me see it.

Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration;

For thou hast made it like an humble suppliant.

And when thou hast given it the emperor,

Knock at my door, and tell me what he says.

Clown

God be with you, sir; I will.

Titus Andronicus

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

Saturninus

Why, lords, what wrongs are these! was ever seen

An emperor in Rome thus overborne,

Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent

Of egal justice, used in such contempt?

My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods,

However these disturbers of our peace

Buz in the people’s ears, there nought hath pass’d,

But even with law, against the willful sons

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?

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!

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.

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,

He’ll so awake as she in fury shall

Cut off the proud’st conspirator that lives.

Tamora

My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine,

Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts,

Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus’ age,

The effects of sorrow for his valiant sons,

Whose loss hath pierced him deep and scarr’d his heart;

And rather comfort his distressed plight

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 touched thee to the quick,

Thy life-blood out: if Aaron now be wise,

Then is all safe, the anchor’s in the port.

Enter Clown

How now, good fellow! wouldst thou speak with us?

Clown

Yea, forsooth, an your mistership be emperial.

Tamora

Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor.

Clown

’Tis he. God and Saint Stephen give you good den:

I have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here.

Saturninus reads the letter

Saturninus

Go, take him away, and hang him presently.

Clown

How much money must I have?

Tamora

Come, sirrah, you must be hanged.

Clown

Hanged! by’r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a fair end.

Exit, guarded

Saturninus

Despiteful and intolerable wrongs!

Shall I endure this monstrous villany?

I know from whence this same device proceeds:

May this be borne?— as if his traitorous sons,

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:

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 Aemilius

What news with thee, Aemilius?

Aemilius

Arm, arm, my lord;— Rome never had more cause.

The Goths have gather’d head; and with a power

High-resolved men, bent to the spoil,

They hither march amain, under conduct

Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus;

Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do

As much as ever Coriolanus did.

Saturninus

Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths?

These tidings nip me, and I hang the head

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;

Myself hath often over-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.

Tamora

Why should you fear? is not your city strong?

Saturninus

Ay, but the citizens favor Lucius,

And will revolt from me to succor him.

Tamora

King, be thy thoughts imperious, like thy name.

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

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

With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,

Than baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep,

When as the one is wounded with the bait,

The other rotted with delicious feed.

Saturninus

But he will not entreat his son for us.

Tamora

If Tamora entreat him, then he will:

For I can smooth and fill his aged ear

With golden promises; that, were his heart

Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf,

Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue.

To Aemilius

Go thou before, be our ambassador:

Say that the emperor requests a parley

Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting

Even at his father’s house, the old Andronicus.

Saturninus

Aemilius, do this message honourably:

And if he stand on hostage for his safety,

Bid him demand what pledge will please him best.

Aemilius

Your bidding shall I do effectually.

Exit

Tamora

Now will I to that old Andronicus;

And temper him with all the art I have,

To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths.

And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again,

And bury all thy fear in my devices.

Saturninus

Then go successantly, and plead to him.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. PLAINS NEAR ROME.

Enter Lucius with an army of Goths, with drum and colours

Lucius

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.

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.

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,

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 flowered fields,

And be avenged on cursed Tamora.

All the Goths

And as he saith, so say we all with him.

Lucius

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

Second Goth

Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray’d

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.

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,

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.

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.’

With this, my weapon drawn, I rush’d upon him,

Surprised him suddenly, and brought him hither,

To use as you think needful of the man.

Lucius

O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil

That robb’d Andronicus of his good hand;

This is the pearl that pleased your empress’ eye,

And here’s the base fruit of his burning lust.

Say, wall-eyed slave, whither wouldst thou convey

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.

Aaron

Touch not the boy; he is of royal blood.

Lucius

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.

Get me a ladder.

A ladder brought, which Aaron is made to ascend

Aaron

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:

If thou wilt not, befall what may befall,

I’ll speak no more but ‘Vengeance rot you all!’

Lucius

Say on: an if it please me which thou speak’st

Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish’d.

Aaron

An if it please thee! why, assure thee, Lucius,

’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,

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.

Lucius

Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live.

Aaron

Swear that he shall, and then I will begin.

Lucius

Who should I swear by? thou believest no god:

That granted, how canst thou believe an oath?

Aaron

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,

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 adorest and hast in reverence,

To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up;

Or else I will discover nought to thee.

Lucius

Even by my god I swear to thee I will.

Aaron

First know thou, I begot him on the empress.

Lucius

O most insatiate and luxurious woman!

Aaron

Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity

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

And cut her hands and trimm’d her as thou saw’st.

Lucius

O detestable villain! call’st thou that trimming?

Aaron

Why, she was wash’d and cut and trimm’d, and ’twas

Trim sport for them that had the doing of it.

Lucius

O barbarous, beastly villains, like thyself!

Aaron

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;

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

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

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,

That both mine eyes were rainy like to his :

And when I told the empress of this sport,

She swooned almost at my pleasing tale,

And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses.

First Goth

What, canst thou say all this, and never blush?

Aaron

Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.

Lucius

Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?

Aaron

Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.

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,

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;

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,

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.’

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.

Lucius

Bring down the devil; for he must not die

So sweet a death as hanging presently.

Aaron

If there be devils, would I were a devil,

To live and burn in everlasting fire,

So I might have your company in hell,

But to torment you with my bitter tongue!

Lucius

Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more.

Enter a Goth

Third Goth

My lord, there is a messenger from Rome

Desires to be admitted to your presence.

Lucius

Let him come near.

Enter Aemilius

Welcome, Aemilius what’s the news from Rome?

Aemilius

Lord Lucius, and you princes of the Goths,

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,

And they shall be immediately deliver’d.

First Goth

What says our general?

Lucius

Aemilius, let the emperor give his pledges

Unto my father and my uncle Marcus,

And we will come. March away.

Exeunt

SCENE II. ROME. BEFORE TITUS’S HOUSE.

Enter Tamora, Demetrius, and Chiron, disguised

Tamora

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,

To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge;

Tell him Revenge is come to join with him,

And work confusion on his enemies.

They knock

Enter Titus, above

Titus Andronicus

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?

You are deceived: for what I mean to do

See here in bloody lines I have set down;

And what is written shall be executed.

Tamora

Titus, I am come to talk with thee.

Titus Andronicus

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.

Tamora

If thou didst know me, thou wouldest talk with me.

Titus Andronicus

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;

Witness all sorrow, that I know thee well

For our proud empress, mighty Tamora:

Is not thy coming for my other hand?

Tamora

Know, thou sad man, I am not Tamora;

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.

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,

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.

Titus Andronicus

Art thou Revenge? and art thou sent to me,

To be a torment to mine enemies?

Tamora

I am; therefore come down, and welcome me.

Titus Andronicus

Do me some service, ere I come to thee.

Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands;

Now give me some surance that thou art Revenge,

Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot-wheels;

And then I’ll come and be thy waggoner,

And whirl along with thee about the globe.

Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet,

To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away,

And find out murderers in their guilty caves:

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

Until his very downfall in the sea:

And day by day I’ll do this heavy task,

So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there.

Tamora

These are my ministers, and come with me.

Titus Andronicus

Are these thy ministers? what are they call’d?

Tamora

Rapine and Murder; therefore called so,

Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men.

Titus Andronicus

Good Lord, how like the empress’ sons they are!

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,

I will embrace thee in it by and by.

Exit above

Tamora

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,

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,

I’ll find some cunning practise 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.

Enter Titus below

Titus Andronicus

Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee:

Welcome, dread Fury, to my woful house:

Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too.

How like the empress and her sons you are!

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;

And, would you represent our queen aright,

It were convenient you had such a devil:

But welcome, as you are. What shall we do?

Tamora

What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus?

Demetrius

Show me a murderer, I’ll deal with him.

Chiron

Show me a villain that hath done a rape,

And I am sent to be revenged on him.

Tamora

Show me a thousand that have done thee wrong,

And I will be revenged on them all.

Titus Andronicus

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.

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

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;

They have been violent to me and mine.

Tamora

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,

Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike 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,

The emperor himself and all thy foes;

And at thy mercy shalt they stoop and kneel,

And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart.

What says Andronicus to this device?

Titus Andronicus

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

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,

As he regards his aged father’s life.

Marcus Andronicus

This will I do, and soon return again.

Exit

Tamora

Now will I hence about thy business,

And take my ministers along with me.

Titus Andronicus

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.

Tamora

[Aside to her sons] What say you, boys? will you bide with him,

Whiles I go tell my lord the emperor

How I have govern’d our determined jest?

Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair,

And tarry with him till I turn again.

Titus Andronicus

[Aside] I know them all, though they suppose me mad,

And will o’erreach them in their own devices:

A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam!

Demetrius

Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here.

Tamora

Farewell, Andronicus: Revenge now goes

To lay a complot to betray thy foes.

Titus Andronicus

I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell.

Exit Tamora

Chiron

Tell us, old man, how shall we be employ’d?

Titus Andronicus

Tut, I have work enough for you to do.

Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine!

Enter Publius and others

Publius

What is your will?

Titus Andronicus

Know you these two?

Publius

The empress’ sons, I take them, Chiron and Demetrius.

Titus Andronicus

Fie, Publius, fie! thou art too much deceived;

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,

And stop their mouths, if they begin to cry.

Exit

Publius, & c. lay hold on Chiron and Demetrius

Chiron

Villains, forbear! we are the empress’ sons.

Publius

And therefore do we what we are commanded.

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; he bearing a knife, and she a basin

Titus Andronicus

Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound.

Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me;

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.

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

Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity,

Inhuman traitors, you constrain’d and forced.

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.

This one hand yet is left to cut your throats,

Whilst that Lavinia ’tween her stumps doth hold

The basin that receives your guilty blood.

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

And make two pasties of your shameful heads,

And bid that strumpet, your unhallow’d dam,

Like to the earth swallow her own increase.

This is the feast that I have bid her to,

And this the banquet she shall surfeit on;

For worse than Philomel you used my daughter,

And worse than Progne I will be revenged:

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;

And in that paste let their vile heads be baked.

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’ll play the cook,

And see them ready ’gainst their mother comes.

Exeunt, bearing the dead bodies

SCENE III. COURT OF TITUS’S HOUSE. A BANQUET SET OUT.

Enter Lucius, Marcus, and Goths, with Aaron prisoner

Lucius

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.

Lucius

Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor,

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:

And see the ambush of our friends be strong;

I fear the emperor means no good to us.

Aaron

Some devil whisper curses in mine ear,

And prompt me, that my tongue may utter forth

The venomous malice of my swelling heart!

Lucius

Away, inhuman dog! unhallow’d slave!

Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in.

Exeunt Goths, with Aaron. Flourish within

The trumpets show the emperor is at hand.

Enter Saturninus and Tamora, with Aemilius, Tribunes, Senators, and others

Saturninus

What, hath the firmament more suns than one?

Lucius

What boots it thee to call thyself a sun?

Marcus Andronicus

Rome’s emperor, and nephew, break the parle;

These quarrels must be quietly debated.

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.

Saturninus

Marcus, we will.

Hautboys sound. The Company sit down at table

Enter Titus dressed like a Cook, Lavinia veiled, Young Lucius, and others. Titus places the dishes on the table

Titus Andronicus

Welcome, my gracious lord; welcome, dread queen;

Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius;

And welcome, all: although the cheer be poor,

’Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it.

Saturninus

Why art thou thus attired, Andronicus?

Titus Andronicus

Because I would be sure to have all well,

To entertain your highness and your empress.

Tamora

We are beholding to you, good Andronicus.

Titus Andronicus

An if your highness knew my heart, you were.

My lord the emperor, resolve me this:

Was it well done of rash Virginius

To slay his daughter with his own right hand,

Because she was enforced, stain’d, and deflower’d?

Saturninus

It was, Andronicus.

Titus Andronicus

Your reason, mighty lord?

Saturninus

Because the girl should not survive her shame,

And by her presence still renew his sorrows.

Titus Andronicus

A reason mighty, strong, and effectual;

A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant,

For me, most wretched, to perform the like.

Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee;

Kills Lavinia

And, with thy shame, thy father’s sorrow die!

Saturninus

What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?

Titus Andronicus

Kill’d her, for whom my tears have made me blind.

I am as woful as Virginius was,

And have a thousand times more cause than he

To do this outrage: and it now is done.

Saturninus

What, was she ravish’d? tell who did the deed.

Titus Andronicus

Will’t please you eat? will’t please your highness feed?

Tamora

Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus?

Titus Andronicus

Not I; ’twas Chiron and Demetrius:

They ravish’d her, and cut away her tongue;

And they, ’twas they, that did her all this wrong.

Saturninus

Go fetch them hither to us presently.

Titus Andronicus

Why, there they are both, baked in that pie;

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

Saturninus

Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed!

Kills Titus

Lucius

Can the son’s eye behold his father bleed?

There’s meed for meed, death for a deadly deed!

Kills Saturninus. A great tumult. Lucius, Marcus, and others go up into the balcony

Marcus Andronicus

You sad-faced men, people and sons of Rome,

By uproar sever’d, like a flight of fowl

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;

Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself,

And she whom mighty kingdoms court’sy to,

Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,

Do shameful execution on herself.

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,

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 surprised King Priam’s Troy,

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;

Nor can I utter all our bitter grief,

But floods of tears will drown my oratory,

And break my utterance, even in the time

When it should move you to attend me most,

Lending your kind commiseration.

Here is a captain, let him tell the tale;

Your hearts will throb and weep to hear him speak.

Lucius

Then, noble auditory, be it known to you,

That cursed Chiron and Demetrius

Were they that murdered our emperor’s brother;

And they it were that ravished our sister:

For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded;

Our father’s tears despised, 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,

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 oped their arms to embrace me as a friend.

I am the turned forth, be it known to you,

That have preserved her welfare in my blood;

And from her bosom took the enemy’s point,

Sheathing the steel in my adventurous body.

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,

Citing my worthless praise: O, pardon me;

For when no friends are by, men praise themselves.

Marcus Andronicus

Now is my turn to speak. Behold this child:

Pointing to the Child in the arms of an Attendant

Of this was Tamora delivered;

The issue of an irreligious Moor,

Chief architect and plotter of these woes:

The villain is alive in Titus’ house,

And as he is, to witness this is true.

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?

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.

Aemilius

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.

All

Lucius, all hail, Rome’s royal emperor!

Marcus Andronicus

Go, go into old Titus’ sorrowful house,

To Attendants

And hither hale that misbelieving Moor,

To be adjudged some direful slaughtering death,

As punishment for his most wicked life.

Exeunt Attendants

Lucius, Marcus, and the others descend

All

Lucius, all hail, Rome’s gracious governor!

Lucius

Thanks, gentle Romans: may I govern so,

To heal Rome’s harms, and wipe away her woe!

But, gentle people, give me aim awhile,

For nature puts me to a heavy task:

Stand all aloof: but, uncle, draw you near,

To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk.

O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips,

Kissing Titus

These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain’d face,

The last true duties of thy noble son!

Marcus Andronicus

Tear for tear, and loving kiss for kiss,

Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips:

O were the sum of these that I should pay

Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them!

Lucius

Come hither, boy; come, come, and learn of us

To melt in showers: thy grandsire loved thee well:

Many a time he danced thee on his knee,

Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow:

Many a matter hath he told to thee,

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:

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.

Young Lucius

O grandsire, grandsire! even with all my heart

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

Aemilius

You sad Andronici, have done with woes:

Give sentence on this execrable wretch,

That hath been breeder of these dire events.

Lucius

Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him;

There let him stand, and rave, and cry for food;

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.

Aaron

O, why should wrath be mute, and fury dumb?

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;

If one good deed in all my life I did,

I do repent it from my very soul.

Lucius

Some loving friends convey the emperor hence,

And give him burial in his father’s grave:

My father and Lavinia shall forthwith

Be closed in our household’s monument.

As for that heinous tiger, Tamora,

No funeral rite, nor man m mourning weeds,

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.

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

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

PROLOGUE

SCENE I. VERONA. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE II. A STREET.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN CAPULET’S HOUSE.

SCENE IV. A STREET.

SCENE V. A HALL IN CAPULET’S HOUSE.

ACT II

PROLOGUE

SCENE I. A LANE BY THE WALL OF CAPULET’S ORCHARD.

SCENE II. CAPULET’S ORCHARD.

SCENE III. FRIAR LAURENCE’S CELL.

SCENE IV. A STREET.

SCENE V. CAPULET’S ORCHARD.

SCENE VI. FRIAR LAURENCE’S CELL.

ACT III

SCENE I. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE II. CAPULET’S ORCHARD.

SCENE III. FRIAR LAURENCE’S CELL.

SCENE IV. A ROOM IN CAPULET’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. CAPULET’S ORCHARD.

ACT IV

SCENE I. FRIAR LAURENCE’S CELL.

SCENE II. HALL IN CAPULET’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. JULIET’S CHAMBER.

SCENE IV. HALL IN CAPULET’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. JULIET’S CHAMBER.

ACT V

SCENE I. MANTUA. A STREET.

SCENE II. FRIAR LAURENCE’S CELL.

SCENE III. A CHURCHYARD; IN IT A TOMB BELONGING TO THE CAPULETS.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Chorus.

Escalus, Prince of Verona.

Paris, a young Count, kinsman to the Prince.

Montague, heads of two houses at variance with each other.

Capulet, heads of two houses at variance with each other.

An old Man, of the Capulet family.

Romeo, son to Montague.

Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet.

Mercutio, kinsman to the Prince and friend to Romeo.

Benvolio, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo

Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet.

Friar Laurence, Franciscan.

Friar John, Franciscan.

Balthasar, servant to Romeo.

Abram, servant to Montague.

Sampson, servant to Capulet.

Gregory, servant to Capulet.

Peter, servant to Juliet's nurse.

An Apothecary.

Three Musicians.

An Officer.

Lady Montague, wife to Montague.

Lady Capulet, wife to Capulet.

Juliet, daughter to Capulet.

Nurse to Juliet.

Citizens of Verona; Gentlemen and Gentlewomen of both houses; Maskers, Torchbearers, Pages, Guards, Watchmen, Servants, and Attendants.

Scene: Verona; Mantua.

ACT I

PROLOGUE

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

A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;

Whole misadventured 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’ traffic of our stage;

The which if you with patient ears attend,

What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

SCENE I. VERONA. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter Sampson and Gregory, of the house of Capulet, armed with swords and bucklers

Sampson

Gregory, o’ my word, we’ll not carry coals.

Gregory

No, for then we should be colliers.

Sampson

I mean, an we be in choler, we’ll draw.

Gregory

Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.

Sampson

I strike quickly, being moved.

Gregory

But thou art not quickly moved to strike.

Sampson

A dog of the house of Montague moves me.

Gregory

To move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn’st away.

Sampson

A dog of that house shall move me to stand: I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.

Gregory

That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the wall.

Sampson

True; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall.

Gregory

The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.

Sampson

’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids, and cut off their heads.

Gregory

The heads of the maids?

Sampson

Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt.

Gregory

They must take it in sense that feel it.

Sampson

Me they shall feel while I am able to stand: and

’tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh.

Gregory

’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool! here comes two of the house of the Montagues.

Sampson

My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.

Gregory

How! turn thy back and run?

Sampson

Fear me not.

Gregory

No, marry; I fear thee!

Sampson

Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.

Gregory

I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.

Sampson

Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.

Enter Abraham and Balthasar

Abraham

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Sampson

I do bite my thumb, sir.

Abraham

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Sampson

[Aside to Gregory] Is the law of our side, if I say ay?

Gregory

No.

Sampson

No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I bite my thumb, sir.

Gregory

Do you quarrel, sir?

Abraham

Quarrel sir! no, sir.

Sampson

If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.

Abraham

No better.

Sampson

Well, sir.

Gregory

Say ‘better:’ here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.

Sampson

Yes, better, sir.

Abraham

You lie.

Sampson

Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.

They fight

Enter Benvolio

Benvolio

Part, fools!

Put up your swords; you know not what you do.

Beats down their swords

Enter Tybalt

Tybalt

What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?

Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.

Benvolio

I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,

Or manage it to part these men with me.

Tybalt

What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word,

As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:

Have at thee, coward!

They fight

Enter, several of both houses, who join the fray; then enter Citizens, with clubs

First Citizen

Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down!

Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!

Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet

Capulet

What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!

Lady Capulet

A crutch, a crutch! why call you for a sword?

Capulet

My sword, I say! Old Montague is come,

And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

Enter Montague and Lady Montague

Montague

Thou villain Capulet,— Hold me not, let me go.

Lady Montague

Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a foe.

Enter Prince, with Attendants

Prince

Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,

Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—

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

Throw your mistemper’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,

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,

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:

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.

Exeunt all but Montague, Lady Montague, and Benvolio

Montague

Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?

Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

Benvolio

Here were the servants of your adversary,

And yours, close fighting ere I did approach:

I drew to part them: in the instant came

The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepared,

Which, as he breathed defiance to my ears,

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,

Till the prince came, who parted either part.

Lady Montague

O, where is Romeo? saw you him to-day?

Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

Benvolio

Madam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun

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,

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,

That most are busied when they’re most alone,

Pursued my humour not pursuing his,

And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.

Montague

Many a morning hath he there been seen,

With tears augmenting the fresh morning 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

The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,

Away from the light steals home my heavy son,

And private in his chamber pens himself,

Shuts up his windows, locks far daylight out

And makes himself an artificial night:

Black and portentous must this humour prove,

Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

Benvolio

My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

Montague

I neither know it nor can learn of him.

Benvolio

Have you importuned him by any means?

Montague

Both by myself and many other friends:

But he, his own affections’ counsellor,

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,

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.

Enter Romeo

Benvolio

See, where he comes: so please you, step aside;

I’ll know his grievance, or be much denied.

Montague

I would thou wert so happy by thy stay,

To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away.

Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague

Benvolio

Good-morrow, cousin.

Romeo

Is the day so young?

Benvolio

But new struck nine.

Romeo

Ay me! sad hours seem long.

Was that my father that went hence so fast?

Benvolio

It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?

Romeo

Not having that, which, having, makes them short.

Benvolio

In love?

Romeo

Out —

Benvolio

Of love?

Romeo

Out of her favour, where I am in love.

Benvolio

Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,

Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

Romeo

Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still,

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.

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!

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?

Benvolio

No, coz, I rather weep.

Romeo

Good heart, at what?

Benvolio

At thy good heart’s oppression.

Romeo

Why, such is love’s transgression.

Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,

Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest

With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown

Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.

Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;

Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;

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.

Farewell, my coz.

Benvolio

Soft! I will go along;

An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Romeo

Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here;

This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.

Benvolio

Tell me in sadness, who is that you love.

Romeo

What, shall I groan and tell thee?

Benvolio

Groan! why, no.

But sadly tell me who.

Romeo

Bid a sick man in sadness make his will:

Ah, word ill urged to one that is so ill!

In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

Benvolio

I aim’d so near, when I supposed you loved.

Romeo

A right good mark-man! And she’s fair I love.

Benvolio

A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

Romeo

Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit

With Cupid’s arrow; she hath Dian’s wit;

And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,

From love’s weak childish bow she lives unharm’d.

She will not stay the siege of loving terms,

Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes,

Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:

O, she is rich in beauty, only poor,

That when she dies with beauty dies her store.

Benvolio

Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?

Romeo

She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste,

For beauty starved with her severity

Cuts beauty off from all posterity.

She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair,

To merit bliss by making me despair:

She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow

Do I live dead that live to tell it now.

Benvolio

Be ruled by me, forget to think of her.

Romeo

O, teach me how I should forget to think.

Benvolio

By giving liberty unto thine eyes;

Examine other beauties.

Romeo

’Tis the way

To call hers exquisite, in question more:

These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows

Being black put us in mind they hide the fair;

He that is strucken blind cannot forget

The precious treasure of his eyesight lost:

Show me a mistress that is passing fair,

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.

Benvolio

I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A STREET.

Enter Capulet, Paris, and Servant

Capulet

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.

Paris

Of honourable reckoning are you both;

And pity ’tis you lived at odds so long.

But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?

Capulet

But saying o’er what I have said before:

My child is yet a stranger in the world;

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.

Paris

Younger than she are happy mothers made.

Capulet

And too soon marr’d are those so early made.

The 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,

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,

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

Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:

Such comfort as do lusty young men feel

When well-apparell’d April on the heel

Of limping winter treads, even such delight

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

May stand in number, though in reckoning none,

Come, go with me.

To Servant, giving a paper

Go, sirrah, trudge about

Through fair Verona; find those persons out

Whose names are written there, and to them say,

My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.

Exeunt Capulet and Paris

Servant

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

Benvolio

Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,

One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;

Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;

One desperate grief cures with another’s languish:

Take thou some new infection to thy eye,

And the rank poison of the old will die.

Romeo

Your plaintain-leaf is excellent for that.

Benvolio

For what, I pray thee?

Romeo

For your broken shin.

Benvolio

Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

Romeo

Not mad, but bound more than a mad-man is;

Shut up in prison, kept without my food,

Whipp’d and tormented and — God-den, good fellow.

Servant

God gi’ god-den. I pray, sir, can you read?

Romeo

Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

Servant

Perhaps you have learned it without book: but, I pray, can you read any thing you see?

Romeo

Ay, if I know the letters and the language.

Servant

Ye say honestly: rest you merry!

Romeo

Stay, fellow; I can read.

Reads

‘Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselme and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow of Vitravio; Signior Placentio and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt, Lucio and the lively Helena.’ A fair assembly: whither should they come?

Servant

Up.

Romeo

Whither?

Servant

To supper; to our house.

Romeo

Whose house?

Servant

My master’s.

Romeo

Indeed, I should have ask’d you that before.

Servant

Now I’ll tell you without asking: my master is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry!

Exit

Benvolio

At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s

Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lovest,

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.

Romeo

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!

One fairer than my love! the all-seeing sun

Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.

Benvolio

Tut, you saw her fair, none else being by,

Herself poised with herself in either eye:

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.

Romeo

I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,

But to rejoice in splendor of mine own.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A ROOM IN CAPULET’S HOUSE.

Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse

Lady Capulet

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!

Enter Juliet

Juliet

How now! who calls?

Nurse

Your mother.

Juliet

Madam, I am here.

What is your will?

Lady Capulet

This is the matter:— Nurse, give leave awhile,

We must talk in secret:— nurse, come back again;

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 Capulet

She’s not fourteen.

Nurse

I’ll lay fourteen of my teeth,—

And yet, to my teeth be it spoken, I have but four —

She is not fourteen. How long is it now

To Lammas-tide?

Lady Capulet

A fortnight and odd days.

Nurse

Even or odd, of all days in the year,

Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen.

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,

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,—

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:—

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!

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 alone; nay, by the rood,

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:

‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;

Wilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame,

The pretty wretch left crying and said ‘Ay.’

To see, now, how a jest shall come about!

I warrant, an I should live a thousand years,

I never should forget it: ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;

And, pretty fool, it stinted and said ‘Ay.’

Lady Capulet

Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy peace.

Nurse

Yes, madam: yet I cannot choose but laugh,

To think it should leave crying and say ‘Ay.’

And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow

A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;

A parlous knock; and it cried bitterly:

‘Yea,’ quoth my husband,’fall’st upon thy face?

Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;

Wilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted and said ‘Ay.’

Juliet

And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.

Nurse

Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!

Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nursed:

An I might live to see thee married once,

I have my wish.

Lady Capulet

Marry, that ‘marry’ is the very theme

I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,

How stands your disposition to be married?

Juliet

It is an honour that I dream not of.

Nurse

An honour! were not I thine only nurse,

I would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.

Lady Capulet

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

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.

Lady Capulet

Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.

Nurse

Nay, he’s a flower; in faith, a very flower.

Lady Capulet

What say you? can you love the gentleman?

This night you shall behold him at our feast;

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

And what obscured 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:

The fish lives in the sea, and ’tis much pride

For fair without the fair within to hide:

That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory,

That in gold clasps locks in the golden story;

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 Capulet

Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?

Juliet

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

Servant

Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and every thing in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight.

Lady Capulet

We follow thee.

Exit Servant

Juliet, the county stays.

Nurse

Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. A STREET.

Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers, Torch-bearers, and others

Romeo

What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?

Or shall we on without a apology?

Benvolio

The date is out of such prolixity:

We’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf,

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:

But let them measure us by what they will;

We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.

Romeo

Give me a torch: I am not for this ambling;

Being but heavy, I will bear the light.

Mercutio

Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

Romeo

Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes

With nimble soles: I have a soul of lead

So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.

Mercutio

You are a lover; borrow Cupid’s wings,

And soar with them above a common bound.

Romeo

I am too sore enpierced with his shaft

To soar with his light feathers, and so bound,

I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:

Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.

Mercutio

And, to sink in it, should you burden love;

Too great oppression for a tender thing.

Romeo

Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,

Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

Mercutio

If love be rough with you, be rough with love;

Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

Give me a case to put my visage in:

A visor for a visor! what care I

What curious eye doth quote deformities?

Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.

Benvolio

Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in,

But every man betake him to his legs.

Romeo

A torch for me: let wantons light of heart

Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels,

For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase;

I’ll be a candle-holder, and look on.

The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.

Mercutio

Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word:

If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire

Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick’st

Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!

Romeo

Nay, that’s not so.

Mercutio

I mean, sir, in delay

We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.

Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits

Five times in that ere once in our five wits.

Romeo

And we mean well in going to this mask;

But ’tis no wit to go.

Mercutio

Why, may one ask?

Romeo

I dream’d a dream to-night.

Mercutio

And so did I.

Romeo

Well, what was yours?

Mercutio

That dreamers often lie.

Romeo

In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

Mercutio

O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.

She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes

In shape no bigger than an agate-stone

On the fore-finger of an alderman,

Drawn with a team of little atomies

Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep;

Her wagon-spokes made of long spiders’ legs,

The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,

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,

Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat,

Not so big as a round little worm

Prick’d from the lazy finger of a maid;

Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut

Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,

Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.

And in this state she gallops night by night

Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;

O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on court’sies straight,

O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees,

O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream,

Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,

Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:

Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;

And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail

Tickling a parson’s nose as a’ lies asleep,

Then dreams, he of another benefice:

Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,

Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon

Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,

And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two

And sleeps again. This is that very Mab

That plats the manes of horses in the night,

And bakes the elflocks 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 —

Romeo

Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!

Thou talk’st of nothing.

Mercutio

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

And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes

Even now the frozen bosom of the north,

And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,

Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.

Benvolio

This wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves;

Supper is done, and we shall come too late.

Romeo

I fear, too early: for my mind misgives

Some consequence yet hanging in the stars

Shall bitterly begin his fearful date

With this night’s revels and expire the term

Of a despised life closed in my breast

By some vile forfeit of untimely death.

But He, that hath the steerage of my course,

Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen.

Benvolio

Strike, drum.

Exeunt

SCENE V. A HALL IN CAPULET’S HOUSE.

Musicians waiting. Enter Servingmen with napkins

First Servant

Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift a trencher? he scrape a trencher!

Second Servant

When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands and they unwashed too, ’tis a foul thing.

First Servant

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!

Second Servant

Ay, boy, ready.

First Servant

You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the great chamber.

Second Servant

We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys; be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all.

Enter Capulet, with Juliet and others of his house, meeting the Guests and Maskers

Capulet

Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes

Unplagued with corns will have 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?

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:

You are welcome, gentlemen! come, musicians, play.

A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls.

Music plays, and they dance

More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,

And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.

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

Were in a mask?

Second Capulet

By’r lady, thirty years.

Capulet

What, man! ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much:

’Tis since the nuptials of Lucentio,

Come pentecost as quickly as it will,

Some five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.

Second Capulet

’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is elder, sir;

His son is thirty.

Capulet

Will you tell me that?

His son was but a ward two years ago.

Romeo

[To a Servingman] What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight?

Servant

I know not, sir.

Romeo

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night

Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear;

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,

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.

Tybalt

This, by his voice, should be a Montague.

Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave

Come hither, cover’d with an antic face,

To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?

Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,

To strike him dead, I hold it not a sin.

Capulet

Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so?

Tybalt

Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe,

A villain that is hither come in spite,

To scorn at our solemnity this night.

Capulet

Young Romeo is it?

Tybalt

’Tis he, that villain Romeo.

Capulet

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:

I would not for the wealth of all the 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,

Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,

And ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.

Tybalt

It fits, when such a villain is a guest:

I’ll not endure him.

Capulet

He shall be endured:

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!

You will set cock-a-hoop! you’ll be the man!

Tybalt

Why, uncle, ’tis a shame.

Capulet

Go to, go to;

You are a saucy boy: is’t so, indeed?

This trick may chance to scathe you, I know what:

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!

Tybalt

Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting

Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.

I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall

Now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall.

Exit

Romeo

[To Juliet] If I profane with my unworthiest hand

This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand

To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Juliet

Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,

Which mannerly devotion shows in this;

For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,

And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.

Romeo

Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Juliet

Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

Romeo

O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;

They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

Juliet

Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.

Romeo

Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.

Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.

Juliet

Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

Romeo

Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!

Give me my sin again.

Juliet

You kiss by the book.

Nurse

Madam, your mother craves a word with you.

Romeo

What is her mother?

Nurse

Marry, bachelor,

Her mother is the lady of the house,

And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous

I nursed her daughter, that you talk’d withal;

I tell you, he that can lay hold of her

Shall have the chinks.

Romeo

Is she a Capulet?

O dear account! my life is my foe’s debt.

Benvolio

Away, begone; the sport is at the best.

Romeo

Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.

Capulet

Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone;

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.

More torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.

Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late:

I’ll to my rest.

Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse

Juliet

Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman?

Nurse

The son and heir of old Tiberio.

Juliet

What’s he that now is going out of door?

Nurse

Marry, that, I think, be young Petrucio.

Juliet

What’s he that follows there, that would not dance?

Nurse

I know not.

Juliet

Go ask his name: if he be married.

My grave is like to be my wedding bed.

Nurse

His name is Romeo, and a Montague;

The only son of your great enemy.

Juliet

My only love sprung from my only hate!

Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

Prodigious birth of love it is to me,

That I must love a loathed enemy.

Nurse

What’s this? what’s this?

Juliet

A rhyme I learn’d even now

Of one I danced withal.

One calls within ‘Juliet.’

Nurse

Anon, anon!

Come, let’s away; the strangers all are gone.

Exeunt

ACT II

PROLOGUE

Enter Chorus

Chorus

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 beloved and loves again,

Alike betwitched by the charm of looks,

But to his foe supposed he must complain,

And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:

Being held a foe, he may not have access

To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;

And she as much in love, her means much less

To meet her new-beloved any where:

But passion lends them power, time means, to meet

Tempering extremities with extreme sweet.

Exit

SCENE I. A LANE BY THE WALL OF CAPULET’S ORCHARD.

Enter Romeo

Romeo

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

Benvolio

Romeo! my cousin Romeo!

Mercutio

He is wise;

And, on my lie, hath stol’n him home to bed.

Benvolio

He ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:

Call, good Mercutio.

Mercutio

Nay, I’ll conjure too.

Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover!

Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh:

Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;

Cry but ‘Ay me!’ pronounce but ‘love’ and ‘dove;’

Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,

One nick-name for her purblind son and heir,

Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim,

When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!

He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;

The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.

I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,

By her high forehead and her scarlet lip,

By her fine foot, straight leg and quivering thigh

And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,

That in thy likeness thou appear to us!

Benvolio

And if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.

Mercutio

This cannot anger him: ’twould anger him

To raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle

Of some strange nature, letting it there stand

Till she had laid it and conjured it down;

That were some spite: my invocation

Is fair and honest, and in his mistres s’ name

I conjure only but to raise up him.

Benvolio

Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,

To be consorted with the humorous night:

Blind is his love and best befits the dark.

Mercutio

If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.

Now will he sit under a medlar tree,

And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit

As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.

Romeo, that she were, O, that she were

An open et caetera, thou a poperin pear!

Romeo, good night: I’ll to my truckle-bed;

This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep:

Come, shall we go?

Benvolio

Go, then; for ’tis in vain

To seek him here that means not to be found.

Exeunt

SCENE II. CAPULET’S ORCHARD.

Enter Romeo

Romeo

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

Juliet appears above at a window

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That thou her maid art far more fair than she:

Be not her maid, since she is envious;

Her vestal livery is but sick and green

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.

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

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

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,

That I might touch that cheek!

Juliet

Ay me!

Romeo

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

Unto the white-upturned wondering 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.

Juliet

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.

Romeo

[Aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

Juliet

’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;

Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.

What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,

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;

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

Take all myself.

Romeo

I take thee at thy word:

Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized;

Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Juliet

What man art thou that thus bescreen’d in night

So stumblest on my counsel?

Romeo

By a name

I know not how to tell thee who I am:

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,

Because it is an enemy to thee;

Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Juliet

My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words

Of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound:

Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?

Romeo

Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.

Juliet

How camest 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.

Romeo

With love’s light wings did I o’er-perch these walls;

For stony limits cannot hold love out,

And what love can do that dares love attempt;

Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.

Juliet

If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

Romeo

Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye

Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet,

And I am proof against their enmity.

Juliet

I would not for the world they saw thee here.

Romeo

I have night’s cloak to hide me from their sight;

And but thou love me, let them find me here:

My life were better ended by their hate,

Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.

Juliet

By whose direction found’st thou out this place?

Romeo

By love, who first did prompt me to inquire;

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 farthest sea,

I would adventure for such merchandise.

Juliet

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

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

Then 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 an say thee nay,

So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,

And therefore thou mayst think my ’havior light:

But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true

Than those that have more cunning to be strange.

I should have been more strange, I must confess,

But that thou overheard’st, ere I was ware,

My true love’s passion: therefore pardon me,

And not impute this yielding to light love,

Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Romeo

Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear

That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops —

Juliet

O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,

That monthly changes in her circled orb,

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

Romeo

What shall I swear by?

Juliet

Do not swear at all;

Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,

Which is the god of my idolatry,

And I’ll believe thee.

Romeo

If my heart’s dear love —

Juliet

Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee,

I have no joy of this contract to-night:

It is too rash, too unadvised, 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!

Romeo

O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

Juliet

What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?

Romeo

The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.

Juliet

I gave thee mine before thou didst request it:

And yet I would it were to give again.

Romeo

Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?

Juliet

But to be frank, and give it thee again.

And yet I wish but for the thing I have:

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!

Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.

Stay but a little, I will come again.

Exit, above

Romeo

O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard.

Being in night, all this is but a dream,

Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

Re-enter Juliet, above

Juliet

Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.

If that thy bent of love be honourable,

Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,

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!

Juliet

I come, anon.— But if thou mean’st not well,

I do beseech thee —

Nurse

[Within] Madam!

Juliet

By and by, I come:—

To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief:

To-morrow will I send.

Romeo

So thrive my soul —

Juliet

A thousand times good night!

Exit, above

Romeo

A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.

Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books,

But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

Retiring

Re-enter Juliet, above

Juliet

Hist! Romeo, hist! O, for a falconer’s voice,

To lure this tassel-gentle back again!

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;

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.

Romeo

It is my soul that calls upon my name:

How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,

Like softest music to attending ears!

Juliet

Romeo!

Romeo

My dear?

Juliet

At what o’clock to-morrow

Shall I send to thee?

Romeo

At the hour of nine.

Juliet

I will not fail: ’tis twenty years till then.

I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Romeo

Let me stand here till thou remember it.

Juliet

I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,

Remembering how I love thy company.

Romeo

And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,

Forgetting any other home but this.

Juliet

’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone:

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,

So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Romeo

I would I were thy bird.

Juliet

Sweet, so would I:

Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.

Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow,

That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

Exit above

Romeo

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,

His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.

Exit

SCENE III. FRIAR LAURENCE’S CELL.

Enter Friar Laurence, with a basket

Friar Laurence

The grey-eyed 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,

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;

What is her burying grave that is her womb,

And from her womb children of divers kind

We sucking on her natural bosom find,

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:

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:

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied;

And vice sometimes by action dignified.

Within the infant rind of this small flower

Poison hath residence and medicine power:

For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;

Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.

Two such opposed kings encamp them still

In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will;

And where the worser is predominant,

Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

Enter Romeo

Romeo

Good morrow, father.

Friar Laurence

Benedicite!

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

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;

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-roused by some distemperature;

Or if not so, then here I hit it right,

Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.

Romeo

That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.

Friar Laurence

God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?

Romeo

With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;

I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.

Friar Laurence

That’s my good son: but where hast thou been, then?

Romeo

I’ll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again.

I have been feasting with mine enemy,

Where on a sudden one hath wounded me,

That’s by me wounded: both our remedies

Within thy help and holy physic lies:

I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,

My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Friar Laurence

Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;

Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

Romeo

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 combined, save what thou must combine

By holy marriage: when and where and how

We met, we woo’d and made exchange of vow,

I’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,

That thou consent to marry us to-day.

Friar Laurence

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.

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!

The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,

Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears;

Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit

Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet:

If e’er thou wast thyself and these woes thine,

Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline:

And art thou changed? pronounce this sentence then,

Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men.

Romeo

Thou chid’st me oft for loving Rosaline.

Friar Laurence

For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

Romeo

And bad’st me bury love.

Friar Laurence

Not in a grave,

To lay one in, another out to have.

Romeo

I pray thee, chide not; she whom I love now

Doth grace for grace and love for love allow;

The other did not so.

Friar Laurence

O, she knew well

Thy love did read by rote and could not spell.

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.

Romeo

O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.

Friar Laurence

Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. A STREET.

Enter Benvolio and Mercutio

Mercutio

Where the devil should this Romeo be?

Came he not home to-night?

Benvolio

Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man.

Mercutio

Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline.

Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.

Benvolio

Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet,

Hath sent a letter to his father’s house.

Mercutio

A challenge, on my life.

Benvolio

Romeo will answer it.

Mercutio

Any man that can write may answer a letter.

Benvolio

Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared.

Mercutio

Alas poor Romeo! he is already dead; stabbed with a white wench’s black eye; shot through the ear with a love-song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft: and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?

Benvolio

Why, what is Tybalt?

Mercutio

More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he is the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause: ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hai!

Benvolio

The what?

Mercutio

The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes; these new tuners of accents! ‘By Jesu, a very good blade! a very tall man! a very good whore!’ Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these perdona-mi’s, who stand so much on the new form, that they cannot at ease on the old bench? O, their bones, their bones!

Enter Romeo

Benvolio

Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.

Mercutio

Without his roe, like a dried herring: flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his lady was but a kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better love to be-rhyme her; Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gipsy; Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! there’s a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

Romeo

Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?

Mercutio

The ship, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?

Romeo

Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.

Mercutio

That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.

Romeo

Meaning, to court’sy.

Mercutio

Thou hast most kindly hit it.

Romeo

A most courteous exposition.

Mercutio

Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

Romeo

Pink for flower.

Mercutio

Right.

Romeo

Why, then is my pump well flowered.

Mercutio

Well said: follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump, that when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain after the wearing sole singular.

Romeo

O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness.

Mercutio

Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint.

Romeo

Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; or I’ll cry a match.

Mercutio

Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done, for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five: was I with you there for the goose?

Romeo

Thou wast never with me for any thing when thou wast not there for the goose.

Mercutio

I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.

Romeo

Nay, good goose, bite not.

Mercutio

Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.

Romeo

And is it not well served in to a sweet goose?

Mercutio

O here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad!

Romeo

I stretch it out for that word ‘broad;’ which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.

Mercutio

Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature: for this drivelling love is like a great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.

Benvolio

Stop there, stop there.

Mercutio

Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.

Benvolio

Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.

Mercutio

O, thou art deceived; I would have made it short: for I was come to the whole depth of my tale; and meant, indeed, to occupy the argument no longer.

Romeo

Here’s goodly gear!

Enter Nurse and Peter

Mercutio

A sail, a sail!

Benvolio

Two, two; a shirt and a smock.

Nurse

Peter!

Peter

Anon!

Nurse

My fan, Peter.

Mercutio

Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face.

Nurse

God ye good morrow, gentlemen.

Mercutio

God ye good den, fair gentlewoman.

Nurse

Is it good den?

Mercutio

’Tis no less, I tell you, for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.

Nurse

Out upon you! what a man are you!

Romeo

One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar.

Nurse

By my troth, it is well said; ‘for himself to mar,’ quoth a’? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo?

Romeo

I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him: I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse.

Nurse

You say well.

Mercutio

Yea, is the worst well? very well took, i’ faith; wisely, wisely.

Nurse

if you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you.

Benvolio

She will indite him to some supper.

Mercutio

A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! so ho!

Romeo

What hast thou found?

Mercutio

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,

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.

Romeo

I will follow you.

Mercutio

Farewell, ancient lady; farewell,

Singing

‘Lady, lady, lady.’

Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio

Nurse

Marry, farewell! I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this, that was so full of his ropery?

Romeo

A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk, and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.

Nurse

An a’ speak any thing against me, I’ll take him down, an a’ were lustier than he is, and twenty such Jacks; and if I cannot, I’ll find those that shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of his skains-mates. And thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure?

Peter

I saw no man use you a pleasure; if I had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you: I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side.

Nurse

Now, afore God, I am so vexed, that every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray you, sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bade me inquire you out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself: but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool’s paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behavior, as they say: for the gentlewoman is young; and, therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing.

Romeo

Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee —

Nurse

Good heart, and, i’ faith, I will tell her as much:

Lord, Lord, she will be a joyful woman.

Romeo

What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not mark me.

Nurse

I will tell her, sir, that you do protest; which, as

I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.

Romeo

Bid her devise

Some means to come to shrift this afternoon;

And there she shall at Friar Laurence’ cell

Be shrived and married. Here is for thy pains.

Nurse

No truly sir; not a penny.

Romeo

Go to; I say you shall.

Nurse

This afternoon, sir? well, she shall be there.

Romeo

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

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.

Romeo

What say’st thou, my dear nurse?

Nurse

Is your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say,

Two may keep counsel, putting one away?

Romeo

I warrant thee, my man’s as true as steel.

Nurse

Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady — Lord, Lord! when ’twas a little prating thing:— O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes and tell her that Paris is the properer man; but, I’ll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter?

Romeo

Ay, nurse; what of that? both with an R.

Nurse

Ah. mocker! that’s the dog’s name; R is for the — No; I know it begins with some other letter:— and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.

Romeo

Commend me to thy lady.

Nurse

Ay, a thousand times.

Exit Romeo

Peter!

Peter

Anon!

Nurse

Peter, take my fan, and go before and apace.

Exeunt

SCENE V. CAPULET’S ORCHARD.

Enter Juliet

Juliet

The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;

In half an hour she promised to return.

Perchance she cannot meet him: that’s not so.

O, she is lame! love’s heralds should be thoughts,

Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams,

Driving back shadows over louring 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

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,

She would 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;

Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.

O God, she comes!

Enter Nurse and Peter

O honey nurse, what news?

Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.

Nurse

Peter, stay at the gate.

Exit Peter

Juliet

Now, good sweet nurse,— O Lord, why look’st thou sad?

Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;

If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news

By playing it to me with so sour a face.

Nurse

I am a-weary, give me leave awhile:

Fie, how my bones ache! what a jaunt have I had!

Juliet

I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news:

Nay, come, I pray thee, speak; good, good nurse, speak.

Nurse

Jesu, what haste? can you not stay awhile?

Do you not see that I am out of breath?

Juliet

How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath

To say to me that thou art out of breath?

The excuse that thou dost make in this delay

Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.

Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that;

Say either, and I’ll stay the circumstance:

Let me be satisfied, is’t good or bad?

Nurse

Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man: Romeo! no, not he; though his face be better than any man’s, yet his leg excels all men’s; and for a hand, and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare: he is not the flower of courtesy, but, I’ll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve God. What, have you dined at home?

Juliet

No, no: but all this did I know before.

What says he of our marriage? what of that?

Nurse

Lord, how my head aches! what a head have I!

It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.

My back o’ t’ other side,— O, my back, my back!

Beshrew your heart for sending me about,

To catch my death with jaunting up and down!

Juliet

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?

Juliet

Where is my mother! why, she is within;

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;

Is this the poultice for my aching bones?

Henceforward do your messages yourself.

Juliet

Here’s such a coil! come, what says Romeo?

Nurse

Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?

Juliet

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.

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,

But you shall bear the burden soon at night.

Go; I’ll to dinner: hie you to the cell.

Juliet

Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. FRIAR LAURENCE’S CELL.

Enter Friar Laurence and Romeo

Friar Laurence

So smile the heavens upon this holy act,

That after hours with sorrow chide us not!

Romeo

Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can,

It cannot countervail the exchange of joy

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.

Friar Laurence

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

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

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.

Juliet

Good even to my ghostly confessor.

Friar Laurence

Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.

Juliet

As much to him, else is his thanks too much.

Romeo

Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy

Be heap’d like mine and that thy skill be more

To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath

This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue

Unfold the imagined happiness that both

Receive in either by this dear encounter.

Juliet

Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,

Brags of his substance, not of ornament:

They are but beggars that can count their worth;

But my true love is grown to such excess

I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.

Friar Laurence

Come, come with me, and we will make short work;

For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone

Till holy church incorporate two in one.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page, and Servants

Benvolio

I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:

The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,

And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl;

For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.

Mercutio

Thou art like one of those fellows that when he enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword upon the table and says ‘God send me no need of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws it on the drawer, when indeed there is no need.

Benvolio

Am I like such a fellow?

Mercutio

Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy, and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.

Benvolio

And what to?

Mercutio

Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more, or a hair less, in his beard, than thou hast: thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes: what eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as fun of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling: thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun: didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with another, for tying his new shoes with old riband? and yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling!

Benvolio

An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.

Mercutio

The fee-simple! O simple!

Benvolio

By my head, here come the Capulets.

Mercutio

By my heel, I care not.

Enter Tybalt and others

Tybalt

Follow me close, for I will speak to them.

Gentlemen, good den: a word with one of you.

Mercutio

And but one word with one of us? couple it with something; make it a word and a blow.

Tybalt

You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion.

Mercutio

Could you not take some occasion without giving?

Tybalt

Mercutio, thou consort’st with Romeo,—

Mercutio

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!

Benvolio

We talk here in the public haunt of men:

Either withdraw unto some private place,

And reason coldly of your grievances,

Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.

Mercutio

Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze;

I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.

Enter Romeo

Tybalt

Well, peace be with you, sir: here comes my man.

Mercutio

But I’ll be hanged, 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.’

Tybalt

Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford

No better term than this,— thou art a villain.

Romeo

Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee

Doth much excuse the appertaining rage

To such a greeting: villain am I none;

Therefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.

Tybalt

Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries

That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.

Romeo

I do protest, I never injured 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

As dearly as my own,— be satisfied.

Mercutio

O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!

Alla stoccata carries it away.

Draws

Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?

Tybalt

What wouldst thou have with me?

Mercutio

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, drybeat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher by the ears? make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.

Tybalt

I am for you.

Drawing

Romeo

Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.

Mercutio

Come, sir, your passado.

They fight

Romeo

Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.

Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage!

Tybalt, Mercutio, the prince expressly hath

Forbidden bandying in Verona streets:

Hold, Tybalt! good Mercutio!

Tybalt under Romeo’s arm stabs Mercutio, and flies with his followers

Mercutio

I am hurt.

A plague o’ both your houses! I am sped.

Is he gone, and hath nothing?

Benvolio

What, art thou hurt?

Mercutio

Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, ’tis enough.

Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.

Exit Page

Romeo

Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.

Mercutio

No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but ’tis enough,’twill serve: ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both your houses! ’Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm.

Romeo

I thought all for the best.

Mercutio

Help me into some house, Benvolio,

Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses!

They have made worms’ meat of me: I have it,

And soundly too: your houses!

Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio

Romeo

This gentleman, the prince’s near ally,

My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt

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

And in my temper soften’d valour’s steel!

Re-enter Benvolio

Benvolio

O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead!

That gallant spirit hath aspired the clouds,

Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.

Romeo

This day’s black fate on more days doth depend;

This but begins the woe, others must end.

Benvolio

Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.

Romeo

Alive, in triumph! and Mercutio slain!

Away to heaven, respective lenity,

And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now!

Re-enter Tybalt

Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again,

That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio’s soul

Is but a little way above our heads,

Staying for thine to keep him company:

Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.

Tybalt

Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here,

Shalt with him hence.

Romeo

This shall determine that.

They fight; Tybalt falls

Benvolio

Romeo, away, be gone!

The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.

Stand not amazed: the prince will doom thee death,

If thou art taken: hence, be gone, away!

Romeo

O, I am fortune’s fool!

Benvolio

Why dost thou stay?

Exit Romeo

Enter Citizens, & c

First Citizen

Which way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?

Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?

Benvolio

There lies that Tybalt.

First Citizen

Up, sir, go with me;

I charge thee in the princes name, obey.

Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives, and others

Prince

Where are the vile beginners of this fray?

Benvolio

O noble prince, I can discover all

The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl:

There lies the man, slain by young Romeo,

That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.

Lady Capulet

Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child!

O prince! O cousin! husband! O, the blood is spilt

O my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true,

For blood of ours, shed blood of Montague.

O cousin, cousin!

Prince

Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?

Benvolio

Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay;

Romeo that spoke him fair, bade him bethink

How nice the quarrel was, and urged withal

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

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

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,

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,

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.

This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.

Lady Capulet

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.

I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give;

Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.

Prince

Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio;

Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe?

Montague

Not Romeo, prince, he was Mercutio’s friend;

His fault concludes but what the law should end,

The life of Tybalt.

Prince

And for that offence

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

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.

Bear hence this body and attend our will:

Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.

Exeunt

SCENE II. CAPULET’S ORCHARD.

Enter Juliet

Juliet

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,

Towards Phoebus’ lodging: such a wagoner

As Phaethon would whip you to the west,

And bring in cloudy night immediately.

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

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,

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.

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,

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

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

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,

And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks

But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.

Enter Nurse, with cords

Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords

That Romeo bid thee fetch?

Nurse

Ay, ay, the cords.

Throws them down

Juliet

Ay me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?

Nurse

Ah, well-a-day! he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!

We are undone, lady, we are undone!

Alack the day! he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead!

Juliet

Can heaven be so envious?

Nurse

Romeo can,

Though heaven cannot: O Romeo, Romeo!

Who ever would have thought it? Romeo!

Juliet

What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?

This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell.

Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but ‘I,’

And that bare vowel ‘I’ shall poison more

Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice:

I am not I, if there be such an I;

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,—

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.

Juliet

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!

Nurse

O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had!

O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman!

That ever I should live to see thee dead!

Juliet

What storm is this that blows so contrary?

Is Romeo slaughter’d, and is Tybalt dead?

My dear-loved cousin, and my dearer lord?

Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!

For who is living, if those two are gone?

Nurse

Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;

Romeo that kill’d him, he is banished.

Juliet

O God! did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?

Nurse

It did, it did; alas the day, it did!

Juliet

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!

Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st,

A damned saint, an honourable villain!

O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell,

When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend

In moral 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,

No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured,

All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.

Ah, where’s my man? give me some aqua vitae:

These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.

Shame come to Romeo!

Juliet

Blister’d be thy tongue

For such a wish! he was not born to shame:

Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit;

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?

Juliet

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?

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.

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,

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;’

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

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,

Which modern lamentations might have moved?

But with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death,

‘Romeo is banished,’ to speak that word,

Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,

All slain, all dead. ‘Romeo is banished!’

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:

Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

Juliet

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 beguiled,

Both you and I; for Romeo is exiled:

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;

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 at night:

I’ll to him; he is hid at Laurence’ cell.

Juliet

O, find him! give this ring to my true knight,

And bid him come to take his last farewell.

Exeunt

SCENE III. FRIAR LAURENCE’S CELL.

Enter Friar Laurence

Friar Laurence

Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man:

Affliction is enamour’d of thy parts,

And thou art wedded to calamity.

Enter Romeo

Romeo

Father, what news? what is the prince’s doom?

What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,

That I yet know not?

Friar Laurence

Too familiar

Is my dear son with such sour company:

I bring thee tidings of the prince’s doom.

Romeo

What less than dooms-day is the prince’s doom?

Friar Laurence

A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips,

Not body’s death, but body’s banishment.

Romeo

Ha, banishment! be merciful, say ‘death;’

For exile hath more terror in his look,

Much more than death: do not say ‘banishment.’

Friar Laurence

Hence from Verona art thou banished:

Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

Romeo

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,

Is death mis-term’d: calling death banishment,

Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,

And smilest upon the stroke that murders me.

Friar Laurence

O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness!

Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince,

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.

Romeo

’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;

But Romeo may not: more validity,

More honourable state, more courtship lives

In carrion-flies than Romeo: they my seize

On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand

And steal immortal blessing from her lips,

Who even in pure and vestal modesty,

Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin;

But Romeo may not; he is banished:

Flies may do this, but I from this must fly:

They are free men, but I am banished.

And say’st 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,

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,

A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d,

To mangle me with that word ‘banished’?

Friar Laurence

Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak a word.

Romeo

O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.

Friar Laurence

I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word:

Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,

To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

Romeo

Yet ‘banished’? Hang up philosophy!

Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,

Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom,

It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more.

Friar Laurence

O, then I see that madmen have no ears.

Romeo

How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?

Friar Laurence

Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

Romeo

Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel:

Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,

An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,

Doting like me and like me banished,

Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,

And fall upon the ground, as I do now,

Taking the measure of an unmade grave.

Knocking within

Friar Laurence

Arise; one knocks; good Romeo, hide thyself.

Romeo

Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans,

Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes.

Knocking

Friar Laurence

Hark, how they knock! Who’s there? Romeo, arise;

Thou wilt be taken. Stay awhile! Stand up;

Knocking

Run to my study. By and by! God’s will,

What simpleness is this! I come, I come!

Knocking

Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what’s your will?

Nurse

[Within] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand; I come from Lady Juliet.

Friar Laurence

Welcome, then.

Enter Nurse

Nurse

O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar,

Where is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo?

Friar Laurence

There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.

Nurse

O, he is even in my mistress’ case,

Just in her case! O woful sympathy!

Piteous predicament! Even so lies she,

Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.

Stand up, stand up; stand, and you be a man:

For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand;

Why should you fall into so deep an O?

Romeo

Nurse!

Nurse

Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death’s the end of all.

Romeo

Spakest thou of Juliet? how is it with her?

Doth she not think me an old murderer,

Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joy

With blood removed but little from her own?

Where is she? and how doth she? and what says

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,

And then down falls again.

Romeo

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,

In what vile part of this anatomy

Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack

The hateful mansion.

Drawing his sword

Friar Laurence

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!

Thou hast amazed me: by my holy order,

I thought thy disposition better temper’d.

Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself?

And stay thy lady too that lives in thee,

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 thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.

Fie, fie, thou shamest 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:

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;

Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,

Misshapen in the conduct of them both,

Like powder in a skitless soldier’s flask,

Is set afire by thine own ignorance,

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 are thou happy too:

The law that threaten’d death becomes thy friend

And turns it to exile; there art thou happy:

A pack of blessings lights up upon thy back;

Happiness courts thee in her best array;

But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,

Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy love:

Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.

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;

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.

Go before, nurse: commend me to thy lady;

And bid her hasten all the house to bed,

Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto:

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.

Romeo

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

Romeo

How well my comfort is revived by this!

Friar Laurence

Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state:

Either be gone before the watch be set,

Or by the break of day disguised from hence:

Sojourn in Mantua; I’ll find out your man,

And he shall signify from time to time

Every good hap to you that chances here:

Give me thy hand; ’tis late: farewell; good night.

Romeo

But that a joy past joy calls out on me,

It were a grief, so brief to part with thee: Farewell.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. A ROOM IN CAPULET’S HOUSE.

Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris

Capulet

Things have fall’n out, sir, so unluckily,

That we have had no time to move our daughter:

Look you, she loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly,

And so did I:— Well, we were born to die.

’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.

Paris

These times of woe afford no time to woo.

Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.

Lady Capulet

I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;

To-night she is mew’d up to her heaviness.

Capulet

Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender

Of my child’s love: I think she will be ruled

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;

And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next —

But, soft! what day is this?

Paris

Monday, my lord,

Capulet

Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,

O’ Thursday let it be: o’ Thursday, tell her,

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,

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?

Paris

My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.

Capulet

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.

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. CAPULET’S ORCHARD.

Enter Romeo and Juliet above, at the window

Juliet

Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:

It was the nightingale, and not the lark,

That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;

Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:

Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Romeo

It was the lark, the herald of the morn,

No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks

Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:

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.

Juliet

Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I:

It is some meteor that the sun exhales,

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.

Romeo

Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;

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;

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.

How is’t, my soul? let’s talk; it is not day.

Juliet

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;

This doth not so, for she divideth us:

Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes,

O, now I would they had changed voices too!

Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,

Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day,

O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.

Romeo

More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!

Enter Nurse, to the chamber

Nurse

Madam!

Juliet

Nurse?

Nurse

Your lady mother is coming to your chamber:

The day is broke; be wary, look about.

Exit

Juliet

Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

Romeo

Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I’ll descend.

He goeth down

Juliet

Art thou gone so? love, lord, ay, husband, friend!

I must hear from thee every day in the hour,

For in a minute there are many days:

O, by this count I shall be much in years

Ere I again behold my Romeo!

Romeo

Farewell!

I will omit no opportunity

That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

Juliet

O think’st thou we shall ever meet again?

Romeo

I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve

For sweet discourses in our time to come.

Juliet

O God, I have an ill-divining soul!

Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,

As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:

Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.

Romeo

And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:

Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!

Exit

Juliet

O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle:

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.

Lady Capulet

[Within] Ho, daughter! are you up?

Juliet

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 Capulet

Why, how now, Juliet!

Juliet

Madam, I am not well.

Lady Capulet

Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death?

What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?

An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live;

Therefore, have done: some grief shows much of love;

But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

Juliet

Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.

Lady Capulet

So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend

Which you weep for.

Juliet

Feeling so the loss,

Cannot choose but ever weep the friend.

Lady Capulet

Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death,

As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.

Juliet

What villain madam?

Lady Capulet

That same villain, Romeo.

Juliet

[Aside] Villain and he be many miles asunder.—

God Pardon him! I do, with all my heart;

And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.

Lady Capulet

That is, because the traitor murderer lives.

Juliet

Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands:

Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death!

Lady Capulet

We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not:

Then weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua,

Where that same banish’d runagate doth live,

Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram,

That he shall soon keep Tybalt company:

And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied.

Juliet

Indeed, I never shall be satisfied

With Romeo, till I behold him — dead —

Is my poor heart for a kinsman vex’d.

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 named, and cannot come to him.

To wreak the love I bore my cousin

Upon his body that slaughter’d him!

Lady Capulet

Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man.

But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.

Juliet

And joy comes well in such a needy time:

What are they, I beseech your ladyship?

Lady Capulet

Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child;

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.

Juliet

Madam, in happy time, what day is that?

Lady Capulet

Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn,

The gallant, young and noble gentleman,

The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church,

Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.

Juliet

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,

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!

Lady Capulet

Here comes your father; tell him so yourself,

And see how he will take it at your hands.

Enter Capulet and Nurse

Capulet

When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;

But for the sunset of my brother’s son

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;

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,

Without a sudden calm, will overset

Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife!

Have you deliver’d to her our decree?

Lady Capulet

Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.

I would the fool were married to her grave!

Capulet

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 blest,

Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought

So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?

Juliet

Not proud, you have; but thankful, that you have:

Proud can I never be of what I hate;

But thankful even for hate, that is meant love.

Capulet

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,

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.

Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage!

You tallow-face!

Lady Capulet

Fie, fie! what, are you mad?

Juliet

Good father, I beseech you on my knees,

Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

Capulet

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;

My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest

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:

Out on her, hilding!

Nurse

God in heaven bless her!

You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.

Capulet

And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue,

Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.

Nurse

I speak no treason.

Capulet

O, God ye god-den.

Nurse

May not one speak?

Capulet

Peace, you mumbling fool!

Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl;

For here we need it not.

Lady Capulet

You are too hot.

Capulet

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,

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;

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.’

But, as 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:

An you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;

And 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:

Trust to’t, bethink you; I’ll not be forsworn.

Exit

Juliet

Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,

That sees into the bottom of my grief?

O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!

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 Capulet

Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word:

Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.

Exit

Juliet

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,

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!

What say’st thou? hast thou not a word of joy?

Some comfort, nurse.

Nurse

Faith, here it is.

Romeo is banish’d; 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.

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!

Romeo’s a dishclout to him: an eagle, madam,

Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye

As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,

I think you are happy in this second match,

For it excels your first: or if it did not,

Your first is dead; or ’twere as good he were,

As living here and you no use of him.

Juliet

Speakest thou from thy heart?

Nurse

And from my soul too;

Or else beshrew them both.

Juliet

Amen!

Nurse

What?

Juliet

Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.

Go in: and tell my lady I am gone,

Having displeased my father, to Laurence’ cell,

To make confession and to be absolved.

Nurse

Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.

Exit

Juliet

Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!

Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,

Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue

Which she hath praised 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:

If all else fail, myself have power to die.

Exit

ACT IV

SCENE I. FRIAR LAURENCE’S CELL.

Enter Friar Laurence and Paris

Friar Laurence

On Thursday, sir? the time is very short.

Paris

My father Capulet will have it so;

And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.

Friar Laurence

You say you do not know the lady’s mind:

Uneven is the course, I like it not.

Paris

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.

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;

Which, too much minded by herself alone,

May be put from her by society:

Now do you know the reason of this haste.

Friar Laurence

[Aside] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.

Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell.

Enter Juliet

Paris

Happily met, my lady and my wife!

Juliet

That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.

Paris

That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.

Juliet

What must be shall be.

Friar Laurence

That’s a certain text.

Paris

Come you to make confession to this father?

Juliet

To answer that, I should confess to you.

Paris

Do not deny to him that you love me.

Juliet

I will confess to you that I love him.

Paris

So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.

Juliet

If I do so, it will be of more price,

Being spoke behind your back, than to your face.

Paris

Poor soul, thy face is much abused with tears.

Juliet

The tears have got small victory by that;

For it was bad enough before their spite.

Paris

Thou wrong’st it, more than tears, with that report.

Juliet

That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;

And what I spake, I spake it to my face.

Paris

Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.

Juliet

It may be so, for it is not mine own.

Are you at leisure, holy father, now;

Or shall I come to you at evening mass?

Friar Laurence

My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.

My lord, we must entreat the time alone.

Paris

God shield I should disturb devotion!

Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye:

Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.

Exit

Juliet

O shut the door! and when thou hast done so,

Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!

Friar Laurence

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.

Juliet

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,

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,

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-experienced time,

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

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.

Friar Laurence

Hold, daughter: I do spy a kind of hope,

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,

Then is it likely thou wilt undertake

A thing like death to chide away this shame,

That copest with death himself to scape from it:

And, if thou darest, I’ll give thee remedy.

Juliet

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;

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

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.

Friar Laurence

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,

And this distilled liquor drink thou off;

When presently through all thy veins shall run

A cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse

Shall keep his native progress, but surcease:

No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest;

The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade

To paly ashes, thy eyes’ windows fall,

Like death, when he shuts up the day of life;

Each part, deprived 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,

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,

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.

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

Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.

And this shall free thee from this present shame;

If no inconstant toy, nor womanish fear,

Abate thy valour in the acting it.

Juliet

Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear!

Friar Laurence

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.

Juliet

Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford.

Farewell, dear father!

Exeunt

SCENE II. HALL IN CAPULET’S HOUSE.

Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse, and two Servingmen

Capulet

So many guests invite as here are writ.

Exit First Servant

Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.

Second Servant

You shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they can lick their fingers.

Capulet

How canst thou try them so?

Second Servant

Marry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers: therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.

Capulet

Go, be gone.

Exit Second Servant

We shall be much unfurnished for this time.

What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence?

Nurse

Ay, forsooth.

Capulet

Well, he may chance to do some good on her:

A peevish self-will’d harlotry it is.

Nurse

See where she comes from shrift with merry look.

Enter Juliet

Capulet

How now, my headstrong! where have you been gadding?

Juliet

Where I have learn’d me to repent the sin

Of disobedient opposition

To you and your behests, and am enjoin’d

By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here,

And beg your pardon: pardon, I beseech you!

Henceforward I am ever ruled by you.

Capulet

Send for the county; go tell him of this:

I’ll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning.

Juliet

I met the youthful lord at Laurence’ cell;

And gave him what becomed love I might,

Not step o’er the bounds of modesty.

Capulet

Why, I am 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,

Our whole city is much bound to him.

Juliet

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?

Lady Capulet

No, not till Thursday; there is time enough.

Capulet

Go, nurse, go with her: we’ll to church to-morrow.

Exeunt Juliet and Nurse

Lady Capulet

We shall be short in our provision:

’Tis now near night.

Capulet

Tush, I will stir about,

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

To County Paris, to prepare him up

Against to-morrow: my heart is wondrous light,

Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d.

Exeunt

SCENE III. JULIET’S CHAMBER.

Enter Juliet and Nurse

Juliet

Ay, those attires are best: but, gentle nurse,

I pray thee, leave me to my self to-night,

For I have need of many orisons

To move the heavens to smile upon my state,

Which, well thou know’st, is cross, and full of sin.

Enter Lady Capulet

Lady Capulet

What, are you busy, ho? need you my help?

Juliet

No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries

As are behoveful for our state to-morrow:

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 Capulet

Good night:

Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need.

Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse

Juliet

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:

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.

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 her dagger

What if it be a poison, which the friar

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,

For he hath still been tried a holy man.

How if, when I am laid into the tomb,

I wake before the time that Romeo

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,

The horrible conceit of death and night,

Together with the terror of the place,—

As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,

Where, for these many hundred years, the bones

Of all my buried ancestors are packed:

Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,

Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,

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,

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 forefather’s joints?

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

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. HALL IN CAPULET’S HOUSE.

Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse

Lady Capulet

Hold, take these keys, and fetch more spices, nurse.

Nurse

They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.

Enter Capulet

Capulet

Come, stir, stir, stir! the second cock hath crow’d,

The curfew-bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock:

Look to the baked meats, good Angelica:

Spare not for the cost.

Nurse

Go, you cot-quean, go,

Get you to bed; faith, You’ll be sick to-morrow

For this night’s watching.

Capulet

No, not a whit: what! I have watch’d ere now

All night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick.

Lady Capulet

Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;

But I will watch you from such watching now.

Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse

Capulet

A jealous hood, a jealous hood!

Enter three or four Servingmen, with spits, logs, and baskets

Now, fellow,

What’s there?

First Servant

Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what.

Capulet

Make haste, make haste.

Exit First Servant

Sirrah, fetch drier logs:

Call Peter, he will show thee where they are.

Second Servant

I have a head, sir, that will find out logs,

And never trouble Peter for the matter.

Exit

Capulet

Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha!

Thou shalt be logger-head. Good faith, ’tis day:

The county will be here with music straight,

For so he said he would: I hear him near.

Music within

Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, nurse, I say!

Re-enter Nurse

Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up;

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. 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;

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!

I must needs 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?

Undraws the curtains

What, dress’d! and in your clothes! and down again!

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 vitae, ho! My lord! my lady!

Enter Lady Capulet

Lady Capulet

What noise is here?

Nurse

O lamentable day!

Lady Capulet

What is the matter?

Nurse

Look, look! O heavy day!

Lady Capulet

O me, O me! My child, my only life,

Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!

Help, help! Call help.

Enter Capulet

Capulet

For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.

Nurse

She’s dead, deceased, she’s dead; alack the day!

Lady Capulet

Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead!

Capulet

Ha! let me see her: out, alas! she’s cold:

Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;

Life and these lips have long been separated:

Death lies on her like an untimely frost

Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

Nurse

O lamentable day!

Lady Capulet

O woful time!

Capulet

Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail,

Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak.

Enter Friar Laurence and Paris, with Musicians

Friar Laurence

Come, is the bride ready to go to church?

Capulet

Ready to go, but never to return.

O son! the night before thy wedding-day

Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies,

Flower as she was, deflowered by him.

Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir;

My daughter he hath wedded: I will die,

And leave him all; life, living, all is Death’s.

Paris

Have I thought long to see this morning’s face,

And doth it give me such a sight as this?

Lady Capulet

Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!

Most miserable hour that e’er time saw

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!

Nurse

O woe! O woful, woful, woful day!

Most lamentable day, most woful day,

That ever, ever, I did yet behold!

O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!

Never was seen so black a day as this:

O woful day, O woful day!

Paris

Beguiled, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!

Most detestable death, by thee beguil’d,

By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!

O love! O life! not life, but love in death!

Capulet

Despised, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d!

Uncomfortable time, why camest thou now

To murder, murder our solemnity?

O child! O child! my soul, and not my child!

Dead art thou! Alack! my child is dead;

And with my child my joys are buried.

Friar Laurence

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:

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 advanced:

And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced

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:

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,

In all her best array bear her to church:

For though fond nature bids us an lament,

Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment.

Capulet

All things that we ordained festival,

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,

Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,

And all things change them to the contrary.

Friar Laurence

Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;

And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare

To follow this fair corse unto her grave:

The heavens do lour upon you for some ill;

Move them no more by crossing their high will.

Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar Laurence

First Musician

Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone.

Nurse

Honest goodfellows, ah, put up, put up;

For, well you know, this is a pitiful case.

Exit

First Musician

Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.

Enter Peter

Peter

Musicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease, Heart’s ease:’ O, an you will have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’

First Musician

Why ‘Heart’s ease?’

Peter

O, musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full of woe:’ O, play me some merry dump, to comfort me.

First Musician

Not a dump we; ’tis no time to play now.

Peter

You will not, then?

First Musician

No.

Peter

I will then give it you soundly.

First Musician

What will you give us?

Peter

No money, on my faith, but the gleek;

I will give you the minstrel.

First Musician

Then I will give you the serving-creature.

Peter

Then will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets: I’ll re you, I’ll fa you; do you note me?

First Musician

An you re us and fa us, you note us.

Second Musician

Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

Peter

Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men:

‘When griping grief the heart doth wound,

And doleful dumps the mind oppress,

Then music with her silver sound’—

why ‘silver sound’? why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you, Simon Catling?

Musician

Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.

Peter

Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck?

Second Musician

I say ‘silver sound,’ because musicians sound for silver.

Peter

Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost?

Third Musician

Faith, I know not what to say.

Peter

O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say for you. It is ‘music with her silver sound,’ because musicians have no gold for sounding: ‘Then music with her silver sound With speedy help doth lend redress.’

Exit

First Musician

What a pestilent knave is this same!

Second Musician

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

Romeo

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

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 breathed such life with kisses in my lips,

That I revived, 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!

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.

Balthasar

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,

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.

Romeo

Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!

Thou know’st my lodging: get me ink and paper,

And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night.

Balthasar

I do beseech you, sir, have patience:

Your looks are pale and wild, and do import

Some misadventure.

Romeo

Tush, thou art deceived:

Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.

Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?

Balthasar

No, my good lord.

Romeo

No matter: get thee gone,

And hire those horses; I’ll be with thee straight.

Exit Balthasar

Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night.

Let’s see for means: O mischief, thou art swift

To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!

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,

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-shaped fishes; and about his shelves

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.

Noting this penury, to myself I said

‘An if a man did need a poison now,

Whose sale is present death in Mantua,

Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.’

O, this same thought did but forerun my need;

And this same needy man must sell it me.

As I remember, this should be the house.

Being holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.

What, ho! apothecary!

Enter Apothecary

Apothecary

Who calls so loud?

Romeo

Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor:

Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have

A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear

As will disperse itself through all the veins

That the life-weary taker may fall dead

And that the trunk may be discharged of breath

As violently as hasty powder fired

Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.

Apothecary

Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua’s law

Is death to any he that utters them.

Romeo

Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness,

And fear’st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,

Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes,

Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back;

The world is not thy friend nor the world’s law;

The world affords no law to make thee rich;

Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.

Apothecary

My poverty, but not my will, consents.

Romeo

I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.

Apothecary

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.

Romeo

There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls,

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.

Come, cordial and not poison, go with me

To Juliet’s grave; for there must I use thee.

Exeunt

SCENE II. FRIAR LAURENCE’S CELL.

Enter Friar John

Friar John

Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!

Enter Friar Laurence

Friar Laurence

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.

Friar John

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,

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.

Friar Laurence

Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo?

Friar John

I could not send it,— here it is again,—

Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,

So fearful were they of infection.

Friar Laurence

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

Unto my cell.

Friar John

Brother, I’ll go and bring it thee.

Exit

Friar Laurence

Now must I to the monument alone;

Within three hours will fair Juliet wake:

She will beshrew me much that Romeo

Hath had no notice of these accidents;

But I will write again to Mantua,

And keep her at my cell till Romeo come;

Poor living corse, closed in a dead man’s tomb!

Exit

SCENE III. A CHURCHYARD; IN IT A TOMB BELONGING TO THE CAPULETS.

Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch

Paris

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;

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.

Page

[Aside] I am almost afraid to stand alone

Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.

Retires

Paris

Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew,—

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

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?

What with a torch! muffle me, night, awhile.

Retires

Enter Romeo and Balthasar, with a torch, mattock, & c

Romeo

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.

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,

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

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:

The time and my intents are savage-wild,

More fierce and more inexorable far

Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.

Balthasar

I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

Romeo

So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that:

Live, and be prosperous: and farewell, good fellow.

Balthasar

[Aside] For all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout:

His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.

Retires

Romeo

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,

Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth,

Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,

And, in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food!

Opens the tomb

Paris

This is that banish’d haughty Montague,

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

To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him.

Comes forward

Stop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague!

Can vengeance be pursued further than death?

Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee:

Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.

Romeo

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;

For I come hither arm’d against myself:

Stay not, be gone; live, and hereafter say,

A madman’s mercy bade thee run away.

Paris

I do defy thy conjurations,

And apprehend thee for a felon here.

Romeo

Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy!

They fight

Page

O Lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.

Exit

Paris

O, I am slain!

Falls

If thou be merciful,

Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.

Dies

Romeo

In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.

Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!

What said my man, when my betossed soul

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,

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 lantern, slaughter’d youth,

For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes

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

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:

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.

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?

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

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

With worms that are thy chamber-maids; 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!

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

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.

Dies

Enter, at the other end of the churchyard, Friar Laurence, with a lantern, crow, and spade

Friar Laurence

Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night

Have my old feet stumbled at graves! Who’s there?

Balthasar

Here’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well.

Friar Laurence

Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend,

What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light

To grubs and eyeless skulls? as I discern,

It burneth in the Capel’s monument.

Balthasar

It doth so, holy sir; and there’s my master,

One that you love.

Friar Laurence

Who is it?

Balthasar

Romeo.

Friar Laurence

How long hath he been there?

Balthasar

Full half an hour.

Friar Laurence

Go with me to the vault.

Balthasar

I dare not, sir

My master knows not but I am gone hence;

And fearfully did menace me with death,

If I did stay to look on his intents.

Friar Laurence

Stay, then; I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me:

O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.

Balthasar

As I did sleep under this yew-tree here,

I dreamt my master and another fought,

And that my master slew him.

Friar Laurence

Romeo!

Advances

Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains

The stony entrance of this sepulchre?

What mean these masterless and gory swords

To lie discolour’d by this place of peace?

Enters the tomb

Romeo! O, pale! Who else? what, Paris too?

And steep’d in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour

Is guilty of this lamentable chance!

The lady stirs.

Juliet wakes

Juliet

O comfortable friar! where is my lord?

I do remember well where I should be,

And there I am. Where is my Romeo?

Noise within

Friar Laurence

I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest

Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep:

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

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.

Juliet

Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.

Exit Friar Laurence

What’s here? a cup, closed in my true love’s hand?

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;

Haply some poison yet doth hang on them,

To make die with a restorative.

Kisses him

Thy lips are warm.

First Watchman

[Within] Lead, boy: which way?

Juliet

Yea, noise? then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger!

Snatching Romeo’s dagger

This is thy sheath;

Stabs herself

there rust, and let me die.

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 Watchman

The ground is bloody; search about the churchyard:

Go, some of you, whoe’er you find attach.

Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain,

And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,

Who here hath lain these two days buried.

Go, tell the prince: run to the Capulets:

Raise up the Montagues: some others search:

We see the ground whereon these woes do lie;

But the true ground of all these piteous woes

We cannot without circumstance descry.

Re-enter some of the Watch, with Balthasar

Second Watchman

Here’s Romeo’s man; we found him in the churchyard.

First Watchman

Hold him in safety, till the prince come hither.

Re-enter others of the Watch, with Friar Laurence

Third Watchman

Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs and weeps:

We took this mattock and this spade from him,

As he was coming from this churchyard side.

First Watchman

A great suspicion: stay the friar too.

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

Capulet

What should it be, that they so shriek abroad?

Lady Capulet

The people in the street cry Romeo,

Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run,

With open outcry toward our monument.

Prince

What fear is this which startles in our ears?

First Watchman

Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain;

And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before,

Warm and new kill’d.

Prince

Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.

First Watchman

Here is a friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man;

With instruments upon them, fit to open

These dead men’s tombs.

Capulet

O heavens! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!

This dagger hath mista’en — for, lo, his house

Is empty on the back of Montague,—

And it mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom!

Lady Capulet

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,

To see thy son and heir more early down.

Montague

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?

Prince

Look, and thou shalt see.

Montague

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,

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,

And let mischance be slave to patience.

Bring forth the parties of suspicion.

Friar Laurence

I am the greatest, able to do least,

Yet most suspected, as the time and place

Doth make against me of this direful murder;

And here I stand, both to impeach and purge

Myself condemned and myself excused.

Prince

Then say at once what thou dost know in this.

Friar Laurence

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 stol’n marriage-day

Was Tybalt’s dooms-day, whose untimely death

Banish’d the new-made bridegroom from the city,

For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pined.

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,

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

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,

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

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:

But when I came, some minute ere the time

Of her awaking, here untimely lay

The noble Paris and true Romeo dead.

She wakes; and I entreated her come forth,

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.

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 sacrificed, some hour before his time,

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?

Balthasar

I brought my master news of Juliet’s death;

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 threatened me with death, going in the vault,

I departed not and left him there.

Prince

Give me the letter; I will look on it.

Where is the county’s page, that raised the watch?

Sirrah, what made your master in this place?

Page

He came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave;

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;

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

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,

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.

Capulet

O brother Montague, give me thy hand:

This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more

Can I demand.

Montague

But I can give thee more:

For I will raise her statue in pure gold;

That while Verona by that name is known,

There shall no figure at such rate be set

As that of true and faithful Juliet.

Capulet

As rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie;

Poor sacrifices of our enmity!

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

Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

Exeunt

The Life and Death of Julius Caesar

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. ROME. A STREET.

SCENE II. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE III. THE SAME. A STREET.

ACT II

SCENE I. ROME. BRUTUS’S ORCHARD.

SCENE II. CAESAR’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. A STREET NEAR THE CAPITOL.

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE SAME STREET, BEFORE THE HOUSE OF BRUTUS.

ACT III

SCENE I. ROME. BEFORE THE CAPITOL; THE SENATE SITTING ABOVE.

SCENE II. THE FORUM.

SCENE III. A STREET.

ACT IV

SCENE I. A HOUSE IN ROME.

SCENE II. CAMP NEAR SARDIS. BEFORE BRUTUS’S TENT.

SCENE III. BRUTUS’S TENT.

ACT V

SCENE I. THE PLAINS OF PHILIPPI.

SCENE II. THE SAME. THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

SCENE III. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Julius Caesar, Roman statesman and general.

Octavius, Triumvir after Caesar's death, later Augustus Caesar, first emperor of Rome.

Mark Antony, general and friend of Caesar, a Triumvir after his death.

Lepidus, third member of the Triumvirate.

Marcus Brutus, leader of the conspiracy against Caesar.

Cassius, instigator of the conspiracy.

Casca, Trebonius, Ligarius, Decius Brutus, Metellus Cimber, Cinna, conspirators against Caesar.

Calpurnia, wife of Caesar.

Portia, wife of Brutus.

Cicero, Popilius, senators.

Flavius, Marullus, tribunes.

Cato, Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, Volumnius, supportors of Brutus.

Artemidorus, a teacher of rhetoric.

Cinna The Poet.

Varro, Clitus, Claudius, Strato, Lucius, Dardanius, servants to Brutus.

Pindarus, servant to Cassius.

The Ghost of Caesar.

A Soothsayer.

A Poet.

Senators, Citizens, Soldiers, Commoners, Messengers, and Servants

Scene: Rome, the conspirators' camp near Sardis, and the plains of Philippi.

ACT I

SCENE I. ROME. A STREET.

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners

Flavius

Hence! home, you idle creatures get you home:

Is this a holiday? what! know you not,

Being mechanical, you ought not walk

Upon a labouring day without the sign

Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?

First Commoner

Why, sir, a carpenter.

Marullus

Where is thy leather apron and thy rule?

What dost thou with thy best apparel on?

You, sir, what trade are you?

Second Commoner

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

Marullus

But what trade art thou? answer me directly.

Second Commoner

A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

Marullus

What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, what trade?

Second Commoner

Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

Marullus

What meanest thou by that? mend me, thou saucy fellow!

Second Commoner

Why, sir, cobble you.

Flavius

Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

Second Commoner

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.

Flavius

But wherefore art not in thy shop today?

Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

Second Commoner

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday, to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph.

Marullus

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?

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,

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,

To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:

And when you saw his chariot but appear,

Have you not made an universal shout,

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?

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!

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,

Pray to the gods to intermit the plague

That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Flavius

Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault,

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.

Exeunt all the Commoners

See whether their basest metal be not moved;

They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.

Go you down that way towards the Capitol;

This way will I disrobe the images,

If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies.

Marullus

May we do so?

You know it is the feast of Lupercal.

Flavius

It is no matter; let no images

Be hung with Caesar’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 Caesar’s wing

Will make him fly an ordinary pitch,

Who else would soar above the view of men

And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Flourish. Enter Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calpurnia, Portia, Decius Brutus, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer

Caesar

Calpurnia!

Casca

Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.

Caesar

Calpurnia!

Calpurnia

Here, my lord.

Caesar

Stand you directly in Antonius’ way,

When he doth run his course. Antonius!

Antony

Caesar, my lord?

Caesar

Forget not, in your speed, Antonius,

To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say,

The barren, touched in this holy chase,

Shake off their sterile curse.

Antony

I shall remember:

When Caesar says ‘do this,’ it is perform’d.

Caesar

Set on; and leave no ceremony out.

Flourish

Soothsayer

Caesar!

Caesar

Ha! who calls?

Casca

Bid every noise be still: peace yet again!

Caesar

Who is it in the press that calls on me?

I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music,

Cry ‘Caesar!’ Speak; Caesar is turn’d to hear.

Soothsayer

Beware the ides of March.

Caesar

What man is that?

Brutus

A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

Caesar

Set him before me; let me see his face.

Cassius

Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar.

Caesar

What say’st thou to me now? speak once again.

Soothsayer

Beware the ides of March.

Caesar

He is a dreamer; let us leave him: pass.

Sennet. Exeunt all except Brutus and Cassius

Cassius

Will you go see the order of the course?

Brutus

Not I.

Cassius

I pray you, do.

Brutus

I am not gamesome: I do lack some part

Of that quick spirit that is in Antony.

Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires;

I’ll leave you.

Cassius

Brutus, I do observe you now of late:

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.

Brutus

Cassius,

Be not deceived: 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,

Conceptions only proper to myself,

Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors;

But let not therefore my good friends be grieved —

Among which number, Cassius, be you one —

Nor construe any further my neglect,

Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,

Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Cassius

Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion;

By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried

Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.

Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?

Brutus

No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself,

But by reflection, by some other things.

Cassius

’Tis just:

And it is very much lamented, Brutus,

That you have no such mirrors as will turn

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 Caesar, speaking of Brutus

And groaning underneath this age’s yoke,

Have wish’d that noble Brutus had his eyes.

Brutus

Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,

That you would have me seek into myself

For that which is not in me?

Cassius

Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear:

And since you know you cannot see yourself

So well as by reflection, I, your glass,

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

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

That I profess myself in banqueting

To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.

Flourish, and shout

Brutus

What means this shouting? I do fear, the people

Choose Caesar for their king.

Cassius

Ay, do you fear it?

Then must I think you would not have it so.

Brutus

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?

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

The name of honour more than I fear death.

Cassius

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.

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.

I was born free as Caesar; 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,

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,

Caesar said to me ‘Darest 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

And bade him follow; so indeed he did.

The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet it

With lusty sinews, throwing it aside

And stemming it with hearts of controversy;

But ere we could arrive the point proposed,

Caesar cried ‘Help me, Cassius, or I sink!’

I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor,

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder

The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber

Did I the tired Caesar. And this man

Is now become a god, and Cassius is

A wretched creature and must bend his body,

If Caesar carelessly but nod on him.

He had a fever when he was in Spain,

And when the fit was on him, I did mark

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:

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

A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world

And bear the palm alone.

Shout. Flourish

Brutus

Another general shout!

I do believe that these applauses are

For some new honours that are heap’d on Caesar.

Cassius

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world

Like a Colossus, and we petty men

Walk under his huge legs and peep about

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.

Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that ‘Caesar’?

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;

Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ’em,

Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar.

Now, in the names of all the gods at once,

Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed,

That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed!

Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!

When went there by an age, since the great flood,

But it was famed with more than with one man?

When could they say till now, that talk’d of Rome,

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.

O, you and I have heard our fathers say,

There was a Brutus once that would have brook’d

The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome

As easily as a king.

Brutus

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,

I would not, so with love I might entreat you,

Be any further moved. What you have said

I will consider; what you have to say

I will with patience hear, and find a time

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

Under these hard conditions as this time

Is like to lay upon us.

Cassius

I am glad that my weak words

Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.

Brutus

The games are done and Caesar is returning.

Cassius

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.

Re-enter Caesar and his Train

Brutus

I will do so. But, look you, Cassius,

The angry spot doth glow on Caesar’s brow,

And all the rest look like a chidden train:

Calpurnia’s cheek is pale; and Cicero

Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes

As we have seen him in the Capitol,

Being cross’d in conference by some senators.

Cassius

Casca will tell us what the matter is.

Caesar

Antonius!

Antony

Caesar?

Caesar

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;

He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

Antony

Fear him not, Caesar; he’s not dangerous;

He is a noble Roman and well given.

Caesar

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

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

As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit

That could be moved 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.

I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d

Than what I fear; for always I am Caesar.

Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf,

And tell me truly what thou think’st of him.

Sennet. Exeunt Caesar and all his Train, but Casca

Casca

You pull’d me by the cloak; would you speak with me?

Brutus

Ay, Casca; tell us what hath chanced to-day,

That Caesar looks so sad.

Casca

Why, you were with him, were you not?

Brutus

I should not then ask Casca what had chanced.

Casca

Why, there was a crown offered him: and being offered him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting.

Brutus

What was the second noise for?

Casca

Why, for that too.

Cassius

They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for?

Casca

Why, for that too.

Brutus

Was the crown offered him thrice?

Casca

Ay, marry, was’t, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other, and at every putting-by mine honest neighbours shouted.

Cassius

Who offered him the crown?

Casca

Why, Antony.

Brutus

Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca.

Casca

I can as well be hanged as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown;— yet ’twas not a crown neither, ’twas one of these coronets;— and, as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again; then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by: and still as he refused it, the rabblement hooted and clapped their chapped hands and threw up their sweaty night-caps and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown that it had almost choked Caesar; for he swounded and fell down at it: and for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air.

Cassius

But, soft, I pray you: what, did Caesar swound?

Casca

He fell down in the market-place, and foamed at mouth, and was speechless.

Brutus

’Tis very like: he hath the failing sickness.

Cassius

No, Caesar hath it not; but you and I,

And honest Casca, we have the falling sickness.

Casca

I know not what you mean by that; but, I am sure, Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man.

Brutus

What said he when he came unto himself?

Casca

Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet and offered them his throat to cut. An I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues. And so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, If he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches, where I stood, cried ‘Alas, good soul!’ and forgave him with all their hearts: but there’s no heed to be taken of them; if Caesar had stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less.

Brutus

And after that, he came, thus sad, away?

Casca

Ay.

Cassius

Did Cicero say any thing?

Casca

Ay, he spoke Greek.

Cassius

To what effect?

Casca

Nay, an I tell you that, Ill ne’er look you i’ the face again: but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but, for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar’s images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it.

Cassius

Will you sup with me to-night, Casca?

Casca

No, I am promised forth.

Cassius

Will you dine with me to-morrow?

Casca

Ay, if I be alive and your mind hold and your dinner worth the eating.

Cassius

Good: I will expect you.

Casca

Do so. Farewell, both.

Exit

Brutus

What a blunt fellow is this grown to be!

He was quick mettle when he went to school.

Cassius

So is he now in execution

Of any bold or noble enterprise,

However he puts on this tardy form.

This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit,

Which gives men stomach to digest his words

With better appetite.

Brutus

And so it is. For this time I will leave you:

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.

Cassius

I will do so: till then, think of the world.

Exit Brutus

Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see,

Thy honourable metal may be wrought

From that it is disposed: therefore it is meet

That noble minds keep ever with their likes;

For who so firm that cannot be seduced?

Caesar 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,

As if they came from several citizens,

Writings all tending to the great opinion

That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely

Caesar’s ambition shall be glanced at:

And after this let Caesar 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

Cicero

Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home?

Why are you breathless? and why stare you so?

Casca

Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth

Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero,

I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds

Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen

The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam,

To be exalted with the threatening clouds:

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,

Incenses them to send destruction.

Cicero

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,

Not sensible of fire, remain’d unscorch’d.

Besides — I ha’ not since put up my sword —

Against the Capitol I met a lion,

Who glared 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

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

‘These are their reasons; they are natural;’

For, I believe, they are portentous things

Unto the climate that they point upon.

Cicero

Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time:

But men may construe things after their fashion,

Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.

Come Caesar to the Capitol to-morrow?

Casca

He doth; for he did bid Antonius

Send word to you he would be there to-morrow.

Cicero

Good night then, Casca: this disturbed sky

Is not to walk in.

Casca

Farewell, Cicero.

Exit Cicero

Enter Cassius

Cassius

Who’s there?

Casca

A Roman.

Cassius

Casca, by your voice.

Casca

Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this!

Cassius

A very pleasing night to honest men.

Casca

Who ever knew the heavens menace so?

Cassius

Those that have known the earth so full of faults.

For my part, I have walk’d about the streets,

Submitting me unto the perilous night,

And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see,

Have bared 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.

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.

Cassius

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,

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 fool and children calculate,

Why all these things change from their ordinance

Their natures and preformed faculties

To monstrous quality,— why, you shall find

That heaven hath infused 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

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

In personal action, yet prodigious grown

And fearful, as these strange eruptions are.

Casca

’Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius?

Cassius

Let it be who it is: for Romans now

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.

Casca

Indeed, they say the senators tomorrow

Mean to establish Caesar as a king;

And he shall wear his crown by sea and land,

In every place, save here in Italy.

Cassius

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:

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 these worldly bars,

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:

So every bondman in his own hand bears

The power to cancel his captivity.

Cassius

And why should Caesar be a tyrant then?

Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf,

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

For the base matter to illuminate

So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief,

Where hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this

Before a willing bondman; then I know

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

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 farthest.

Cassius

There’s a bargain made.

Now know you, Casca, I have moved already

Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans

To undergo with me an enterprise

Of honourable-dangerous consequence;

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

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.

Cassius

’Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait;

He is a friend.

Enter Cinna

Cinna, where haste you so?

Cinna

To find out you. Who’s that? Metellus Cimber?

Cassius

No, it is Casca; one incorporate

To our attempts. Am I not stay’d for, Cinna?

Cinna

I am glad on ’t. What a fearful night is this!

There’s two or three of us have seen strange sights.

Cassius

Am I not stay’d for? tell me.

Cinna

Yes, you are.

O Cassius, if you could

But win the noble Brutus to our party —

Cassius

Be you content: good Cinna, take this paper,

And look you lay it in the praetor’s chair,

Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this

In at his window; set this up with wax

Upon old Brutus’ statue: all this done,

Repair to Pompey’s porch, where you shall find us.

Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there?

Cinna

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.

Cassius

That done, repair to Pompey’s theatre.

Exit Cinna

Come, Casca, you and I will yet ere day

See Brutus at his house: three parts of him

Is ours already, and the man entire

Upon the next encounter yields him ours.

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.

Cassius

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.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. ROME. BRUTUS’S ORCHARD.

Enter Brutus

Brutus

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.

When, Lucius, when? awake, I say! what, Lucius!

Enter Lucius

Lucius

Call’d you, my lord?

Brutus

Get me a taper in my study, Lucius:

When it is lighted, come and call me here.

Lucius

I will, my lord.

Exit

Brutus

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:

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,

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 Caesar,

I have not known when his affections sway’d

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.

He then unto the ladder turns his back,

Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees

By which he did ascend. So Caesar may.

Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel

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

Which, hatch’d, would, as his kind, grow mischievous,

And kill him in the shell.

Re-enter Lucius

Lucius

The taper burneth in your closet, sir.

Searching the window for a flint, I found

This paper, thus seal’d up; and, I am sure,

It did not lie there when I went to bed.

Gives him the letter

Brutus

Get you to bed again; it is not day.

Is not to-morrow, boy, the ides of March?

Lucius

I know not, sir.

Brutus

Look in the calendar, and bring me word.

Lucius

I will, sir.

Exit

Brutus

The exhalations whizzing in the air

Give so much light that I may read by them.

Opens the letter and reads

‘Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake, and see thyself.

Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress!

Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake!’

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?

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:

If the redress will follow, thou receivest

Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus!

Re-enter Lucius

Lucius

Sir, March is wasted fourteen days.

Knocking within

Brutus

’Tis good. Go to the gate; somebody knocks.

Exit Lucius

Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar,

I have not slept.

Between the acting of a dreadful thing

And the first motion, all the interim is

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

The nature of an insurrection.

Re-enter Lucius

Lucius

Sir, ’tis your brother Cassius at the door,

Who doth desire to see you.

Brutus

Is he alone?

Lucius

No, sir, there are moe with him.

Brutus

Do you know them?

Lucius

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.

Brutus

Let ’em enter.

Exit Lucius

They are the faction. O conspiracy,

Shamest 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

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

To hide thee from prevention.

Enter the conspirators, Cassius, Casca, Decius Brutus, Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and Trebonius

Cassius

I think we are too bold upon your rest:

Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you?

Brutus

I have been up this hour, awake all night.

Know I these men that come along with you?

Cassius

Yes, every man of them, and no man here

But honours you; and every one doth wish

You had but that opinion of yourself

Which every noble Roman bears of you.

This is Trebonius.

Brutus

He is welcome hither.

Cassius

This, Decius Brutus.

Brutus

He is welcome too.

Cassius

This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber.

Brutus

They are all welcome.

What watchful cares do interpose themselves

Betwixt your eyes and night?

Cassius

Shall I entreat a word?

Brutus and Cassius whisper

Decius Brutus

Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?

Casca

No.

Cinna

O, pardon, sir, it doth; and yon gray lines

That fret the clouds are messengers of day.

Casca

You shall confess that you are both deceived.

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.

Some two months hence up higher toward the north

He first presents his fire; and the high east

Stands, as the Capitol, directly here.

Brutus

Give me your hands all over, one by one.

Cassius

And let us swear our resolution.

Brutus

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,

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

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

Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word,

And will not palter? and what other oath

Than honesty to honesty engaged,

That this shall be, or we will fall for it?

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,

Nor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits,

To think that or our cause or our performance

Did need an oath; when every drop of blood

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.

Cassius

But what of Cicero? shall we sound him?

I think he will stand very strong with us.

Casca

Let us not leave him out.

Cinna

No, by no means.

Metellus Cimber

O, let us have him, for his silver hairs

Will purchase us a good opinion

And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds:

It shall be said, his judgment ruled our hands;

Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear,

But all be buried in his gravity.

Brutus

O, name him not: let us not break with him;

For he will never follow any thing

That other men begin.

Cassius

Then leave him out.

Casca

Indeed he is not fit.

Decius Brutus

Shall no man else be touch’d but only Caesar?

Cassius

Decius, well urged: I think it is not meet,

Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar,

Should outlive Caesar: 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,

Let Antony and Caesar fall together.

Brutus

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;

For Antony is but a limb of Caesar:

Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius.

We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar;

And in the spirit of men there is no blood:

O, that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit,

And not dismember Caesar! But, alas,

Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends,

Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully;

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,

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.

And for Mark Antony, think not of him;

For he can do no more than Caesar’s arm

When Caesar’s head is off.

Cassius

Yet I fear him;

For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar —

Brutus

Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him:

If he love Caesar, all that he can do

Is to himself, take thought and die for Caesar:

And that were much he should; for he is given

To sports, to wildness and much company.

Trebonius

There is no fear in him; let him not die;

For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter.

Clock strikes

Brutus

Peace! count the clock.

Cassius

The clock hath stricken three.

Trebonius

’Tis time to part.

Cassius

But it is doubtful yet,

Whether Caesar will come forth to-day, or no;

For he is superstitious grown of late,

Quite from the main opinion he held once

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,

May hold him from the Capitol to-day.

Decius Brutus

Never fear that: if he be so resolved,

I can o’ersway him; for he loves to hear

That unicorns may be betray’d with trees,

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.

Let me work;

For I can give his humour the true bent,

And I will bring him to the Capitol.

Cassius

Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him.

Brutus

By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost?

Cinna

Be that the uttermost, and fail not then.

Metellus Cimber

Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard,

Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey:

I wonder none of you have thought of him.

Brutus

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.

Cassius

The morning comes upon: we’ll leave you, Brutus.

And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember

What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.

Brutus

Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily;

Let not our looks put on our purposes,

But bear it as our Roman actors do,

With untired spirits and formal constancy:

And so good morrow to you every one.

Exeunt all but 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.

Enter Portia

Portia

Brutus, my lord!

Brutus

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.

Portia

Nor for yours neither. You’ve ungently, Brutus,

Stole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper,

You suddenly arose, and walk’d about,

Musing and sighing, with your arms across,

And when I ask’d you what the matter was,

You stared upon me with ungentle looks;

I urged you further; then you scratch’d your head,

And too impatiently stamp’d with your foot;

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

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,

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.

Brutus

I am not well in health, and that is all.

Portia

Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health,

He would embrace the means to come by it.

Brutus

Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed.

Portia

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,

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,

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

Which did incorporate and make us one,

That you unfold to me, yourself, your half,

Why you are heavy, and what men to-night

Have had to resort to you: for here have been

Some six or seven, who did hide their faces

Even from darkness.

Brutus

Kneel not, gentle Portia.

Portia

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

That appertain to you? Am I yourself

But, as it were, in sort or limitation,

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,

And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs

Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,

Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.

Brutus

You are my true and honourable wife,

As dear to me as are the ruddy drops

That visit my sad heart

Portia

If this were true, then should I know this secret.

I grant I am a woman; but withal

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,

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

Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience.

And not my husband’s secrets?

Brutus

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

The secrets of my heart.

All my engagements I will construe to thee,

All the charactery of my sad brows:

Leave me with haste.

Exit Portia

Lucius, who’s that knocks?

Re-enter Lucius with Ligarius

Lucius

He is a sick man that would speak with you.

Brutus

Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of.

Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius! how?

Ligarius

Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble tongue.

Brutus

O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius,

To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!

Ligarius

I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand

Any exploit worthy the name of honour.

Brutus

Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius,

Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.

Ligarius

By all the gods that Romans bow before,

I here discard my sickness! Soul of Rome!

Brave son, derived from honourable loins!

Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up

My mortified spirit. Now bid me run,

And I will strive with things impossible;

Yea, get the better of them. What’s to do?

Brutus

A piece of work that will make sick men whole.

Ligarius

But are not some whole that we must make sick?

Brutus

That must we also. What it is, my Caius,

I shall unfold to thee, as we are going

To whom it must be done.

Ligarius

Set on your foot,

And with a heart new-fired I follow you,

To do I know not what: but it sufficeth

That Brutus leads me on.

Brutus

Follow me, then.

Exeunt

SCENE II. CAESAR’S HOUSE.

Thunder and lightning. Enter Caesar, in his night-gown

Caesar

Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace to-night:

Thrice hath Calpurnia in her sleep cried out,

‘Help, ho! they murder Caesar!’ Who’s within?

Enter a Servant

Servant

My lord?

Caesar

Go bid the priests do present sacrifice

And bring me their opinions of success.

Servant

I will, my lord.

Exit

Enter Calpurnia

Calpurnia

What mean you, Caesar? think you to walk forth?

You shall not stir out of your house to-day.

Caesar

Caesar shall forth: the things that threaten’d me

Ne’er look’d but on my back; when they shall see

The face of Caesar, they are vanished.

Calpurnia

Caesar, 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;

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;

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.

O Caesar! these things are beyond all use,

And I do fear them.

Caesar

What can be avoided

Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods?

Yet Caesar shall go forth; for these predictions

Are to the world in general as to Caesar.

Calpurnia

When beggars die, there are no comets seen;

The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

Caesar

Cowards die many times before their deaths;

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,

Will come when it will come.

Re-enter Servant

What say the augurers?

Servant

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.

Caesar

The gods do this in shame of cowardice:

Caesar should be a beast without a heart,

If he should stay at home to-day for fear.

No, Caesar shall not: danger knows full well

That Caesar is more dangerous than he:

We are two lions litter’d in one day,

And I the elder and more terrible:

And Caesar shall go forth.

Calpurnia

Alas, my lord,

Your wisdom is consumed 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:

And he shall say you are not well to-day:

Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this.

Caesar

Mark Antony shall say I am not well,

And, for thy humour, I will stay at home.

Enter Decius Brutus

Here’s Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so.

Decius Brutus

Caesar, all hail! good morrow, worthy Caesar:

I come to fetch you to the senate-house.

Caesar

And you are come in very happy time,

To bear my greeting to the senators

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.

Calpurnia

Say he is sick.

Caesar

Shall Caesar send a lie?

Have I in conquest stretch’d mine arm so far,

To be afraid to tell graybeards the truth?

Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come.

Decius Brutus

Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause,

Lest I be laugh’d at when I tell them so.

Caesar

The cause is in my will: I will not come;

That is enough to satisfy the senate.

But for your private satisfaction,

Because I love you, I will let you know:

Calpurnia here, my wife, stays me at home:

She dreamt to-night she saw my statua,

Which, like a fountain with an 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,

And evils imminent; and on her knee

Hath begg’d that I will stay at home to-day.

Decius Brutus

This dream is all amiss interpreted;

It was a vision fair and fortunate:

Your statue spouting blood in many pipes,

In which so many smiling Romans bathed,

Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck

Reviving blood, and that great men shall press

For tinctures, stains, relics and cognizance.

This by Calpurnia’s dream is signified.

Caesar

And this way have you well expounded it.

Decius Brutus

I have, when you have heard what I can say:

And know it now: the senate have concluded

To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar.

If you shall send them word you will not come,

Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock

Apt to be render’d, for some one to say

‘Break up the senate till another time,

When Caesar’s wife shall meet with better dreams.’

If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper

‘Lo, Caesar is afraid’?

Pardon me, Caesar; for my dear dear love

To our proceeding bids me tell you this;

And reason to my love is liable.

Caesar

How foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia!

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.

Publius

Good morrow, Caesar.

Caesar

Welcome, Publius.

What, Brutus, are you stirr’d so early too?

Good morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius,

Caesar was ne’er so much your enemy

As that same ague which hath made you lean.

What is ’t o’clock?

Brutus

Caesar, ’tis strucken eight.

Caesar

I thank you for your pains and courtesy.

Enter Antony

See! Antony, that revels long o’ nights,

Is notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony.

Antony

So to most noble Caesar.

Caesar

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;

Remember that you call on me to-day:

Be near me, that I may remember you.

Trebonius

Caesar, I will:

Aside

and so near will I be,

That your best friends shall wish I had been further.

Caesar

Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me;

And we, like friends, will straightway go together.

Brutus

[Aside] That every like is not the same, O Caesar,

The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon!

Exeunt

SCENE III. A STREET NEAR THE CAPITOL.

Enter Artemidorus, reading a paper

Artemidorus

‘Caesar, 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 Caesar. If thou beest not immortal, look about you: security gives way to conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover, ‘Artemidorus.’

Here will I stand till Caesar pass along,

And as a suitor will I give him this.

My heart laments that virtue cannot live

Out of the teeth of emulation.

If thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayst live;

If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive.

Exit

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE SAME STREET, BEFORE THE HOUSE OF BRUTUS.

Enter Portia and Lucius

Portia

I prithee, boy, run to the senate-house;

Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone:

Why dost thou stay?

Lucius

To know my errand, madam.

Portia

I would have had thee there, and here again,

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.

How hard it is for women to keep counsel!

Art thou here yet?

Lucius

Madam, what should I do?

Run to the Capitol, and nothing else?

And so return to you, and nothing else?

Portia

Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well,

For he went sickly forth: and take good note

What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him.

Hark, boy! what noise is that?

Lucius

I hear none, madam.

Portia

Prithee, listen well;

I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray,

And the wind brings it from the Capitol.

Lucius

Sooth, madam, I hear nothing.

Enter the Soothsayer

Portia

Come hither, fellow: which way hast thou been?

Soothsayer

At mine own house, good lady.

Portia

What is’t o’clock?

Soothsayer

About the ninth hour, lady.

Portia

Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol?

Soothsayer

Madam, not yet: I go to take my stand,

To see him pass on to the Capitol.

Portia

Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not?

Soothsayer

That I have, lady: if it will please Caesar

To be so good to Caesar as to hear me,

I shall beseech him to befriend himself.

Portia

Why, know’st thou any harm’s intended towards him?

Soothsayer

None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance.

Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow:

The throng that follows Caesar at the heels,

Of senators, of praetors, common suitors,

Will crowd a feeble man almost to death:

I’ll get me to a place more void, and there

Speak to great Caesar as he comes along.

Exit

Portia

I must go in. Ay me, how weak a thing

The heart of woman is! O Brutus,

The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise!

Sure, the boy heard me: Brutus hath a suit

That Caesar will not grant. O, I grow faint.

Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord;

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 Caesar, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, Decius Brutus, Metellus Cimber, Trebonius, Cinna, Antony, Lepidus, Popilius, Publius, and others

Caesar

[To the Soothsayer] The ides of March are come.

Soothsayer

Ay, Caesar; but not gone.

Artemidorus

Hail, Caesar! read this schedule.

Decius Brutus

Trebonius doth desire you to o’erread,

At your best leisure, this his humble suit.

Artemidorus

O Caesar, read mine first; for mine’s a suit

That touches Caesar nearer: read it, great Caesar.

Caesar

What touches us ourself shall be last served.

Artemidorus

Delay not, Caesar; read it instantly.

Caesar

What, is the fellow mad?

Publius

Sirrah, give place.

Cassius

What, urge you your petitions in the street?

Come to the Capitol.

Caesar goes up to the Senate-House, the rest following

Popilius

I wish your enterprise to-day may thrive.

Cassius

What enterprise, Popilius?

Popilius

Fare you well.

Advances to Caesar

Brutus

What said Popilius Lena?

Cassius

He wish’d to-day our enterprise might thrive.

I fear our purpose is discovered.

Brutus

Look, how he makes to Caesar; mark him.

Cassius

Casca, be sudden, for we fear prevention.

Brutus, what shall be done? If this be known,

Cassius or Caesar never shall turn back,

For I will slay myself.

Brutus

Cassius, be constant:

Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes;

For, look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change.

Cassius

Trebonius knows his time; for, look you, Brutus.

He draws Mark Antony out of the way.

Exeunt Antony and Trebonius

Decius Brutus

Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him go,

And presently prefer his suit to Caesar.

Brutus

He is address’d: press near and second him.

Cinna

Casca, you are the first that rears your hand.

Caesar

Are we all ready? What is now amiss

That Caesar and his senate must redress?

Metellus Cimber

Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caesar,

Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat

An humble heart,—

Kneeling

Caesar

I must prevent thee, Cimber.

These couchings and these lowly courtesies

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 Caesar bears such rebel blood

That will be thaw’d from the true quality

With that which melteth fools; I mean, sweet words,

Low-crooked court’sies and base spaniel-fawning.

Thy brother by decree is banished:

If thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him,

I spurn thee like a cur out of my way.

Know, Caesar doth not wrong, nor without cause

Will he be satisfied.

Metellus Cimber

Is there no voice more worthy than my own

To sound more sweetly in great Caesar’s ear

For the repealing of my banish’d brother?

Brutus

I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar;

Desiring thee that Publius Cimber may

Have an immediate freedom of repeal.

Caesar

What, Brutus!

Cassius

Pardon, Caesar; Caesar, pardon:

As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall,

To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber.

Cassius

I could be well moved, if I were as you:

If I could pray to move, prayers would move me:

But I am constant as the northern star,

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,

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

That unassailable holds on his rank,

Unshaked 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.

Cinna

O Caesar,—

Caesar

Hence! wilt thou lift up Olympus?

Decius Brutus

Great Caesar,—

Caesar

Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?

Casca

Speak, hands for me!

Casca first, then the other Conspirators and Brutus stab Caesar

Caesar

Et tu, Brute! Then fall, Caesar.

Dies

Cinna

Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead!

Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets.

Cassius

Some to the common pulpits, and cry out

‘Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement!’

Brutus

People and senators, be not affrighted;

Fly not; stand stiff: ambition’s debt is paid.

Casca

Go to the pulpit, Brutus.

Decius Brutus

And Cassius too.

Brutus

Where’s Publius?

Cinna

Here, quite confounded with this mutiny.

Metellus Cimber

Stand fast together, lest some friend of Caesar’s

Should chance —

Brutus

Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer;

There is no harm intended to your person,

Nor to no Roman else: so tell them, Publius.

Cassius

And leave us, Publius; lest that the people,

Rushing on us, should do your age some mischief.

Brutus

Do so: and let no man abide this deed,

But we the doers.

Re-enter Trebonius

Cassius

Where is Antony?

Trebonius

Fled to his house amazed:

Men, wives and children stare, cry out and run

As it were doomsday.

Brutus

Fates, we will know your pleasures:

That we shall die, we know; ’tis but the time

And drawing days out, that men stand upon.

Cassius

Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life

Cuts off so many years of fearing death.

Brutus

Grant that, and then is death a benefit:

So are we Caesar’s friends, that have abridged

His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop,

And let us bathe our hands in Caesar’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,

Let’s all cry ‘Peace, freedom and liberty!’

Cassius

Stoop, then, and wash. How many ages hence

Shall this our lofty scene be acted over

In states unborn and accents yet unknown!

Brutus

How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport,

That now on Pompey’s basis lies along

No worthier than the dust!

Cassius

So oft as that shall be,

So often shall the knot of us be call’d

The men that gave their country liberty.

Decius Brutus

What, shall we forth?

Cassius

Ay, every man away:

Brutus shall lead; and we will grace his heels

With the most boldest and best hearts of Rome.

Enter a Servant

Brutus

Soft! who comes here? A friend of Antony’s.

Servant

Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel:

Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down;

And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say:

Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest;

Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving:

Say I love Brutus, and I honour him;

Say I fear’d Caesar, honour’d him and loved him.

If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony

May safely come to him, and be resolved

How Caesar hath deserved to lie in death,

Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead

So well as Brutus living; but will follow

The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus

Thorough the hazards of this untrod state

With all true faith. So says my master Antony.

Brutus

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,

Depart untouch’d.

Servant

I’ll fetch him presently.

Exit

Brutus

I know that we shall have him well to friend.

Cassius

I wish we may: but yet have I a mind

That fears him much; and my misgiving still

Falls shrewdly to the purpose.

Brutus

But here comes Antony.

Re-enter Antony

Welcome, Mark Antony.

Antony

O mighty Caesar! 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,

Who else must be let blood, who else is rank:

If I myself, there is no hour so fit

As Caesar’s death hour, nor no instrument

Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich

With the most noble blood of all this world.

I do beseech ye, if you 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:

No place will please me so, no mean of death,

As here by Caesar, and by you cut off,

The choice and master spirits of this age.

Brutus

O Antony, beg not your death of us.

Though now we must appear bloody and cruel,

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;

And pity to the general wrong of Rome —

As fire drives out fire, so pity pity —

Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your part,

To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony:

Our arms, in strength of malice, and our hearts

Of brothers’ temper, do receive you in

With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence.

Cassius

Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s

In the disposing of new dignities.

Brutus

Only be patient till we have appeased

The multitude, beside themselves with fear,

And then we will deliver you the cause,

Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him,

Have thus proceeded.

Antony

I doubt not of your wisdom.

Let each man render me his bloody hand:

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;

Though last, not last 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.

That I did love thee, Caesar, O, ’tis true:

If then thy spirit look upon us now,

Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death,

To see thy thy Anthony making his peace,

Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes,

Most noble! in the presence of thy corse?

Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds,

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;

Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand,

Sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe.

O world, thou wast the forest to this hart;

And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee.

How like a deer, strucken by many princes,

Dost thou here lie!

Cassius

Mark Antony,—

Antony

Pardon me, Caius Cassius:

The enemies of Caesar shall say this;

Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty.

Cassius

I blame you not for praising Caesar so;

But what compact mean you to have with us?

Will you be prick’d in number of our friends;

Or shall we on, and not depend on you?

Antony

Therefore I took your hands, but was, indeed,

Sway’d from the point, by looking down on Caesar.

Friends am I with you all and love you all,

Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons

Why and wherein Caesar was dangerous.

Brutus

Or else were this a savage spectacle:

Our reasons are so full of good regard

That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar,

You should be satisfied.

Antony

That’s all I seek:

And am moreover suitor that I may

Produce his body to the market-place;

And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend,

Speak in the order of his funeral.

Brutus

You shall, Mark Antony.

Cassius

Brutus, a word with you.

Aside to Brutus

You know not what you do: do not consent

That Antony speak in his funeral:

Know you how much the people may be moved

By that which he will utter?

Brutus

By your pardon;

I will myself into the pulpit first,

And show the reason of our Caesar’s death:

What Antony shall speak, I will protest

He speaks by leave and by permission,

And that we are contented Caesar shall

Have all true rites and lawful ceremonies.

It shall advantage more than do us wrong.

Cassius

I know not what may fall; I like it not.

Brutus

Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar’s body.

You shall not in your funeral speech blame us,

But speak all good you can devise of Caesar,

And say you do’t by our permission;

Else shall you not have any hand at all

About his funeral: and you shall speak

In the same pulpit whereto I am going,

After my speech is ended.

Antony

Be it so.

I do desire no more.

Brutus

Prepare the body then, and follow us.

Exeunt all but Antony

Antony

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

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,

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;

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 choked with custom of fell deeds:

And Caesar’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;

That this foul deed shall smell above the earth

With carrion men, groaning for burial.

Enter a Servant

You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not?

Servant

I do, Mark Antony.

Antony

Caesar did write for him to come to Rome.

Servant

He did receive his letters, and is coming;

And bid me say to you by word of mouth —

O Caesar!—

Seeing the body

Antony

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,

Began to water. Is thy master coming?

Servant

He lies to-night within seven leagues of Rome.

Antony

Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanced:

Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome,

No Rome of safety for Octavius yet;

Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet, stay awhile;

Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse

Into the market-place: there shall I try

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.

Lend me your hand.

Exeunt with Caesar’s body

SCENE II. THE FORUM.

Enter Brutus and Cassius, and a throng of Citizens

Citizens

We will be satisfied; let us be satisfied.

Brutus

Then follow me, and give me audience, friends.

Cassius, go you into the other street,

And part the numbers.

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 Caesar’s death.

First Citizen

I will hear Brutus speak.

Second Citizen

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 Citizen

The noble Brutus is ascended: silence!

Brutus

Be patient till the last. 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 Caesar’s, to him I say, that Brutus’ love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: — Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men? As Caesar 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.

All

None, Brutus, none.

Brutus

Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar 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.

Enter Antony and others, with Caesar’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.

All

Live, Brutus! live, live!

First Citizen

Bring him with triumph home unto his house.

Second Citizen

Give him a statue with his ancestors.

Third Citizen

Let him be Caesar.

Fourth Citizen

Caesar’s better parts

Shall be crown’d in Brutus.

First Citizen

We’ll bring him to his house

With shouts and clamours.

Brutus

My countrymen,—

Second Citizen

Peace, silence! Brutus speaks.

First Citizen

Peace, ho!

Brutus

Good countrymen, let me depart alone,

And, for my sake, stay here with Antony:

Do grace to Caesar’s corpse, and grace his speech

Tending to Caesar’s glories; which Mark Antony,

By our permission, is allow’d to make.

I do entreat you, not a man depart,

Save I alone, till Antony have spoke.

Exit

First Citizen

Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony.

Third Citizen

Let him go up into the public chair;

We’ll hear him. Noble Antony, go up.

Antony

For Brutus’ sake, I am beholding to you.

Goes into the pulpit

Fourth Citizen

What does he say of Brutus?

Third Citizen

He says, for Brutus’ sake,

He finds himself beholding to us all.

Fourth Citizen

’Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here.

First Citizen

This Caesar was a tyrant.

Third Citizen

Nay, that’s certain:

We are blest that Rome is rid of him.

Second Citizen

Peace! let us hear what Antony can say.

Antony

You gentle Romans,—

Citizens

Peace, ho! let us hear him.

Antony

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their bones;

So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus

Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest —

For Brutus is an honourable man;

So are they all, all honourable men —

Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me:

But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

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;

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?

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 Caesar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.

First Citizen

Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.

Second Citizen

If thou consider rightly of the matter,

Caesar has had great wrong.

Third Citizen

Has he, masters?

I fear there will a worse come in his place.

Fourth Citizen

Mark’d ye his words? He would not take the crown;

Therefore ’tis certain he was not ambitious.

First Citizen

If it be found so, some will dear abide it.

Second Citizen

Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire with weeping.

Third Citizen

There’s not a nobler man in Rome than Antony.

Fourth Citizen

Now mark him, he begins again to speak.

Antony

But yesterday the word of Caesar might

Have stood against the world; now lies he there.

And none so poor to do him reverence.

O masters, if I were disposed to stir

Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,

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.

But here’s a parchment with the seal of Caesar;

I found it in his closet, ’tis his will:

Let but the commons hear this testament —

Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read —

And they would go and kiss dead Caesar’s wounds

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood,

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,

And, dying, mention it within their wills,

Bequeathing it as a rich legacy

Unto their issue.

Fourth Citizen

We’ll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony.

All

The will, the will! we will hear Caesar’s will.

Antony

Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;

It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you.

You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;

And, being men, bearing the will of Caesar,

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 Citizen

Read the will; we’ll hear it, Antony;

You shall read us the will, Caesar’s will.

Antony

Will you be patient? will you stay awhile?

I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it:

I fear I wrong the honourable men

Whose daggers have stabb’d Caesar; I do fear it.

Fourth Citizen

They were traitors: honourable men!

All

The will! the testament!

Second Citizen

They were villains, murderers: the will! read the will.

Antony

You will compel me, then, to read the will?

Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar,

And let me show you him that made the will.

Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?

Several Citizens

Come down.

Second Citizen

Descend.

Third Citizen

You shall have leave.

Antony comes down

Fourth Citizen

A ring; stand round.

First Citizen

Stand from the hearse, stand from the body.

Second Citizen

Room for Antony, most noble Antony.

Antony

Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.

Several Citizens

Stand back; room; bear back.

Antony

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.

You all do know this mantle: I remember

The first time ever Caesar put it on;

’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:

Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d;

And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,

Mark how the blood of Caesar follow’d it,

As rushing out of doors, to be resolved

If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no;

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel:

Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!

This was the most unkindest cut of all;

For when the noble Caesar 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,

Even at the base of Pompey’s statua,

Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.

O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!

Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,

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

Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here,

Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors.

First Citizen

O piteous spectacle!

Second Citizen

O noble Caesar!

Third Citizen

O woful day!

Fourth Citizen

O traitors, villains!

First Citizen

O most bloody sight!

Second Citizen

We will be revenged.

All

Revenge! About! Seek! Burn! Fire! Kill! Slay!

Let not a traitor live!

Antony

Stay, countrymen.

First Citizen

Peace there! hear the noble Antony.

Second Citizen

We’ll hear him, we’ll follow him, we’ll die with him.

Antony

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,

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;

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:

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 Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,

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 Caesar that should move

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

All

We’ll mutiny.

First Citizen

We’ll burn the house of Brutus.

Third Citizen

Away, then! come, seek the conspirators.

Antony

Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.

All

Peace, ho! Hear Antony. Most noble Antony!

Antony

Why, friends, you go to do you know not what:

Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves?

Alas, you know not: I must tell you then:

You have forgot the will I told you of.

All

Most true. The will! Let’s stay and hear the will.

Antony

Here is the will, and under Caesar’s seal.

To every Roman citizen he gives,

To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.

Second Citizen

Most noble Caesar! We’ll revenge his death.

Third Citizen

O royal Caesar!

Antony

Hear me with patience.

All

Peace, ho!

Antony

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.

Here was a Caesar! when comes such another?

First Citizen

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.

Second Citizen

Go fetch fire.

Third Citizen

Pluck down benches.

Fourth Citizen

Pluck down forms, windows, any thing.

Exeunt Citizens with the body

Antony

Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot,

Take thou what course thou wilt!

Enter a Servant

How now, fellow!

Servant

Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome.

Antony

Where is he?

Servant

He and Lepidus are at Caesar’s house.

Antony

And thither will I straight to visit him:

He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry,

And in this mood will give us any thing.

Servant

I heard him say, Brutus and Cassius

Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome.

Antony

Belike they had some notice of the people,

How I had moved them. Bring me to Octavius.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A STREET.

Enter Cinna the poet

Cinna The Poet

I dreamt to-night that I did feast with Caesar,

And things unlucky charge my fantasy:

I have no will to wander forth of doors,

Yet something leads me forth.

Enter Citizens

First Citizen

What is your name?

Second Citizen

Whither are you going?

Third Citizen

Where do you dwell?

Fourth Citizen

Are you a married man or a bachelor?

Second Citizen

Answer every man directly.

First Citizen

Ay, and briefly.

Fourth Citizen

Ay, and wisely.

Third Citizen

Ay, and truly, you were best.

Cinna The Poet

What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I dwell? Am I a married man or a bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly and briefly, wisely and truly: wisely I say, I am a bachelor.

Second Citizen

That’s as much as to say, they are fools that marry: you’ll bear me a bang for that, I fear. Proceed; directly.

Cinna The Poet

Directly, I am going to Caesar’s funeral.

First Citizen

As a friend or an enemy?

Cinna The Poet

As a friend.

Second Citizen

That matter is answered directly.

Fourth Citizen

For your dwelling,— briefly.

Cinna The Poet

Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol.

Third Citizen

Your name, sir, truly.

Cinna The Poet

Truly, my name is Cinna.

First Citizen

Tear him to pieces; he’s a conspirator.

Cinna The Poet

I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet.

Fourth Citizen

Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses.

Cinna The Poet

I am not Cinna the conspirator.

Fourth Citizen

It is no matter, his name’s Cinna; pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn him going.

Third Citizen

Tear him, tear him! Come, brands ho! fire-brands: to Brutus’, to Cassius’; burn all: some to Decius’ house, and some to Casca’s; some to Ligarius’: away, go!

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. A HOUSE IN ROME.

Antony, Octavius, and Lepidus, seated at a table

Antony

These many, then, shall die; their names are prick’d.

Octavius

Your brother too must die; consent you, Lepidus?

Lepidus

I do consent —

Octavius

Prick him down, Antony.

Lepidus

Upon condition Publius shall not live,

Who is your sister’s son, Mark Antony.

Antony

He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn him.

But, Lepidus, go you to Caesar’s house;

Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine

How to cut off some charge in legacies.

Lepidus

What, shall I find you here?

Octavius

Or here, or at the Capitol.

Exit Lepidus

Antony

This is a slight unmeritable man,

Meet to be sent on errands: is it fit,

The three-fold world divided, he should stand

One of the three to share it?

Octavius

So you thought him;

And took his voice who should be prick’d to die,

In our black sentence and proscription.

Antony

Octavius, I have seen more days than you:

And though we lay these honours on this man,

To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads,

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;

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.

Octavius

You may do your will;

But he’s a tried and valiant soldier.

Antony

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,

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

On abjects, orts and imitations,

Which, out of use and staled by other men,

Begin his fashion: do not talk of him,

But as a property. And now, Octavius,

Listen great things:— Brutus and Cassius

Are levying powers: we must straight make head:

Therefore let our alliance be combined,

Our best friends made, our means stretch’d

And let us presently go sit in council,

How covert matters may be best disclosed,

And open perils surest answered.

Octavius

Let us do so: for we are at the stake,

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’S TENT.

Drum. Enter Brutus, Lucilius, Lucius, and Soldiers; Titinius and Pindarus meeting them

Brutus

Stand, ho!

Lucilius

Give the word, ho! and stand.

Brutus

What now, Lucilius! is Cassius near?

Lucilius

He is at hand; and Pindarus is come

To do you salutation from his master.

Brutus

He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus,

In his own change, or by ill officers,

Hath given me some worthy cause to wish

Things done, undone: but, if he be at hand,

I shall be satisfied.

Pindarus

I do not doubt

But that my noble master will appear

Such as he is, full of regard and honour.

Brutus

He is not doubted. A word, Lucilius;

How he received you, let me be resolved.

Lucilius

With courtesy and with respect enough;

But not with such familiar instances,

Nor with such free and friendly conference,

As he hath used of old.

Brutus

Thou hast described

A hot friend cooling: ever note, Lucilius,

When love begins to sicken and decay,

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;

But when they should endure the bloody spur,

They fall their crests, and, like deceitful jades,

Sink in the trial. Comes his army on?

Lucilius

They mean this night in Sardis to be quarter’d;

The greater part, the horse in general,

Are come with Cassius.

Brutus

Hark! he is arrived.

Low march within

March gently on to meet him.

Enter Cassius and his powers

Cassius

Stand, ho!

Brutus

Stand, ho! Speak the word along.

First Soldier

Stand!

Second Soldier

Stand!

Third Soldier

Stand!

Cassius

Most noble brother, you have done me wrong.

Brutus

Judge me, you gods! wrong I mine enemies?

And, if not so, how should I wrong a brother?

Cassius

Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs;

And when you do them —

Brutus

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,

Let us not wrangle: bid them move away;

Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs,

And I will give you audience.

Cassius

Pindarus,

Bid our commanders lead their charges off

A little from this ground.

Brutus

Lucilius, do you the like; and let no man

Come to our tent till we have done our conference.

Let Lucius and Titinius guard our door.

Exeunt

SCENE III. BRUTUS’S TENT.

Enter Brutus and Cassius

Cassius

That you have wrong’d me doth appear in this:

You have condemn’d and noted Lucius Pella

For taking bribes here of the Sardians;

Wherein my letters, praying on his side,

Because I knew the man, were slighted off.

Brutus

You wronged yourself to write in such a case.

Cassius

In such a time as this it is not meet

That every nice offence should bear his comment.

Brutus

Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself

Are much condemn’d to have an itching palm;

To sell and mart your offices for gold

To undeservers.

Cassius

I an itching palm!

You know that you are Brutus that speak this,

Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.

Brutus

The name of Cassius honours this corruption,

And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.

Cassius

Chastisement!

Brutus

Remember March, the ides of March remember:

Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake?

What villain touch’d his body, that did stab,

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,

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.

Cassius

Brutus, bay not me;

I’ll not endure it: you forget yourself,

To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,

Older in practise, abler than yourself

To make conditions.

Brutus

Go to; you are not, Cassius.

Cassius

I am.

Brutus

I say you are not.

Cassius

Urge me no more, I shall forget myself;

Have mind upon your health, tempt me no further.

Brutus

Away, slight man!

Cassius

Is’t possible?

Brutus

Hear me, for I will speak.

Must I give way and room to your rash choler?

Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

Cassius

O ye gods, ye gods! must I endure all this?

Brutus

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?

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.

Cassius

Is it come to this?

Brutus

You say you are a better soldier:

Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,

And it shall please me well: for mine own part,

I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cassius

You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus;

I said, an elder soldier, not a better:

Did I say ‘better’?

Brutus

If you did, I care not.

Cassius

When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.

Brutus

Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him.

Cassius

I durst not!

Brutus

No.

Cassius

What, durst not tempt him!

Brutus

For your life you durst not!

Cassius

Do not presume too much upon my love;

I may do that I shall be sorry for.

Brutus

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,

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,

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,

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,

Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;

Dash him to pieces!

Cassius

I denied you not.

Brutus

You did.

Cassius

I did not: he was but a fool that brought

My answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart:

A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities,

But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

Brutus

I do not, till you practise them on me.

Cassius

You love me not.

Brutus

I do not like your faults.

Cassius

A friendly eye could never see such faults.

Brutus

A flatterer’s would not, though they do appear

As huge as high Olympus.

Cassius

Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,

Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,

For Cassius is aweary of the world;

Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;

Cheque’d like a bondman; all his faults observed,

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

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 Caesar; for, I know,

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better

Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

Brutus

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

That carries anger as the flint bears fire;

Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,

And straight is cold again.

Cassius

Hath Cassius lived

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,

When grief, and blood ill-temper’d, vexeth him?

Brutus

When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d too.

Cassius

Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.

Brutus

And my heart too.

Cassius

O Brutus!

Brutus

What’s the matter?

Cassius

Have not you love enough to bear with me,

When that rash humour which my mother gave me

Makes me forgetful?

Brutus

Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,

When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,

He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

Poet

[Within] Let me go in to see the generals;

There is some grudge between ’em, ’tis not meet

They be alone.

Lucilius

[Within] You shall not come to them.

Poet

[Within] Nothing but death shall stay me.

Enter Poet, followed by Lucilius, Titinius, and Lucius

Cassius

How now! what’s the matter?

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.

Cassius

Ha, ha! how vilely doth this cynic rhyme!

Brutus

Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow, hence!

Cassius

Bear with him, Brutus; ’tis his fashion.

Brutus

I’ll know his humour, when he knows his time:

What should the wars do with these jigging fools?

Companion, hence!

Cassius

Away, away, be gone.

Exit Poet

Brutus

Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders

Prepare to lodge their companies to-night.

Cassius

And come yourselves, and bring Messala with you

Immediately to us.

Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius

Brutus

Lucius, a bowl of wine!

Exit Lucius

Cassius

I did not think you could have been so angry.

Brutus

O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.

Cassius

Of your philosophy you make no use,

If you give place to accidental evils.

Brutus

No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead.

Cassius

Ha! Portia!

Brutus

She is dead.

Cassius

How ’scaped I killing when I cross’d you so?

O insupportable and touching loss!

Upon what sickness?

Brutus

Impatient of my absence,

And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony

Have made themselves so strong:— for with her death

That tidings came;— with this she fell distract,

And, her attendants absent, swallow’d fire.

Cassius

And died so?

Brutus

Even so.

Cassius

O ye immortal gods!

Re-enter Lucius, with wine and taper

Brutus

Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine.

In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.

Cassius

My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge.

Fill, Lucius, till the wine o’erswell the cup;

I cannot drink too much of Brutus’ love.

Brutus

Come in, Titinius!

Exit Lucius

Re-enter Titinius, with Messala

Welcome, good Messala.

Now sit we close about this taper here,

And call in question our necessities.

Cassius

Portia, art thou gone?

Brutus

No more, I pray you.

Messala, I have here received letters,

That young Octavius and Mark Antony

Come down upon us with a mighty power,

Bending their expedition toward Philippi.

Messala

Myself have letters of the selfsame tenor.

Brutus

With what addition?

Messala

That by proscription and bills of outlawry,

Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus,

Have put to death an hundred senators.

Brutus

Therein our letters do not well agree;

Mine speak of seventy senators that died

By their proscriptions, Cicero being one.

Cassius

Cicero one!

Messala

Cicero is dead,

And by that order of proscription.

Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?

Brutus

No, Messala.

Messala

Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?

Brutus

Nothing, Messala.

Messala

That, methinks, is strange.

Brutus

Why ask you? hear you aught of her in yours?

Messala

No, my lord.

Brutus

Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.

Messala

Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell:

For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.

Brutus

Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala:

With meditating that she must die once,

I have the patience to endure it now.

Messala

Even so great men great losses should endure.

Cassius

I have as much of this in art as you,

But yet my nature could not bear it so.

Brutus

Well, to our work alive. What do you think

Of marching to Philippi presently?

Cassius

I do not think it good.

Brutus

Your reason?

Cassius

This it is:

’Tis better that the enemy seek us:

So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers,

Doing himself offence; whilst we, lying still,

Are full of rest, defense, and nimbleness.

Brutus

Good reasons must, of force, give place to better.

The people ’twixt Philippi and this ground

Do stand but in a forced affection;

For they have grudged us contribution:

The enemy, marching along by them,

By them shall make a fuller number up,

Come on refresh’d, new-added, and encouraged;

From which advantage shall we cut him off,

If at Philippi we do face him there,

These people at our back.

Cassius

Hear me, good brother.

Brutus

Under your pardon. You must note beside,

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.

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat;

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

Cassius

Then, with your will, go on;

We’ll along ourselves, and meet them at Philippi.

Brutus

The deep of night is crept upon our talk,

And nature must obey necessity;

Which we will niggard with a little rest.

There is no more to say?

Cassius

No more. Good night:

Early to-morrow will we rise, and hence.

Brutus

Lucius!

Enter Lucius

My gown.

Exit Lucius

Farewell, good Messala:

Good night, Titinius. Noble, noble Cassius,

Good night, and good repose.

Cassius

O my dear brother!

This was an ill beginning of the night:

Never come such division ’tween our souls!

Let it not, Brutus.

Brutus

Every thing is well.

Cassius

Good night, my lord.

Brutus

Good night, good brother.

Titinius

Messala

Good night, Lord Brutus.

Brutus

Farewell, every one.

Exeunt all but Brutus

Re-enter Lucius, with the gown

Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument?

Lucius

Here in the tent.

Brutus

What, thou speak’st drowsily?

Poor knave, I blame thee not; thou art o’er-watch’d.

Call Claudius and some other of my men:

I’ll have them sleep on cushions in my tent.

Lucius

Varro and Claudius!

Enter Varro and Claudius

Varro

Calls my lord?

Brutus

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.

Varro

So please you, we will stand and watch your pleasure.

Brutus

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.

Varro and Claudius lie down

Lucius

I was sure your lordship did not give it me.

Brutus

Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful.

Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile,

And touch thy instrument a strain or two?

Lucius

Ay, my lord, an’t please you.

Brutus

It does, my boy:

I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing.

Lucius

It is my duty, sir.

Brutus

I should not urge thy duty past thy might;

I know young bloods look for a time of rest.

Lucius

I have slept, my lord, already.

Brutus

It was well done; and thou shalt sleep again;

I will not hold thee long: if I do live,

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;

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

Where I left reading? Here it is, I think.

Enter the Ghost of Caesar

How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here?

I think it is the weakness of mine eyes

That shapes this monstrous apparition.

It comes upon me. Art thou any thing?

Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,

That makest my blood cold and my hair to stare?

Speak to me what thou art.

Ghost

Thy evil spirit, Brutus.

Brutus

Why comest thou?

Ghost

To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi.

Brutus

Well; then I shall see thee again?

Ghost

Ay, at Philippi.

Brutus

Why, I will see thee at Philippi, then.

Exit Ghost

Now I have taken heart thou vanishest:

Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee.

Boy, Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake! Claudius!

Lucius

The strings, my lord, are false.

Brutus

He thinks he still is at his instrument.

Lucius, awake!

Lucius

My lord?

Brutus

Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst out?

Lucius

My lord, I do not know that I did cry.

Brutus

Yes, that thou didst: didst thou see any thing?

Lucius

Nothing, my lord.

Brutus

Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah Claudius!

To Varro

Fellow thou, awake!

Varro

My lord?

Claudius

My lord?

Brutus

Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep?

Varro

Claudius

Did we, my lord?

Brutus

Ay: saw you any thing?

Varro

No, my lord, I saw nothing.

Claudius

Nor I, my lord.

Brutus

Go and commend me to my brother Cassius;

Bid him set on his powers betimes before,

And we will follow.

Varro

Claudius

It shall be done, my lord.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. THE PLAINS OF PHILIPPI.

Enter Octavius, Antony, and their army

Octavius

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;

They mean to warn us at Philippi here,

Answering before we do demand of them.

Antony

Tut, I am in their bosoms, and I know

Wherefore they do it: they could be content

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

Messenger

Prepare you, generals:

The enemy comes on in gallant show;

Their bloody sign of battle is hung out,

And something to be done immediately.

Antony

Octavius, lead your battle softly on,

Upon the left hand of the even field.

Octavius

Upon the right hand I; keep thou the left.

Antony

Why do you cross me in this exigent?

Octavius

I do not cross you; but I will do so.

March

Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius, and their Army; Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, and others

Brutus

They stand, and would have parley.

Cassius

Stand fast, Titinius: we must out and talk.

Octavius

Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle?

Antony

No, Caesar, we will answer on their charge.

Make forth; the generals would have some words.

Octavius

Stir not until the signal.

Brutus

Words before blows: is it so, countrymen?

Octavius

Not that we love words better, as you do.

Brutus

Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius.

Antony

In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words:

Witness the hole you made in Caesar’s heart,

Crying ‘Long live! hail, Caesar!’

Cassius

Antony,

The posture of your blows are yet unknown;

But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees,

And leave them honeyless.

Antony

Not stingless too.

Brutus

O, yes, and soundless too;

For you have stol’n their buzzing, Antony,

And very wisely threat before you sting.

Antony

Villains, you did not so, when your vile daggers

Hack’d one another in the sides of Caesar:

You show’d your teeth like apes, and fawn’d like hounds,

And bow’d like bondmen, kissing Caesar’s feet;

Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind

Struck Caesar on the neck. O you flatterers!

Cassius

Flatterers! Now, Brutus, thank yourself:

This tongue had not offended so to-day,

If Cassius might have ruled.

Octavius

Come, come, the cause: if arguing make us sweat,

The proof of it will turn to redder drops. Look;

I draw a sword against conspirators;

When think you that the sword goes up again?

Never, till Caesar’s three and thirty wounds

Be well avenged; or till another Caesar

Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors.

Brutus

Caesar, thou canst not die by traitors’ hands,

Unless thou bring’st them with thee.

Octavius

So I hope;

I was not born to die on Brutus’ sword.

Brutus

O, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain,

Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable.

Cassius

A peevish schoolboy, worthless of such honour,

Join’d with a masker and a reveller!

Antony

Old Cassius still!

Octavius

Come, Antony, away!

Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth:

If you dare fight to-day, come to the field;

If not, when you have stomachs.

Exeunt Octavius, Antony, and their army

Cassius

Why, now, blow wind, swell billow and swim bark!

The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.

Brutus

Ho, Lucilius! hark, a word with you.

Lucilius

[Standing forth] My lord?

Brutus and Lucilius converse apart

Cassius

Messala!

Messala

[Standing forth] What says my general?

Cassius

Messala,

This is my birth-day; as this very day

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.

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

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;

And in their steads 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

Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost.

Messala

Believe not so.

Cassius

I but believe it partly;

For I am fresh of spirit and resolved

To meet all perils very constantly.

Brutus

Even so, Lucilius.

Cassius

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.

If we do lose this battle, then is this

The very last time we shall speak together:

What are you then determined to do?

Brutus

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,

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.

Cassius

Then, if we lose this battle,

You are contented to be led in triumph

Thorough the streets of Rome?

Brutus

No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman,

That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome;

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:

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.

Cassius

For ever, and for ever, farewell, Brutus!

If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed;

If not, ’tis true this parting was well made.

Brutus

Why, then, lead on. O, that a man might know

The end of this day’s business ere it come!

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

Brutus

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 demeanor in Octavius’ wing,

And sudden push gives them the overthrow.

Ride, ride, Messala: let them all come down.

Exeunt

SCENE III. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Alarums. Enter Cassius and Titinius

Cassius

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.

Titinius

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 enclosed.

Enter Pindarus

Pindarus

Fly further off, my lord, fly further off;

Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord

Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off.

Cassius

This hill is far enough. Look, look, Titinius;

Are those my tents where I perceive the fire?

Titinius

They are, my lord.

Cassius

Titinius, if thou lovest 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 assured

Whether yond troops are friend or enemy.

Titinius

I will be here again, even with a thought.

Exit

Cassius

Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill;

My sight was ever thick; regard Titinius,

And tell me what thou notest 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;

My life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news?

Pindarus

[Above] O my lord!

Cassius

What news?

Pindarus

[Above] Titinius is enclosed round about

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.

Cassius

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:

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;

Now be a freeman: and with this good sword,

That ran through Caesar’s bowels, search this bosom.

Stand not to answer: here, take thou the hilts;

And, when my face is cover’d, as ’tis now,

Guide thou the sword.

Pindarus stabs him

Caesar, thou art revenged,

Even with the sword that kill’d thee.

Dies

Pindarus

So, I am free; yet would not so have been,

Durst I have done my will. O Cassius,

Far from this country Pindarus shall run,

Where never Roman shall take note of him.

Exit

Re-enter Titinius with Messala

Messala

It is but change, Titinius; for Octavius

Is overthrown by noble Brutus’ power,

As Cassius’ legions are by Antony.

Titinius

These tidings will well comfort Cassius.

Messala

Where did you leave him?

Titinius

All disconsolate,

With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill.

Messala

Is not that he t hat lies upon the ground?

Titinius

He lies not like the living. O my heart!

Messala

Is not that he?

Titinius

No, this was he, Messala,

But Cassius is no more. O setting sun,

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!

Mistrust of my success hath done this deed.

Messala

Mistrust of good success hath done this deed.

O hateful error, melancholy’s child,

Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men

The things that are not? O error, soon conceived,

Thou never comest unto a happy birth,

But kill’st the mother that engender’d thee!

Titinius

What, Pindarus! where art thou, Pindarus?

Messala

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

Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus

As tidings of this sight.

Titinius

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

Put on my brows this wreath of victory,

And bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts?

Alas, thou hast misconstrued every thing!

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.

By your leave, gods:— this is a Roman’s part

Come, Cassius’ sword, and find Titinius’ heart.

Kills himself

Alarum. Re-enter Messala, with Brutus, Cato, Strato, Volumnius, and Lucilius

Brutus

Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie?

Messala

Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it.

Brutus

Titinius’ face is upward.

Cato

He is slain.

Brutus

O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet!

Thy spirit walks abroad and turns our swords

In our own proper entrails.

Low alarums

Cato

Brave Titinius!

Look, whether he have not crown’d dead Cassius!

Brutus

Are yet two Romans living such as these?

The last of all the Romans, fare thee well!

It is impossible that ever Rome

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 Thasos send his body:

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:

’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, Cato, Lucilius, and others

Brutus

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!

A foe to tyrants, and my country’s friend;

I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!

Brutus

And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I;

Brutus, my country’s friend; know me for Brutus!

Exit

Lucilius

O young and noble Cato, art thou down?

Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius;

And mayst be honour’d, being Cato’s son.

First Soldier

Yield, or thou diest.

Lucilius

Only I yield to die:

There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight;

Offering money

Kill Brutus, and be honour’d in his death.

First Soldier

We must not. A noble prisoner!

Second Soldier

Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta’en.

First Soldier

I’ll tell the news. Here comes the general.

Enter Antony

Brutus is ta’en, Brutus is ta’en, my lord.

Antony

Where is he?

Lucilius

Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough:

I dare assure thee that no enemy

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,

He will be found like Brutus, like himself.

Antony

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

Such men my friends than enemies. Go on,

And see whether Brutus be alive or dead;

And bring us word unto Octavius’ tent

How every thing is chanced.

Exeunt

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato, and Volumnius

Brutus

Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.

Clitus

Statilius show’d the torch-light, but, my lord,

He came not back: he is or ta’en or slain.

Brutus

Sit thee down, Clitus: slaying is the word;

It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus.

Whispers

Clitus

What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world.

Brutus

Peace then! no words.

Clitus

I’ll rather kill myself.

Brutus

Hark thee, Dardanius.

Whispers

Dardanius

Shall I do such a deed?

Clitus

O Dardanius!

Dardanius

O Clitus!

Clitus

What ill request did Brutus make to thee?

Dardanius

To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates.

Clitus

Now is that noble vessel full of grief,

That it runs over even at his eyes.

Brutus

Come hither, good Volumnius; list a word.

Volumnius

What says my lord?

Brutus

Why, this, Volumnius:

The ghost of Caesar 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.

Volumnius

Not so, my lord.

Brutus

Nay, I am sure it is, Volumnius.

Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes;

Our enemies have beat us to the pit:

Low alarums

It is more worthy to leap in ourselves,

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.

Volumnius

That’s not an office for a friend, my lord.

Alarum still

Clitus

Fly, fly, my lord; there is no tarrying here.

Brutus

Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius.

Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep;

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

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:

Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest,

That have but labour’d to attain this hour.

Alarum. Cry within, ‘Fly, fly, fly!’

Clitus

Fly, my lord, fly.

Brutus

Hence! I will follow.

Exeunt Clitus, Dardanius, and Volumnius

I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord:

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?

Strato

Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord.

Brutus

Farewell, good Strato.

Runs on his sword

Caesar, now be still:

I kill’d not thee with half so good a will.

Dies

Alarum. Retreat. Enter Octavius, Antony, Messala, Lucilius, and the army

Octavius

What man is that?

Messala

My master’s man. Strato, where is thy master?

Strato

Free from the bondage you are in, Messala:

The conquerors can but make a fire of him;

For Brutus only overcame himself,

And no man else hath honour by his death.

Lucilius

So Brutus should be found. I thank thee, Brutus,

That thou hast proved Lucilius’ saying true.

Octavius

All that served Brutus, I will entertain them.

Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me?

Strato

Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you.

Octavius

Do so, good Messala.

Messala

How died my master, Strato?

Strato

I held the sword, and he did run on it.

Messala

Octavius, then take him to follow thee,

That did the latest service to my master.

Antony

This was the noblest Roman of them all:

All the conspirators save only he

Did that they did in envy of great Caesar;

He only, in a general honest thought

And common good to all, made one of them.

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!’

Octavius

According to his virtue let us use him,

With all respect and rites of burial.

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,

To part the glories of this happy day.

Exeunt

The Tragedy of

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. ELSINORE. A PLATFORM BEFORE THE CASTLE.

SCENE II. A ROOM OF STATE IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN POLONIUS’ HOUSE.

SCENE IV. THE PLATFORM.

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLATFORM.

ACT II

SCENE I. A ROOM IN POLONIUS’ HOUSE.

SCENE II. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

ACT III

SCENE I. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE II. A HALL IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE IV. THE QUEEN’S CLOSET.

ACT IV

SCENE I. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE II. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE III. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE IV. A PLAIN IN DENMARK.

SCENE V. ELSINORE. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE VI. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE VII. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

ACT V

SCENE I. A CHURCHYARD.

SCENE II. A HALL IN THE CASTLE.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Claudius, King of Denmark.

Hamlet, son to the late, and nephew to the present king.

Polonius, lord chamberlain.

Horatio, friend to Hamlet.

Laertes, son to Polonius.

Lucianus, nephew to the king.

Voltimand, Cornelius, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and Osric, courtiers.

A Gentleman.

A Priest.

Marcellus and Bernardo, officers.

Francisco, a soldier.

Reynaldo, servant to Polonius.

Players.

Two Clowns, grave-diggers.

Fortinbras, prince of Norway.

A Captain.

English Ambassadors.

Queen Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, and mother to Hamlet.

Ophelia, daughter to Polonius.

Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers, and other Attendants.

Ghost of Hamlet's Father.

Scene: Denmark.

ACT I

SCENE I. ELSINORE. A PLATFORM BEFORE THE CASTLE.

Francisco at his post. Enter to him Bernardo

Bernardo

Who’s there?

Francisco

Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself.

Bernardo

Long live the king!

Francisco

Bernardo?

Bernardo

He.

Francisco

You come most carefully upon your hour.

Bernardo

’Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco.

Francisco

For this relief much thanks: ’tis bitter cold,

And I am sick at heart.

Bernardo

Have you had quiet guard?

Francisco

Not a mouse stirring.

Bernardo

Well, good night.

If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus,

The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.

Francisco

I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who’s there?

Enter Horatio and Marcellus

Horatio

Friends to this ground.

Marcellus

And liegemen to the Dane.

Francisco

Give you good night.

Marcellus

O, farewell, honest soldier:

Who hath relieved you?

Francisco

Bernardo has my place.

Give you good night.

Exit

Marcellus

Holla! Bernardo!

Bernardo

Say,

What, is Horatio there?

Horatio

A piece of him.

Bernardo

Welcome, Horatio: welcome, good Marcellus.

Marcellus

What, has this thing appear’d again to-night?

Bernardo

I have seen nothing.

Marcellus

Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy,

And will not let belief take hold of him

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,

He may approve our eyes and speak to it.

Horatio

Tush, tush, ’twill not appear.

Bernardo

Sit down awhile;

And let us once again assail your ears,

That are so fortified against our story

What we have two nights seen.

Horatio

Well, sit we down,

And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.

Bernardo

Last night of all,

When yond same star that’s westward from the pole

Had made his course to illume that part of heaven

Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself,

The bell then beating one,—

Enter Ghost

Marcellus

Peace, break thee off; look, where it comes again!

Bernardo

In the same figure, like the king that’s dead.

Marcellus

Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.

Bernardo

Looks it not like the king? mark it, Horatio.

Horatio

Most like: it harrows me with fear and wonder.

Bernardo

It would be spoke to.

Marcellus

Question it, Horatio.

Horatio

What art thou that usurp’st this time of night,

Together with that fair and warlike form

In which the majesty of buried Denmark

Did sometimes march? by heaven I charge thee, speak!

Marcellus

It is offended.

Bernardo

See, it stalks away!

Horatio

Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee, speak!

Exit Ghost

Marcellus

’Tis gone, and will not answer.

Bernardo

How now, Horatio! you tremble and look pale:

Is not this something more than fantasy?

What think you on’t?

Horatio

Before my God, I might not this believe

Without the sensible and true avouch

Of mine own eyes.

Marcellus

Is it not like the king?

Horatio

As thou art to thyself:

Such was the very armour he had on

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.

Marcellus

Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour,

With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.

Horatio

In what particular thought to work I know not;

But in the gross and scope of my opinion,

This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

Marcellus

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,

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;

What might be toward, that this sweaty haste

Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day:

Who is’t that can inform me?

Horatio

That can I;

At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king,

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,

Dared to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet —

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

Which he stood seized of, to the conqueror:

Against the which, a moiety competent

Was gaged by our king; which had return’d

To the inheritance of Fortinbras,

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,

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 —

But to recover of us, by strong hand

And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands

So by his father lost: and this, I take it,

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.

Bernardo

I think it be no other but e’en so:

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.

Horatio

A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye.

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:

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:

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.—

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,

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:

Cock crows

If thou art privy to thy country’s fate,

Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, O, speak!

Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life

Extorted treasure in the womb of earth,

For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death,

Speak of it: stay, and speak! Stop it, Marcellus.

Marcellus

Shall I strike at it with my partisan?

Horatio

Do, if it will not stand.

Bernardo

’Tis here!

Horatio

’Tis here!

Marcellus

’Tis gone!

Exit Ghost

We do it wrong, being so majestical,

To offer it the show of violence;

For it is, as the air, invulnerable,

And our vain blows malicious mockery.

Bernardo

It was about to speak, when the cock crew.

Horatio

And then it started like a guilty thing

Upon a fearful summons. I have heard,

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,

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.

Marcellus

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:

And then, they say, no spirit dares stir 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.

Horatio

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 eastward hill:

Break we our watch up; and by my advice,

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?

Marcellus

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 King Claudius, Queen Gertrude, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Voltimand, Cornelius, Lords, and Attendants

King Claudius

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,

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 to this warlike state,

Have we, as ’twere with a defeated joy,—

With an auspicious and a dropping eye,

With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage,

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.

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,

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 bonds of law,

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,—

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

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

To business with the king, more than the scope

Of these delated articles allow.

Farewell, and let your haste commend your duty.

Cornelius

Voltimand

In that and all things will we show our duty.

King Claudius

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,

And loose 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,

Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father.

What wouldst thou have, Laertes?

Laertes

My dread lord,

Your leave and favour to return to France;

From whence though willingly I came to Denmark,

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.

King Claudius

Have you your father’s leave? What says Polonius?

Lord Polonius

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:

I do beseech you, give him leave to go.

King Claudius

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,—

Hamlet

[Aside] A little more than kin, and less than kind.

King Claudius

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

Hamlet

Not so, my lord; I am too much i’ the sun.

Queen Gertrude

Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off,

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 lives must die,

Passing through nature to eternity.

Hamlet

Ay, madam, it is common.

Queen Gertrude

If it be,

Why seems it so particular with thee?

Hamlet

Seems, madam! nay it is; I know not ’seems.’

’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

Nor customary suits of solemn black,

Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,

No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,

Nor the dejected ’havior of the visage,

Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,

That can denote me truly: these indeed seem,

For they are actions that a man might play:

But I have that within which passeth show;

These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

King Claudius

’Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,

To give these mourning duties to your father:

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

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,

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

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,

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,

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

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,

Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.

Queen Gertrude

Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet:

I pray thee, stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.

Hamlet

I shall in all my best obey you, madam.

King Claudius

Why, ’tis a loving and a fair reply:

Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come;

This gentle and unforced accord of Hamlet

Sits smiling to my heart: in grace whereof,

No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day,

But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell,

And the king’s rouse the heavens all bruit again,

Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.

Exeunt all but Hamlet

Hamlet

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! God!

How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,

Seem to me all the uses of this world!

Fie on’t! ah fie! ’tis an unweeded garden,

That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature

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

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

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 —

O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,

Would have mourn’d longer — married with my uncle,

My father’s brother, but no more like my father

Than I to Hercules: within a month:

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!

It is not nor it cannot come to good:

But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.

Enter Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo

Horatio

Hail to your lordship!

Hamlet

I am glad to see you well:

Horatio,— or I do forget myself.

Horatio

The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.

Hamlet

Sir, my good friend; I’ll change that name with you:

And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Marcellus?

Marcellus

My good lord —

Hamlet

I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir.

But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?

Horatio

A truant disposition, good my lord.

Hamlet

I would not hear your enemy say so,

Nor shall you do mine ear that violence,

To make it truster of your own report

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.

Horatio

My lord, I came to see your father’s funeral.

Hamlet

I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;

I think it was to see my mother’s wedding.

Horatio

Indeed, my lord, it follow’d hard upon.

Hamlet

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked meats

Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven

Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio!

My father!— methinks I see my father.

Horatio

Where, my lord?

Hamlet

In my mind’s eye, Horatio.

Horatio

I saw him once; he was a goodly king.

Hamlet

He was a man, take him for all in all,

I shall not look upon his like again.

Horatio

My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.

Hamlet

Saw? who?

Horatio

My lord, the king your father.

Hamlet

The king my father!

Horatio

Season your admiration for awhile

With an attent ear, till I may deliver,

Upon the witness of these gentlemen,

This marvel to you.

Hamlet

For God’s love, let me hear.

Horatio

Two nights together had these gentlemen,

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 point exactly, cap-a-pe,

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, distilled

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,

Form of the thing, each word made true and good,

The apparition comes: I knew your father;

These hands are not more like.

Hamlet

But where was this?

Marcellus

My lord, upon the platform where we watch’d.

Hamlet

Did you not speak to it?

Horatio

My lord, I did;

But answer made it none: yet once methought

It lifted up its head and did address

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.

Hamlet

’Tis very strange.

Horatio

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.

Hamlet

Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.

Hold you the watch to-night?

Marcellus

Bernardo

We do, my lord.

Hamlet

Arm’d, say you?

Marcellus

Bernardo

Arm’d, my lord.

Hamlet

From top to toe?

Marcellus

Bernardo

My lord, from head to foot.

Hamlet

Then saw you not his face?

Horatio

O, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up.

Hamlet

What, look’d he frowningly?

Horatio

A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

Hamlet

Pale or red?

Horatio

Nay, very pale.

Hamlet

And fix’d his eyes upon you?

Horatio

Most constantly.

Hamlet

I would I had been there.

Horatio

It would have much amazed you.

Hamlet

Very like, very like. Stay’d it long?

Horatio

While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.

Marcellus

Bernardo

Longer, longer.

Horatio

Not when I saw’t.

Hamlet

His beard was grizzled — no?

Horatio

It was, as I have seen it in his life,

A sable silver’d.

Hamlet

I will watch to-night;

Perchance ’twill walk again.

Horatio

I warrant it will.

Hamlet

If it assume my noble father’s person,

I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape

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,

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.

Hamlet

Your loves, as mine to you: farewell.

Exeunt all but Hamlet

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,

Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.

Exit

SCENE III. A ROOM IN POLONIUS’ HOUSE.

Enter Laertes and Ophelia

Laertes

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.

Ophelia

Do you doubt that?

Laertes

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,

The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

Ophelia

No more but so?

Laertes

Think it no more;

For nature, crescent, does not grow alone

In thews and bulk, but, as this temple waxes,

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,

His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own;

For he himself is subject to his birth:

He may not, as unvalued persons do,

Carve for himself; for on his choice depends

The safety and health of this whole state;

And therefore must his choice be circumscribed

Unto the voice and yielding of that body

Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you,

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.

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.

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,

If she unmask her beauty to the moon:

Virtue itself ’scapes not calumnious strokes:

The canker galls the infants of the spring,

Too oft before their buttons be disclosed,

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.

Ophelia

I shall the 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,

Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,

And recks not his own rede.

Laertes

O, fear me not.

I stay too long: but here my father comes.

Enter Polonius

A double blessing is a double grace,

Occasion smiles upon a second leave.

Lord Polonius

Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame!

The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,

And you are stay’d for. There; my blessing with thee!

And these few precepts in thy memory

See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,

Nor any unproportioned thought his act.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.

Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,

Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;

But do not dull thy palm with entertainment

Of each new-hatch’d, unfledged comrade. Beware

Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in,

Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee.

Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;

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,

And they in France of the best rank and station

Are of a most select and generous chief in that.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be;

For loan oft loses both itself and friend,

And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all: to thine ownself be true,

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!

Laertes

Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

Lord Polonius

The time invites you; go; your servants tend.

Laertes

Farewell, Ophelia; and remember well

What I have said to you.

Ophelia

’Tis in my memory lock’d,

And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

Laertes

Farewell.

Exit

Lord Polonius

What is’t, Ophelia, be hath said to you?

Ophelia

So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.

Lord Polonius

Marry, well bethought:

’Tis told me, he hath very oft of late

Given private time to you; and you yourself

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

As it behoves my daughter and your honour.

What is between you? give me up the truth.

Ophelia

He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders

Of his affection to me.

Lord Polonius

Affection! pooh! you speak like a green girl,

Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.

Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?

Ophelia

I do not know, my lord, what I should think.

Lord Polonius

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.

Ophelia

My lord, he hath importuned me with love

In honourable fashion.

Lord Polonius

Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to.

Ophelia

And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord,

With almost all the holy vows of heaven.

Lord Polonius

Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know,

When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul

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

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

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,

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 leisure,

As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.

Look to’t, I charge you: come your ways.

Ophelia

I shall obey, my lord.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. THE PLATFORM.

Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus

Hamlet

The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.

Horatio

It is a nipping and an eager air.

Hamlet

What hour now?

Horatio

I think it lacks of twelve.

Hamlet

No, it is struck.

Horatio

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?

Hamlet

The king doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,

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.

Horatio

Is it a custom?

Hamlet

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.

This heavy-headed revel east and west

Makes us traduced and tax’d of other nations:

They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase

Soil our addition; and indeed it takes

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,

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

The form of plausive manners, that these men,

Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,

Being nature’s livery, or fortune’s star,—

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

Doth all the noble substance of a doubt

To his own scandal.

Horatio

Look, my lord, it comes!

Enter Ghost

Hamlet

Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d,

Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,

Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

Thou comest in such a questionable shape

That I will speak to thee: I’ll call thee Hamlet,

King, father, royal Dane: O, answer me!

Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell

Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death,

Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre,

Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn’d,

Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws,

To cast thee up again. What may this mean,

That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel

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?

Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do?

Ghost beckons Hamlet

Horatio

It beckons you to go away with it,

As if it some impartment did desire

To you alone.

Marcellus

Look, with what courteous action

It waves you to a more removed ground:

But do not go with it.

Horatio

No, by no means.

Hamlet

It will not speak; then I will follow it.

Horatio

Do not, my lord.

Hamlet

Why, what should be the fear?

I do not set my life in a pin’s fee;

And for my soul, what can it do to that,

Being a thing immortal as itself?

It waves me forth again: I’ll follow it.

Horatio

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,

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

That looks so many fathoms to the sea

And hears it roar beneath.

Hamlet

It waves me still.

Go on; I’ll follow thee.

Marcellus

You shall not go, my lord.

Hamlet

Hold off your hands.

Horatio

Be ruled; you shall not go.

Hamlet

My fate cries out,

And makes each petty artery in this body

As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.

Still am I call’d. Unhand me, gentlemen.

By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me!

I say, away! Go on; I’ll follow thee.

Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet

Horatio

He waxes desperate with imagination.

Marcellus

Let’s follow; ’tis not fit thus to obey him.

Horatio

Have after. To what issue will this come?

Marcellus

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Horatio

Heaven will direct it.

Marcellus

Nay, let’s follow him.

Exeunt

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLATFORM.

Enter Ghost and Hamlet

Hamlet

Where wilt thou lead me? speak; I’ll go no further.

Ghost

Mark me.

Hamlet

I will.

Ghost

My hour is almost come,

When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames

Must render up myself.

Hamlet

Alas, poor ghost!

Ghost

Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing

To what I shall unfold.

Hamlet

Speak; I am bound to hear.

Ghost

So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.

Hamlet

What?

Ghost

I am thy father’s spirit,

Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night,

And for the day confined to fast in fires,

Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature

Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid

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,

Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,

Thy knotted and combined locks to part

And each particular hair to stand on end,

Like quills upon the fretful porpentine:

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 —

Hamlet

O God!

Ghost

Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

Hamlet

Murder!

Ghost

Murder most foul, as in the best it is;

But this most foul, strange and unnatural.

Hamlet

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 roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,

Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear:

’Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard,

A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark

Is by a forged process of my death

Rankly abused: but know, thou noble youth,

The serpent that did sting thy father’s life

Now wears his crown.

Hamlet

O my prophetic soul! 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

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

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!

But virtue, as it never will be moved,

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,

And prey on garbage.

But, soft! methinks I scent the morning air;

Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard,

My custom always of the afternoon,

Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,

With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,

And in the porches of my ears did pour

The leperous distilment; whose effect

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 doth posset

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.

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,

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!

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 pursuest this act,

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,

And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire:

Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me.

Exit

Hamlet

O all you host of heaven! O earth! what else?

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!

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;

And thy commandment all alone shall live

Within the book and volume of my brain,

Unmix’d with baser matter: yes, by heaven!

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:

Writing

So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word;

It is ‘Adieu, adieu! remember me.’

I have sworn ’t.

Marcellus

Horatio

[Within] My lord, my lord,—

Marcellus

[Within] Lord Hamlet,—

Horatio

[Within] Heaven secure him!

Hamlet

So be it!

Horatio

[Within] Hillo, ho, ho, my lord!

Hamlet

Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come.

Enter Horatio and Marcellus

Marcellus

How is’t, my noble lord?

Horatio

What news, my lord?

Hamlet

O, wonderful!

Horatio

Good my lord, tell it.

Hamlet

No; you’ll reveal it.

Horatio

Not I, my lord, by heaven.

Marcellus

Nor I, my lord.

Hamlet

How say you, then; would heart of man once think it?

But you’ll be secret?

Horatio

Marcellus

Ay, by heaven, my lord.

Hamlet

There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark

But he’s an arrant knave.

Horatio

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave

To tell us this.

Hamlet

Why, right; you are i’ the right;

And so, without more circumstance at all,

I hold it fit that we shake hands and part:

You, as your business and desire shall point you;

For every man has business and desire,

Such as it is; and for mine own poor part,

Look you, I’ll go pray.

Horatio

These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.

Hamlet

I’m sorry they offend you, heartily;

Yes, ’faith heartily.

Horatio

There’s no offence, my lord.

Hamlet

Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio,

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,

As you are friends, scholars and soldiers,

Give me one poor request.

Horatio

What is’t, my lord? we will.

Hamlet

Never make known what you have seen to-night.

Horatio

Marcellus

My lord, we will not.

Hamlet

Nay, but swear’t.

Horatio

In faith,

My lord, not I.

Marcellus

Nor I, my lord, in faith.

Hamlet

Upon my sword.

Marcellus

We have sworn, my lord, already.

Hamlet

Indeed, upon my sword, indeed.

Ghost

[Beneath] Swear.

Hamlet

Ah, ha, boy! say’st thou so? art thou there, truepenny?

Come on — you hear this fellow in the cellarage —

Consent to swear.

Horatio

Propose the oath, my lord.

Hamlet

Never to speak of this that you have seen,

Swear by my sword.

Ghost

[Beneath] Swear.

Hamlet

Hic et ubique? then we’ll shift our ground.

Come hither, gentlemen,

And lay your hands again upon my sword:

Never to speak of this that you have heard,

Swear by my sword.

Ghost

[Beneath] Swear.

Hamlet

Well said, old mole! canst work i’ the earth so fast?

A worthy pioner! Once more remove, good friends.

Horatio

O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!

Hamlet

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;

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,

That you, at such times seeing me, never shall,

With arms encumber’d thus, or this headshake,

Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase,

As ‘Well, well, we know,’ or ‘We could, an if we would,’

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.

Ghost

[Beneath] Swear.

Hamlet

Rest, rest, perturbed spirit!

They swear

So, gentlemen,

With all my love I do commend me to you:

And what so poor a man as Hamlet is

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,

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

Lord Polonius

Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.

Reynaldo

I will, my lord.

Lord Polonius

You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo,

Before you visit him, to make inquire

Of his behavior.

Reynaldo

My lord, I did intend it.

Lord Polonius

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,

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:

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?

Reynaldo

Ay, very well, my lord.

Lord Polonius

‘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;

But, sir, such wanton, wild and usual slips

As are companions noted and most known

To youth and liberty.

Reynaldo

As gaming, my lord.

Lord Polonius

Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling,

Drabbing: you may go so far.

Reynaldo

My lord, that would dishonour him.

Lord Polonius

’Faith, no; as you may season it in the charge

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,

The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind,

A savageness in unreclaimed blood,

Of general assault.

Reynaldo

But, my good lord,—

Lord Polonius

Wherefore should you do this?

Reynaldo

Ay, my lord,

I would know that.

Lord Polonius

Marry, sir, here’s my drift;

And I believe, it is a fetch of wit:

You laying these slight sullies on my son,

As ’twere a thing a little soil’d i’ the working, Mark you,

Your party in converse, him you would sound,

Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes

The youth you breathe of guilty, be assured

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.

Reynaldo

Very good, my lord.

Lord Polonius

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?

Reynaldo

At ‘closes in the consequence,’ at ‘friend or so,’ and ‘gentleman.’

Lord Polonius

At ‘closes in the consequence,’ ay, marry;

He closes thus: ‘I know the gentleman;

I saw him yesterday, or t’ other day,

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,’

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,

With windlasses and with assays of bias,

By indirections find directions out:

So by my former lecture and advice,

Shall you my son. You have me, have you not?

Reynaldo

My lord, I have.

Lord Polonius

God be wi’ you; fare you well.

Reynaldo

Good my lord!

Lord Polonius

Observe his inclination in yourself.

Reynaldo

I shall, my lord.

Lord Polonius

And let him ply his music.

Reynaldo

Well, my lord.

Lord Polonius

Farewell!

Exit Reynaldo

Enter Ophelia

How now, Ophelia! what’s the matter?

Ophelia

O, my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!

Lord Polonius

With what, i’ the name of God?

Ophelia

My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,

Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbraced;

No hat upon his head; his stockings foul’d,

Ungarter’d, and down-gyved to his ancle;

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.

Lord Polonius

Mad for thy love?

Ophelia

My lord, I do not know;

But truly, I do fear it.

Lord Polonius

What said he?

Ophelia

He took me by the wrist and held me hard;

Then goes he to the length of all his arm;

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

And thrice his head thus waving up and down,

He raised a sigh so piteous and profound

As it did seem to shatter all his bulk

And end his being: that done, he lets me go:

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 helps,

And, to the last, bended their light on me.

Lord Polonius

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

That does afflict our natures. I am sorry.

What, have you given him any hard words of late?

Ophelia

No, my good lord, but, as you did command,

I did repel his fetters and denied

His access to me.

Lord Polonius

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 wreck thee; but, beshrew my jealousy!

By heaven, it is as proper to our age

To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions

As it is common for the younger sort

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.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

Enter King Claudius, Queen Gertrude, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Attendants

King Claudius

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 call it,

Sith 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

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 sith so neighbour’d to his youth and havior,

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,

Whether aught, to us unknown, afflicts him thus,

That, open’d, lies within our remedy.

Queen Gertrude

Good gentlemen, he hath much talk’d of you;

And sure I am two men there are not living

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,

Your visitation shall receive such thanks

As fits a king’s remembrance.

Rosencrantz

Both your majesties

Might, by the sovereign power you have of us,

Put your dread pleasures more into command

Than to entreaty.

Guildenstern

But we both obey,

And here give up ourselves, in the full bent

To lay our service freely at your feet,

To be commanded.

King Claudius

Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.

Queen Gertrude

Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz:

And I beseech you instantly to visit

My too much changed son. Go, some of you,

And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.

Guildenstern

Heavens make our presence and our practises

Pleasant and helpful to him!

Queen Gertrude

Ay, amen!

Exeunt Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and some Attendants

Enter Polonius

Lord Polonius

The ambassadors from Norway, my good lord,

Are joyfully return’d.

King Claudius

Thou still hast been the father of good news.

Lord Polonius

Have I, my lord? I assure my good liege,

I hold my duty, as I hold my soul,

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 used to do, that I have found

The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy.

King Claudius

O, speak of that; that do I long to hear.

Lord Polonius

Give first admittance to the ambassadors;

My news shall be the fruit to that great feast.

King Claudius

Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in.

Exit Polonius

He tells me, my dear Gertrude, he hath found

The head and source of all your son’s distemper.

Queen Gertrude

I doubt it is no other but the main;

His father’s death, and our o’erhasty marriage.

King Claudius

Well, we shall sift him.

Re-enter Polonius, with Voltimand and Cornelius

Welcome, my good friends!

Say, Voltimand, what from our brother Norway?

Voltimand

Most fair return of greetings and desires.

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

It was against your highness: whereat grieved,

That so his sickness, age and impotence

Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests

On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys;

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,

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,

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 Claudius

It likes us well;

And at our more consider’d time well 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

Lord Polonius

This business is well ended.

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:

Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,

What is’t but to be nothing else but mad?

But let that go.

Queen Gertrude

More matter, with less art.

Lord Polonius

Madam, I swear I use no art at all.

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,

Or rather say, the cause of this defect,

For this effect defective comes by cause:

Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. Perpend.

I have a daughter — have while she is mine —

Who, in her duty and obedience, mark,

Hath given me this: now gather, and surmise.

[Reads] ‘To the celestial and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia,’— That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase; ‘beautified’ is a vile phrase: but you shall hear. Thus:

[Reads] ‘In her excellent white bosom, these, &c.’

Queen Gertrude

Came this from Hamlet to her?

Lord Polonius

Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful.

[Reads] ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun doth move;

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 Claudius

But how hath she

Received his love?

Lord Polonius

What do you think of me?

King Claudius

As of a man faithful and honourable.

Lord Polonius

I would fain prove so. But what might you think,

When I had seen this hot love on the wing —

As I perceived 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,

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:

‘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.

Which done, she took the fruits of my advice;

And he, repulsed — a short tale to make —

Fell into a sadness, then into a fast,

Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness,

Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension,

Into the madness wherein now he raves,

And all we mourn for.

King Claudius

Do you think ’tis this?

Queen Gertrude

It may be, very likely.

Lord Polonius

Hath there been such a time — I’d fain know that —

That I have positively said ’Tis so,’

When it proved otherwise?

King Claudius

Not that I know.

Lord Polonius

[Pointing to his head and shoulder]

Take this from this, if this be otherwise:

If circumstances lead me, I will find

Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed

Within the centre.

King Claudius

How may we try it further?

Lord Polonius

You know, sometimes he walks four hours together

Here in the lobby.

Queen Gertrude

So he does indeed.

Lord Polonius

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

And be not from his reason fall’n thereon,

Let me be no assistant for a state,

But keep a farm and carters.

King Claudius

We will try it.

Queen Gertrude

But, look, where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.

Lord Polonius

Away, I do beseech you, both away:

I’ll board him presently.

Exeunt King Claudius, Queen Gertrude, and Attendants

Enter Hamlet, reading

O, give me leave:

How does my good Lord Hamlet?

Hamlet

Well, God-a-mercy.

Lord Polonius

Do you know me, my lord?

Hamlet

Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.

Lord Polonius

Not I, my lord.

Hamlet

Then I would you were so honest a man.

Lord Polonius

Honest, my lord!

Hamlet

Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

Lord Polonius

That’s very true, my lord.

Hamlet

For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god kissing carrion,— Have you a daughter?

Lord Polonius

I have, my lord.

Hamlet

Let her not walk i’ the sun: conception is a blessing: but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to ’t.

Lord Polonius

[Aside] How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter: yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger: he is far gone, far gone: and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love; very near this. I’ll speak to him again. What do you read, my lord?

Hamlet

Words, words, words.

Lord Polonius

What is the matter, my lord?

Hamlet

Between who?

Lord Polonius

I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.

Hamlet

Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams: all which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down, for yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crab you could go backward.

Lord Polonius

[Aside] Though this be madness, yet there is method in ’t. Will you walk out of the air, my lord?

Hamlet

Into my grave.

Lord Polonius

Indeed, that is out o’ the air.

Aside

How pregnant sometimes his replies are! a happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him, and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter.— My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.

Hamlet

You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.

Lord Polonius

Fare you well, my lord.

Hamlet

These tedious old fools!

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern

Lord Polonius

You go to seek the Lord Hamlet; there he is.

Rosencrantz

[To Polonius] God save you, sir!

Exit Polonius

Guildenstern

My honoured lord!

Rosencrantz

My most dear lord!

Hamlet

My excellent good friends! How dost thou,

Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both?

Rosencrantz

As the indifferent children of the earth.

Guildenstern

Happy, in that we are not over-happy;

On fortune’s cap we are not the very button.

Hamlet

Nor the soles of her shoe?

Rosencrantz

Neither, my lord.

Hamlet

Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours?

Guildenstern

’Faith, her privates we.

Hamlet

In the secret parts of fortune? O, most true; she is a strumpet. What’s the news?

Rosencrantz

None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest.

Hamlet

Then is doomsday near: but your news is not true. Let me question more in particular: what have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of fortune, that she sends you to prison hither?

Guildenstern

Prison, my lord!

Hamlet

Denmark’s a prison.

Rosencrantz

Then is the world one.

Hamlet

A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards and dungeons, Denmark being one o’ the worst.

Rosencrantz

We think not so, my lord.

Hamlet

Why, then, ’tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so: to me it is a prison.

Rosencrantz

Why then, your ambition makes it one; ’tis too narrow for your mind.

Hamlet

O God, I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.

Guildenstern

Which dreams indeed are ambition, for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.

Hamlet

A dream itself is but a shadow.

Rosencrantz

Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow.

Hamlet

Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretched heroes the beggars’ shadows. Shall we to the court? for, by my fay, I cannot reason.

Rosencrantz

Guildenstern

We’ll wait upon you.

Hamlet

No such matter: I will not sort you with the rest of my servants, for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?

Rosencrantz

To visit you, my lord; no other occasion.

Hamlet

Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you: and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, deal justly with me: come, come; nay, speak.

Guildenstern

What should we say, my lord?

Hamlet

Why, any thing, but to the purpose. You were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks which your modesties have not craft enough to colour: I know the good king and queen have sent for you.

Rosencrantz

To what end, my lord?

Hamlet

That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for, or no?

Rosencrantz

[Aside to Guildenstern] What say you?

Hamlet

[Aside] Nay, then, I have an eye of you.— If you love me, hold not off.

Guildenstern

My lord, we were sent for.

Hamlet

I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late — but wherefore I know not — lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me: no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

Rosencrantz

My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.

Hamlet

Why did you laugh then, when I said ‘man delights not me’?

Rosencrantz

To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what lenten entertainment the players shall receive from you: we coted them on the way; and hither are they coming, to offer you service.

Hamlet

He that plays the king shall be welcome; his majesty shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humourous man shall end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickled o’ the sere; and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for’t. What players are they?

Rosencrantz

Even those you were wont to take delight in, the tragedians of the city.

Hamlet

How chances it they travel? their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways.

Rosencrantz

I think their inhibition comes by the means of the late innovation.

Hamlet

Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? are they so followed?

Rosencrantz

No, indeed, are they not.

Hamlet

How comes it? do they grow rusty?

Rosencrantz

Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace: but there is, sir, an aery of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are most tyrannically clapped for’t: these are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages — so they call them — that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills and dare scarce come thither.

Hamlet

What, are they children? who maintains ’em? how are they escoted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? will they not say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players — as it is most like, if their means are no better — their writers do them wrong, to make them exclaim against their own succession?

Rosencrantz

’Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy: there was, for a while, no money bid for argument, unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question.

Hamlet

Is’t possible?

Guildenstern

O, there has been much throwing about of brains.

Hamlet

Do the boys carry it away?

Rosencrantz

Ay, that they do, my lord; Hercules and his load too.

Hamlet

It is not very strange; for mine uncle is king of Denmark, and those that would make mows at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, an 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

Guildenstern

There are the players.

Hamlet

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.

Guildenstern

In what, my dear lord?

Hamlet

I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.

Enter Polonius

Lord Polonius

Well be with you, gentlemen!

Hamlet

Hark you, Guildenstern; and you too: at each ear a hearer: that great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling-clouts.

Rosencrantz

Happily he’s the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child.

Hamlet

I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players; mark it. You say right, sir: o’ Monday morning; ’twas so indeed.

Lord Polonius

My lord, I have news to tell you.

Hamlet

My lord, I have news to tell you.

When Roscius was an actor in Rome,—

Lord Polonius

The actors are come hither, my lord.

Hamlet

Buz, buz!

Lord Polonius

Upon mine honour,—

Hamlet

Then came each actor on his ass,—

Lord Polonius

The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical- comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited: Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the liberty, these are the only men.

Hamlet

O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou!

Lord Polonius

What a treasure had he, my lord?

Hamlet

Why,

‘One fair daughter and no more,

The which he loved passing well.’

Lord Polonius

[Aside] Still on my daughter.

Hamlet

Am I not i’ the right, old Jephthah?

Lord Polonius

If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well.

Hamlet

Nay, that follows not.

Lord Polonius

What follows, then, my lord?

Hamlet

Why, ‘As by lot, God wot,’ 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 abridgement 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 valenced 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 to heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God, your voice, like apiece 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 any thing we see: we’ll have a speech straight: come, give us a taste of your quality; come, a passionate speech.

First Player

What speech, my lord?

Hamlet

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 Aeneas’ 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 — ‘The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,’— it is not so:— it begins with Pyrrhus:—

‘The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms,

Black as his purpose, did the night resemble

When he lay couched in the ominous horse,

Hath now this dread and black complexion smear’d

With heraldry more dismal; head to foot

Now is he total gules; horridly trick’d

With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,

Baked and impasted with the parching streets,

That lend a tyrannous and damned light

To their lord’s murder: roasted in wrath and fire,

And thus o’er-sized with coagulate gore,

With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus

Old grandsire Priam seeks.’

So, proceed you.

Lord Polonius

’Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion.

First Player

‘Anon he finds him

Striking too short at Greeks; his antique sword,

Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,

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,

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

Of reverend 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.

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

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 forged for proof eterne

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;

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!’

Lord Polonius

This is too long.

Hamlet

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.

First Player

‘But who, O, who had seen the mobled queen —’

Hamlet

‘The mobled queen?’

Lord Polonius

That’s good; ‘mobled queen’ is good.

First Player

‘Run barefoot up and down, threatening the flames

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;

Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep’d,

’Gainst Fortune’s state would treason have pronounced:

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,

The instant burst of clamour that she made,

Unless things mortal move them not at all,

Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven,

And passion in the gods.’

Lord Polonius

Look, whether he has not turned his colour and has tears in’s eyes. Pray you, no more.

Hamlet

’Tis well: I’ll have thee speak out the rest soon. Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used; for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time: after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.

Lord Polonius

My lord, I will use them according to their desert.

Hamlet

God’s bodykins, man, much better: use every man after his desert, and who should ’scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity: the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in.

Lord Polonius

Come, sirs.

Hamlet

Follow him, friends: we’ll hear a play to-morrow.

Exit Polonius with all the Players but the First

Dost thou hear me, old friend; can you play the

Murder of Gonzago?

First Player

Ay, my lord.

Hamlet

We’ll ha’t to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, which I would set down and insert in’t, could you not?

First Player

Ay, my lord.

Hamlet

Very well. Follow that lord; and look you mock him not.

Exit First Player

My good friends, I’ll leave you till night: you are welcome to Elsinore.

Rosencrantz

Good my lord!

Hamlet

Ay, so, God be wi’ ye;

Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern

Now I am alone.

O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!

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

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!

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

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. 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,

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?

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

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!

O, vengeance!

Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave,

That I, the son of a dear father murder’d,

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!

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

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

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

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

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 Claudius, Queen Gertrude, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern

King Claudius

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?

Rosencrantz

He does confess he feels himself distracted;

But from what cause he will by no means speak.

Guildenstern

Nor do we find him forward to be sounded,

But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof,

When we would bring him on to some confession

Of his true state.

Queen Gertrude

Did he receive you well?

Rosencrantz

Most like a gentleman.

Guildenstern

But with much forcing of his disposition.

Rosencrantz

Niggard of question; but, of our demands,

Most free in his reply.

Queen Gertrude

Did you assay him?

To any pastime?

Rosencrantz

Madam, it so fell out, that certain players

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

This night to play before him.

Lord Polonius

’Tis most true:

And he beseech’d me to entreat your majesties

To hear and see the matter.

King Claudius

With all my heart; and it doth much content me

To hear him so inclined.

Good gentlemen, give him a further edge,

And drive his purpose on to these delights.

Rosencrantz

We shall, my lord.

Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern

King Claudius

Sweet Gertrude, leave us too;

For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither,

That he, as ’twere by accident, may here

Affront Ophelia:

Her father and myself, lawful espials,

Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing, unseen,

We may of their encounter frankly judge,

And gather by him, as he is behaved,

If ’t be the affliction of his love or no

That thus he suffers for.

Queen Gertrude

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

Will bring him to his wonted way again,

To both your honours.

Ophelia

Madam, I wish it may.

Exit Queen Gertrude

Lord Polonius

Ophelia, walk you here. Gracious, so please you,

We will bestow ourselves.

To Ophelia

Read on this book;

That show of such an exercise may colour

Your loneliness. We are oft to blame in this,—

’Tis too much proved — that with devotion’s visage

And pious action we do sugar o’er

The devil himself.

King Claudius

[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

Than is my deed to my most painted word:

O heavy burthen!

Lord Polonius

I hear him coming: let’s withdraw, my lord.

Exeunt King Claudius and Polonius

Enter Hamlet

Hamlet

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

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

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;

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

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 despised love, the law’s delay,

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,

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

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

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!

The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remember’d.

Ophelia

Good my lord,

How does your honour for this many a day?

Hamlet

I humbly thank you; well, well, well.

Ophelia

My lord, I have remembrances of yours,

That I have longed long to re-deliver;

I pray you, now receive them.

Hamlet

No, not I;

I never gave you aught.

Ophelia

My honour’d lord, you know right well you did;

And, with them, words of so sweet breath composed

As made the things more rich: their perfume lost,

Take these again; for to the noble mind

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.

There, my lord.

Hamlet

Ha, ha! are you honest?

Ophelia

My lord?

Hamlet

Are you fair?

Ophelia

What means your lordship?

Hamlet

That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.

Ophelia

Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?

Hamlet

Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.

Ophelia

Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.

Hamlet

You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it: I loved you not.

Ophelia

I was the more deceived.

Hamlet

Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me: I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your father?

Ophelia

At home, my lord.

Hamlet

Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool no where but in’s own house. Farewell.

Ophelia

O, help him, you sweet heavens!

Hamlet

If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go: farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go, and quickly too. Farewell.

Ophelia

O heavenly powers, restore him!

Hamlet

I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nick-name God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t; it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages: those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go.

Exit

Ophelia

O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!

The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword;

The expectancy and rose of the fair state,

The glass of fashion and the mould of form,

The observed of all observers, quite, quite down!

And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,

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

Blasted with ecstasy: O, woe is me,

To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

Re-enter King Claudius and Polonius

King Claudius

Love! his affections do not that way tend;

Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a little,

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,

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

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?

Lord Polonius

It shall do well: but yet do I believe

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;

But, if you hold it fit, after the play

Let his queen mother all alone entreat him

To show his grief: let her be round with him;

And I’ll be placed, 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 Claudius

It shall be so:

Madness in great ones must not unwatch’d go.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A HALL IN THE CASTLE.

Enter Hamlet and Players

Hamlet

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumbshows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it.

First Player

I warrant your honour.

Hamlet

Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special o’erstep not the modesty of nature: for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance o’erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature’s journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.

First Player

I hope we have reformed that indifferently with us, sir.

Hamlet

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! I will the king hear this piece of work?

Lord Polonius

And the queen too, and that presently.

Hamlet

Bid the players make haste.

Exit Polonius

Will you two help to hasten them?

Rosencrantz

Guildenstern

We will, my lord.

Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern

Hamlet

What ho! Horatio!

Enter Horatio

Horatio

Here, sweet lord, at your service.

Hamlet

Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man

As e’er my conversation coped withal.

Horatio

O, my dear lord,—

Hamlet

Nay, do not think I flatter;

For what advancement may I hope from thee

That no revenue hast but thy good spirits,

To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d?

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

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

Hast ta’en with equal thanks: and blest are those

Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled,

That they are not a pipe for fortune’s finger

To sound what stop she please. Give me that man

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;

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

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

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.

Horatio

Well, my lord:

If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing,

And ’scape detecting, I will pay the theft.

Hamlet

They are coming to the play; I must be idle:

Get you a place.

Danish march. A flourish. Enter King Claudius, Queen Gertrude, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and others

King Claudius

How fares our cousin Hamlet?

Hamlet

Excellent, i’ faith; of the chameleon’s dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed: you cannot feed capons so.

King Claudius

I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine.

Hamlet

No, nor mine now.

To Polonius

My lord, you played once i’ the university, you say?

Lord Polonius

That did I, my lord; and was accounted a good actor.

Hamlet

What did you enact?

Lord Polonius

I did enact Julius Caesar: I was killed i’ the

Capitol; Brutus killed me.

Hamlet

It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. Be the players ready?

Rosencrantz

Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience.

Queen Gertrude

Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me.

Hamlet

No, good mother, here’s metal more attractive.

Lord Polonius

[To King Claudius] O, ho! do you mark that?

Hamlet

Lady, shall I lie in your lap?

Lying down at Ophelia’s feet

Ophelia

No, my lord.

Hamlet

I mean, my head upon your lap?

Ophelia

Ay, my lord.

Hamlet

Do you think I meant country matters?

Ophelia

I think nothing, my lord.

Hamlet

That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs.

Ophelia

What is, my lord?

Hamlet

Nothing.

Ophelia

You are merry, my lord.

Hamlet

Who, I?

Ophelia

Ay, my lord.

Hamlet

O God, your only jig-maker. What should a man do but be merry? for, look you, how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within these two hours.

Ophelia

Nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord.

Hamlet

So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year: but, by’r lady, he must build churches, then; or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is ‘For, O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot.’

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

Ophelia

What means this, my lord?

Hamlet

Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.

Ophelia

Belike this show imports the argument of the play.

Enter Prologue

Hamlet

We shall know by this fellow: the players cannot keep counsel; they’ll tell all.

Ophelia

Will he tell us what this show meant?

Hamlet

Ay, or any show that you’ll show him: be not you ashamed to show, he’ll not shame to tell you what it means.

Ophelia

You are naught, you are naught: I’ll mark the play.

Prologue

For us, and for our tragedy,

Here stooping to your clemency,

We beg your hearing patiently.

Exit

Hamlet

Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?

Ophelia

’Tis brief, my lord.

Hamlet

As woman’s love.

Enter two Players, King and Queen

Player King

Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart gone round

Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbed ground,

And thirty dozen moons with borrow’d sheen

About the world have times twelve thirties been,

Since love our hearts and Hymen did our hands

Unite commutual in most sacred bands.

Player Queen

So many journeys may the sun and moon

Make us again count o’er ere love be done!

But, woe is me, you are so sick of late,

So far from cheer and from your former state,

That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust,

Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must:

For women’s fear and love holds quantity;

In neither aught, or in extremity.

Now, what my love is, proof hath made you know;

And as my love is sized, my fear is so:

Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear;

Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.

Player King

’Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too;

My operant powers their functions leave to do:

And thou shalt live in this fair world behind,

Honour’d, beloved; and haply one as kind

For husband shalt thou —

Player Queen

O, confound the rest!

Such love must needs be treason in my breast:

In second husband let me be accurst!

None wed the second but who kill’d the first.

Hamlet

[Aside] Wormwood, wormwood.

Player Queen

The instances that second marriage move

Are base respects of thrift, but none of love:

A second time I kill my husband dead,

When second husband kisses me in bed.

Player 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,

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

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

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 loves should with our fortunes change;

For ’tis a question left us yet to prove,

Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.

The great man down, you mark his favourite flies;

The poor advanced 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,

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;

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.

Player Queen

Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light!

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

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!

Hamlet

If she should break it now!

Player King

’Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile;

My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile

The tedious day with sleep.

Sleeps

Player Queen

Sleep rock thy brain,

And never come mischance between us twain!

Exit

Hamlet

Madam, how like you this play?

Queen Gertrude

The lady protests too much, methinks.

Hamlet

O, but she’ll keep her word.

King Claudius

Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in ’t?

Hamlet

No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i’ the world.

King Claudius

What do you call the play?

Hamlet

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 o’ that? your majesty and we that have free souls, it touches us not: let the galled jade wince, our withers are unwrung.

Enter Lucianus

This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king.

Ophelia

You are as good as a chorus, my lord.

Hamlet

I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying.

Ophelia

You are keen, my lord, you are keen.

Hamlet

It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge.

Ophelia

Still better, and worse.

Hamlet

So you must take your husbands. Begin, murderer; pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come: ’the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.’

Lucianus

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,

On wholesome life usurp immediately.

Pours the poison into the sleeper’s ears

Hamlet

He poisons him i’ the garden for’s estate. His name’s Gonzago: the story is extant, and writ in choice Italian: you shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife.

Ophelia

The king rises.

Hamlet

What, frighted with false fire!

Queen Gertrude

How fares my lord?

Lord Polonius

Give o’er the play.

King Claudius

Give me some light: away!

All

Lights, lights, lights!

Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio

Hamlet

Why, let the stricken deer go weep,

The hart ungalled play;

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?

Horatio

Half a share.

Hamlet

A whole one, I.

For thou dost know, O Damon dear,

This realm dismantled was

Of Jove himself; and now reigns here

A very, very — pajock.

Horatio

You might have rhymed.

Hamlet

O good Horatio, I’ll take the ghost’s word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive?

Horatio

Very well, my lord.

Hamlet

Upon the talk of the poisoning?

Horatio

I did very well note him.

Hamlet

Ah, ha! Come, some music! come, the recorders!

For if the king like not the comedy,

Why then, belike, he likes it not, perdy.

Come, some music!

Re-enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern

Guildenstern

Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.

Hamlet

Sir, a whole history.

Guildenstern

The king, sir,—

Hamlet

Ay, sir, what of him?

Guildenstern

Is in his retirement marvellous distempered.

Hamlet

With drink, sir?

Guildenstern

No, my lord, rather with choler.

Hamlet

Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to his doctor; for, for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into far more choler.

Guildenstern

Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame and start not so wildly from my affair.

Hamlet

I am tame, sir: pronounce.

Guildenstern

The queen, your mother, in most great affliction of spirit, hath sent me to you.

Hamlet

You are welcome.

Guildenstern

Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother’s commandment: if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my business.

Hamlet

Sir, I cannot.

Guildenstern

What, my lord?

Hamlet

Make you a wholesome answer; my wit’s diseased: but, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command; or, rather, as you say, my mother: therefore no more, but to the matter: my mother, you say,—

Rosencrantz

Then thus she says; your behavior hath struck her into amazement and admiration.

Hamlet

O wonderful son, that can so astonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother’s admiration? Impart.

Rosencrantz

She desires to speak with you in her closet, ere you go to bed.

Hamlet

We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us?

Rosencrantz

My lord, you once did love me.

Hamlet

So I do still, by these pickers and stealers.

Rosencrantz

Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? you do, surely, bar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny your griefs to your friend.

Hamlet

Sir, I lack advancement.

Rosencrantz

How can that be, when you have the voice of the king himself for your succession in Denmark?

Hamlet

Ay, but sir, ‘While the grass grows,’— the proverb is something musty.

Re-enter Players with recorders

O, the recorders! let me see one. To withdraw with you:— why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?

Guildenstern

O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.

Hamlet

I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?

Guildenstern

My lord, I cannot.

Hamlet

I pray you.

Guildenstern

Believe me, I cannot.

Hamlet

I do beseech you.

Guildenstern

I know no touch of it, my lord.

Hamlet

’Tis as easy as lying: govern these ventages with your lingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.

Guildenstern

But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I have not the skill.

Hamlet

Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak. ’sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me.

Enter Polonius

God bless you, sir!

Lord Polonius

My lord, the queen would speak with you, and presently.

Hamlet

Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel?

Lord Polonius

By the mass, and ’tis like a camel, indeed.

Hamlet

Methinks it is like a weasel.

Lord Polonius

It is backed like a weasel.

Hamlet

Or like a whale?

Lord Polonius

Very like a whale.

Hamlet

Then I will come to my mother by and by. They fool me to the top of my bent. I will come by and by.

Lord Polonius

I will say so.

Hamlet

By and by is easily said.

Exit Polonius

Leave me, friends.

Exeunt all but Hamlet

Tis now the very witching time of night,

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

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:

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!

Exit

SCENE III. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

Enter King Claudius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern

King Claudius

I like him not, nor stands it safe with us

To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you;

I your commission will forthwith dispatch,

And he to England shall along with you:

The terms of our estate may not endure

Hazard so dangerous as doth hourly grow

Out of his lunacies.

Guildenstern

We will ourselves provide:

Most holy and religious fear it is

To keep those many many bodies safe

That live and feed upon your majesty.

Rosencrantz

The single and peculiar life is bound,

With all the strength and armour of the mind,

To keep itself from noyance; but much more

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

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 mortised and adjoin’d; which, when it falls,

Each small annexment, petty consequence,

Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone

Did the king sigh, but with a general groan.

King Claudius

Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage;

For we will fetters put upon this fear,

Which now goes too free-footed.

Rosencrantz

Guildenstern

We will haste us.

Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern

Enter Polonius

Lord Polonius

My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet:

Behind the arras I’ll convey myself,

To hear the process; and 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

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 Claudius

Thanks, dear my lord.

Exit Polonius

O, my offence is rank it smells to heaven;

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;

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,

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,

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’?

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?

In the corrupted currents of this world

Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice,

And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself

Buys out the law: but ’tis not so above;

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?

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,

Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay!

Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel,

Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe!

All may be well.

Retires and kneels

Enter Hamlet

Hamlet

Now might I do it pat, now he is praying;

And now I’ll do’t. And so he goes to heaven;

And so am I revenged. That would be scann’d:

A villain kills my father; and for that,

I, his sole son, do this same villain send

To heaven.

O, this is hire and salary, not revenge.

He took my father grossly, full of bread;

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 revenged,

To take him in the purging of his soul,

When he is fit and season’d for his passage?

No!

Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid hent:

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;

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

King Claudius

[Rising] My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:

Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

Exit

SCENE IV. THE QUEEN’S CLOSET.

Enter Queen Margaret and Polonius

Lord Polonius

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 sconce me even here.

Pray you, be round with him.

Hamlet

[Within] Mother, mother, mother!

Queen Gertrude

I’ll warrant you,

Fear me not: withdraw, I hear him coming.

Polonius hides behind the arras

Enter Hamlet

Hamlet

Now, mother, what’s the matter?

Queen Gertrude

Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

Hamlet

Mother, you have my father much offended.

Queen Gertrude

Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.

Hamlet

Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

Queen Gertrude

Why, how now, Hamlet!

Hamlet

What’s the matter now?

Queen Gertrude

Have you forgot me?

Hamlet

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.

Queen Gertrude

Nay, then, I’ll set those to you that can speak.

Hamlet

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.

Queen Gertrude

What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me?

Help, help, ho!

Lord Polonius

[Behind] What, ho! help, help, help!

Hamlet

[Drawing] How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!

Makes a pass through the arras

Lord Polonius

[Behind] O, I am slain!

Falls and dies

Queen Gertrude

O me, what hast thou done?

Hamlet

Nay, I know not:

Is it the king?

Queen Gertrude

O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!

Hamlet

A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother,

As kill a king, and marry with his brother.

Queen Gertrude

As kill a king!

Hamlet

Ay, lady, ’twas my word.

Lifts up the array and discovers Polonius

Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!

I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune;

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,

If damned custom have not brass’d it so

That it is proof and bulwark against sense.

Queen Gertrude

What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue

In noise so rude against me?

Hamlet

Such an act

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

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,

With tristful visage, as against the doom,

Is thought-sick at the act.

Queen Gertrude

Ay me, what act,

That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?

Hamlet

Look here, upon this picture, and on this,

The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.

See, what a grace was seated on this brow;

Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself;

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,

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,

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

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

Is apoplex’d; for madness would not err,

Nor sense to ecstasy was ne’er so thrall’d

But it reserved some quantity of choice,

To serve in such a difference. What devil was’t

That thus hath cozen’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

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,

And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame

When the compulsive ardour gives the charge,

Since frost itself as actively doth burn

And reason panders will.

Queen Gertrude

O Hamlet, speak no more:

Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul;

And there I see such black and grained spots

As will not leave their tinct.

Hamlet

Nay, but to live

In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,

Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love

Over the nasty sty,—

Queen Gertrude

O, speak to me no more;

These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears;

No more, sweet Hamlet!

Hamlet

A murderer and a villain;

A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe

Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;

A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,

That from a shelf the precious diadem stole,

And put it in his pocket!

Queen Gertrude

No more!

Hamlet

A king of shreds and patches,—

Enter Ghost

Save me, and hover o’er me with your wings,

You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?

Queen Gertrude

Alas, he’s mad!

Hamlet

Do you not come your tardy son to chide,

That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by

The important acting of your dread command? O, say!

Ghost

Do not forget: this visitation

Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.

But, look, amazement on thy mother sits:

O, step between her and her fighting soul:

Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works:

Speak to her, Hamlet.

Hamlet

How is it with you, lady?

Queen Gertrude

Alas, how is’t with you,

That you do bend your eye on vacancy

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,

Starts up, and stands on end. O gentle son,

Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper

Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?

Hamlet

On him, on him! Look you, how pale he glares!

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

Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood.

Queen Gertrude

To whom do you speak this?

Hamlet

Do you see nothing there?

Queen Gertrude

Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.

Hamlet

Nor did you nothing hear?

Queen Gertrude

No, nothing but ourselves.

Hamlet

Why, look you there! look, how it steals away!

My father, in his habit as he lived!

Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal!

Exit Ghost

Queen Gertrude

This the very coinage of your brain:

This bodiless creation ecstasy

Is very cunning in.

Hamlet

Ecstasy!

My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,

And makes as healthful music: it is not madness

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 mattering unction to your soul,

That not your trespass, but my madness speaks:

It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,

Whilst rank corruption, mining all within,

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;

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 Gertrude

O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

Hamlet

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.

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,

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 either ... the devil, or throw him out

With wondrous potency. Once more, good night:

And when you are desirous to be bless’d,

I’ll blessing beg of you. For this same lord,

Pointing to Polonius

I do repent: but heaven hath pleased 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

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 Gertrude

What shall I do?

Hamlet

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,

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;

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,

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.

Queen Gertrude

Be thou assured, if words be made of breath,

And breath of life, I have no life to breathe

What thou hast said to me.

Hamlet

I must to England; you know that?

Queen Gertrude

Alack,

I had forgot: ’tis so concluded on.

Hamlet

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;

For ’tis the sport to have the engineer

Hoist with his own petard: and ’t shall go hard

But I will delve one yard below their mines,

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.

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.

Good night, mother.

Exeunt severally; Hamlet dragging in Polonius

ACT IV

SCENE I. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

Enter King Claudius, Queen Gertrude, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern

King Claudius

There’s matter in these sighs, these profound heaves:

You must translate: ’tis fit we understand them.

Where is your son?

Queen Gertrude

Bestow this place on us a little while.

Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern

Ah, my good lord, what have I seen to-night!

King Claudius

What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet?

Queen Gertrude

Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend

Which is the mightier: in his lawless fit,

Behind the arras hearing something stir,

Whips out his rapier, cries, ‘A rat, a rat!’

And, in this brainish apprehension, kills

The unseen good old man.

King Claudius

O heavy deed!

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

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;

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 Gertrude

To draw apart the body he hath kill’d:

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 Claudius

O Gertrude, come away!

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!

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.

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. O, come away!

My soul is full of discord and dismay.

Exeunt

SCENE II. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

Enter Hamlet

Hamlet

Safely stowed.

Rosencrantz

and

Guildenstern

[Within] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet!

Hamlet

What noise? who calls on Hamlet?

O, here they come.

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern

Rosencrantz

What have you done, my lord, with the dead body?

Hamlet

Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin.

Rosencrantz

Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it thence

And bear it to the chapel.

Hamlet

Do not believe it.

Rosencrantz

Believe what?

Hamlet

That I can keep your counsel and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge! what replication should be made by the son of a king?

Rosencrantz

Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

Hamlet

Ay, sir, that soaks up the king’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

Rosencrantz

I understand you not, my lord.

Hamlet

I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.

Rosencrantz

My lord, you must tell us where the body is, and go with us to the king.

Hamlet

The body is with the king, but the king is not with the body. The king is a thing —

Guildenstern

A thing, my lord!

Hamlet

Of nothing: bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after.

Exeunt

SCENE III. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

Enter King Claudius, attended

King Claudius

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 loved of the distracted multitude,

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

Deliberate pause: diseases desperate grown

By desperate appliance are relieved,

Or not at all.

Enter Rosencrantz

How now! what hath befall’n?

Rosencrantz

Where the dead body is bestow’d, my lord,

We cannot get from him.

King Claudius

But where is he?

Rosencrantz

Without, my lord; guarded, to know your pleasure.

King Claudius

Bring him before us.

Rosencrantz

Ho, Guildenstern! bring in my lord.

Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern

King Claudius

Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius?

Hamlet

At supper.

King Claudius

At supper! where?

Hamlet

Not where he eats, but where he is eaten: a certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots: your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes, but to one table: that’s the end.

King Claudius

Alas, alas!

Hamlet

A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and cat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.

King Claudius

What dost you mean by this?

Hamlet

Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar.

King Claudius

Where is Polonius?

Hamlet

In heaven; send hither to see: if your messenger find him not there, seek him i’ the other place yourself. But indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby.

King Claudius

Go seek him there.

To some Attendants

Hamlet

He will stay till ye come.

Exeunt Attendants

King Claudius

Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,—

Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve

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

For England.

Hamlet

For England!

King Claudius

Ay, Hamlet.

Hamlet

Good.

King Claudius

So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes.

Hamlet

I see a cherub that sees them. But, come; for

England! Farewell, dear mother.

King Claudius

Thy loving father, Hamlet.

Hamlet

My mother: father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is one flesh; and so, my mother. Come, for England!

Exit

King Claudius

Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed aboard;

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.

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

Pays homage to us — thou mayst not coldly set

Our sovereign process; which imports at full,

By letters congruing to that effect,

The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England;

For like the hectic in my blood he rages,

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

Prince Fortinbras

Go, captain, from me greet the Danish king;

Tell him that, by his licence, Fortinbras

Craves the conveyance of a promised march

Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous.

If that his majesty would aught with us,

We shall express our duty in his eye;

And let him know so.

Captain

I will do’t, my lord.

Prince Fortinbras

Go softly on.

Exeunt Fortinbras and Soldiers

Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and others

Hamlet

Good sir, whose powers are these?

Captain

They are of Norway, sir.

Hamlet

How purposed, sir, I pray you?

Captain

Against some part of Poland.

Hamlet

Who commands them, sir?

Captain

The nephews to old Norway, Fortinbras.

Hamlet

Goes it against the main of Poland, sir,

Or for some frontier?

Captain

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;

Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole

A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.

Hamlet

Why, then the Polack never will defend it.

Captain

Yes, it is already garrison’d.

Hamlet

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

Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir.

Captain

God be wi’ you, sir.

Exit

Rosencrantz

Wilt please you go, my lord?

Hamlet

I’ll be with you straight go a little before.

Exeunt all except Hamlet

How all occasions do inform against me,

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,

Looking before and after, gave us not

That capability and god-like reason

To fust in us unused. Now, whether it be

Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple

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;’

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,

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,

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,

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,

Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot

Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,

Which is not tomb enough and continent

To hide the slain? O, from this time forth,

My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!

Exit

SCENE V. ELSINORE. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

Enter Queen Gertrude, Horatio, and a Gentleman

Queen Gertrude

I will not speak with her.

Gentleman

She is importunate, indeed distract:

Her mood will needs be pitied.

Queen Gertrude

What would she have?

Gentleman

She speaks much of her father; says she hears

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

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,

Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.

Horatio

’Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew

Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

Queen Gertrude

Let her come in.

Exit Horatio

To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is,

Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss:

So full of artless jealousy is guilt,

It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Re-enter Horatio, with Ophelia

Ophelia

Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?

Queen Gertrude

How now, Ophelia!

Ophelia

[Sings]

How should I your true love know

From another one?

By his cockle hat and staff,

And his sandal shoon.

Queen Gertrude

Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?

Ophelia

Say you? nay, pray you, mark.

Sings

He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone;

At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.

Queen Gertrude

Nay, but, Ophelia,—

Ophelia

Pray you, mark.

Sings

White his shroud as the mountain snow,—

Enter King Claudius

Queen Gertrude

Alas, look here, my lord.

Ophelia

[Sings]

Larded with sweet flowers

Which bewept to the grave did go

With true-love showers.

King Claudius

How do you, pretty lady?

Ophelia

Well, God ’ild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!

King Claudius

Conceit upon her father.

Ophelia

Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this:

Sings

To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,

All in the morning betime,

And I a maid at your window,

To be your Valentine.

Then up he rose, and donn’d his clothes,

And dupp’d the chamber-door;

Let in the maid, that out a maid

Never departed more.

King Claudius

Pretty Ophelia!

Ophelia

Indeed, la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t:

Sings

By Gis and by Saint Charity,

Alack, and fie for shame!

Young men will do’t, if they come to’t;

By cock, they are to blame.

Quoth she, before you tumbled me,

You promised me to wed.

So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun,

An thou hadst not come to my bed.

King Claudius

How long hath she been thus?

Ophelia

I hope all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him i’ the cold ground. My brother shall know of it: and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.

Exit

King Claudius

Follow her close; give her good watch,

I pray you.

Exit Horatio

O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs

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; and he most violent author

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,

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;

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,

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 Gertrude

Alack, what noise is this?

King Claudius

Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.

Enter another Gentleman

What is the matter?

Gentleman

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,

O’erbears your officers. The rabble call him lord;

And, as the world were now but to begin,

Antiquity forgot, custom not known,

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!’

Queen Gertrude

How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!

O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs!

King Claudius

The doors are broke.

Noise within

Enter Laertes, armed; Danes following

Laertes

Where is this king? Sirs, stand you all without.

Danes

No, let’s come in.

Laertes

I pray you, give me leave.

Danes

We will, we will.

They retire without the door

Laertes

I thank you: keep the door. O thou vile king,

Give me my father!

Queen Gertrude

Calmly, good Laertes.

Laertes

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 Claudius

What is the cause, Laertes,

That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?

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,

Why thou art thus incensed. Let him go, Gertrude.

Speak, man.

Laertes

Where is my father?

King Claudius

Dead.

Queen Gertrude

But not by him.

King Claudius

Let him demand his fill.

Laertes

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,

That both the worlds I give to negligence,

Let come what comes; only I’ll be revenged

Most thoroughly for my father.

King Claudius

Who shall stay you?

Laertes

My will, not all the world:

And for my means, I’ll husband them so well,

They shall go far with little.

King Claudius

Good Laertes,

If you desire to know the certainty

Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge,

That, swoopstake, you will draw both friend and foe,

Winner and loser?

Laertes

None but his enemies.

King Claudius

Will you know them then?

Laertes

To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms;

And like the kind life-rendering pelican,

Repast them with my blood.

King Claudius

Why, now you speak

Like a good child and a true gentleman.

That I am guiltless of your father’s death,

And am most sensible in grief for it,

It shall as level to your judgment pierce

As day does to your eye.

Danes

[Within] Let her come in.

Laertes

How now! what noise is that?

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!

O heavens! is’t possible, a young maid’s wits

Should be as moral as an old man’s life?

Nature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine,

It sends some precious instance of itself

After the thing it loves.

Ophelia

[Sings]

They bore him barefaced on the bier;

Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny;

And in his grave rain’d many a tear:—

Fare you well, my dove!

Laertes

Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge,

It could not move thus.

Ophelia

[Sings] You must sing a-down a-down,

An you call him a-down-a.

O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master’s daughter.

Laertes

This nothing’s more than matter.

Ophelia

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember: and there is pansies. that’s for thoughts.

Laertes

A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted.

Ophelia

There’s fennel for you, and columbines: there’s rue for you; and here’s some for me: we may call it herb-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,—

Sings

For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.

Laertes

Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,

She turns to favour and to prettiness.

Ophelia

[Sings]

And will he not come again?

And will he not come again?

No, no, he is dead:

Go to thy death-bed:

He never will come again.

His beard was as white as snow,

All flaxen was his poll:

He is gone, he is gone,

And we cast away moan:

God ha’ mercy on his soul!

And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God be wi’ ye.

Exit

Laertes

Do you see this, O God?

King Claudius

Laertes, I must commune with your grief,

Or you deny me right. Go but apart,

Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will.

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 can ours,

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.

Laertes

Let this be so;

His means of death, his obscure funeral —

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 Claudius

So you shall;

And where the offence is let the great axe fall.

I pray you, go with me.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

Enter Horatio and a Servant

Horatio

What are they that would speak with me?

Servant

Sailors, sir: they say they have letters for you.

Horatio

Let them come in.

Exit Servant

I do not know from what part of the world

I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet.

Enter Sailors

First Sailor

God bless you, sir.

Horatio

Let him bless thee too.

First Sailor

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.

Horatio

[Reads] ‘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 warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and 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 speed 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, Hamlet.’

Come, I will make 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 CASTLE.

Enter King Claudius and Laertes

King Claudius

Now must your conscience my acquaintance 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

Pursued my life.

Laertes

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,

You mainly were stirr’d up.

King Claudius

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 —

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,

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,

Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows,

Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind,

Would have reverted to my bow again,

And not where I had aim’d them.

Laertes

And so have I a noble father lost;

A sister driven into desperate terms,

Whose worth, if praises may go back again,

Stood challenger on mount of all the age

For her perfections: but my revenge will come.

King Claudius

Break not your sleeps for that: you must not think

That we are made of stuff so flat and dull

That we can let our beard be shook with danger

And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more:

I loved your father, and we love ourself;

And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine —

Enter a Messenger

How now! what news?

Messenger

Letters, my lord, from Hamlet:

This to your majesty; this to the queen.

King Claudius

From Hamlet! who brought them?

Messenger

Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not:

They were given me by Claudio; he received them

Of him that brought them.

King Claudius

Laertes, you shall hear them. Leave us.

Exit Messenger

[Reads] ‘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 occasion of my sudden and more strange return. ‘Hamlet.’

What should this mean? Are all the rest come back?

Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?

Laertes

Know you the hand?

King Claudius

’Tis Hamlets character. ‘Naked!

And in a postscript here, he says ‘alone.’

Can you advise me?

Laertes

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,

‘Thus didest thou.’

King Claudius

If it be so, Laertes —

As how should it be so? how otherwise?—

Will you be ruled by me?

Laertes

Ay, my lord;

So you will not o’errule me to a peace.

King Claudius

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,

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 practise

And call it accident.

Laertes

My lord, I will be ruled;

The rather, if you could devise it so

That I might be the organ.

King Claudius

It falls right.

You have been talk’d of since your travel much,

And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality

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.

Laertes

What part is that, my lord?

King Claudius

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,

Importing health and graveness. Two months since,

Here was a gentleman of Normandy:—

I’ve seen myself, and served against, the French,

And they can well on horseback: but this gallant

Had witchcraft in’t; he grew unto his seat;

And to such wondrous doing brought his horse,

As he had been incorpsed and demi-natured

With the brave beast: so far he topp’d my thought,

That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks,

Come short of what he did.

Laertes

A Norman was’t?

King Claudius

A Norman.

Laertes

Upon my life, Lamond.

King Claudius

The very same.

Laertes

I know him well: he is the brooch indeed

And gem of all the nation.

King Claudius

He made confession of you,

And gave you such a masterly report

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,

He swore, had had neither motion, guard, nor eye,

If you opposed them. Sir, this report of his

Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy

That he could nothing do but wish and beg

Your sudden coming o’er, to play with him.

Now, out of this,—

Laertes

What out of this, my lord?

King Claudius

Laertes, was your father dear to you?

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,

A face without a heart?

Laertes

Why ask you this?

King Claudius

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,

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;

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

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

More than in words?

Laertes

To cut his throat i’ the church.

King Claudius

No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize;

Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes,

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

The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together

And wager on your heads: he, being remiss,

Most generous and free from all contriving,

Will not peruse the foils; so that, with ease,

Or with a little shuffling, you may choose

A sword unbated, and in a pass of practise

Requite him for your father.

Laertes

I will do’t:

And, for that purpose, I’ll anoint my sword.

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

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 Claudius

Let’s further think of this;

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,

’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.

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 prepared him

A chalice for the nonce, whereon but sipping,

If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck,

Our purpose may hold there.

Enter Queen Gertrude

How now, sweet queen!

Queen Gertrude

One woe doth tread upon another’s heel,

So fast they follow; your sister’s drown’d,

Laertes.

Laertes

Drown’d! O, where?

Queen Gertrude

There is a willow grows aslant a brook,

That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;

There with fantastic garlands did she come

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:

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;

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 indued

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.

Laertes

Alas, then, she is drown’d?

Queen Gertrude

Drown’d, drown’d.

Laertes

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,

And therefore I forbid my tears: but yet

It is our trick; nature her custom holds,

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 Claudius

Let’s follow, Gertrude:

How much I had to do to calm his rage!

Now fear I this will give it start again;

Therefore let’s follow.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. A CHURCHYARD.

Enter two Clowns, with spades, & c

First Clown

Is she to be buried in Christian burial that wilfully seeks her own salvation?

Second Clown

I tell thee she is: and therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.

First Clown

How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?

Second Clown

Why, ’tis found so.

First Clown

It must be ‘se offendendo;’ it cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches: it is, to act, to do, to perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly.

Second Clown

Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,—

First Clown

Give me leave. Here lies the water; good: here stands the man; good; if the man go to this water, and drown himself, it is, will he, nill he, he goes,— mark you that; but if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself: argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.

Second Clown

But is this law?

First Clown

Ay, marry, is’t; crowner’s quest law.

Second Clown

Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o’ Christian burial.

First Clown

Why, there thou say’st: and the more pity that great folk should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves, more than their even Christian. Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentleman but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers: they hold up Adam’s profession.

Second Clown

Was he a gentleman?

First Clown

He was the first that ever bore arms.

Second Clown

Why, he had none.

First Clown

What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says ‘Adam digged:’ could he dig without arms? I’ll put another question to thee: if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself —

Second Clown

Go to.

First Clown

What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

Second Clown

The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.

First Clown

I like thy wit well, in good faith: the gallows does well; but how does it well? it does well to those that do in: now thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church: argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To’t again, come.

Second Clown

‘Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?’

First Clown

Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

Second Clown

Marry, now I can tell.

First Clown

To’t.

Second Clown

Mass, I cannot tell.

Enter Hamlet and Horatio, at a distance

First Clown

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

He digs and sings

In youth, when I did love, did love,

Methought it was very sweet,

To contract, O, the time, for, ah, my behove,

O, methought, there was nothing meet.

Hamlet

Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making?

Horatio

Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.

Hamlet

’Tis e’en so: the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.

First Clown

[Sings]

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.

Throws up a skull

Hamlet

That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain’s jaw-bone, that did the first murder! It might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o’er-reaches; one that would circumvent God, might it not?

Horatio

It might, my lord.

Hamlet

Or of a courtier; which could say ‘Good morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?’ This might be my lord such-a-one, that praised my lord such-a-one’s horse, when he meant to beg it; might it not?

Horatio

Ay, my lord.

Hamlet

Why, e’en so: and now my Lady Worm’s; chapless, and knocked about the mazzard with a sexton’s spade: here’s fine revolution, an we had the trick to see’t. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats with ’em? mine ache to think on’t.

First Clown

[Sings]

A pick-axe, and a spade, a spade,

For and a shrouding sheet:

O, a pit of clay for to be made

For such a guest is meet.

Throws up another skull

Hamlet

There’s another: why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddities now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in’s time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries: is this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will hardly lie in this box; and must the inheritor himself have no more, ha?

Horatio

Not a jot more, my lord.

Hamlet

Is not parchment made of sheepskins?

Horatio

Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too.

Hamlet

They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow. Whose grave’s this, sirrah?

First Clown

Mine, sir.

Sings

O, a pit of clay for to be made

For such a guest is meet.

Hamlet

I think it be thine, indeed; for thou liest in’t.

First Clown

You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore it is not yours: for my part, I do not lie in’t, and yet it is mine.

Hamlet

‘Thou dost lie in’t, to be in’t and say it is thine:

’tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.

First Clown

’Tis a quick lie, sir; ’twill away gain, from me to you.

Hamlet

What man dost thou dig it for?

First Clown

For no man, sir.

Hamlet

What woman, then?

First Clown

For none, neither.

Hamlet

Who is to be buried in’t?

First Clown

One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.

Hamlet

How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken a note of it; the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he gaffs his kibe. How long hast thou been a grave-maker?

First Clown

Of all the days i’ the year, I came to’t that day that our last king Hamlet overcame Fortinbras.

Hamlet

How long is that since?

First Clown

Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that: it was the very day that young Hamlet was born; he that is mad, and sent into England.

Hamlet

Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?

First Clown

Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, it’s no great matter there.

Hamlet

Why?

First Clown

’Twill, a not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.

Hamlet

How came he mad?

First Clown

Very strangely, they say.

Hamlet

How strangely?

First Clown

Faith, e’en with losing his wits.

Hamlet

Upon what ground?

First Clown

Why, here in Denmark: I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years.

Hamlet

How long will a man lie i’ the earth ere he rot?

First Clown

I’ faith, if he be not rotten before he die — as we have many pocky corses now-a-days, that will scarce hold the laying in — he will last you some eight year or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year.

Hamlet

Why he more than another?

First Clown

Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade, that he will keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull now; this skull has lain in the earth three and twenty years.

Hamlet

Whose was it?

First Clown

A whoreson mad fellow’s it was: whose do you think it was?

Hamlet

Nay, I know not.

First Clown

A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! a’ poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the king’s jester.

Hamlet

This?

First Clown

E’en that.

Hamlet

Let me see.

Takes the skull

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

Horatio

What’s that, my lord?

Hamlet

Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ the earth?

Horatio

E’en so.

Hamlet

And smelt so? pah!

Puts down the skull

Horatio

E’en so, my lord.

Hamlet

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?

Horatio

’Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.

Hamlet

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 Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay,

Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:

O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,

Should patch a wall to expel the winter flaw!

But soft! but soft! aside: here comes the king.

Enter Priest, & c. in procession; the Corpse of Ophelia, Laertes and Mourners following; King Claudius, Queen Gertrude, their trains, & c

The queen, the courtiers: who is this they follow?

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.

Retiring with Horatio

Laertes

What ceremony else?

Hamlet

That is Laertes,

A very noble youth: mark.

Laertes

What ceremony else?

First Priest

Her obsequies have been as far enlarged

As we have warrantise: her death was doubtful;

And, but that great command o’ersways the order,

She should in ground unsanctified have lodged

Till the last trumpet: for charitable prayers,

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.

Laertes

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.

Laertes

Lay her i’ the earth:

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.

Hamlet

What, the fair Ophelia!

Queen Gertrude

Sweets to the sweet: farewell!

Scattering flowers

I hoped 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.

Laertes

O, treble woe

Fall ten times treble on that cursed head,

Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense

Deprived 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,

To o’ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head

Of blue Olympus.

Hamlet

[Advancing] What is he whose grief

Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow

Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand

Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,

Hamlet the Dane.

Leaps into the grave

Laertes

The devil take thy soul!

Grappling with him

Hamlet

Thou pray’st not well.

I prithee, take thy fingers from my throat;

For, though I am not splenitive and rash,

Yet have I something in me dangerous,

Which let thy wiseness fear: hold off thy hand.

King Claudius

Pluck them asunder.

Queen Gertrude

Hamlet, Hamlet!

All

Gentlemen,—

Horatio

Good my lord, be quiet.

The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave

Hamlet

Why I will fight with him upon this theme

Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

Queen Gertrude

O my son, what theme?

Hamlet

I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers

Could not, with all their quantity of love,

Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?

King Claudius

O, he is mad, Laertes.

Queen Gertrude

For love of God, forbear him.

Hamlet

’swounds, show me what thou’lt do:

Woo’t weep? woo’t fight? woo’t fast? woo’t tear thyself?

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?

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,

Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth,

I’ll rant as well as thou.

Queen Gertrude

This is mere madness:

And thus awhile the fit will work on him;

Anon, as patient as the female dove,

When that her golden couplets are disclosed,

His silence will sit drooping.

Hamlet

Hear you, sir;

What is the reason that you use me thus?

I loved you ever: but it is no matter;

Let Hercules himself do what he may,

The cat will mew and dog will have his day.

Exit

King Claudius

I pray you, good Horatio, wait upon him.

Exit Horatio

To Laertes

Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech;

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;

Till then, in patience our proceeding be.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A HALL IN THE CASTLE.

Enter Hamlet and Horatio

Hamlet

So much for this, sir: now shall you see the other;

You do remember all the circumstance?

Horatio

Remember it, my lord?

Hamlet

Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting,

That would not let me sleep: methought I lay

Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly,

And praised be rashness for it, let us know,

Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,

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,—

Horatio

That is most certain.

Hamlet

Up from my cabin,

My sea-gown scarf’d about me, in the dark

Groped I to find out them; had my desire.

Finger’d their packet, and in fine withdrew

To mine own room again; making so bold,

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

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,

My head should be struck off.

Horatio

Is’t possible?

Hamlet

Here’s the commission: read it at more leisure.

But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed?

Horatio

I beseech you.

Hamlet

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,

Devised a new commission, wrote it fair:

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

The effect of what I wrote?

Horatio

Ay, good my lord.

Hamlet

An earnest conjuration from the king,

As England was his faithful tributary,

As love between them like the palm might flourish,

As peace should stiff 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,

Without debatement further, more or less,

He should the bearers put to sudden death,

Not shriving-time allow’d.

Horatio

How was this seal’d?

Hamlet

Why, even in that was heaven ordinant.

I had my father’s signet in my purse,

Which was the model of that Danish seal;

Folded the writ up in form of the other,

Subscribed it, gave’t the impression, placed it safely,

The changeling never known. Now, the next day

Was our sea-fight; and what to this was sequent

Thou know’st already.

Horatio

So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to’t.

Hamlet

Why, man, they did make love to this employment;

They are not near my conscience; their defeat

Does by their own insinuation grow:

’Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes

Between the pass and fell incensed points

Of mighty opposites.

Horatio

Why, what a king is this!

Hamlet

Does it not, think’st thee, stand me now upon —

He that hath kill’d my king and whored my mother,

Popp’d in between the election and my hopes,

Thrown out his angle for my proper life,

And with such cozenage — is’t not perfect conscience,

To quit him with this arm? and is’t not to be damn’d,

To let this canker of our nature come

In further evil?

Horatio

It must be shortly known to him from England

What is the issue of the business there.

Hamlet

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;

For, by the image of my cause, I see

The portraiture of his: I’ll court his favours.

But, sure, the bravery of his grief did put me

Into a towering passion.

Horatio

Peace! who comes here?

Enter Osric

Osric

Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.

Hamlet

I humbly thank you, sir. Dost know this water-fly?

Horatio

No, my good lord.

Hamlet

Thy state is the more gracious; for ’tis a vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile: let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king’s mess: ’tis a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt.

Osric

Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his majesty.

Hamlet

I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use; ’tis for the head.

Osric

I thank your lordship, it is very hot.

Hamlet

No, believe me, ’tis very cold; the wind is northerly.

Osric

It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed.

Hamlet

But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion.

Osric

Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry,— as ’twere,— I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head: sir, this is the matter,—

Hamlet

I beseech you, remember —

Hamlet moves him to put on his hat

Osric

Nay, good my lord; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and great showing: indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry, for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see.

Hamlet

Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you; though, I know, to divide him inventorially would dizzy the arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article; and his infusion of such dearth and rareness, as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror; and who else would trace him, his umbrage, nothing more.

Osric

Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him.

Hamlet

The concernancy, sir? why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath?

Osric

Sir?

Horatio

Is’t not possible to understand in another tongue?

You will do’t, sir, really.

Hamlet

What imports the nomination of this gentleman?

Osric

Of Laertes?

Horatio

His purse is empty already; all’s golden words are spent.

Hamlet

Of him, sir.

Osric

I know you are not ignorant —

Hamlet

I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you did, it would not much approve me. Well, sir?

Osric

You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is —

Hamlet

I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence; but, to know a man well, were to know himself.

Osric

I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him by them, in his meed he’s unfellowed.

Hamlet

What’s his weapon?

Osric

Rapier and dagger.

Hamlet

That’s two of his weapons: but, well.

Osric

The king, sir, hath wagered with him six Barbary horses: against the which he has imponed, as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and so: three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit.

Hamlet

What call you the carriages?

Horatio

I knew you must be edified by the margent ere you had done.

Osric

The carriages, sir, are the hangers.

Hamlet

The phrase would be more german to the matter, if we could carry cannon by our sides: I would it might be hangers till then. But, on: six Barbary horses against six French swords, their assigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages; that’s the French bet against the Danish. Why is this ‘imponed,’ as you call it?

Osric

The king, sir, hath laid, that in a dozen passes between yourself and him, he shall not exceed you three hits: he hath laid on twelve for nine; and it would come to immediate trial, if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer.

Hamlet

How if I answer ‘no’?

Osric

I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial.

Hamlet

Sir, I will walk here in the hall: if it please his majesty, ’tis the breathing time of day with me; let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the king hold his purpose, I will win for him an I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits.

Osric

Shall I re-deliver you e’en so?

Hamlet

To this effect, sir; after what flourish your nature will.

Osric

I commend my duty to your lordship.

Hamlet

Yours, yours.

Exit Osric

He does well to commend it himself; there are no tongues else for’s turn.

Horatio

This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.

Hamlet

He did comply with his dug, before he sucked it. Thus has he — and many more of the same bevy that I know the dressy 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.

Enter a Lord

Lord

My lord, his majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him that you attend him in the hall: he sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will take longer time.

Hamlet

I am constant to my purpose; they follow the king’s pleasure: if his fitness speaks, mine is ready; now or whensoever, provided I be so able as now.

Lord

The king and queen and all are coming down.

Hamlet

In happy time.

Lord

The queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to Laertes before you fall to play.

Hamlet

She well instructs me.

Exit Lord

Horatio

You will lose this wager, my lord.

Hamlet

I do not think so: since he went into France, I have been in continual practise: I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart: but it is no matter.

Horatio

Nay, good my lord,—

Hamlet

It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving, as would perhaps trouble a woman.

Horatio

If your mind dislike any thing, obey it: I will forestall their repair hither, and say you are not fit.

Hamlet

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?

Enter King Claudius, Queen Gertrude, Laertes, Lords, Osric, and Attendants with foils, & c

King Claudius

Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me.

King Claudius puts Laertes’ hand into Hamlet’s

Hamlet

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,

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,

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;

His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy.

Sir, in this audience,

Let my disclaiming from a purposed evil

Free me so far in your most generous thoughts,

That I have shot mine arrow o’er the house,

And hurt my brother.

Laertes

I am satisfied in nature,

Whose motive, in this case, should stir me most

To my revenge: but in my terms of honour

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 ungored. But till that time,

I do receive your offer’d love like love,

And will not wrong it.

Hamlet

I embrace it freely;

And will this brother’s wager frankly play.

Give us the foils. Come on.

Laertes

Come, one for me.

Hamlet

I’ll be your foil, Laertes: in mine ignorance

Your skill shall, like a star i’ the darkest night,

Stick fiery off indeed.

Laertes

You mock me, sir.

Hamlet

No, by this hand.

King Claudius

Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet,

You know the wager?

Hamlet

Very well, my lord

Your grace hath laid the odds o’ the weaker side.

King Claudius

I do not fear it; I have seen you both:

But since he is better’d, we have therefore odds.

Laertes

This is too heavy, let me see another.

Hamlet

This likes me well. These foils have all a length?

They prepare to play

Osric

Ay, my good lord.

King Claudius

Set me the stoops 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:

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;

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 dunks to Hamlet.’ Come, begin:

And you, the judges, bear a wary eye.

Hamlet

Come on, sir.

Laertes

Come, my lord.

They play

Hamlet

One.

Laertes

No.

Hamlet

Judgment.

Osric

A hit, a very palpable hit.

Laertes

Well; again.

King Claudius

Stay; give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine;

Here’s to thy health.

Trumpets sound, and cannon shot off within

Give him the cup.

Hamlet

I’ll play this bout first; set it by awhile. Come.

They play

Another hit; what say you?

Laertes

A touch, a touch, I do confess.

King Claudius

Our son shall win.

Queen Gertrude

He’s fat, and scant of breath.

Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows;

The queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.

Hamlet

Good madam!

King Claudius

Gertrude, do not drink.

Queen Gertrude

I will, my lord; I pray you, pardon me.

King Claudius

[Aside] It is the poison’d cup: it is too late.

Hamlet

I dare not drink yet, madam; by and by.

Queen Gertrude

Come, let me wipe thy face.

Laertes

My lord, I’ll hit him now.

King Claudius

I do not think’t.

Laertes

[Aside] And yet ’tis almost ’gainst my conscience.

Hamlet

Come, for the third, Laertes: you but dally;

I pray you, pass with your best violence;

I am afeard you make a wanton of me.

Laertes

Say you so? come on.

They play

Osric

Nothing, neither way.

Laertes

Have at you now!

Laertes wounds Hamlet; then in scuffling, they change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes

King Claudius

Part them; they are incensed.

Hamlet

Nay, come, again.

Queen Gertrude falls

Osric

Look to the queen there, ho!

Horatio

They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord?

Osric

How is’t, Laertes?

Laertes

Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric;

I am justly kill’d with mine own treachery.

Hamlet

How does the queen?

King Claudius

She swounds to see them bleed.

Queen Gertrude

No, no, the drink, the drink,— O my dear Hamlet,—

The drink, the drink! I am poison’d.

Dies

Hamlet

O villany! Ho! let the door be lock’d:

Treachery! Seek it out.

Laertes

It is here, Hamlet: Hamlet, thou art slain;

No medicine in the world can do thee good;

In thee there is not half an hour of life;

The treacherous instrument is in thy hand,

Unbated and envenom’d: the foul practise

Hath turn’d itself on me lo, here I lie,

Never to rise again: thy mother’s poison’d:

I can no more: the king, the king’s to blame.

Hamlet

The point!— envenom’d too!

Then, venom, to thy work.

Stabs King Claudius

All

Treason! treason!

King Claudius

O, yet defend me, friends; I am but hurt.

Hamlet

Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane,

Drink off this potion. Is thy union here?

Follow my mother.

King Claudius dies

Laertes

He is justly served;

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

Hamlet

Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee.

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,

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;

Thou livest; report me and my cause aright

To the unsatisfied.

Horatio

Never believe it:

I am more an antique Roman than a Dane:

Here’s yet some liquor left.

Hamlet

As thou’rt a man,

Give me the cup: let go; by heaven, I’ll have’t.

O good Horatio, what a wounded name,

Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me!

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart

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 warlike noise is this?

Osric

Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland,

To the ambassadors of England gives

This warlike volley.

Hamlet

O, I die, Horatio;

The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit:

I cannot live to hear the news from England;

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

Horatio

Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince:

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

Why does the drum come hither?

March within

Enter Fortinbras, the English Ambassadors, and others

Prince Fortinbras

Where is this sight?

Horatio

What is it ye would see?

If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.

Prince Fortinbras

This quarry cries on havoc. O proud death,

What feast is toward in thine eternal cell,

That thou so many princes at a shot

So bloodily hast struck?

First Ambassador

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,

That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead:

Where should we have our thanks?

Horatio

Not from his mouth,

Had it the ability of life to thank you:

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 arrived give order that these bodies

High on a stage be placed to the view;

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,

Of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause,

And, in this upshot, purposes mistook

Fall’n on the inventors’ reads: all this can I

Truly deliver.

Prince Fortinbras

Let us haste to hear it,

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.

Horatio

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

On plots and errors, happen.

Prince Fortinbras

Let four captains

Bear Hamlet, like a soldier, to the stage;

For he was likely, had he been put on,

To have proved most royally: and, for his passage,

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.

A dead march. Exeunt, bearing off the dead bodies; after which a peal of ordnance is shot off

Troilus and Cressida

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

PROLOGUE

ACT I

SCENE I. TROY. BEFORE PRIAM’S PALACE.

SCENE II. THE SAME. A STREET.

SCENE III. THE GRECIAN CAMP. BEFORE AGAMEMNON’S TENT.

ACT II

SCENE I. A PART OF THE GRECIAN CAMP.

SCENE II. TROY. A ROOM IN PRIAM’S PALACE.

SCENE III. THE GRECIAN CAMP. BEFORE ACHILLES’ TENT.

ACT III

SCENE I. TROY. PRIAM’S PALACE.

SCENE II. THE SAME. PANDARUS’ ORCHARD.

SCENE III. THE GRECIAN CAMP. BEFORE ACHILLES’ TENT.

ACT IV

SCENE I. TROY. A STREET.

SCENE II. THE SAME. COURT OF PANDARUS’ HOUSE.

SCENE III. THE SAME. STREET BEFORE PANDARUS’ HOUSE.

SCENE IV. THE SAME. PANDARUS’ HOUSE.

SCENE V. THE GRECIAN CAMP. LISTS SET OUT.

ACT V

SCENE I. THE GRECIAN CAMP. BEFORE ACHILLES’ TENT.

SCENE II. THE SAME. BEFORE CALCHAS’ TENT.

SCENE III. TROY. BEFORE PRIAM’S PALACE.

SCENE IV. PLAINS BETWEEN TROY AND THE GRECIAN CAMP.

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAINS.

SCENE VI. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAINS.

SCENE VII. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAINS.

SCENE VIII. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAINS.

SCENE IX. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAINS.

SCENE X. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAINS.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Priam, King of Troy.

His sons: Hector, Troilus, Paris, Deiphobus and Helenus.

Margarelon, a bastard son of Priam.

Trojan commanders: Aeneas and Antenor.

Calchas, a Trojan priest, taking part with the Greeks.

Pandarus, uncle to Cressida.

Agamemnon, the Greek general.

Menelaus, his brother.

Greek commanders: Achilles, Ajax, Ulysses, Nestor, Diomedes and Patroclus.

Thersites, a deformed and scurrilous Greek.

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 Greek camp before it.

PROLOGUE

In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece

The princes orgulous, their high blood chafed,

Have to the port of Athens sent their ships,

Fraught with the ministers and instruments

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

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 warlike fraughtage: now on Dardan plains

The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch

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

Dardan, and Tymbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien,

And Antenorides, with massy staples

And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts,

Sperr up the sons of Troy.

Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits,

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

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.

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

Troilus

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,

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

Pandarus

Will this gear ne’er be mended?

Troilus

The Greeks are strong and skilful to their strength,

Fierce to their skill and to their fierceness valiant;

But I am weaker than a woman’s tear,

Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance,

Less valiant than the virgin in the night

And skilless as unpractised infancy.

Pandarus

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

Troilus

Have I not tarried?

Pandarus

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

Troilus

Have I not tarried?

Pandarus

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

Troilus

Still have I tarried.

Pandarus

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

Troilus

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?

Pandarus

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

Troilus

I was about to tell thee:— when my heart,

As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain,

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:

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

Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.

Pandarus

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 kinswoman; 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 —

Troilus

O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,—

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

Reply not in how many fathoms deep

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,

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,

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

The knife that made it.

Pandarus

I speak no more than truth.

Troilus

Thou dost not speak so much.

Pandarus

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

Troilus

Good Pandarus, how now, Pandarus!

Pandarus

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

Troilus

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

Pandarus

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

Troilus

Say I she is not fair?

Pandarus

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

Troilus

Pandarus,—

Pandarus

Not I.

Troilus

Sweet Pandarus,—

Pandarus

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

Exit Pandarus. An alarum

Troilus

Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude sounds!

Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair,

When with your blood you daily paint her thus.

I cannot fight upon this argument;

It is too starved a subject for my sword.

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

I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar;

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?

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

Between our Ilium and where she resides,

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

Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar

Our doubtful hope, our convoy and our bark.

Alarum. Enter Aeneas

Aeneas

How now, Prince Troilus! wherefore not afield?

Troilus

Because not there: this woman’s answer sorts,

For womanish it is to be from thence.

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

Aeneas

That Paris is returned home and hurt.

Troilus

By whom, Aeneas?

Aeneas

Troilus, by Menelaus.

Troilus

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

Paris is gored with Menelaus’ horn.

Alarum

Aeneas

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

Troilus

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

But to the sport abroad: are you bound thither?

Aeneas

In all swift haste.

Troilus

Come, go we then together.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME. A STREET.

Enter Cressida and Alexander

Cressida

Who were those went by?

Alexander

Queen Hecuba and Helen.

Cressida

And whither go they?

Alexander

Up to the eastern tower,

Whose height commands as subject all the vale,

To see the battle. Hector, whose patience

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

He chid Andromache and struck his armourer,

And, like as there were husbandry in war,

Before the sun rose he was harness’d light,

And to the field goes he; where every flower

Did, as a prophet, weep what it foresaw

In Hector’s wrath.

Cressida

What was his cause of anger?

Alexander

The noise goes, this: there is among the Greeks

A lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector;

They call him Ajax.

Cressida

Good; and what of him?

Alexander

They say he is a very man per se,

And stands alone.

Cressida

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

Alexander

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

Cressida

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

Alexander

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

Cressida

Who comes here?

Alexander

Madam, your uncle Pandarus.

Enter Pandarus

Cressida

Hector’s a gallant man.

Alexander

As may be in the world, lady.

Pandarus

What’s that? what’s that?

Cressida

Good morrow, uncle Pandarus.

Pandarus

Good morrow, cousin Cressid: what do you talk of? Good morrow, Alexander. How do you, cousin? When were you at Ilium?

Cressida

This morning, uncle.

Pandarus

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

Cressida

Hector was gone, but Helen was not up.

Pandarus

Even so: Hector was stirring early.

Cressida

That were we talking of, and of his anger.

Pandarus

Was he angry?

Cressida

So he says here.

Pandarus

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

Cressida

What, is he angry too?

Pandarus

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

Cressida

O Jupiter! there’s no comparison.

Pandarus

What, not between Troilus and Hector? Do you know a man if you see him?

Cressida

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

Pandarus

Well, I say Troilus is Troilus.

Cressida

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

Pandarus

No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some degrees.

Cressida

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

So he is.

Pandarus

Condition, I had gone barefoot to India.

Cressida

He is not Hector.

Pandarus

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

Cressida

Excuse me.

Pandarus

He is elder.

Cressida

Pardon me, pardon me.

Pandarus

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

Cressida

He shall not need it, if he have his own.

Pandarus

Nor his qualities.

Cressida

No matter.

Pandarus

Nor his beauty.

Cressida

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

No, but brown.

Pandarus

’Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown.

Cressida

To say the truth, true and not true.

Pandarus

She praised his complexion above Paris.

Cressida

Why, Paris hath colour enough.

Pandarus

So he has.

Cressida

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

Then she’s a merry Greek indeed.

Pandarus

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

Cressida

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

Juno have mercy! how came it cloven?

Pandarus

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

Cressida

O, he smiles valiantly.

Pandarus

Does he not?

Cressida

O yes, an ’twere a cloud in autumn.

Pandarus

Why, go to, then: but to prove to you that Helen loves Troilus,—

Cressida

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

Without the rack.

Pandarus

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

Cressida

Alas, poor chin! many a wart is richer.

Pandarus

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

Cressida

With mill-stones.

Pandarus

And Cassandra laughed.

Cressida

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

Pandarus

And Hector laughed.

Cressida

At what was all this laughing?

Pandarus

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

Cressida

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

What was his answer?

Pandarus

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

Cressida

This is her question.

Pandarus

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

Cressida

So let it now; for it has been while going by.

Pandarus

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

Cressida

So I do.

Pandarus

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

Cressida

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

A retreat sounded

Pandarus

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.

Cressida

At your pleasure.

Pandarus

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.

Cressida

Speak not so loud.

Aeneas passes

Pandarus

That’s Aeneas: 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.

Antenor passes

Cressida

Who’s that?

Pandarus

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

Cressida

Will he give you the nod?

Pandarus

You shall see.

Cressida

If he do, the rich shall have more.

Hector passes

Pandarus

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

Cressida

O, a brave man!

Pandarus

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

Cressida

Be those with swords?

Pandarus

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

Paris passes

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

Helenus passes

Cressida

Who’s that?

Pandarus

That’s Helenus. I marvel where Troilus is. That’s

Helenus. I think he went not forth to-day. That’s Helenus.

Cressida

Can Helenus fight, uncle?

Pandarus

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.

Cressida

What sneaking fellow comes yonder?

Troilus passes

Pandarus

Where? yonder? that’s Deiphobus. ’Tis Troilus! there’s a man, niece! Hem! Brave Troilus! the prince of chivalry!

Cressida

Peace, for shame, peace!

Pandarus

Mark him; note him. O brave Troilus! Look well upon him, niece: look you how his sword is bloodied, and his helm 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.

Cressida

Here come more.

Forces pass

Pandarus

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

Cressida

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

Well, well.

Pandarus

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

Cressida

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

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

Pandarus

Say one of your watches.

Cressida

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

Pandarus

You are such another!

Enter Troilus’s Boy

Boy

Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you.

Pandarus

Where?

Boy

At your own house; there he unarms him.

Pandarus

Good boy, tell him I come.

Exit boy

I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece.

Cressida

Adieu, uncle.

Pandarus

I’ll be with you, niece, by and by.

Cressida

To bring, uncle?

Pandarus

Ay, a token from Troilus.

Cressida

By the same token, you are a bawd.

Exit Pandarus

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

He offers in another’s enterprise;

But more in Troilus thousand fold I see

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 beloved knows nought that knows not this:

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:

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

Agamemnon

Princes,

What grief hath set the jaundice on your cheeks?

The ample proposition that hope makes

In all designs begun on earth below

Fails in the promised largeness: cheques 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

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;

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

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

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,

The hard and soft seem all affined 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;

And what hath mass or matter, by itself

Lies rich in virtue and unmingled.

Nestor

With due observance of thy godlike seat,

Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply

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

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,

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,

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 breeze

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 roused with rage with rage doth sympathize,

And with an accent tuned in selfsame key

Retorts to chiding fortune.

Ulysses

Agamemnon,

Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece,

Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit.

In whom the tempers and the minds of all

Should be shut up, hear what Ulysses speaks.

Besides the applause and approbation To which,

To Agamemnon

most mighty for thy place and sway,

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

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 experienced tongue, yet let it please both,

Thou great, and wise, to hear Ulysses speak.

Agamemnon

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

That matter needless, of importless burden,

Divide thy lips, than we are confident,

When rank Thersites opes his mastic jaws,

We shall hear music, wit and oracle.

Ulysses

Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down,

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

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.

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.

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;

And therefore is the glorious planet Sol

In noble eminence enthroned and sphered

Amidst the other; whose medicinable eye

Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil,

And posts, like the commandment of a king,

Sans cheque 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!

Commotion in the winds! frights, changes, horrors,

Divert and crack, rend and deracinate

The unity and married calm of states

Quite from their fixure! O, when degree is shaked,

Which is the ladder to all high designs,

Then enterprise is sick! How could communities,

Degrees in schools and brotherhoods in cities,

Peaceful commerce from dividable shores,

The primogenitive and due of birth,

Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels,

But by degree, stand in authentic place?

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:

Strength should be lord of imbecility,

And the rude son should strike his father dead:

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

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;

And appetite, an universal wolf,

So doubly seconded with will and power,

Must make perforce an universal prey,

And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon,

This chaos, when degree is suffocate,

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

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

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 stands, not in her strength.

Nestor

Most wisely hath Ulysses here discover’d

The fever whereof all our power is sick.

Agamemnon

The nature of the sickness found, Ulysses,

What is the remedy?

Ulysses

The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns

The sinew and the forehand of our host,

Having his ear full of his airy fame,

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;

And with ridiculous and awkward action,

Which, slanderer, he imitation calls,

He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon,

Thy topless deputation he puts on,

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,—

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 unsquared,

Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp’d

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.

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, as like as Vulcan and his wife:

Yet god 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

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

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

All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes,

Severals and generals of grace exact,

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.

Nestor

And in the imitation of these twain —

Who, as Ulysses says, opinion crowns

With an imperial voice — many are infect.

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

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,

A slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint,

To match us in comparisons with dirt,

To weaken and discredit our exposure,

How rank soever rounded in with danger.

Ulysses

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,

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:

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

So that the ram that batters down the wall,

For the great swing and rudeness of his poise,

They place before his hand that made the engine,

Or those that with the fineness of their souls

By reason guide his execution.

Nestor

Let this be granted, and Achilles’ horse

Makes many Thetis’ sons.

A tucket

Agamemnon

What trumpet? look, Menelaus.

Menelaus

From Troy.

Enter Aeneas

Agamemnon

What would you ’fore our tent?

Aeneas

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

Agamemnon

Even this.

Aeneas

May one, that is a herald and a prince,

Do a fair message to his kingly ears?

Agamemnon

With surety stronger than Achilles’ arm

’Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one voice

Call Agamemnon head and general.

Aeneas

Fair leave and large security. How may

A stranger to those most imperial looks

Know them from eyes of other mortals?

Agamemnon

How!

Aeneas

Ay;

I ask, that I might waken reverence,

And bid the cheek be ready with a blush

Modest as morning when she coldly eyes

The youthful Phoebus:

Which is that god in office, guiding men?

Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon?

Agamemnon

This Trojan scorns us; or the men of Troy

Are ceremonious courtiers.

Aeneas

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,

Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and,

Jove’s accord,

Nothing so full of heart. But peace, Aeneas,

Peace, Trojan; lay thy finger on thy lips!

The worthiness of praise distains his worth,

If that the praised himself bring the praise forth:

But what the repining enemy commends,

That breath fame blows; that praise, sole sure, transcends.

Agamemnon

Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself Aeneas?

Aeneas

Ay, Greek, that is my name.

Agamemnon

What’s your affair I pray you?

Aeneas

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

Agamemnon

He hears naught privately that comes from Troy.

Aeneas

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,

And then to speak.

Agamemnon

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.

Aeneas

Trumpet, blow loud,

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

A prince call’d Hector,— Priam is his father,—

Who in this dull and long-continued 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

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,

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,

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,

And will to-morrow with his trumpet call

Midway between your tents and walls of Troy,

To rouse a Grecian that is true in love:

If any come, Hector shall honour him;

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.

Agamemnon

This shall be told our lovers, Lord Aeneas;

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!

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

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

Nestor

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

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

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,

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

Aeneas

Now heavens forbid such scarcity of youth!

Ulysses

Amen.

Agamemnon

Fair Lord Aeneas, let me touch your hand;

To our pavilion shall I lead you, sir.

Achilles shall have word of this intent;

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

Yourself shall feast with us before you go

And find the welcome of a noble foe.

Exeunt all but Ulysses and Nestor

Ulysses

Nestor!

Nestor

What says Ulysses?

Ulysses

I have a young conception in my brain;

Be you my time to bring it to some shape.

Nestor

What is’t?

Ulysses

This ’tis:

Blunt wedges rive hard knots: the seeded pride

That hath to this maturity blown up

In rank Achilles must or now be cropp’d,

Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil,

To overbulk us all.

Nestor

Well, and how?

Ulysses

This challenge that the gallant Hector sends,

However it is spread in general name,

Relates in purpose only to Achilles.

Nestor

The purpose is perspicuous even as substance,

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,

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

Ay, with celerity, find Hector’s purpose

Pointing on him.

Ulysses

And wake him to the answer, think you?

Nestor

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

That can from Hector bring his honour off,

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

Yet in the trial much opinion dwells;

For here the Trojans taste our dear’st repute

With their finest palate: and trust to me, Ulysses,

Our imputation shall be oddly poised

In this wild action; for the success,

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

The baby figure of the giant mass

Of things to come at large. It is supposed

He that meets Hector issues from our choice

And choice, being mutual act of all our souls,

Makes merit her election, and doth boil,

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

Out of our virtues; who miscarrying,

What heart receives from hence the conquering part,

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.

Ulysses

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,

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

Are dogg’d with two strange followers.

Nestor

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

Ulysses

What glory our Achilles shares from Hector,

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

But he already is too insolent;

A nd 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,

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 for the better man;

For that will physic the great Myrmidon

Who broils in loud applause, and make him fall

His crest that prouder than blue Iris bends.

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,

Our project’s life this shape of sense assumes:

Ajax employ’d plucks down Achilles’ plumes.

Nestor

Ulysses,

Now I begin to relish thy advice;

And I will give a taste of it forthwith

To Agamemnon: go we to him straight.

Two curs shall tame each other: pride alone

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

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. A PART OF THE GRECIAN CAMP.

Enter Ajax and Thersites

Ajax

Thersites!

Thersites

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

Ajax

Thersites!

Thersites

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

Ajax

Dog!

Thersites

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

Ajax

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

Beating him

Feel, then.

Thersites

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

Ajax

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

Thersites

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

Ajax

Toadstool, learn me the proclamation.

Thersites

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

Ajax

The proclamation!

Thersites

Thou art proclaimed a fool, I think.

Ajax

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

Thersites

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

Ajax

I say, the proclamation!

Thersites

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

Ajax

Mistress Thersites!

Thersites

Thou shouldest strike him.

Ajax

Cobloaf!

Thersites

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

Ajax

[Beating him] You whoreson cur!

Thersites

Do, do.

Ajax

Thou stool for a witch!

Thersites

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

Ajax

You dog!

Thersites

You scurvy lord!

Ajax

[Beating him] You cur!

Thersites

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

Enter Achilles and Patroclus

Achilles

Why, how now, Ajax! wherefore do you thus? How now,

Thersites! what’s the matter, man?

Thersites

You see him there, do you?

Achilles

Ay; what’s the matter?

Thersites

Nay, look upon him.

Achilles

So I do: what’s the matter?

Thersites

Nay, but regard him well.

Achilles

‘Well!’ why, I do so.

Thersites

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

Achilles

I know that, fool.

Thersites

Ay, but that fool knows not himself.

Ajax

Therefore I beat thee.

Thersites

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

Achilles

What?

Thersites

I say, this Ajax —

Ajax offers to beat him

Achilles

Nay, good Ajax.

Thersites

Has not so much wit —

Achilles

Nay, I must hold you.

Thersites

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

Achilles

Peace, fool!

Thersites

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

Ajax

O thou damned cur! I shall —

Achilles

Will you set your wit to a fool’s?

Thersites

No, I warrant you; for a fools will shame it.

Patroclus

Good words, Thersites.

Achilles

What’s the quarrel?

Ajax

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

Thersites

I serve thee not.

Ajax

Well, go to, go to.

Thersites

I serve here voluntarily.

Achilles

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

Thersites

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

Achilles

What, with me too, Thersites?

Thersites

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

Achilles

What, what?

Thersites

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

Ajax

I shall cut out your tongue.

Thersites

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

Patroclus

No more words, Thersites; peace!

Thersites

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

Achilles

There’s for you, Patroclus.

Thersites

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

Exit

Patroclus

A good riddance.

Achilles

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

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

Ajax

Farewell. Who shall answer him?

Achilles

I know not: ’tis put to lottery; otherwise

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

Priam

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,

Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consumed

In hot digestion of this cormorant war —

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

Hector

Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I

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,

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

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,

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

The yielding of her up?

Troilus

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?

And buckle in a waist most fathomless

With spans and inches so diminutive

As fears and reasons? fie, for godly shame!

Helenus

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?

Troilus

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,

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

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

With this cramm’d reason: reason and respect

Make livers pale and lustihood deject.

Hector

Brother, she is not worth what she doth cost

The holding.

Troilus

What is aught, but as ’tis valued?

Hector

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

To make the service greater than the god

And the will dotes that is attributive

To what infectiously itself affects,

Without some image of the affected merit.

Troilus

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

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:

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 sieve,

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 desired,

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,

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 —

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 cried ‘Inestimable!’— why do you now

The issue of your proper wisdoms rate,

And do a deed that fortune never did,

Beggar the estimation which you prized

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

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

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!

Cassandra

[Within] Cry, Trojans, cry!

Priam

What noise? what shriek is this?

Troilus

’Tis our mad sister, I do know her voice.

Cassandra

[Within] Cry, Trojans!

Hector

It is Cassandra.

Enter Cassandra, raving

Cassandra

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

And I will fill them with prophetic tears.

Hector

Peace, sister, peace!

Cassandra

Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld,

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;

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

Hector

Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high strains

Of divination in our sister work

Some touches of remorse? or is your blood

So madly hot that no discourse of reason,

Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause,

Can qualify the same?

Troilus

Why, brother Hector,

We may not think the justness of each act

Such and no other than event doth form it,

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 engaged

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!

Paris

Else might the world convince of levity

As well my undertakings as your counsels:

But I attest the gods, your full consent

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,

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,

Paris should ne’er retract what he hath done,

Nor faint in the pursuit.

Priam

Paris, you speak

Like one besotted on your sweet delights:

You have the honey still, but these the gall;

So to be valiant is no praise at all.

Paris

Sir, I propose not merely to myself

The pleasures such a beauty brings with it;

But I would have the soil of her fair rape

Wiped 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

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

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 unfamed

Where Helen is the subject; then, I say,

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

The world’s large spaces cannot parallel.

Hector

Paris and Troilus, you have both said well,

And on the cause and question now in hand

Have glozed, but superficially: not much

Unlike young men, whom Aristotle thought

Unfit to hear moral philosophy:

The reasons you allege do more conduce

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

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

What nearer debt in all humanity

Than wife is to the husband? If this law

Of nature be corrupted through affection,

And that great minds, of partial indulgence

To their benumbed wills, resist the same,

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

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

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

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.

Troilus

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

Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector,

She is a theme of honour and renown,

A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds,

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 promised glory

As smiles upon the forehead of this action

For the wide world’s revenue.

Hector

I am yours,

You valiant offspring of great Priamus.

I have a roisting challenge sent amongst

The dun and factious nobles of the Greeks

Will strike amazement to their drowsy spirits:

I was advertised their great general slept,

Whilst emulation in the army crept:

This, I presume, will wake him.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE GRECIAN CAMP. BEFORE ACHILLES’ TENT.

Enter Thersites, solus

Thersites

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

Enter Patroclus

Patroclus

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

Thersites

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

Patroclus

What, art thou devout? wast thou in prayer?

Thersites

Ay: the heavens hear me!

Enter Achilles

Achilles

Who’s there?

Patroclus

Thersites, my lord.

Achilles

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

Thersites

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

Patroclus

Thy lord, Thersites: then tell me, I pray thee, what’s thyself?

Thersites

Thy knower, Patroclus: then tell me, Patroclus, what art thou?

Patroclus

Thou mayst tell that knowest.

Achilles

O, tell, tell.

Thersites

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

Patroclus

You rascal!

Thersites

Peace, fool! I have not done.

Achilles

He is a privileged man. Proceed, Thersites.

Thersites

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

Achilles

Derive this; come.

Thersites

Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles;

Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon;

Thersites is a fool to serve such a fool, and

Patroclus is a fool positive.

Patroclus

Why am I a fool?

Thersites

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

Achilles

Patroclus, I’ll speak with nobody.

Come in with me, Thersites.

Exit

Thersites

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

Agamemnon

Where is Achilles?

Patroclus

Within his tent; but ill disposed, my lord.

Agamemnon

Let it be known to him that we are here.

He shent our messengers; and we lay by

Our appertainments, visiting of him:

Let him be told so; lest perchance he think

We dare not move the question of our place,

Or know not what we are.

Patroclus

I shall say so to him.

Exit

Ulysses

We saw him at the opening of his tent:

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 the cause. A word, my lord.

Takes Agamemnon aside

Nestor

What moves Ajax thus to bay at him?

Ulysses

Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him.

Nestor

Who, Thersites?

Ulysses

He.

Nestor

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

Ulysses

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

Nestor

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

Ulysses

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

Re-enter Patroclus

Nestor

No Achilles with him.

Ulysses

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

Patroclus

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

But for your health and your digestion sake,

And after-dinner’s breath.

Agamemnon

Hear you, Patroclus:

We are too well acquainted with these answers:

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

Cannot outfly our apprehensions.

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,

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,

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

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

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:

‘Bring action hither, this cannot go to war:

A stirring dwarf we do allowance give

Before a sleeping giant.’ Tell him so.

Patroclus

I shall; and bring his answer presently.

Exit

Agamemnon

In second voice we’ll not be satisfied;

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

Exit Ulysses

Ajax

What is he more than another?

Agamemnon

No more than what he thinks he is.

Ajax

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

Agamemnon

No question.

Ajax

Will you subscribe his thought, and say he is?

Agamemnon

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

Ajax

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

Agamemnon

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

Ajax

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

Nestor

Yet he loves himself: is’t not strange?

Aside

Re-enter Ulysses

Ulysses

Achilles will not to the field to-morrow.

Agamemnon

What’s his excuse?

Ulysses

He doth rely on none,

But carries on the stream of his dispose

Without observance or respect of any,

In will peculiar and in self-admission.

Agamemnon

Why will he not upon our fair request

Untent his person and share the air with us?

Ulysses

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

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

And speaks not to himself but with a pride

That quarrels at self-breath: imagined worth

Holds in his blood such swoln and hot discourse

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

Cry ‘No recovery.’

Agamemnon

Let Ajax go to him.

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

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

At your request a little from himself.

Ulysses

O Agamemnon, let it not be so!

We’ll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes

When they go from Achilles: shall the proud lord

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?

No, this thrice worthy and right valiant lord

Must not so stale his palm, nobly acquired;

Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit,

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.

This lord go to him! Jupiter forbid,

And say in thunder ‘Achilles go to him.’

Nestor

[Aside to Diomedes] O, this is well; he rubs the vein of him.

Diomedes

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

Ajax

If I go to him, with my armed fist I’ll pash him o’er the face.

Agamemnon

O, no, you shall not go.

Ajax

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

Let me go to him.

Ulysses

Not for the worth that hangs upon our quarrel.

Ajax

A paltry, insolent fellow!

Nestor

How he describes himself!

Ajax

Can he not be sociable?

Ulysses

The raven chides blackness.

Ajax

I’ll let his humours blood.

Agamemnon

He will be the physician that should be the patient.

Ajax

An all men were o’ my mind,—

Ulysses

Wit would be out of fashion.

Ajax

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

Nestor

An ’twould, you’ld carry half.

Ulysses

A’ would have ten shares.

Ajax

I will knead him; I’ll make him supple.

Nestor

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

Ulysses

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

Nestor

Our noble general, do not do so.

Diomedes

You must prepare to fight without Achilles.

Ulysses

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

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

I will be silent.

Nestor

Wherefore should you so?

He is not emulous, as Achilles is.

Ulysses

Know the whole world, he is as valiant.

Ajax

A whoreson dog, that shall pelter thus with us!

Would he were a Trojan!

Nestor

What a vice were it in Ajax now,—

Ulysses

If he were proud,—

Diomedes

Or covetous of praise,—

Ulysses

Ay, or surly borne,—

Diomedes

Or strange, or self-affected!

Ulysses

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

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

Famed be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature

Thrice famed, beyond all erudition:

But he that disciplined thy arms to fight,

Let Mars divide eternity in twain,

And give him half: and, for thy vigour,

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,

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

Put pardon, father Nestor, were your days

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

You should not have the eminence of him,

But be as Ajax.

Ajax

Shall I call you father?

Nestor

Ay, my good son.

Diomedes

Be ruled by him, Lord Ajax.

Ulysses

There is no tarrying here; the hart Achilles

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,

And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best.

Agamemnon

Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep:

Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. TROY. PRIAM’S PALACE.

Enter a Servant and Pandarus

Pandarus

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

Servant

Ay, sir, when he goes before me.

Pandarus

You depend upon him, I mean?

Servant

Sir, I do depend upon the lord.

Pandarus

You depend upon a noble gentleman; I must needs praise him.

Servant

The lord be praised!

Pandarus

You know me, do you not?

Servant

Faith, sir, superficially.

Pandarus

Friend, know me better; I am the Lord Pandarus.

Servant

I hope I shall know your honour better.

Pandarus

I do desire it.

Servant

You are in the state of grace.

Pandarus

Grace! not so, friend: honour and lordship are my titles.

Music within

What music is this?

Servant

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

Pandarus

Know you the musicians?

Servant

Wholly, sir.

Pandarus

Who play they to?

Servant

To the hearers, sir.

Pandarus

At whose pleasure, friend

Servant

At mine, sir, and theirs that love music.

Pandarus

Command, I mean, friend.

Servant

Who shall I command, sir?

Pandarus

Friend, we understand not one another: I am too courtly and thou art too cunning. At whose request do these men play?

Servant

That’s to ’t indeed, sir: marry, sir, at the request of Paris my lord, who’s there in person; with him, the mortal Venus, the heart-blood of beauty, love’s invisible soul,—

Pandarus

Who, my cousin Cressida?

Servant

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

Pandarus

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

Servant

Sodden business! there’s a stewed phrase indeed!

Enter Paris and Helen, attended

Pandarus

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

Helen

Dear lord, you are full of fair words.

Pandarus

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

Paris

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

Pandarus

Truly, lady, no.

Helen

O, sir,—

Pandarus

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

Paris

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

Pandarus

I have business to my lord, dear queen. My lord, will you vouchsafe me a word?

Helen

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

Pandarus

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

Helen

My Lord Pandarus; honey-sweet lord,—

Pandarus

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

Helen

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

Pandarus

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

Helen

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

Pandarus

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

Helen

My Lord Pandarus,—

Pandarus

What says my sweet queen, my very very sweet queen?

Paris

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

Helen

Nay, but, my lord,—

Pandarus

What says my sweet queen? My cousin will fall out with you. You must not know where he sups.

Paris

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

Pandarus

No, no, no such matter; you are wide: come, your disposer is sick.

Paris

Well, I’ll make excuse.

Pandarus

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

Paris

I spy.

Pandarus

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

Helen

Why, this is kindly done.

Pandarus

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

Helen

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

Pandarus

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

Helen

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

Pandarus

Come, come, I’ll hear no more of this; I’ll sing you a song now.

Helen

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

Pandarus

Ay, you may, you may.

Helen

Let thy song be love: this love will undo us all.

O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid!

Pandarus

Love! ay, that it shall, i’ faith.

Paris

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

Pandarus

In good troth, it begins so.

Sings

Love, love, nothing but love, still more!

For, O, love’s bow

Shoots buck and doe:

The shaft confounds,

Not that it wounds,

But tickles still the sore.

These lovers cry Oh! oh! they die!

Yet that which seems the wound to kill,

Doth turn oh! oh! to ha! ha! he!

So dying love lives still:

Oh! oh! a while, but ha! ha! ha!

Oh! oh! groans out for ha! ha! ha!

Heigh-ho!

Helen

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

Paris

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

Pandarus

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

Paris

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

Helen

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

Pandarus

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

Paris

To a hair.

Pandarus

Farewell, sweet queen.

Helen

Commend me to your niece.

Pandarus

I will, sweet queen.

Exit

A retreat sounded

Paris

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

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

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

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,

Yea, overshines ourself.

Paris

Sweet, above thought I love thee.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME. PANDARUS’ ORCHARD.

Enter Pandarus and Troilus’s Boy, meeting

Pandarus

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

Cressida’s?

Boy

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

Pandarus

O, here he comes.

Enter Troilus

How now, how now!

Troilus

Sirrah, walk off.

Exit Boy

Pandarus

Have you seen my cousin?

Troilus

No, Pandarus: I stalk about her door,

Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks

Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon,

And give me swift transportance to those fields

Where I may wallow in the lily-beds

Proposed for the deserver! O gentle Pandarus,

From Cupid’s shoulder pluck his painted wings

And fly with me to Cressid!

Pandarus

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

Exit

Troilus

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

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

Swooning destruction, or some joy too fine,

Too subtle-potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness,

For the capacity of my ruder powers:

I fear it much; and I do fear besides,

That I shall lose distinction in my joys;

As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps

The enemy flying.

Re-enter Pandarus

Pandarus

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

Exit

Troilus

Even such a passion doth embrace my bosom:

My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse;

And all my powers do their bestowing lose,

Like vassalage at unawares encountering

The eye of majesty.

Re-enter Pandarus with Cressida

Pandarus

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

Troilus

You have bereft me of all words, lady.

Pandarus

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

Exit

Cressida

Will you walk in, my lord?

Troilus

O Cressida, how often have I wished me thus!

Cressida

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

Troilus

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

Cressida

More dregs than water, if my fears have eyes.

Troilus

Fears make devils of cherubims; they never see truly.

Cressida

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

Troilus

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

Cressida

Nor nothing monstrous neither?

Troilus

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

Cressida

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

Troilus

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

Cressida

Will you walk in, my lord?

Re-enter Pandarus

Pandarus

What, blushing still? have you not done talking yet?

Cressida

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

Pandarus

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

Troilus

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

Boldness comes to me now, and brings me heart.

Prince Troilus, I have loved you night and day

For many weary months.

Troilus

Why was my Cressid then so hard to win?

Cressida

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

With the first glance that ever — pardon me —

If I confess much, you will play the tyrant.

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

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,

When we are so unsecret to ourselves?

But, though I loved 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

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.

Troilus

And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence.

Pandarus

Pretty, i’ faith.

Cressida

My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me;

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

I am ashamed. O heavens! what have I done?

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

Troilus

Your leave, sweet Cressid!

Pandarus

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

Cressida

Pray you, content you.

Troilus

What offends you, lady?

Cressida

Sir, mine own company.

Troilus

You cannot shun Yourself.

Cressida

Let me go and try:

I have a kind of self resides with you;

But an unkind self, that itself will leave,

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

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

Troilus

Well know they what they speak that speak so wisely.

Cressida

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

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.

Troilus

O that I thought it could be in a woman —

As, if it can, I will presume in you —

To feed for aye her ramp and flames of love;

To keep her constancy in plight and youth,

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

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

And simpler than the infancy of truth.

Cressida

In that I’ll war with you.

Troilus

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 rhymes,

Full of protest, of oath and big compare,

Want similes, truth tired with iteration,

As true as steel, as plantage to the moon,

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,

‘As true as Troilus’ shall crown up the verse,

And sanctify the numbers.

Cressida

Prophet may you be!

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

When time is old and hath forgot itself,

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,

From false to false, among false maids in love,

Upbraid my falsehood! when they’ve said ‘as false

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

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

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

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

‘As false as Cressid.’

Pandarus

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.

Troilus

Amen.

Cressida

Amen.

Pandarus

Amen. Whereupon I will show you a chamber with 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!

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE GRECIAN CAMP. BEFORE ACHILLES’ TENT.

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

Calchas

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 love,

I have abandon’d Troy, left my possession,

Incurr’d a traitor’s name; exposed 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, am become

As new into the world, strange, unacquainted:

I do beseech you, as in way of taste,

To give me now a little benefit,

Out of those many register’d in promise,

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

Agamemnon

What wouldst thou of us, Trojan? make demand.

Calchas

You have a Trojan prisoner, call’d Antenor,

Yesterday took: Troy holds him very dear.

Oft have you — often have you thanks therefore —

Desired 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 negotiations all must slack,

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

Shall quite strike off all service I have done,

In most accepted pain.

Agamemnon

Let Diomedes bear him,

And bring us Cressid hither: Calchas shall have

What he requests of us. Good Diomed,

Furnish you fairly for this interchange:

Withal bring word if Hector will to-morrow

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

Diomedes

This shall I undertake; and ’tis a burden

Which I am proud to bear.

Exeunt Diomedes and Calchas

Enter Achilles and Patroclus, before their tent

Ulysses

Achilles stands i’ the entrance of his tent:

Please it our general to pass strangely by him,

As if he were forgot; and, princes all,

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 medicinable,

To use between your strangeness and his pride,

Which his own will shall have desire to drink:

It may be good: pride hath no other glass

To show itself but pride, for supple knees

Feed arrogance and are the proud man’s fees.

Agamemnon

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,

Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more

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

Achilles

What, comes the general to speak with me?

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

Agamemnon

What says Achilles? would he aught with us?

Nestor

Would you, my lord, aught with the general?

Achilles

No.

Nestor

Nothing, my lord.

Agamemnon

The better.

Exeunt Agamemnon and Nestor

Achilles

Good day, good day.

Menelaus

How do you? how do you?

Exit

Achilles

What, does the cuckold scorn me?

Ajax

How now, Patroclus!

Achilles

Good morrow, Ajax.

Ajax

Ha?

Achilles

Good morrow.

Ajax

Ay, and good next day too.

Exit

Achilles

What mean these fellows? Know they not Achilles?

Patroclus

They pass by strangely: they were used to bend

To send their smiles before them to Achilles;

To come as humbly as they used to creep

To holy altars.

Achilles

What, am I poor of late?

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

Must fall out with men too: what the declined is

He shall as soon read in the eyes of others

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,

Hath any honour, but honour for those honours

That are without him, as place, riches, favour,

Prizes of accident as oft as merit:

Which when they fall, as being slippery standers,

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

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;

I’ll interrupt his reading.

How now Ulysses!

Ulysses

Now, great Thetis’ son!

Achilles

What are you reading?

Ulysses

A strange fellow here

Writes me: ‘That man, how dearly ever parted,

How much in having, or without or in,

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

Heat them and they retort that heat again

To the first giver.’

Achilles

This is not strange, Ulysses.

The beauty that is borne here in the face

The bearer knows not, but commends itself

To others’ eyes; nor doth the eye itself,

That most pure spirit of sense, behold itself,

Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed

Salutes each other with each other’s form;

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.

Ulysses

I do not strain at the position,—

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,

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

The voice again, or, like a gate of steel

Fronting the sun, receives and renders back

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

And apprehended here immediately

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!

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,

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,

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

And great Troy shrieking.

Achilles

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

As misers do by beggars, neither gave to me

Good word nor look: what, are my deeds forgot?

Ulysses

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

Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,

A great-sized monster of ingratitudes:

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

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

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

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;

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

Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,

O’er-run and trampled on: then what they do in present,

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

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,

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,

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,

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.

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,

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

And drave great Mars to faction.

Achilles

Of this my privacy

I have strong reasons.

Ulysses

But ’gainst your privacy

The reasons are more potent and heroical:

’Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love

With one of Priam’s daughters.

Achilles

Ha! known!

Ulysses

Is that a wonder?

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,

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

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

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,

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

Patroclus

To this effect, Achilles, have I moved you:

A woman impudent and mannish grown

Is not more loathed than an effeminate man

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

They think my little stomach to the war

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,

Be shook to air.

Achilles

Shall Ajax fight with Hector?

Patroclus

Ay, and perhaps receive much honour by him.

Achilles

I see my reputation is at stake

My fame is shrewdly gored.

Patroclus

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;

And danger, like an ague, subtly taints

Even then when we sit idly in the sun.

Achilles

Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus:

I’ll send the fool to Ajax and desire him

To invite the Trojan lords after the combat

To see us here unarm’d: I have a woman’s longing,

An appetite that I am sick withal,

To see great Hector in his weeds of peace,

To talk with him and to behold his visage,

Even to my full of view.

Enter Thersites

A labour saved!

Thersites

A wonder!

Achilles

What?

Thersites

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

Achilles

How so?

Thersites

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

Achilles

How can that be?

Thersites

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

Achilles

Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites.

Thersites

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

Achilles

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

Patroclus

Jove bless great Ajax!

Thersites

Hum!

Patroclus

I come from the worthy Achilles,—

Thersites

Ha!

Patroclus

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

Thersites

Hum!

Patroclus

And to procure safe-conduct from Agamemnon.

Thersites

Agamemnon!

Patroclus

Ay, my lord.

Thersites

Ha!

Patroclus

What say you to’t?

Thersites

God b’ wi’ you, with all my heart.

Patroclus

Your answer, sir.

Thersites

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

Patroclus

Your answer, sir.

Thersites

Fare you well, with all my heart.

Achilles

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

Thersites

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

Achilles

Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight.

Thersites

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

Achilles

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

And I myself see not the bottom of it.

Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus

Thersites

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, from one side, Aeneas, and Servant with a torch; from the other, Paris, Deiphobus, Antenor, Diomedes, and others, with torches

Paris

See, ho! who is that there?

Deiphobus

It is the Lord Aeneas.

Aeneas

Is the prince there in person?

Had I so good occasion to lie long

As you, prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business

Should rob my bed-mate of my company.

Diomedes

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

Paris

A valiant Greek, Aeneas,— take his hand,—

Witness the process of your speech, wherein

You told how Diomed, a whole week by days,

Did haunt you in the field.

Aeneas

Health to you, valiant sir,

During all question of the gentle truce;

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

As heart can think or courage execute.

Diomedes

The one and other Diomed embraces.

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

But when contention and occasion meet,

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

With all my force, pursuit and policy.

Aeneas

And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly

With his face backward. In humane gentleness,

Welcome to Troy! now, by Anchises’ life,

Welcome, indeed! By Venus’ hand I swear,

No man alive can love in such a sort

The thing he means to kill more excellently.

Diomedes

We sympathize: Jove, let Aeneas 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,

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

Aeneas

We know each other well.

Diomedes

We do; and long to know each other worse.

Paris

This is the most despiteful gentle greeting,

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

What business, lord, so early?

Aeneas

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

Paris

His purpose meets you: ’twas to bring this Greek

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 —

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

We shall be much unwelcome.

Aeneas

That I assure you:

Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece

Than Cressid borne from Troy.

Paris

There is no help;

The bitter disposition of the time

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

Aeneas

Good morrow, all.

Exit with Servant

Paris

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

Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship,

Who, in your thoughts, merits fair Helen best,

Myself or Menelaus?

Diomedes

Both alike:

He merits well to have her, that doth seek her,

Not making any scruple of her soilure,

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:

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 pleased to breed out your inheritors:

Both merits poised, each weighs nor less nor more;

But he as he, the heavier for a whore.

Paris

You are too bitter to your countrywoman.

Diomedes

She’s bitter to her country: hear me, Paris:

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,

She hath not given so many good words breath

As for her Greeks and Trojans suffer’d death.

Paris

Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do,

Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy:

But we in silence hold this virtue well,

We’ll but commend what we intend to sell.

Here lies our way.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME. COURT OF PANDARUS’ HOUSE.

Enter Troilus and Cressida

Troilus

Dear, trouble not yourself: the morn is cold.

Cressida

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

He shall unbolt the gates.

Troilus

Trouble him not;

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

And give as soft attachment to thy senses

As infants’ empty of all thought!

Cressida

Good morrow, then.

Troilus

I prithee now, to bed.

Cressida

Are you a-weary of me?

Troilus

O Cressida! but that the busy day,

Waked by the lark, hath roused the ribald crows,

And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer,

I would not from thee.

Cressida

Night hath been too brief.

Troilus

Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays

As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love

With wings more momentary-swift than thought.

You will catch cold, and curse me.

Cressida

Prithee, tarry:

You men will never tarry.

O foolish Cressid! I might have still held off,

And then you would have tarried. Hark!

there’s one up.

Pandarus

[Within] What, ’s all the doors open here?

Troilus

It is your uncle.

Cressida

A pestilence on him! now will he be mocking:

I shall have such a life!

Enter Pandarus

Pandarus

How now, how now! how go maidenheads? Here, you maid! where’s my cousin Cressid?

Cressida

Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

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

Nor suffer others.

Pandarus

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

Cressida

Did not I tell you? Would he were knock’d i’ the head!

Knocking within

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

My lord, come you again into my chamber:

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

Troilus

Ha, ha!

Cressida

Come, you are deceived, 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

Pandarus

Who’s there? what’s the matter? will you beat down the door? How now! what’s the matter?

Enter Aeneas

Aeneas

Good morrow, lord, good morrow.

Pandarus

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

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

Aeneas

Is not Prince Troilus here?

Pandarus

Here! what should he do here?

Aeneas

Come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him:

It doth import him much to speak with me.

Pandarus

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

Aeneas

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

Re-enter Troilus

Troilus

How now! what’s the matter?

Aeneas

My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you,

My matter is so rash: there is at hand

Paris your brother, and Deiphobus,

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

The Lady Cressida.

Troilus

Is it so concluded?

Aeneas

By Priam and the general state of Troy:

They are at hand and ready to effect it.

Troilus

How my achievements mock me!

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

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

Aeneas

Good, good, my lord; the secrets of nature

Have not more gift in taciturnity.

Exeunt Troilus and Aeneas

Pandarus

Is’t possible? no sooner got but lost? The devil take Antenor! the young prince will go mad: a plague upon Antenor! I would they had broke ’s neck!

Re-enter Cressida

Cressida

How now! what’s the matter? who was here?

Pandarus

Ah, ah!

Cressida

Why sigh you so profoundly? where’s my lord? gone!

Tell me, sweet uncle, what’s the matter?

Pandarus

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

Cressida

O the gods! what’s the matter?

Pandarus

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

Cressida

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

Pandarus

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

Cressida

O you immortal gods! I will not go.

Pandarus

Thou must.

Cressida

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

I know no touch of consanguinity;

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

As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine!

Make Cressid’s name the very crown of falsehood,

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

Do to this body what extremes you can;

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,—

Pandarus

Do, do.

Cressida

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. STREET BEFORE PANDARUS’ HOUSE.

Enter Paris, Troilus, Aeneas, Deiphobus, Antenor, and Diomedes

Paris

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,

And haste her to the purpose.

Troilus

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

A priest there offering to it his own heart.

Exit

Paris

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. PANDARUS’ HOUSE.

Enter Pandarus and Cressida

Pandarus

Be moderate, be moderate.

Cressida

Why tell you me of moderation?

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

And violenteth in a sense as strong

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.

My love admits no qualifying dross;

No more my grief, in such a precious loss.

Pandarus

Here, here, here he comes.

Enter Troilus

Ah, sweet ducks!

Cressida

O Troilus! Troilus!

Embracing him

Pandarus

What a pair of spectacles is here!

Let me embrace too. ‘O heart,’ as the goodly saying is,

‘— O heart, heavy heart,

Why sigh’st thou without breaking?

where he answers again,

‘Because thou canst not ease thy smart

By friendship nor by speaking.’

There was never a truer rhyme. 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?

Troilus

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

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

More bright in zeal than the devotion which

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

Cressida

Have the gods envy?

Pandarus

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

Cressida

And is it true that I must go from Troy?

Troilus

A hateful truth.

Cressida

What, and from Troilus too?

Troilus

From Troy and Troilus.

Cressida

Is it possible?

Troilus

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

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.

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,

With distinct breath and consign’d kisses to them,

He fumbles up into a lose adieu,

And scants us with a single famish’d kiss,

Distasted with the salt of broken tears.

Aeneas

[Within] My lord, is the lady ready?

Troilus

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

Cries ‘come’ to him that instantly must die.

Bid them have patience; she shall come anon.

Pandarus

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

Exit

Cressida

I must then to the Grecians?

Troilus

No remedy.

Cressida

A woful Cressid ’mongst the merry Greeks!

When shall we see again?

Troilus

Hear me, my love: be thou but true of heart,—

Cressida

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

Troilus

Nay, we must use expostulation kindly,

For it is parting from us:

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:

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

My sequent protestation; be thou true,

And I will see thee.

Cressida

O, you shall be exposed, my lord, to dangers

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

Troilus

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

Cressida

And you this glove. When shall I see you?

Troilus

I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels,

To give thee nightly visitation.

But yet be true.

Cressida

O heavens! ‘be true’ again!

Troilus

Hear while I speak it, love:

The Grecian youths are full of quality;

They’re loving, well composed 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 —

Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin —

Makes me afeard.

Cressida

O heavens! you love me not.

Troilus

Die I a villain, then!

In this I do not call your faith in question

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:

But I can tell that in each grace of these

There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil

That tempts most cunningly: but be not tempted.

Cressida

Do you think I will?

Troilus

No.

But something may be done that we will not:

And sometimes we are devils to ourselves,

When we will tempt the frailty of our powers,

Presuming on their changeful potency.

Aeneas

[Within] Nay, good my lord,—

Troilus

Come, kiss; and let us part.

Paris

[Within] Brother Troilus!

Troilus

Good brother, come you hither;

And bring Aeneas and the Grecian with you.

Cressida

My lord, will you be true?

Troilus

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

Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion,

I with great truth catch mere simplicity;

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 Aeneas, Paris, Antenor, Deiphobus, and Diomedes

Welcome, Sir Diomed! here is the lady

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.

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

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

Name Cressida and thy life shall be as safe

As Priam is in Ilion.

Diomedes

Fair Lady Cressid,

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.

Troilus

Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously,

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

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.

Diomedes

O, be not moved, Prince Troilus:

Let me be privileged by my place and message,

To be a speaker free; when I am hence

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

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

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

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

Troilus

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

This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head.

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

To our own selves bend we our needful talk.

Exeunt Troilus, Cressida, and Diomedes

Trumpet within

Paris

Hark! Hector’s trumpet.

Aeneas

How have we spent this morning!

The prince must think me tardy and remiss,

That sore to ride before him to the field.

Paris

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

Deiphobus

Let us make ready straight.

Aeneas

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

Agamemnon

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

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

Outswell the colic of puff’d Aquilon:

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

Thou blow’st for Hector.

Trumpet sounds

Ulysses

No trumpet answers.

Achilles

’Tis but early days.

Agamemnon

Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas’ daughter?

Ulysses

’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.

Enter Diomedes, with Cressida

Agamemnon

Is this the Lady Cressid?

Diomedes

Even she.

Agamemnon

Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady.

Nestor

Our general doth salute you with a kiss.

Ulysses

Yet is the kindness but particular;

’Twere better she were kiss’d in general.

Nestor

And very courtly counsel: I’ll begin.

So much for Nestor.

Achilles

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

Achilles bids you welcome.

Menelaus

I had good argument for kissing once.

Patroclus

But that’s no argument for kissing now;

For this popp’d Paris in his hardiment,

And parted thus you and your argument.

Ulysses

O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns!

For which we lose our heads to gild his horns.

Patroclus

The first was Menelaus’ kiss; this, mine:

Patroclus kisses you.

Menelaus

O, this is trim!

Patroclus

Paris and I kiss evermore for him.

Menelaus

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

Cressida

In kissing, do you render or receive?

Patroclus

Both take and give.

Cressida

I’ll make my match to live,

The kiss you take is better than you give;

Therefore no kiss.

Menelaus

I’ll give you boot, I’ll give you three for one.

Cressida

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

Menelaus

An odd man, lady! every man is odd.

Cressida

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

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

Menelaus

You fillip me o’ the head.

Cressida

No, I’ll be sworn.

Ulysses

It were no match, your nail against his horn.

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

Cressida

You may.

Ulysses

I do desire it.

Cressida

Why, beg, then.

Ulysses

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

When Helen is a maid again, and his.

Cressida

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

Ulysses

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

Diomedes

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

Exit with Cressida

Nestor

A woman of quick sense.

Ulysses

Fie, fie upon her!

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

Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out

At every joint and motive of her body.

O, these encounterers, so glib of tongue,

That give accosting welcome ere it comes,

And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts

To every ticklish reader! set them down

For sluttish spoils of opportunity

And daughters of the game.

Trumpet within

All

The Trojans’ trumpet.

Agamemnon

Yonder comes the troop.

Enter Hector, armed; Aeneas, Troilus, and other Trojans, with Attendants

Aeneas

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

Pursue each other, or shall be divided

By any voice or order of the field?

Hector bade ask.

Agamemnon

Which way would Hector have it?

Aeneas

He cares not; he’ll obey conditions.

Achilles

’Tis done like Hector; but securely done,

A little proudly, and great deal misprizing

The knight opposed.

Aeneas

If not Achilles, sir,

What is your name?

Achilles

If not Achilles, nothing.

Aeneas

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,

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;

Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek

This blended knight, half Trojan and half Greek.

Achilles

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

Re-enter Diomedes

Agamemnon

Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle knight,

Stand by our Ajax: as you and Lord Aeneas

Consent upon the order of their fight,

So be it; either to the uttermost,

Or else a breath: the combatants being kin

Half stints their strife before their strokes begin.

Ajax and Hector enter the lists

Ulysses

They are opposed already.

Agamemnon

What Trojan is that same that looks so heavy?

Ulysses

The youngest son of Priam, a true knight,

Not yet mature, yet matchless, firm of word,

Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue;

Not soon provoked nor being provoked soon calm’d:

His heart and hand both open and both free;

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;

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

A second hope, as fairly built as Hector.

Thus says Aeneas; one that knows the youth

Even to his inches, and with private soul

Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me.

Alarum. Hector and Ajax fight

Agamemnon

They are in action.

Nestor

Now, Ajax, hold thine own!

Troilus

Hector, thou sleep’st;

Awake thee!

Agamemnon

His blows are well disposed: there, Ajax!

Diomedes

You must no more.

Trumpets cease

Aeneas

Princes, enough, so please you.

Ajax

I am not warm yet; let us fight again.

Diomedes

As Hector pleases.

Hector

Why, then will I no more:

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

A cousin-german to great Priam’s seed;

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

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,

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

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.

Hector

Not Neoptolemus so mirable,

On whose bright crest Fame with her loud’st Oyes

Cries ‘This is he,’ could promise to himself

A thought of added honour torn from Hector.

Aeneas

There is expectance here from both the sides,

What further you will do.

Hector

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

My famous cousin to our Grecian tents.

Diomedes

’Tis Agamemnon’s wish, and great Achilles

Doth long to see unarm’d the valiant Hector.

Hector

Aeneas, 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;

I will go eat with thee and see your knights.

Ajax

Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here.

Hector

The worthiest of them tell me name by name;

But for Achilles, mine own searching eyes

Shall find him by his large and portly size.

Agamemnon

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

And formless ruin of oblivion;

But in this extant moment, faith and troth,

Strain’d purely from all hollow bias-drawing,

Bids thee, with most divine integrity,

From heart of very heart, great Hector, welcome.

Hector

I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon.

Agamemnon

[To Troilus] My well-famed lord of Troy, no less to you.

Menelaus

Let me confirm my princely brother’s greeting:

You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither.

Hector

Who must we answer?

Aeneas

The noble Menelaus.

Hector

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

Mock not, that I affect the untraded oath;

Your quondam wife swears still by Venus’ glove:

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

Menelaus

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

Hector

O, pardon; I offend.

Nestor

I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft

Labouring for destiny make cruel way

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

As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed,

Despising many forfeits and subduements,

When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i’ the air,

Not letting it decline on the declined,

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,

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;

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

Never saw like thee. Let an old man embrace thee;

And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents.

Aeneas

’Tis the old Nestor.

Hector

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.

Nestor

I would my arms could match thee in contention,

As they contend with thee in courtesy.

Hector

I would they could.

Nestor

Ha!

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

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

Ulysses

I wonder now how yonder city stands

When we have here her base and pillar by us.

Hector

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.

Ulysses

Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue:

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.

Hector

I must not believe you:

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,

Will one day end it.

Ulysses

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.

Achilles

I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, thou!

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

I have with exact view perused thee, Hector,

And quoted joint by joint.

Hector

Is this Achilles?

Achilles

I am Achilles.

Hector

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

Achilles

Behold thy fill.

Hector

Nay, I have done already.

Achilles

Thou art too brief: I will the second time,

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

Hector

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?

Achilles

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

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

Hector’s great spirit flew: answer me, heavens!

Hector

It would discredit the blest gods, proud man,

To answer such a question: stand again:

Think’st thou to catch my life so pleasantly

As to prenominate in nice conjecture

Where thou wilt hit me dead?

Achilles

I tell thee, yea.

Hector

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;

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,

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.

Hector

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

We have had pelting wars, since you refused

The Grecians’ cause.

Achilles

Dost thou entreat me, Hector?

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

To-night all friends.

Hector

Thy hand upon that match.

Agamemnon

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

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

Troilus

My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you,

In what place of the field doth Calchas keep?

Ulysses

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

On the fair Cressid.

Troilus

Shall sweet lord, be bound to you so much,

After we part from Agamemnon’s tent,

To bring me thither?

Ulysses

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?

Troilus

O, sir, to such as boasting show their scars

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

She was beloved, she loved; 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

Achilles

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.

Patroclus

Here comes Thersites.

Enter Thersites

Achilles

How now, thou core of envy!

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

Thersites

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

Achilles

From whence, fragment?

Thersites

Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.

Patroclus

Who keeps the tent now?

Thersites

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

Patroclus

Well said, adversity! and what need these tricks?

Thersites

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

Patroclus

Male varlet, you rogue! what’s that?

Thersites

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

Patroclus

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

Thersites

Do I curse thee?

Patroclus

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

Thersites

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

Patroclus

Out, gall!

Thersites

Finch-egg!

Achilles

My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite

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

Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba,

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.

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

This night in banqueting must all be spent.

Away, Patroclus!

Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus

Thersites

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 earwax: 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!

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

Agamemnon

We go wrong, we go wrong.

Ajax

No, yonder ’tis;

There, where we see the lights.

Hector

I trouble you.

Ajax

No, not a whit.

Ulysses

Here comes himself to guide you.

Re-enter Achilles

Achilles

Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, princes all.

Agamemnon

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

Ajax commands the guard to tend on you.

Hector

Thanks and good night to the Greeks’ general.

Menelaus

Good night, my lord.

Hector

Good night, sweet lord Menelaus.

Thersites

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

Achilles

Good night and welcome, both at once, to those

That go or tarry.

Agamemnon

Good night.

Exeunt Agamemnon and Menelaus

Achilles

Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed,

Keep Hector company an hour or two.

Diomedes

I cannot, lord; I have important business,

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

Hector

Give me your hand.

Ulysses

[Aside to Troilus] Follow his torch; he goes to

Calchas’ tent:

I’ll keep you company.

Troilus

Sweet sir, you honour me.

Hector

And so, good night.

Exit Diomedes; Ulysses and Troilus following

Achilles

Come, come, enter my tent.

Exeunt Achilles, Hector, Ajax, and Nestor

Thersites

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

Diomedes

What, are you up here, ho? speak.

Calchas

[Within] Who calls?

Diomedes

Calchas, I think. Where’s your daughter?

Calchas

[Within] She comes to you.

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

Ulysses

Stand where the torch may not discover us.

Enter Cressida

Troilus

Cressid comes forth to him.

Diomedes

How now, my charge!

Cressida

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

Whispers

Troilus

Yea, so familiar!

Ulysses

She will sing any man at first sight.

Thersites

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

Diomedes

Will you remember?

Cressida

Remember! yes.

Diomedes

Nay, but do, then;

And let your mind be coupled with your words.

Troilus

What should she remember?

Ulysses

List.

Cressida

Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly.

Thersites

Roguery!

Diomedes

Nay, then,—

Cressida

I’ll tell you what,—

Diomedes

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

Cressida

In faith, I cannot: what would you have me do?

Thersites

A juggling trick,— to be secretly open.

Diomedes

What did you swear you would bestow on me?

Cressida

I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath;

Bid me do any thing but that, sweet Greek.

Diomedes

Good night.

Troilus

Hold, patience!

Ulysses

How now, Trojan!

Cressida

Diomed,—

Diomedes

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

Troilus

Thy better must.

Cressida

Hark, one word in your ear.

Troilus

O plague and madness!

Ulysses

You are moved, prince; let us depart, I pray you,

Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself

To wrathful terms: this place is dangerous;

The time right deadly; I beseech you, go.

Troilus

Behold, I pray you!

Ulysses

Nay, good my lord, go off:

You flow to great distraction; come, my lord.

Troilus

I pray thee, stay.

Ulysses

You have not patience; come.

Troilus

I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell’s torments

I will not speak a word!

Diomedes

And so, good night.

Cressida

Nay, but you part in anger.

Troilus

Doth that grieve thee?

O wither’d truth!

Ulysses

Why, how now, lord!

Troilus

By Jove,

I will be patient.

Cressida

Guardian!— why, Greek!

Diomedes

Foh, foh! adieu; you palter.

Cressida

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

Ulysses

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

You will break out.

Troilus

She strokes his cheek!

Ulysses

Come, come.

Troilus

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.

Thersites

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

Diomedes

But will you, then?

Cressida

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

Diomedes

Give me some token for the surety of it.

Cressida

I’ll fetch you one.

Exit

Ulysses

You have sworn patience.

Troilus

Fear me not, sweet lord;

I will not be myself, nor have cognition

Of what I feel: I am all patience.

Re-enter Cressida

Thersites

Now the pledge; now, now, now!

Cressida

Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.

Troilus

O beauty! where is thy faith?

Ulysses

My lord,—

Troilus

I will be patient; outwardly I will.

Cressida

You look upon that sleeve; behold it well.

He loved me — O false wench!— Give’t me again.

Diomedes

Whose was’t?

Cressida

It is no matter, now I have’t again.

I will not meet with you to-morrow night:

I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.

Thersites

Now she sharpens: well said, whetstone!

Diomedes

I shall have it.

Cressida

What, this?

Diomedes

Ay, that.

Cressida

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

Thy master now lies thinking in his bed

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

And gives memorial dainty kisses to it,

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

He that takes that doth take my heart withal.

Diomedes

I had your heart before, this follows it.

Troilus

I did swear patience.

Cressida

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

I’ll give you something else.

Diomedes

I will have this: whose was it?

Cressida

It is no matter.

Diomedes

Come, tell me whose it was.

Cressida

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

But, now you have it, take it.

Diomedes

Whose was it?

Cressida

By all Diana’s waiting-women yond,

And by herself, I will not tell you whose.

Diomedes

To-morrow will I wear it on my helm,

And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it.

Troilus

Wert thou the devil, and worest it on thy horn,

It should be challenged.

Cressida

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

I will not keep my word.

Diomedes

Why, then, farewell;

Thou never shalt mock Diomed again.

Cressida

You shall not go: one cannot speak a word,

But it straight starts you.

Diomedes

I do not like this fooling.

Thersites

Nor I, by Pluto: but that that likes not you pleases me best.

Diomedes

What, shall I come? the hour?

Cressida

Ay, come:— O Jove!— do come:— I shall be plagued.

Diomedes

Farewell till then.

Cressida

Good night: I prithee, come.

Exit Diomedes

Troilus, farewell! one eye yet looks on thee

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.

Exit

Thersites

A proof of strength she could not publish more,

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

Ulysses

All’s done, my lord.

Troilus

It is.

Ulysses

Why stay we, then?

Troilus

To make a recordation to my soul

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?

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 deceptious functions,

Created only to calumniate.

Was Cressid here?

Ulysses

I cannot conjure, Trojan.

Troilus

She was not, sure.

Ulysses

Most sure she was.

Troilus

Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.

Ulysses

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

Troilus

Let it not be believed for womanhood!

Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage

To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme,

For depravation, to square the general sex

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

Ulysses

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

Troilus

Nothing at all, unless that this were she.

Thersites

Will he swagger himself out on’s own eyes?

Troilus

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

If beauty have a soul, this is not she;

If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies,

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!

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

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 orifex for a point as subtle

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, dissolved, and loosed;

And with another knot, five-finger-tied,

The fractions of her faith, orts of her love,

The fragments, scraps, the bits and greasy relics

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

Ulysses

May worthy Troilus be half attach’d

With that which here his passion doth express?

Troilus

Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well

In characters as red as Mars his heart

Inflamed 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,

So much by weight hate I her Diomed:

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

Were it a casque composed by Vulcan’s skill,

My sword should bite it: not the dreadful spout

Which shipmen do the hurricano call,

Constringed 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.

Thersites

He’ll tickle it for his concupy.

Troilus

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

Let all untruths stand by thy stained name,

And they’ll seem glorious.

Ulysses

O, contain yourself

Your passion draws ears hither.

Enter Aeneas

Aeneas

I have been seeking you this hour, my lord:

Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy;

Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home.

Troilus

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

Farewell, revolted fair! and, Diomed,

Stand fast, and wear a castle on thy head!

Ulysses

I’ll bring you to the gates.

Troilus

Accept distracted thanks.

Exeunt Troilus, Aeneas, and Ulysses

Thersites

Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would croak like a raven; I would bode, I would bode. Patroclus will 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

Andromache

When was my lord so much ungently temper’d,

To stop his ears against admonishment?

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

Hector

You train me to offend you; get you in:

By all the everlasting gods, I’ll go!

Andromache

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

Hector

No more, I say.

Enter Cassandra

Cassandra

Where is my brother Hector?

Andromache

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

Consort with me in loud and dear petition,

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

Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night

Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter.

Cassandra

O, ’tis true.

Hector

Ho! bid my trumpet sound!

Cassandra

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

Hector

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

Cassandra

The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows:

They are polluted offerings, more abhorr’d

Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.

Andromache

O, be persuaded! do not count it holy

To hurt by being just: it is as lawful,

For we would give much, to use violent thefts,

And rob in the behalf of charity.

Cassandra

It is the purpose that makes strong the vow;

But vows to every purpose must not hold:

Unarm, sweet Hector.

Hector

Hold you still, I say;

Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate:

Lie every man holds dear; but the brave man

Holds honour far more precious-dear than life.

Enter Troilus

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

Andromache

Cassandra, call my father to persuade.

Exit Cassandra

Hector

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

I am to-day i’ the vein of chivalry:

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.

Troilus

Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you,

Which better fits a lion than a man.

Hector

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

Troilus

When many times the captive Grecian falls,

Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword,

You bid them rise, and live.

Hector

O,’tis fair play.

Troilus

Fool’s play, by heaven, Hector.

Hector

How now! how now!

Troilus

For the love of all the gods,

Let’s leave the hermit pity with our mothers,

And when we have our armours buckled on,

The venom’d vengeance ride upon our swords,

Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth.

Hector

Fie, savage, fie!

Troilus

Hector, then ’tis wars.

Hector

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

Troilus

Who should withhold me?

Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars

Beckoning with fiery truncheon my retire;

Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees,

Their eyes o’ergalled with recourse of tears;

Not you, my brother, with your true sword drawn,

Opposed to hinder me, should stop my way,

But by my ruin.

Re-enter Cassandra, with Priam

Cassandra

Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast:

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

Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee,

Fall all together.

Priam

Come, Hector, come, go back:

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

Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself

Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt

To tell thee that this day is ominous:

Therefore, come back.

Hector

Aeneas is a-field;

And I do stand engaged to many Greeks,

Even in the faith of valour, to appear

This morning to them.

Priam

Ay, but thou shalt not go.

Hector

I must not break my faith.

You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir,

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.

Cassandra

O Priam, yield not to him!

Andromache

Do not, dear father.

Hector

Andromache, I am offended with you:

Upon the love you bear me, get you in.

Exit Andromache

Troilus

This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl

Makes all these bodements.

Cassandra

O, farewell, dear Hector!

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,

Like witless antics, one another meet,

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

Troilus

Away! away!

Cassandra

Farewell: yet, soft! Hector! take my leave:

Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive.

Exit

Hector

You are amazed, 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.

Priam

Farewell: the gods with safety stand about thee!

Exeunt severally Priam and Hector. Alarums

Troilus

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

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

Enter Pandarus

Pandarus

Do you hear, my lord? do you hear?

Troilus

What now?

Pandarus

Here’s a letter come from yond poor girl.

Troilus

Let me read.

Pandarus

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

Troilus

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.

Exeunt severally

SCENE IV. PLAINS BETWEEN TROY AND THE GRECIAN CAMP.

Alarums: excursions. Enter Thersites

Thersites

Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I’ll go look on. That dissembling abominable varlets 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 whore-masterly villain, with the sleeve, back to the dissembling luxurious drab, of a sleeveless errand. O’ the t’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 worthy 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.

Enter Diomedes, Troilus following

Troilus

Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx,

I would swim after.

Diomedes

Thou dost miscall retire:

I do not fly, but advantageous care

Withdrew me from the odds of multitude:

Have at thee!

Thersites

Hold thy whore, Grecian!— now for thy whore,

Trojan!— now the sleeve, now the sleeve!

Exeunt Troilus and Diomedes, fighting

Enter Hector

Hector

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

Art thou of blood and honour?

Thersites

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

Hector

I do believe thee: live.

Exit

Thersites

God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague break thy neck for frightening 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

Diomedes

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 chastised the amorous Trojan,

And am her knight by proof.

Servant

I go, my lord.

Exit

Enter Agamemnon

Agamemnon

Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamas

Hath beat down Menon: bastard Margarelon

Hath Doreus prisoner,

And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam,

Upon the pashed corses of the kings

Epistrophus and Cedius: Polyxenes is slain,

Amphimachus and Thoas deadly hurt,

Patroclus ta’en or slain, and Palamedes

Sore hurt and bruised: the dreadful Sagittary

Appals our numbers: haste we, Diomed,

To reinforcement, or we perish all.

Enter Nestor

Nestor

Go, bear Patroclus’ body to Achilles;

And bid the snail-paced Ajax arm for shame.

There is a thousand Hectors in the field:

Now here he fights on Galathe his horse,

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 every where, he leaves and takes,

Dexterity so obeying appetite

That what he will he does, and does so much

That proof is call’d impossibility.

Enter Ulysses

Ulysses

O, courage, courage, princes! great Achilles

Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance:

Patroclus’ wounds have roused his drowsy blood,

Together with his mangled Myrmidons,

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,

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

As if that luck, in very spite of cunning,

Bade him win all.

Enter Ajax

Ajax

Troilus! thou coward Troilus!

Exit

Diomedes

Ay, there, there.

Nestor

So, so, we draw together.

Enter Achilles

Achilles

Where is this Hector?

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

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

Diomedes

Troilus, I say! where’s Troilus?

Ajax

What wouldst thou?

Diomedes

I would correct him.

Ajax

Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office

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

Enter Troilus

Troilus

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

And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse!

Diomedes

Ha, art thou there?

Ajax

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

Diomedes

He is my prize; I will not look upon.

Troilus

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

Exeunt, fighting

Enter Hector

Hector

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

Enter Achilles

Achilles

Now do I see thee, ha! have at thee, Hector!

Hector

Pause, if thou wilt.

Achilles

I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan:

Be happy that my arms are out of use:

My rest and negligence befriends thee now,

But thou anon shalt hear of me again;

Till when, go seek thy fortune.

Exit

Hector

Fare thee well:

I would have been much more a fresher man,

Had I expected thee. How now, my brother!

Re-enter Troilus

Troilus

Ajax hath ta’en Aeneas: shall it be?

No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven,

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

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

Hector

Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark:

No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well;

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

Achilles

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,

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.

Exeunt

Enter Menelaus and Paris, fighting: then Thersites

Thersites

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

Margarelon

Turn, slave, and fight.

Thersites

What art thou?

Margarelon

A bastard son of Priam’s.

Thersites

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

Margarelon

The devil take thee, coward!

Exit

SCENE VIII. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAINS.

Enter Hector

Hector

Most putrefied core, so fair without,

Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life.

Now is my day’s work done; I’ll take good breath:

Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death.

Puts off his helmet and hangs his shield behind him

Enter Achilles and Myrmidons

Achilles

Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set;

How ugly night comes breathing at his heels:

Even with the vail and darking of the sun,

To close the day up, Hector’s life is done.

Hector

I am unarm’d; forego this vantage, Greek.

Achilles

Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek.

Hector falls

So, Ilion, fall thou next! now, Troy, sink down!

Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone.

On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain,

‘Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.’

A retreat sounded

Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part.

Myrmidons

The Trojan trumpets sound the like, my lord.

Achilles

The dragon wing of night o’erspreads the earth,

And, stickler-like, the armies separates.

My half-supp’d sword, that frankly would have fed,

Pleased with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed.

Sheathes his sword

Come, tie his body to my horse’s tail;

Along the field I will the Trojan trail.

Exeunt

SCENE IX. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAINS.

Enter Agamemnon, Ajax, Menelaus, Nestor, Diomedes, and others, marching. Shouts within

Agamemnon

Hark! hark! what shout is that?

Nestor

Peace, drums!

Within

Achilles! Achilles! Hector’s slain! Achilles.

Diomedes

The bruit is, Hector’s slain, and by Achilles.

Ajax

If it be so, yet bragless let it be;

Great Hector was a man as good as he.

Agamemnon

March patiently along: let one be sent

To pray Achilles see us at our tent.

If in his death the gods have us befriended,

Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended.

Exeunt, marching

SCENE X. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAINS.

Enter Aeneas and Trojans

Aeneas

Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field:

Never go home; here starve we out the night.

Enter Troilus

Troilus

Hector is slain.

All

Hector! the gods forbid!

Troilus

He’s dead; and at the murderer’s horse’s tail,

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,

And linger not our sure destructions on!

Aeneas

My lord, you do discomfort all the host!

Troilus

You understand me not that tell me so:

I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death,

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,

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,

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,

I’ll through and through you! and, thou great-sized coward,

No space of earth shall sunder our two hates:

I’ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,

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 Aeneas and Trojans

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

Pandarus

But hear you, hear you!

Troilus

Hence, broker-lackey! ignomy and shame

Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!

Exit

Pandarus

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:

Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing,

Till he hath lost his honey and his sting;

And being once subdued in armed tail,

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,

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,

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,

And at that time bequeathe you my diseases.

Exit

Othello, the Moor of Venice

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. VENICE. A STREET.

SCENE II. ANOTHER STREET.

SCENE III. A COUNCIL-CHAMBER.

ACT II

SCENE I. A SEA-PORT IN CYPRUS. AN OPEN PLACE NEAR THE QUAY.

SCENE II. A STREET.

SCENE III. A HALL IN THE CASTLE.

ACT III

SCENE I. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

SCENE II. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE III. THE GARDEN OF THE CASTLE.

SCENE IV. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. CYPRUS. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

SCENE II. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE III. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

ACT V

SCENE I. CYPRUS. A STREET.

SCENE II. A BEDCHAMBER IN THE CASTLE: DESDEMONA IN BED ASLEEP;

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Othello, the Moor, general of the Venetian forces.

Desdemona, his wife.

Iago, ensign to Othello.

Emilia, his wife, lady-in-waiting to Desdemona.

Cassio, lieutenant to Othello.

The Duke Of Venice.

Brabantio, Venetian Senator, father of Desdemona.

Gratiano, nobleman of Venice, brother of Brabantio.

Lodovico, nobleman of Venice, kinsman of Brabantio.

Roderigo, rejected suitor of Desdemona.

Bianca, mistress of Cassio.

Montano, a Cypriot official.

A Clown in service to Othello.

Senators, Sailors, Messengers, Officers, Gentlemen, Musicians, and Attendants.

Scene: Venice and Cyprus.

ACT I

SCENE I. VENICE. A STREET.

Enter Roderigo and Iago

Roderigo

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:

If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me.

Roderigo

Thou told’st me thou didst hold him in thy hate.

Iago

Despise me, if I do not. Three great ones of the city,

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,

Evades them, with a bombast circumstance

Horribly stuff’d with epithets of war;

And, in conclusion,

Nonsuits my mediators; for, ‘Certes,’ says he,

‘I have already chose my officer.’

And what was he?

Forsooth, a great arithmetician,

One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,

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

As masterly as he: mere prattle, without practise,

Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election:

And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof

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,

And I— God bless the mark!— his Moorship’s ancient.

Roderigo

By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.

Iago

Why, there’s no remedy; ’tis the curse of service,

Preferment goes by letter and affection,

And not by old gradation, where each second

Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself,

Whether I in any just term am affined

To love the Moor.

Roderigo

I would not follow him then.

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

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:

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,

Do well thrive by them and when they have lined 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,

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:

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

For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

Roderigo

What a full fortune does the thicklips owe

If he can carry’t thus!

Iago

Call up her father,

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,

As it may lose some colour.

Roderigo

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

Is spied in populous cities.

Roderigo

What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho!

Iago

Awake! what, ho, Brabantio! thieves! thieves! thieves!

Look to your house, your daughter and your bags!

Thieves! thieves!

Brabantio appears above, at a window

Brabantio

What is the reason of this terrible summons?

What is the matter there?

Roderigo

Signior, is all your family within?

Iago

Are your doors lock’d?

Brabantio

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

Is topping your white ewe. Arise, arise;

Awake the snorting citizens with the bell,

Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you:

Arise, I say.

Brabantio

What, have you lost your wits?

Roderigo

Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

Brabantio

Not I what are you?

Roderigo

My name is Roderigo.

Brabantio

The worser welcome:

I have charged thee not to haunt about my doors:

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 bravery, dost thou come

To start my quiet.

Roderigo

Sir, sir, sir,—

Brabantio

But thou must needs be sure

My spirit and my place have in them power

To make this bitter to thee.

Roderigo

Patience, good sir.

Brabantio

What tell’st thou me of robbing? this is Venice;

My house is not a grange.

Roderigo

Most grave Brabantio,

In simple and pure soul I come to you.

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.

Brabantio

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.

Brabantio

Thou art a villain.

Iago

You are — a senator.

Brabantio

This thou shalt answer; I know thee, Roderigo.

Roderigo

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,

Transported, with no worse nor better guard

But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,

To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor —

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,

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

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

For thus deluding you.

Brabantio

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.

Light, I say! light!

Exit above

Iago

Farewell; for I must leave you:

It seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place,

To be produced — as, if I stay, I shall —

Against the Moor: for, I do know, the state,

However this may gall him with some cheque,

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,

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,

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.

Exit

Enter, below, Brabantio, and Servants with torches

Brabantio

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, say’st thou? Who would be a father!

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?

Roderigo

Truly, I think they are.

Brabantio

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. Is there not charms

By which the property of youth and maidhood

May be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo,

Of some such thing?

Roderigo

Yes, sir, I have indeed.

Brabantio

Call up my brother. O, would you had had her!

Some one way, some another. Do you know

Where we may apprehend her and the Moor?

Roderigo

I think I can discover him, if you please,

To get good guard and go along with me.

Brabantio

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.

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 contrived murder: I lack iniquity

Sometimes to do me service: nine or ten times

I had thought to have yerk’d him here under the ribs.

Othello

’Tis better as it is.

Iago

Nay, but he prated,

And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms

Against your honour

That, with the little godliness I have,

I did full hard forbear him. But, I pray you, sir,

Are you fast married? Be assured of this,

That the magnifico is much beloved,

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,

Will give him cable.

Othello

Let him do his spite:

My services which I have done the signiory

Shall out-tongue his complaints. ’Tis yet to know,—

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,

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?

Iago

Those are the raised father and his friends:

You were best go in.

Othello

Not I I must be found:

My parts, my title and my perfect soul

Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they?

Iago

By Janus, I think no.

Enter Cassio, and certain Officers with torches

Othello

The servants of the duke, and my lieutenant.

The goodness of the night upon you, friends!

What is the news?

Cassio

The duke does greet you, general,

And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance,

Even on the instant.

Othello

What is the matter, think you?

Cassio

Something from Cyprus as I may divine:

It is a business of some heat: the galleys

Have sent a dozen sequent messengers

This very night at one another’s heels,

And many of the consuls, raised and met,

Are at the duke’s already: you have been hotly call’d for;

When, being not at your lodging to be found,

The senate hath sent about three several guests

To search you out.

Othello

’Tis well I am found by you.

I will but spend a word here in the house,

And go with you.

Exit

Cassio

Ancient, what makes he here?

Iago

’Faith, he to-night hath boarded a land carack:

If it prove lawful prize, he’s made for ever.

Cassio

I do not understand.

Iago

He’s married.

Cassio

To who?

Re-enter Othello

Iago

Marry, to — Come, captain, will you go?

Othello

Have with you.

Cassio

Here comes another troop to seek for you.

Iago

It is Brabantio. General, be advised;

He comes to bad intent.

Enter Brabantio, Roderigo, and Officers with torches and weapons

Othello

Holla! stand there!

Roderigo

Signior, it is the Moor.

Brabantio

Down with him, thief!

They draw on both sides

Iago

You, Roderigo! come, sir, I am for you.

Othello

Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.

Good signior, you shall more command with years

Than with your weapons.

Brabantio

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,

If she in chains of magic were not bound,

Whether a maid so tender, fair and happy,

So opposite to marriage that she shunned

The wealthy curled darlings of our nation,

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

That thou hast practised on her with foul charms,

Abused her delicate youth with drugs or minerals

That weaken motion: I’ll have’t disputed on;

’Tis probable and palpable to thinking.

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,

Subdue him at his peril.

Othello

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?

Brabantio

To prison, till fit time

Of law and course of direct session

Call thee to answer.

Othello

What if I do obey?

How may the duke be therewith satisfied,

Whose messengers are here about my side,

Upon some present business of the state

To bring me to him?

First Officer

’Tis true, most worthy signior;

The duke’s in council and your noble self,

I am sure, is sent for.

Brabantio

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,

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 Of Venice

There is no composition in these news

That gives them credit.

First Senator

Indeed, they are disproportion’d;

My letters say a hundred and seven galleys.

Duke Of Venice

And mine, a hundred and forty.

Second Senator

And mine, two hundred:

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.

Duke Of Venice

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!

First Officer

A messenger from the galleys.

Enter a Sailor

Duke Of Venice

Now, what’s the business?

Sailor

The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes;

So was I bid report here to the state

By Signior Angelo.

Duke Of Venice

How say you by this change?

First Senator

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,

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 warlike brace,

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,

Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain,

To wake and wage a danger profitless.

Duke Of Venice

Nay, in all confidence, he’s not for Rhodes.

First Officer

Here is more news.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

The Ottomites, reverend and gracious,

Steering with due course towards the isle of Rhodes,

Have there injointed them with an after fleet.

First Senator

Ay, so I thought. How many, as you guess?

Messenger

Of thirty sail: and now they do restem

Their backward course, bearing with frank appearance

Their purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano,

Your trusty and most valiant servitor,

With his free duty recommends you thus,

And prays you to believe him.

Duke Of Venice

’Tis certain, then, for Cyprus.

Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town?

First Senator

He’s now in Florence.

Duke Of Venice

Write from us to him; post-post-haste dispatch.

First Senator

Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor.

Enter Brabantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo, and Officers

Duke Of Venice

Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you

Against the general enemy Ottoman.

To Brabantio

I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior;

We lack’d your counsel and your help tonight.

Brabantio

So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me;

Neither my place nor aught I heard of business

Hath raised me from my bed, nor doth the general care

Take hold on me, for my particular grief

Is of so flood-gate and o’erbearing nature

That it engluts and swallows other sorrows

And it is still itself.

Duke Of Venice

Why, what’s the matter?

Brabantio

My daughter! O, my daughter!

Duke Of Venice

Senator

Dead?

Brabantio

Ay, to me;

She is abused, stol’n from me, and corrupted

By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks;

For nature so preposterously to err,

Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,

Sans witchcraft could not.

Duke Of Venice

Whoe’er he be that in this foul proceeding

Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself

And you of her, the bloody book of law

You shall yourself read in the bitter letter

After your own sense, yea, though our proper son

Stood in your action.

Brabantio

Humbly I thank your grace.

Here is the man, this Moor, whom now, it seems,

Your special mandate for the state-affairs

Hath hither brought.

Duke Of Venice

Senator

We are very sorry for’t.

Duke Of Venice

[To Othello] What, in your own part, can you say to this?

Brabantio

Nothing, but this is so.

Othello

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,

My very noble and approved 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

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 used

Their dearest action in the tented field,

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

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,

For such proceeding I am charged withal,

I won his daughter.

Brabantio

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,

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

Against all rules of nature, and must be driven

To find out practises of cunning hell,

Why this should be. I therefore vouch again

That with some mixtures powerful o’er the blood,

Or with some dram conjured to this effect,

He wrought upon her.

Duke Of Venice

To vouch this, is no proof,

Without more wider and more overt test

Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods

Of modern seeming do prefer against him.

First Senator

But, Othello, speak:

Did you by indirect and forced courses

Subdue and poison this young maid’s affections?

Or came it by request and such fair question

As soul to soul affordeth?

Othello

I do beseech you,

Send for the lady to the Sagittary,

And let her speak of me before her father:

If you do find me foul in her report,

The trust, the office I do hold of you,

Not only take away, but let your sentence

Even fall upon my life.

Duke Of Venice

Fetch Desdemona hither.

Othello

Ancient, conduct them: you best know the place.

Exeunt Iago and Attendants

And, till she come, as truly as to heaven

I do confess the vices of my blood,

So justly to your grave ears I’ll present

How I did thrive in this fair lady’s love,

And she in mine.

Duke Of Venice

Say it, Othello.

Othello

Her father loved me; oft invited me;

Still question’d me the story of my life,

From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,

That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,

To the very moment that he bade me tell it;

Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents by flood and field

Of hair-breadth scapes i’ the imminent deadly breach,

Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence

And portance in my travels’ history:

Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,

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

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’ld come again, and with a greedy ear

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

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,

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,

’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 loved her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story.

And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:

She loved me for the dangers I had pass’d,

And I loved her that she did pity them.

This only is the witchcraft I have used:

Here comes the lady; let her witness it.

Enter Desdemona, Iago, and Attendants

Duke Of Venice

I think this tale would win my daughter too.

Good Brabantio,

Take up this mangled matter at the best:

Men do their broken weapons rather use

Than their bare hands.

Brabantio

I pray you, hear her speak:

If she confess that she was half the wooer,

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?

Desdemona

My noble father,

I do perceive here a divided duty:

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,

And so much duty as my mother show’d

To you, preferring you before her father,

So much I challenge that I may profess

Due to the Moor my lord.

Brabantio

God be wi’ 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:

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:

For thy escape would teach me tyranny,

To hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord.

Duke Of Venice

Let me speak like yourself, and lay a sentence,

Which, as a grise or step, may help these lovers

Into your favour.

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

Is the next way to draw new mischief on.

What cannot be preserved when fortune takes

Patience her injury a mockery makes.

The robb’d that smiles steals something from the thief;

He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.

Brabantio

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,

Being strong on both sides, are equivocal:

But words are words; I never yet did hear

That the bruised heart was pierced through the ear.

I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state.

Duke Of Venice

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.

Othello

The tyrant custom, most grave senators,

Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war

My thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnise

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.

Due reference of place and exhibition,

With such accommodation and besort

As levels with her breeding.

Duke Of Venice

If you please,

Be’t at her father’s.

Brabantio

I’ll not have it so.

Othello

Nor I.

Desdemona

Nor I; I would not there reside,

To put my father in impatient thoughts

By being in his eye. Most gracious duke,

To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear;

And let me find a charter in your voice,

To assist my simpleness.

Duke Of Venice

What would You, Desdemona?

Desdemona

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 subdued

Even to the very quality of my lord:

I saw Othello’s visage in his mind,

And to his honour and his valiant parts

Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate.

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

By his dear absence. Let me go with him.

Othello

Let her have your voices.

Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not,

To please the palate of my appetite,

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

I will your serious and great business scant

For she is with me: no, when light-wing’d toys

Of feather’d Cupid seal with wanton dullness

My speculative and officed instruments,

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!

Duke Of Venice

Be it as you shall privately determine,

Either for her stay or going: the affair cries haste,

And speed must answer it.

First Senator

You must away to-night.

Othello

With all my heart.

Duke Of Venice

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

As doth import you.

Othello

So please your grace, my ancient;

A man he is of honest and trust:

To his conveyance I assign my wife,

With what else needful your good grace shall think

To be sent after me.

Duke Of Venice

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.

First Senator

Adieu, brave Moor, use Desdemona well.

Brabantio

Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see:

She has deceived her father, and may thee.

Exeunt Duke Of Venice, Senators, Officers, & c

Othello

My life upon her faith! Honest Iago,

My Desdemona must I leave to thee:

I prithee, let thy wife attend on her:

And bring them after in the best advantage.

Come, Desdemona: I have but an hour

Of love, of worldly matters and direction,

To spend with thee: we must obey the time.

Exeunt Othello and Desdemona

Roderigo

Iago,—

Iago

What say’st thou, noble heart?

Roderigo

What will I do, thinkest thou?

Iago

Why, go to bed, and sleep.

Roderigo

I will incontinently drown myself.

Iago

If thou dost, I shall never love thee after. Why, thou silly gentleman!

Roderigo

It is silliness to live when to live is torment; and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.

Iago

O villainous! I have looked upon the world for four times seven years; and since I could distinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man that knew how to love himself. Ere I would say, I would drown myself for the love of a guinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon.

Roderigo

What should I do? I confess it is my shame to be so fond; but it is not in my virtue to amend it.

Iago

Virtue! a fig! ’tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs, or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness, or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most preposterous conclusions: but we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts, whereof I take this that you call love to be a sect or scion.

Roderigo

It cannot be.

Iago

It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will. Come, be a man. Drown thyself! drown cats and blind puppies. I have professed me thy friend and I confess me knit to thy deserving with cables of perdurable toughness; I could never better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse; follow thou the wars; defeat thy favour with an usurped beard; I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be that Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor,— put money in thy purse,— nor he his to her: it was a violent commencement, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration:— put but money in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in their wills: fill thy purse with money:— the food that to him now is as luscious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. She must change for youth: when she is sated with his body, she will find the error of her choice: she must have change, she must: therefore put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drowning. Make all the money thou canst: if sanctimony and a frail vow betwixt an erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian not too hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her; therefore make money. A pox of drowning thyself! it is clean out of the way: seek thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy than to be drowned and go without her.

Roderigo

Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend on the issue?

Iago

Thou art sure of me:— go, make money:— I have told thee often, and I re-tell thee again and again, I hate the Moor: my cause is hearted; thine hath no less reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revenge against him: if thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered. Traverse! go, provide thy money. We will have more of this to-morrow. Adieu.

Roderigo

Where shall we meet i’ the morning?

Iago

At my lodging.

Roderigo

I’ll be with thee betimes.

Iago

Go to; farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo?

Roderigo

What say you?

Iago

No more of drowning, do you hear?

Roderigo

I am changed: I’ll go sell all my land.

Exit

Iago

Thus do I ever make my fool my purse:

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;

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:—

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,

That thinks men honest that but seem to be so,

And will as tenderly be led by the nose

As asses are.

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 IN CYPRUS. AN OPEN PLACE NEAR THE QUAY.

Enter Montano and two Gentlemen

Montano

What from the cape can you discern at sea?

First Gentleman

Nothing at all: it is a highwrought flood;

I cannot, ’twixt the heaven and the main,

Descry a sail.

Montano

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?

Second Gentleman

A segregation of the Turkish fleet:

For do but stand upon the foaming shore,

The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds;

The wind-shaked 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

On the enchafed flood.

Montano

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 Gentleman

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 wreck and sufferance

On most part of their fleet.

Montano

How! is this true?

Third Gentleman

The ship is here put in,

A Veronesa; Michael Cassio,

Lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello,

Is come on shore: the Moor himself at sea,

And is in full commission here for Cyprus.

Montano

I am glad on’t; ’tis a worthy governor.

Third Gentleman

But this same Cassio, though he speak of comfort

Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly,

And prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted

With foul and violent tempest.

Montano

Pray heavens he be;

For I have served him, and the man commands

Like a full soldier. Let’s to the seaside, ho!

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 Gentleman

Come, let’s do so:

For every minute is expectancy

Of more arrivance.

Enter Cassio

Cassio

Thanks, you the valiant of this warlike isle,

That so approve the Moor! O, let the heavens

Give him defence against the elements,

For I have lost us him on a dangerous sea.

Montano

Is he well shipp’d?

Cassio

His bark is stoutly timber’d, his pilot

Of very expert and approved allowance;

Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death,

Stand in bold cure.

A cry within ‘A sail, a sail, a sail!’

Enter a fourth Gentleman

Cassio

What noise?

Fourth Gentleman

The town is empty; on the brow o’ the sea

Stand ranks of people, and they cry ‘A sail!’

Cassio

My hopes do shape him for the governor.

Guns heard

Second Gentlemen

They do discharge their shot of courtesy:

Our friends at least.

Cassio

I pray you, sir, go forth,

And give us truth who ’tis that is arrived.

Second Gentleman

I shall.

Exit

Montano

But, good lieutenant, is your general wived?

Cassio

Most fortunately: he hath achieved a maid

That paragons description and wild fame;

One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens,

And in the essential vesture of creation

Does tire the ingener.

Re-enter second Gentleman

How now! who has put in?

Second Gentleman

’Tis one Iago, ancient to the general.

Cassio

Has had most favourable and happy speed:

Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds,

The gutter’d rocks and congregated sands —

Traitors ensteep’d to clog the guiltless keel,—

As having sense of beauty, do omit

Their mortal natures, letting go safely by

The divine Desdemona.

Montano

What is she?

Cassio

She that I spake of, our great captain’s captain,

Left in the conduct of the bold Iago,

Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts

A se’nnight’s speed. Great Jove, Othello guard,

And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath,

That he may bless this bay with his tall ship,

Make love’s quick pants in Desdemona’s arms,

Give renew’d fire to our extincted spirits

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.

Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of heaven,

Before, behind thee, and on every hand,

Enwheel thee round!

Desdemona

I thank you, valiant Cassio.

What tidings can you tell me of my lord?

Cassio

He is not yet arrived: nor know I aught

But that he’s well and will be shortly here.

Desdemona

O, but I fear — How lost you company?

Cassio

The great contention of the sea and skies

Parted our fellowship — But, hark! a sail.

Within ‘A sail, a sail!’ Guns heard

Second Gentleman

They give their greeting to the citadel;

This likewise is a friend.

Cassio

See for the news.

Exit Gentleman

Good ancient, you are welcome.

To Emilia

Welcome, mistress.

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

As of her tongue she oft bestows on me,

You’ll have enough.

Desdemona

Alas, she has no speech.

Iago

In faith, too much;

I find it still, when I have list to sleep:

Marry, before your ladyship, I grant,

She puts her tongue a little in her heart,

And chides with thinking.

Emilia

You have little cause to say so.

Iago

Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors,

Bells in your parlors, wild-cats in your kitchens,

Saints m your injuries, devils being offended,

Players in your housewifery, and housewives’ in your beds.

Desdemona

O, fie upon thee, slanderer!

Iago

Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk:

You rise to play and go to bed to work.

Emilia

You shall not write my praise.

Iago

No, let me not.

Desdemona

What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me?

Iago

O gentle lady, do not put me to’t;

For I am nothing, if not critical.

Desdemona

Come on assay. There’s one gone to the harbour?

Iago

Ay, madam.

Desdemona

I am not merry; but I do beguile

The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.

Come, how wouldst thou praise me?

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.

If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit,

The one’s for use, the other useth it.

Desdemona

Well praised! How if she be black and witty?

Iago

If she be black, and thereto have a wit,

She’ll find a white that shall her blackness fit.

Desdemona

Worse and worse.

Emilia

How if fair and foolish?

Iago

She never yet was foolish that was fair;

For even her folly help’d her to an heir.

Desdemona

These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i’ the alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her that’s foul and foolish?

Iago

There’s none so foul and foolish thereunto,

But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do.

Desdemona

O heavy ignorance! thou praisest the worst best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed, one that, in the authority of her merit, did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself?

Iago

She that was ever fair and never proud,

Had tongue at will and yet was never loud,

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,

She that in wisdom never was so frail

To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail;

She that could think and ne’er disclose her mind,

See suitors following and not look behind,

She was a wight, if ever such wight were,—

Desdemona

To do what?

Iago

To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.

Desdemona

O most lame and impotent conclusion! Do not learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy husband. How say you, Cassio? is he not a most profane and liberal counsellor?

Cassio

He speaks home, madam: You may relish him more in the soldier than in the scholar.

Iago

[Aside] He takes her by the palm: ay, well said, whisper: with as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do; I will gyve thee in thine own courtship. You say true; ’tis so, indeed: if such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had been better you had not kissed your three fingers so oft, which now again you are most apt to play the sir in. Very good; well kissed! an excellent courtesy! ’tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers to your lips? would they were clyster-pipes for your sake!

Trumpet within

The Moor! I know his trumpet.

Cassio

’Tis truly so.

Desdemona

Let’s meet him and receive him.

Cassio

Lo, where he comes!

Enter Othello and Attendants

Othello

O my fair warrior!

Desdemona

My dear Othello!

Othello

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,

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,

’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.

Desdemona

The heavens forbid

But that our loves and comforts should increase,

Even as our days do grow!

Othello

Amen to that, sweet powers!

I cannot speak enough of this content;

It stops me here; it is too much of joy:

And this, and this, the greatest discords be

Kissing her

That e’er our hearts shall make!

Iago

[Aside] O, you are well tuned now!

But I’ll set down the pegs that make this music,

As honest as I am.

Othello

Come, let us to the castle.

News, friends; our wars are done, the Turks are drown’d.

How does my old acquaintance of this isle?

Honey, you shall be well desired in Cyprus;

I have found great love amongst them. O my sweet,

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;

He is a good one, and his worthiness

Does challenge much respect. Come, Desdemona,

Once more, well met at Cyprus.

Exeunt Othello, Desdemona, and Attendants

Iago

Do thou meet me presently at the harbour. Come hither. If thou be’st valiant,— as, they say, base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them — list me. The lieutenant tonight watches on the court of guard:— first, I must tell thee this — Desdemona is directly in love with him.

Roderigo

With him! why, ’tis not possible.

Iago

Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed. Mark me with what violence she first loved the Moor, but for bragging and telling her fantastical lies: and will she love him still for prating? let not thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed; and what delight shall she have to look on the devil? When the blood is made dull with the act of sport, there should be, again to inflame it and to give satiety a fresh appetite, loveliness in favour, sympathy in years, manners and beauties; all which the Moor is defective in: now, for want of these required conveniences, her delicate tenderness will find itself abused, begin to heave the gorge, disrelish and abhor the Moor; very nature will instruct her in it and compel her to some second choice. Now, sir, this granted,— as it is a most pregnant and unforced position — who stands so eminent in the degree of this fortune as Cassio does? a knave very voluble; no further conscionable than in putting on the mere form of civil and humane seeming, for the better compassing of his salt and most hidden loose affection? why, none; why, none: a slipper and subtle knave, a finder of occasions, that has an eye can stamp and counterfeit advantages, though true advantage never present itself; a devilish knave. Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and hath all those requisites in him that folly and green minds look after: a pestilent complete knave; and the woman hath found him already.

Roderigo

I cannot believe that in her; she’s full of most blessed condition.

Iago

Blessed fig’s-end! the wine she drinks is made of grapes: if she had been blessed, she would never have loved the Moor. Blessed pudding! Didst thou not see her paddle with the palm of his hand? didst not mark that?

Roderigo

Yes, that I did; but that was but courtesy.

Iago

Lechery, by this hand; an index and obscure prologue to the history of lust and foul thoughts. They met so near with their lips that their breaths embraced together. Villanous thoughts, Roderigo! when these mutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes the master and main exercise, the incorporate conclusion, Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me: I have brought you from Venice. Watch you to-night; for the command, I’ll lay’t upon you. Cassio knows you not. I’ll not be far from you: do you find some occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or tainting his discipline; or from what other course you please, which the time shall more favourably minister.

Roderigo

Well.

Iago

Sir, he is rash and very sudden in choler, and haply may strike at you: provoke him, that he may; for even out of that will I cause these of Cyprus to mutiny; whose qualification shall come into no true taste again but by the displanting of Cassio. So shall you have a shorter journey to your desires by the means I shall then have to prefer them; and the impediment most profitably removed, without the which there were no expectation of our prosperity.

Roderigo

I will do this, if I can bring it to any opportunity.

Iago

I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the citadel:

I must fetch his necessaries ashore. Farewell.

Roderigo

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,

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,

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;

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

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,

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.

For making him egregiously an ass

And practising upon his peace and quiet

Even to madness. ’Tis here, but yet confused:

Knavery’s plain face is never seen tin used.

Exit

SCENE II. A STREET.

Enter a Herald with a proclamation; People following

Herald

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

Othello

Good Michael, look you to the guard to-night:

Let’s teach ourselves that honourable stop,

Not to outsport discretion.

Cassio

Iago hath direction what to do;

But, notwithstanding, with my personal eye

Will I look to’t.

Othello

Iago is most honest.

Michael, good night: to-morrow with your earliest

Let me have speech with you.

To Desdemona

Come, my dear love,

The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue;

That profit’s yet to come ’tween me and you.

Good night.

Exeunt Othello, Desdemona, and Attendants

Enter Iago

Cassio

Welcome, Iago; we must to the watch.

Iago

Not this hour, lieutenant; ’tis not yet ten o’ the clock. Our general cast us thus early for the love of his Desdemona; who let us not therefore blame: he hath not yet made wanton the night with her; and she is sport for Jove.

Cassio

She’s a most exquisite lady.

Iago

And, I’ll warrant her, fun of game.

Cassio

Indeed, she’s a most fresh and delicate creature.

Iago

What an eye she has! methinks it sounds a parley of provocation.

Cassio

An inviting eye; and yet methinks right modest.

Iago

And when she speaks, is it not an alarum to love?

Cassio

She is indeed perfection.

Iago

Well, happiness to their sheets! Come, lieutenant, I have a stoup of wine; and here without are a brace of Cyprus gallants that would fain have a measure to the health of black Othello.

Cassio

Not to-night, good Iago: I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.

Iago

O, they are our friends; but one cup: I’ll drink for you.

Cassio

I have drunk but one cup to-night, and that was craftily qualified too, and, behold, what innovation it makes here: I am unfortunate in the infirmity, and dare not task my weakness with any more.

Iago

What, man! ’tis a night of revels: the gallants desire it.

Cassio

Where are they?

Iago

Here at the door; I pray you, call them in.

Cassio

I’ll do’t; but it dislikes me.

Exit

Iago

If I can fasten but one cup upon him,

With that which he hath drunk to-night already,

He’ll be as full of quarrel and offence

As my young mistress’ dog. Now, my sick fool Roderigo,

Whom love hath turn’d almost the wrong side out,

To Desdemona hath to-night caroused

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 warlike isle,

Have I to-night fluster’d with flowing cups,

And they watch too. Now, ’mongst this flock of drunkards,

Am I to put our Cassio in some action

That may offend the isle.— But here they come:

If consequence do but approve my dream,

My boat sails freely, both with wind and stream.

Re-enter Cassio; with him Montano and Gentlemen; servants following with wine

Cassio

’Fore God, they have given me a rouse already.

Montano

Good faith, a little one; not past a pint, as I am a soldier.

Iago

Some wine, ho!

Sings

And let me the canakin clink, clink;

And let me the canakin clink

A soldier’s a man;

A life’s but a span;

Why, then, let a soldier drink.

Some wine, boys!

Cassio

’Fore God, an excellent song.

Iago

I learned it in England, where, indeed, they are most potent in potting: your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander — Drink, ho!— are nothing to your English.

Cassio

Is your Englishman so expert in his drinking?

Iago

Why, he drinks you, with facility, your Dane dead drunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he gives your Hollander a vomit, ere the next pottle can be filled.

Cassio

To the health of our general!

Montano

I am for it, lieutenant; and I’ll do you justice.

Iago

O sweet England!

King Stephen was a worthy peer,

His breeches cost him but a crown;

He held them sixpence all too dear,

With that he call’d the tailor lown.

He was a wight of high renown,

And thou art but of low degree:

’Tis pride that pulls the country down;

Then take thine auld cloak about thee.

Some wine, ho!

Cassio

Why, this is a more exquisite song than the other.

Iago

Will you hear’t again?

Cassio

No; for I hold him to be unworthy of his place that does those things. Well, God’s above all; and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.

Iago

It’s true, good lieutenant.

Cassio

For mine own part,— no offence to the general, nor any man of quality,— I hope to be saved.

Iago

And so do I too, lieutenant.

Cassio

Ay, but, by your leave, not before me; the lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let’s have no more of this; let’s to our affairs.— Forgive us our sins!— Gentlemen, let’s look to our business. Do not think, gentlemen. I am drunk: this is my ancient; this is my right hand, and this is my left: I am not drunk now; I can stand well enough, and speak well enough.

All

Excellent well.

Cassio

Why, very well then; you must not think then that I am drunk.

Exit

Montano

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 Caesar

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.

On some odd time of his infirmity,

Will shake this island.

Montano

But is he often thus?

Iago

’Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep:

He’ll watch the horologe a double set,

If drink rock not his cradle.

Montano

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,

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

Montano

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:

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

Cassio

You rogue! you rascal!

Montano

What’s the matter, lieutenant?

Cassio

A knave teach me my duty!

I’ll beat the knave into a twiggen bottle.

Roderigo

Beat me!

Cassio

Dost thou prate, rogue?

Striking Roderigo

Montano

Nay, good lieutenant;

Staying him

I pray you, sir, hold your hand.

Cassio

Let me go, sir,

Or I’ll knock you o’er the mazzard.

Montano

Come, come, you’re drunk.

Cassio

Drunk!

They fight

Iago

[Aside to Roderigo] Away, I say; go out, and cry a mutiny.

Exit Roderigo

Nay, good lieutenant,— alas, gentlemen;—

Help, ho!— Lieutenant,— sir,— Montano,— sir;

Help, masters!— Here’s a goodly watch indeed!

Bell rings

Who’s that which rings the bell?— Diablo, ho!

The town will rise: God’s will, lieutenant, hold!

You will be shamed for ever.

Re-enter Othello and Attendants

Othello

What is the matter here?

Montano

’Zounds, I bleed still; I am hurt to the death.

Faints

Othello

Hold, for your lives!

Iago

Hold, ho! Lieutenant,— sir — Montano,— gentlemen,—

Have you forgot all sense of place and duty?

Hold! the general speaks to you; hold, hold, for shame!

Othello

Why, how now, ho! from whence ariseth this?

Are we turn’d Turks, and to ourselves do that

Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites?

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

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.

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 —

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

Those legs that brought me to a part of it!

Othello

How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot?

Cassio

I pray you, pardon me; I cannot speak.

Othello

Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil;

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

And spend your rich opinion for the name

Of a night-brawler? give me answer to it.

Montano

Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger:

Your officer, Iago, can inform you,—

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,

And to defend ourselves it be a sin

When violence assails us.

Othello

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,

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;

And he that is approved 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,

To manage private and domestic quarrel,

In night, and on the court and guard of safety!

’Tis monstrous. Iago, who began’t?

Montano

If partially affined, or leagued in office,

Thou dost deliver more or less than truth,

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;

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 help:

And Cassio following him with determined sword,

To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman

Steps in to Cassio, and entreats his pause:

Myself the crying fellow did pursue,

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

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

When you yourself did part them.

More of this matter cannot I report:

But men are men; the best sometimes forget:

Though Cassio did some little wrong to him,

As men in rage strike those that wish them best,

Yet surely Cassio, I believe, received

From him that fled some strange indignity,

Which patience could not pass.

Othello

I know, Iago,

Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter,

Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee

But never more be officer of mine.

Re-enter Desdemona, attended

Look, if my gentle love be not raised up!

I’ll make thee an example.

Desdemona

What’s the matter?

Othello

All’s well now, sweeting; come away to bed.

Sir, for your hurts, myself will be your surgeon:

Lead him off.

To Montano, who is led off

Iago, look with care about the town,

And silence those whom this vile brawl distracted.

Come, Desdemona: ’tis the soldiers’ life

To have their balmy slumbers waked with strife.

Exeunt all but Iago and Cassio

Iago

What, are you hurt, lieutenant?

Cassio

Ay, past all surgery.

Iago

Marry, heaven forbid!

Cassio

Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!

Iago

As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound; there is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition: oft got without merit, and lost without deserving: you have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man! there are ways to recover the general again: you are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in policy than in malice, even so as one would beat his offenceless dog to affright an imperious lion: sue to him again, and he’s yours.

Cassio

I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot? and squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse fustian with one’s own shadow? O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil!

Iago

What was he that you followed with your sword?

What had he done to you?

Cassio

I know not.

Iago

Is’t possible?

Cassio

I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance revel and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!

Iago

Why, but you are now well enough: how came you thus recovered?

Cassio

It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place to the devil wrath; one unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise myself.

Iago

Come, you are too severe a moraler: as the time, the place, and the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen; but, since it is as it is, mend it for your own good.

Cassio

I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me I am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is unblessed and the ingredient is a devil.

Iago

Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used: exclaim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you.

Cassio

I have well approved it, sir. I drunk!

Iago

You or any man living may be drunk! at a time, man. I’ll tell you what you shall do. Our general’s wife is now the general: may say so in this respect, for that he hath devoted and given up himself to the contemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and graces: confess yourself freely to her; importune her help to put you in your place again: she is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested: this broken joint between you and her husband entreat her to splinter; and, my fortunes against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before.

Cassio

You advise me well.

Iago

I protest, in the sincerity of love and honest kindness.

Cassio

I think it freely; and betimes in the morning I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me: I am desperate of my fortunes if they cheque me here.

Iago

You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant; I must to the watch. Cassio: Good night, honest Iago.

Exit

Iago

And what’s he then that says I play the villain?

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

The inclining Desdemona to subdue

In any honest suit: she’s framed as fruitful

As the free elements. And then for her

To win the Moor — were’t to renounce his baptism,

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

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,

They do suggest at first with heavenly shows,

As I do now: for whiles this honest fool

Plies Desdemona to repair his fortunes

And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor,

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.

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!

Roderigo

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?

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 cashier’d Cassio:

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:

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;

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

Dull not device by coldness and delay.

Exit

ACT III

SCENE I. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

Enter Cassio and some Musicians

Cassio

Masters, play here; I will content your pains;

Something that’s brief; and bid ‘Good morrow, general.’

Music

Enter Clown

Clown

Why masters, have your instruments been in Naples, that they speak i’ the nose thus?

First Musician

How, sir, how!

Clown

Are these, I pray you, wind-instruments?

First Musician

Ay, marry, are they, sir.

Clown

O, thereby hangs a tail.

First Musician

Whereby hangs a tale, sir?

Clown

Marry. sir, by many a wind-instrument that I know. But, masters, here’s money for you: and the general so likes your music, that he desires you, for love’s sake, to make no more noise with it.

First Musician

Well, sir, we will not.

Clown

If you have any music that may not be heard, to’t again: but, as they say to hear music the general does not greatly care.

First Musician

We have none such, sir.

Clown

Then put up your pipes in your bag, for I’ll away: go; vanish into air; away!

Exeunt Musicians

Cassio

Dost thou hear, my honest friend?

Clown

No, I hear not your honest friend; I hear you.

Cassio

Prithee, keep up thy quillets. There’s a poor piece of gold for thee: if the gentlewoman that attends the general’s wife be stirring, tell her there’s one Cassio entreats her a little favour of speech: wilt thou do this?

Clown

She is stirring, sir: if she will stir hither, I shall seem to notify unto her.

Cassio

Do, good my friend.

Exit Clown

Enter Iago

In happy time, Iago.

Iago

You have not been a-bed, then?

Cassio

Why, no; the day had broke

Before we parted. I have made bold, Iago,

To send in to your wife: my suit to her

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.

Cassio

I humbly thank you for’t.

Exit Iago

I never knew

A Florentine more kind and honest.

Enter Emilia

Emilia

Good morrow, good Lieutenant: I am sorry

For your displeasure; but all will sure 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,

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 safest occasion by the front

To bring you in again.

Cassio

Yet, I beseech you,

If you think fit, or that it may be done,

Give me advantage of some brief discourse

With Desdemona alone.

Emilia

Pray you, come in;

I will bestow you where you shall have time

To speak your bosom freely.

Cassio

I am much bound to you.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

Enter Othello, Iago, and Gentlemen

Othello

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.

Othello

This fortification, gentlemen, shall we see’t?

Gentleman

We’ll wait upon your lordship.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE GARDEN OF THE CASTLE.

Enter Desdemona, Cassio, and Emilia

Desdemona

Be thou assured, good Cassio, I will do

All my abilities in thy behalf.

Emilia

Good madam, do: I warrant it grieves my husband,

As if the case were his.

Desdemona

O, that’s an honest fellow. Do not doubt, Cassio,

But I will have my lord and you again

As friendly as you were.

Cassio

Bounteous madam,

Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio,

He’s never any thing but your true servant.

Desdemona

I know’t; I thank you. You do love my lord:

You have known him long; and be you well assured

He shall in strangeness stand no further off

Than in a polite distance.

Cassio

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,

That, I being absent and my place supplied,

My general will forget my love and service.

Desdemona

Do not doubt that; before Emilia here

I give thee warrant of thy place: assure thee,

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;

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.

Emilia

Madam, here comes my lord.

Cassio

Madam, I’ll take my leave.

Desdemona

Why, stay, and hear me speak.

Cassio

Madam, not now: I am very ill at ease,

Unfit for mine own purposes.

Desdemona

Well, do your discretion.

Exit Cassio

Enter Othello and Iago

Iago

Ha! I like not that.

Othello

What dost thou say?

Iago

Nothing, my lord: or if — I know not what.

Othello

Was not that Cassio parted from my wife?

Iago

Cassio, my lord! No, sure, I cannot think it,

That he would steal away so guilty-like,

Seeing you coming.

Othello

I do believe ’twas he.

Desdemona

How now, my lord!

I have been talking with a suitor here,

A man that languishes in your displeasure.

Othello

Who is’t you mean?

Desdemona

Why, your lieutenant, Cassio. Good my lord,

If I have any grace or power to move you,

His present reconciliation take;

For if he be not one that truly loves you,

That errs in ignorance and not in cunning,

I have no judgment in an honest face:

I prithee, call him back.

Othello

Went he hence now?

Desdemona

Ay, sooth; so humbled

That he hath left part of his grief with me,

To suffer with him. Good love, call him back.

Othello

Not now, sweet Desdemona; some other time.

Desdemona

But shall’t be shortly?

Othello

The sooner, sweet, for you.

Desdemona

Shall’t be to-night at supper?

Othello

No, not to-night.

Desdemona

To-morrow dinner, then?

Othello

I shall not dine at home;

I meet the captains at the citadel.

Desdemona

Why, then, to-morrow night; or Tuesday morn;

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

Out of their best — is not almost a fault

To incur a private cheque. When shall he come?

Tell me, Othello: I wonder in my soul,

What you would 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,

Hath ta’en your part; to have so much to do

To bring him in! Trust me, I could do much,—

Othello

Prithee, no more: let him come when he will;

I will deny thee nothing.

Desdemona

Why, this is not a boon;

’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

Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed,

It shall be full of poise and difficult weight

And fearful to be granted.

Othello

I will deny thee nothing:

Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this,

To leave me but a little to myself.

Desdemona

Shall I deny you? no: farewell, my lord.

Othello

Farewell, my Desdemona: I’ll come to thee straight.

Desdemona

Emilia, come. Be as your fancies teach you;

Whate’er you be, I am obedient.

Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia

Othello

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul,

But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,

Chaos is come again.

Iago

My noble lord —

Othello

What dost thou say, Iago?

Iago

Did Michael Cassio, when you woo’d my lady,

Know of your love?

Othello

He did, from first to last: why dost thou ask?

Iago

But for a satisfaction of my thought;

No further harm.

Othello

Why of thy thought, Iago?

Iago

I did not think he had been acquainted with her.

Othello

O, yes; and went between us very oft.

Iago

Indeed!

Othello

Indeed! ay, indeed: discern’st thou aught in that?

Is he not honest?

Iago

Honest, my lord!

Othello

Honest! ay, honest.

Iago

My lord, for aught I know.

Othello

What dost thou think?

Iago

Think, my lord!

Othello

Think, my lord!

By heaven, he echoes me,

As if there were some monster in his thought

Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something:

I heard thee say even now, thou likedst 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!’

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.

Iago

My lord, you know I love you.

Othello

I think thou dost;

And, for I know thou’rt full of love and honesty,

And weigh’st thy words before thou givest them breath,

Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more:

For such things in a false disloyal knave

Are tricks of custom, but in a man that’s just

They are close delations, working from the heart

That passion cannot rule.

Iago

For Michael Cassio,

I dare be sworn I think that he is honest.

Othello

I think so too.

Iago

Men should be what they seem;

Or those that be not, would they might seem none!

Othello

Certain, men should be what they seem.

Iago

Why, then, I think Cassio’s an honest man.

Othello

Nay, yet there’s more in this:

I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings,

As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts

The worst of words.

Iago

Good my lord, pardon me:

Though I am bound to every act of duty,

I am not bound to that all slaves are free to.

Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false;

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

With meditations lawful?

Othello

Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago,

If thou but think’st him wrong’d and makest his ear

A stranger to thy thoughts.

Iago

I do beseech you —

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,

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,

Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom,

To let you know my thoughts.

Othello

What dost thou mean?

Iago

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,

Is the immediate jewel of their souls:

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

And makes me poor indeed.

Othello

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.

Othello

Ha!

Iago

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;

It is the green-eyed 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

Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!

Othello

O misery!

Iago

Poor and content is rich and rich enough,

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!

Othello

Why, why is this?

Think’st thou I’ld make a lie 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

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,

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;

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!

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.

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 abused; look to’t:

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.

Othello

Dost thou say so?

Iago

She did deceive her father, marrying you;

And when she seem’d to shake and fear your looks,

She loved them most.

Othello

And so she did.

Iago

Why, go to then;

She that, so young, could give out such a seeming,

To seal 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

For too much loving you.

Othello

I am bound to thee for ever.

Iago

I see this hath a little dash’d your spirits.

Othello

Not a jot, not a jot.

Iago

I’ faith, I fear it has.

I hope you will consider what is spoke

Comes from my love. But I do see you’re moved:

I am to pray you not to strain my speech

To grosser issues nor to larger reach

Than to suspicion.

Othello

I will not.

Iago

Should you do so, my lord,

My speech should fall into such vile success

As my thoughts aim not at. Cassio’s my worthy friend —

My lord, I see you’re moved.

Othello

No, not much moved:

I do not think but Desdemona’s honest.

Iago

Long live she so! and long live you to think so!

Othello

And yet, how nature erring from itself,—

Iago

Ay, there’s the point: as — to be bold with you —

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.

But pardon me; I do not in position

Distinctly speak of her; though I may fear

Her will, recoiling to her better judgment,

May fall to match you with her country forms

And happily repent.

Othello

Farewell, farewell:

If more thou dost perceive, let me know more;

Set on thy wife to observe: leave me, Iago:

Iago

[Going] My lord, I take my leave.

Othello

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

To scan this thing no further; leave it to time:

Though it be fit that Cassio have his place,

For sure, he fills it up with great ability,

Yet, if you please to hold him off awhile,

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,

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.

Othello

Fear not my government.

Iago

I once more take my leave.

Exit

Othello

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,

I’ld whistle her off and let her down the wind,

To pray at fortune. Haply, for I am black

And have not those soft parts of conversation

That chamberers have, or for I am declined

Into the vale of years,— yet that’s not much —

She’s gone. I am abused; and my relief

Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage,

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

For others’ uses. Yet, ’tis the plague of great ones;

Prerogatived are they less than the base;

’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death:

Even then this forked plague is fated to us

When we do quicken. Desdemona comes:

Re-enter Desdemona and Emilia

If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself!

I’ll not believe’t.

Desdemona

How now, my dear Othello!

Your dinner, and the generous islanders

By you invited, do attend your presence.

Othello

I am to blame.

Desdemona

Why do you speak so faintly?

Are you not well?

Othello

I have a pain upon my forehead here.

Desdemona

’Faith, that’s with watching; ’twill away again:

Let me but bind it hard, within this hour

It will be well.

Othello

Your napkin is too little:

He puts the handkerchief from him; and it drops

Let it alone. Come, I’ll go in with you.

Desdemona

I am very sorry that you are not well.

Exeunt Othello and Desdemona

Emilia

I am glad I have found this napkin:

This was her first remembrance from the Moor:

My wayward husband hath a hundred times

Woo’d me to steal it; but she so loves the token,

For he conjured 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: what he will do with it

Heaven knows, not I;

I nothing but to please his fantasy.

Re-enter Iago

Iago

How now! what do you here alone?

Emilia

Do not you chide; I have a thing for you.

Iago

A thing for me? it is a common thing —

Emilia

Ha!

Iago

To have a foolish wife.

Emilia

O, is that all? What will you give me now

For the same handkerchief?

Iago

What handkerchief?

Emilia

What handkerchief?

Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona;

That which so often you did bid me steal.

Iago

Hast stol’n it from her?

Emilia

No, ’faith; she let it drop by negligence.

And, to the advantage, I, being here, took’t up.

Look, here it is.

Iago

A good wench; give it me.

Emilia

What will you do with ’t, that you have been so earnest To have me filch it?

Iago

[Snatching it] Why, what’s that to you?

Emilia

If it be not for some purpose of import,

Give’t me again: poor lady, she’ll run mad

When she shall lack it.

Iago

Be not acknown on ’t; I have use for it.

Go, leave me.

Exit Emilia

I will in Cassio’s lodging lose this napkin,

And let him find it. Trifles light as air

Are to the jealous confirmations strong

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.

Burn like the mines of Sulphur. I did say so:

Look, where he comes!

Re-enter Othello

Not poppy, nor mandragora,

Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,

Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep

Which thou owedst yesterday.

Othello

Ha! ha! false to me?

Iago

Why, how now, general! no more of that.

Othello

Avaunt! be gone! thou hast set me on the rack:

I swear ’tis better to be much abused

Than but to know’t a little.

Iago

How now, my lord!

Othello

What sense had I of her stol’n hours of lust?

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.

Othello

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

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,

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 dead clamours counterfeit,

Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone!

Iago

Is’t possible, my lord?

Othello

Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore,

Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof:

Or by the worth of man’s eternal soul,

Thou hadst been better have been born a dog

Than answer my waked wrath!

Iago

Is’t come to this?

Othello

Make me to see’t; or, at the least, so prove it,

That the probation bear no hinge nor loop

To hang a doubt on; or woe upon thy life!

Iago

My noble lord,—

Othello

If thou dost slander her and torture me,

Never pray more; abandon all remorse;

On horror’s head horrors accumulate;

Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amazed;

For nothing canst thou to damnation add

Greater than that.

Iago

O grace! O heaven forgive me!

Are you a man? have you a soul or sense?

God be wi’ you; take mine office. O wretched fool.

That livest 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

I’ll love no friend, sith love breeds such offence.

Othello

Nay, stay: thou shouldst be honest.

Iago

I should be wise, for honesty’s a fool

And loses that it works for.

Othello

By the world,

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 begrimed and black

As mine own face. If there be cords, or knives,

Poison, or fire, or suffocating streams,

I’ll not endure it. Would I were satisfied!

Iago

I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion:

I do repent me that I put it to you.

You would be satisfied?

Othello

Would! nay, I will.

Iago

And may: but, how? how satisfied, my lord?

Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on —

Behold her topp’d?

Othello

Death and damnation! O!

Iago

It were a tedious difficulty, I think,

To bring them to that prospect: damn them then,

If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster

More than their own! What then? how then?

What shall I say? Where’s satisfaction?

It is impossible you should see this,

Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys,

As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross

As ignorance made drunk. But yet, I say,

If imputation and strong circumstances,

Which lead directly to the door of truth,

Will give you satisfaction, you may have’t.

Othello

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,

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.

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,

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

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!’

Othello

O monstrous! monstrous!

Iago

Nay, this was but his dream.

Othello

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.

Othello

I’ll tear her all to pieces.

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?

Othello

I gave her such a one; ’twas my first gift.

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.

Othello

If it be that —

Iago

If it be that, or any that was hers,

It speaks against her with the other proofs.

Othello

O, that the slave had forty thousand lives!

One is too poor, too weak for my revenge.

Now do I see ’tis true. Look here, Iago;

All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven.

’Tis gone.

Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell!

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.

Othello

O, blood, blood, blood!

Iago

Patience, I say; your mind perhaps may change.

Othello

Never, Iago: Like to the Pontic sea,

Whose icy current and compulsive course

Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on

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

Swallow them up. Now, by yond marble heaven,

Kneels

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,

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,

And to obey shall be in me remorse,

What bloody business ever.

They rise

Othello

I greet thy love,

Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous,

And will upon the instant put thee to’t:

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.

Othello

Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her!

Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw,

To furnish me with some swift means of death

For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant.

Iago

I am your own for ever.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

Enter Desdemona, Emilia, and Clown

Desdemona

Do you know, sirrah, where Lieutenant Cassio lies?

Clown

I dare not say he lies any where.

Desdemona

Why, man?

Clown

He’s a soldier, and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing.

Desdemona

Go to: where lodges he?

Clown

To tell you where he lodges, is to tell you where I lie.

Desdemona

Can any thing be made of this?

Clown

I know not where he lodges, and for me to devise a lodging and say he lies here or he lies there, were to lie in mine own throat.

Desdemona

Can you inquire him out, and be edified by report?

Clown

I will catechise the world for him; that is, make questions, and by them answer.

Desdemona

Seek him, bid him come hither: tell him I have moved my lord on his behalf, and hope all will be well.

Clown

To do this is within the compass of man’s wit: and therefore I will attempt the doing it.

Exit

Desdemona

Where should I lose that handkerchief, Emilia?

Emilia

I know not, madam.

Desdemona

Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse

Full of crusadoes: and, but my noble Moor

Is true of mind and made of no such baseness

As jealous creatures are, it were enough

To put him to ill thinking.

Emilia

Is he not jealous?

Desdemona

Who, he? I think the sun where he was born

Drew all such humours from him.

Emilia

Look, where he comes.

Desdemona

I will not leave him now till Cassio

Be call’d to him.

Enter Othello

How is’t with you, my lord

Othello

Well, my good lady.

Aside

O, hardness to dissemble!—

How do you, Desdemona?

Desdemona

Well, my good lord.

Othello

Give me your hand: this hand is moist, my lady.

Desdemona

It yet hath felt no age nor known no sorrow.

Othello

This argues fruitfulness and liberal heart:

Hot, hot, and moist: this hand of yours requires

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,

A frank one.

Desdemona

You may, indeed, say so;

For ’twas that hand that gave away my heart.

Othello

A liberal hand: the hearts of old gave hands;

But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts.

Desdemona

I cannot speak of this. Come now, your promise.

Othello

What promise, chuck?

Desdemona

I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you.

Othello

I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me;

Lend me thy handkerchief.

Desdemona

Here, my lord.

Othello

That which I gave you.

Desdemona

I have it not about me.

Othello

Not?

Desdemona

No, indeed, my lord.

Othello

That is a fault.

That handkerchief

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

Entirely to her love, but if she lost it

Or made gift of it, my father’s eye

Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt

After new fancies: she, dying, gave it me;

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

As nothing else could match.

Desdemona

Is’t possible?

Othello

’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,

In her prophetic fury sew’d the work;

The worms were hallow’d that did breed the silk;

And it was dyed in mummy which the skilful

Conserved of maidens’ hearts.

Desdemona

Indeed! is’t true?

Othello

Most veritable; therefore look to’t well.

Desdemona

Then would to God that I had never seen’t!

Othello

Ha! wherefore?

Desdemona

Why do you speak so startingly and rash?

Othello

Is’t lost? is’t gone? speak, is it out o’ the way?

Desdemona

Heaven bless us!

Othello

Say you?

Desdemona

It is not lost; but what an if it were?

Othello

How!

Desdemona

I say, it is not lost.

Othello

Fetch’t, let me see’t.

Desdemona

Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now.

This is a trick to put me from my suit:

Pray you, let Cassio be received again.

Othello

Fetch me the handkerchief: my mind misgives.

Desdemona

Come, come;

You’ll never meet a more sufficient man.

Othello

The handkerchief!

Desdemona

I pray, talk me of Cassio.

Othello

The handkerchief!

Desdemona

A man that all his time

Hath founded his good fortunes on your love,

Shared dangers with you,—

Othello

The handkerchief!

Desdemona

In sooth, you are to blame.

Othello

Away!

Exit

Emilia

Is not this man jealous?

Desdemona

I ne’er saw this before.

Sure, there’s some wonder in this handkerchief:

I am most unhappy in the loss of it.

Emilia

’Tis not a year or two shows us a man:

They are all but stomachs, and we all but food;

To eat us hungerly, and when they are full,

They belch us. Look you, Cassio and my husband!

Enter Cassio and Iago

Iago

There is no other way; ’tis she must do’t:

And, lo, the happiness! go, and importune her.

Desdemona

How now, good Cassio! what’s the news with you?

Cassio

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

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 purposed merit in futurity,

Can ransom me into his love again,

But to know so must be my benefit;

So shall I clothe me in a forced content,

And shut myself up in some other course,

To fortune’s alms.

Desdemona

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.

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:

What I can do I will; and more I will

Than for myself I dare: let that suffice you.

Iago

Is my lord angry?

Emilia

He went hence but now,

And certainly in strange unquietness.

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

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.

Desdemona

I prithee, do so.

Exit Iago

Something, sure, of state,

Either from Venice, or some unhatch’d practise

Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him,

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

Our other healthful members even to that sense

Of pain: nay, we must think men are not gods,

Nor of them look for such observances

As fit 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,

And he’s indicted falsely.

Emilia

Pray heaven it be state-matters, as you think,

And no conception nor no jealous toy

Concerning you.

Desdemona

Alas the day! I never gave him cause.

Emilia

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.

Desdemona

Heaven keep that monster from Othello’s mind!

Emilia

Lady, amen.

Desdemona

I will go seek him. Cassio, walk hereabout:

If I do find him fit, I’ll move your suit

And seek to effect it to my uttermost.

Cassio

I humbly thank your ladyship.

Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia

Enter Bianca

Bianca

Save you, friend Cassio!

Cassio

What make you from home?

How is it with you, my most fair Bianca?

I’ faith, sweet love, I was coming to your house.

Bianca

And I was going to your lodging, Cassio.

What, keep a week away? seven days and nights?

Eight score eight hours? and lovers’ absent hours,

More tedious than the dial eight score times?

O weary reckoning!

Cassio

Pardon me, Bianca:

I have this while with leaden thoughts been press’d:

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.

Bianca

O Cassio, whence came this?

This is some token from a newer friend:

To the felt absence now I feel a cause:

Is’t come to this? Well, well.

Cassio

Go to, woman!

Throw your vile guesses in the devil’s teeth,

From whence you have them. You are jealous now

That this is from some mistress, some remembrance:

No, in good troth, Bianca.

Bianca

Why, whose is it?

Cassio

I know not, sweet: I found it in my chamber.

I like the work well: ere it be demanded —

As like enough it will — I’ld have it copied:

Take it, and do’t; and leave me for this time.

Bianca

Leave you! wherefore?

Cassio

I do attend here on the general;

And think it no addition, nor my wish,

To have him see me woman’d.

Bianca

Why, I pray you?

Cassio

Not that I love you not.

Bianca

But that you do not love me.

I pray you, bring me on the way a little,

And say if I shall see you soon at night.

Cassio

’Tis but a little way that I can bring you;

For I attend here: but I’ll see you soon.

Bianca

’Tis very good; I must be circumstanced.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. CYPRUS. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

Enter Othello and Iago

Iago

Will you think so?

Othello

Think so, Iago!

Iago

What,

To kiss in private?

Othello

An unauthorized kiss.

Iago

Or to be naked with her friend in bed

An hour or more, not meaning any harm?

Othello

Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm!

It is hypocrisy against the devil:

They that mean virtuously, and yet do so,

The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt heaven.

Iago

So they do nothing, ’tis a venial slip:

But if I give my wife a handkerchief,—

Othello

What then?

Iago

Why, then, ’tis hers, my lord; and, being hers,

She may, I think, bestow’t on any man.

Othello

She is protectress of her honour too:

May she give that?

Iago

Her honour is an essence that’s not seen;

They have it very oft that have it not:

But, for the handkerchief,—

Othello

By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it.

Thou said’st, it comes o’er my memory,

As doth the raven o’er the infected house,

Boding to all — he had my handkerchief.

Iago

Ay, what of that?

Othello

That’s not so good now.

Iago

What,

If I had said I had seen him do you wrong?

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

But they must blab —

Othello

Hath he said any thing?

Iago

He hath, my lord; but be you well assured,

No more than he’ll unswear.

Othello

What hath he said?

Iago

’Faith, that he did — I know not what he did.

Othello

What? what?

Iago

Lie —

Othello

With her?

Iago

With her, on her; what you will.

Othello

Lie with her! lie on her! We say lie on her, when they belie her. Lie with her! that’s fulsome. — Handkerchief — confessions — handkerchief!— To confess, and be hanged for his labour;— first, to be hanged, and then to confess.— I tremble at it. Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing passion without some instruction. It is not words that shake me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips. — Is’t possible?— Confess — handkerchief!— O devil!—

Falls in a trance

Iago

Work on,

My medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are caught;

And many worthy and chaste dames even thus,

All guiltless, meet reproach. What, ho! my lord!

My lord, I say! Othello!

Enter Cassio

How now, Cassio!

Cassio

What’s the matter?

Iago

My lord is fall’n into an epilepsy:

This is his second fit; he had one yesterday.

Cassio

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,

He will recover straight: when he is gone,

I would on great occasion speak with you.

Exit Cassio

How is it, general? have you not hurt your head?

Othello

Dost thou mock me?

Iago

I mock you! no, by heaven.

Would you would bear your fortune like a man!

Othello

A horned man’s a monster and a beast.

Iago

There’s many a beast then in a populous city,

And many a civil monster.

Othello

Did he confess it?

Iago

Good sir, be a man;

Think every bearded fellow that’s but yoked

May draw with you: there’s millions now alive

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,

And to suppose her chaste! No, let me know;

And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be.

Othello

O, thou art wise; ’tis certain.

Iago

Stand you awhile apart;

Confine yourself but in a patient list.

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,

Bade him anon return and here speak with me;

The which he promised. Do but encave yourself,

And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns,

That dwell in every region of his face;

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,

And nothing of a man.

Othello

Dost thou hear, Iago?

I will be found most cunning in my patience;

But — dost thou hear?— most bloody.

Iago

That’s not amiss;

But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw?

Othello retires

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

To beguile many and be beguiled 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;

And his unbookish jealousy must construe

Poor Cassio’s smiles, gestures and light behavior,

Quite in the wrong. How do you now, lieutenant?

Cassio

The worser that you give me the addition

Whose want even kills me.

Iago

Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on’t.

Speaking lower

Now, if this suit lay in Bianco’s power,

How quickly should you speed!

Cassio

Alas, poor caitiff!

Othello

Look, how he laughs already!

Iago

I never knew woman love man so.

Cassio

Alas, poor rogue! I think, i’ faith, she loves me.

Othello

Now he denies it faintly, and laughs it out.

Iago

Do you hear, Cassio?

Othello

Now he importunes him

To tell it o’er: go to; well said, well said.

Iago

She gives it out that you shall marry hey:

Do you intend it?

Cassio

Ha, ha, ha!

Othello

Do you triumph, Roman? do you triumph?

Cassio

I marry her! what? a customer! Prithee, bear some charity to my wit: do not think it so unwholesome. Ha, ha, ha!

Othello

So, so, so, so: they laugh that win.

Iago

’Faith, the cry goes that you shall marry her.

Cassio

Prithee, say true.

Iago

I am a very villain else.

Othello

Have you scored me? Well.

Cassio

This is the monkey’s own giving out: she is persuaded I will marry her, out of her own love and flattery, not out of my promise.

Othello

Iago beckons me; now he begins the story.

Cassio

She was here even now; she haunts me in every place. I was the other day talking on the sea-bank with certain Venetians; and thither comes the bauble, and, by this hand, she falls me thus about my neck —

Othello

Crying ‘O dear Cassio!’ as it were: his gesture imports it.

Cassio

So hangs, and lolls, and weeps upon me; so hales, and pulls me: ha, ha, ha!

Othello

Now he tells how she plucked him to my chamber. O, I see that nose of yours, but not that dog I shall throw it to.

Cassio

Well, I must leave her company.

Iago

Before me! look, where she comes.

Cassio

’Tis such another fitchew! marry a perfumed one.

Enter Bianca

What do you mean by this haunting of me?

Bianca

Let the devil and his dam haunt you! What did you mean by that same handkerchief you gave me even now? I was a fine fool to take it. I must take out the work?— A likely piece of work, that you should find it in your chamber, and not know who left it there! This is some minx’s token, and I must take out the work? There; give it your hobby-horse: wheresoever you had it, I’ll take out no work on’t.

Cassio

How now, my sweet Bianca! how now! how now!

Othello

By heaven, that should be my handkerchief!

Bianca

An you’ll come to supper to-night, you may; an you will not, come when you are next prepared for.

Exit

Iago

After her, after her.

Cassio

’Faith, I must; she’ll rail in the street else.

Iago

Will you sup there?

Cassio

’Faith, I intend so.

Iago

Well, I may chance to see you; for I would very fain speak with you.

Cassio

Prithee, come; will you?

Iago

Go to; say no more.

Exit Cassio

Othello

[Advancing] How shall I murder him, Iago?

Iago

Did you perceive how he laughed at his vice?

Othello

O Iago!

Iago

And did you see the handkerchief?

Othello

Was that mine?

Iago

Yours by this hand: and to see how he prizes the foolish woman your wife! she gave it him, and he hath given it his whore.

Othello

I would have him nine years a-killing.

A fine woman! a fair woman! a sweet woman!

Iago

Nay, you must forget that.

Othello

Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned to-night; for she shall not live: no, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. O, the world hath not a sweeter creature: she might lie by an emperor’s side and command him tasks.

Iago

Nay, that’s not your way.

Othello

Hang her! I do but say what she is: so delicate with her needle: an admirable musician: O! she will sing the savageness out of a bear: of so high and plenteous wit and invention:—

Iago

She’s the worse for all this.

Othello

O, a thousand thousand times: and then, of so gentle a condition!

Iago

Ay, too gentle.

Othello

Nay, that’s certain: but yet the pity of it, Iago!

O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!

Iago

If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her patent to offend; for, if it touch not you, it comes near nobody.

Othello

I will chop her into messes: cuckold me!

Iago

O, ’tis foul in her.

Othello

With mine officer!

Iago

That’s fouler.

Othello

Get me some poison, Iago; this night: I’ll not expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty unprovide my mind again: this night, Iago.

Iago

Do it not with poison, strangle her in her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated.

Othello

Good, good: the justice of it pleases: very good.

Iago

And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker: you shall hear more by midnight.

Othello

Excellent good.

A trumpet within

What trumpet is that same?

Iago

Something from Venice, sure. ’Tis Lodovico

Come from the duke: and, see, your wife is with him.

Enter Lodovico, Desdemona, and Attendants

Lodovico

Save you, worthy general!

Othello

With all my heart, sir.

Lodovico

The duke and senators of Venice greet you.

Gives him a letter

Othello

I kiss the instrument of their pleasures.

Opens the letter, and reads

Desdemona

And what’s the news, good cousin Lodovico?

Iago

I am very glad to see you, signior

Welcome to Cyprus.

Lodovico

I thank you. How does Lieutenant Cassio?

Iago

Lives, sir.

Desdemona

Cousin, there’s fall’n between him and my lord

An unkind breach: but you shall make all well.

Othello

Are you sure of that?

Desdemona

My lord?

Othello

[Reads] ‘This fail you not to do, as you will —’

Lodovico

He did not call; he’s busy in the paper.

Is there division ’twixt my lord and Cassio?

Desdemona

A most unhappy one: I would do much

To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio.

Othello

Fire and brimstone!

Desdemona

My lord?

Othello

Are you wise?

Desdemona

What, is he angry?

Lodovico

May be the letter moved him;

For, as I think, they do command him home,

Deputing Cassio in his government.

Desdemona

Trust me, I am glad on’t.

Othello

Indeed!

Desdemona

My lord?

Othello

I am glad to see you mad.

Desdemona

Why, sweet Othello,—

Othello

[Striking her] Devil!

Desdemona

I have not deserved this.

Lodovico

My lord, this would not be believed in Venice,

Though I should swear I saw’t: ’tis very much:

Make her amends; she weeps.

Othello

O devil, devil!

If that the earth could teem with woman’s tears,

Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.

Out of my sight!

Desdemona

I will not stay to offend you.

Going

Lodovico

Truly, an obedient lady:

I do beseech your lordship, call her back.

Othello

Mistress!

Desdemona

My lord?

Othello

What would you with her, sir?

Lodovico

Who, I, my lord?

Othello

Ay; you did wish that I would make her turn:

Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on,

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;

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, tonight,

I do entreat that we may sup together:

You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus.— Goats and monkeys!

Exit

Lodovico

Is this the noble Moor whom our full senate

Call all in all sufficient? Is this the nature

Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue

The shot of accident, nor dart of chance,

Could neither graze nor pierce?

Iago

He is much changed.

Lodovico

Are his wits safe? is he not light of brain?

Iago

He’s that he is: I may not breathe my censure

What he might be: if what he might he is not,

I would to heaven he were!

Lodovico

What, strike his wife!

Iago

’Faith, that was not so well; yet would I knew

That stroke would prove the worst!

Lodovico

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

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.

Lodovico

I am sorry that I am deceived in him.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

Enter Othello and Emilia

Othello

You have seen nothing then?

Emilia

Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect.

Othello

Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together.

Emilia

But then I saw no harm, and then I heard

Each syllable that breath made up between them.

Othello

What, did they never whisper?

Emilia

Never, my lord.

Othello

Nor send you out o’ the way?

Emilia

Never.

Othello

To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing?

Emilia

Never, my lord.

Othello

That’s strange.

Emilia

I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest,

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,

There’s no man happy; the purest of their wives

Is foul as slander.

Othello

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,

A closet lock and key of villanous secrets

And yet she’ll kneel and pray; I have seen her do’t.

Enter Desdemona with Emilia

Desdemona

My lord, what is your will?

Othello

Pray, chuck, come hither.

Desdemona

What is your pleasure?

Othello

Let me see your eyes;

Look in my face.

Desdemona

What horrible fancy’s this?

Othello

[To Emilia] Some of your function, mistress;

Leave procreants alone and shut the door;

Cough, or cry ‘hem,’ if any body come:

Your mystery, your mystery: nay, dispatch.

Exit Emilia

Desdemona

Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?

I understand a fury in your words.

But not the words.

Othello

Why, what art thou?

Desdemona

Your wife, my lord; your true

And loyal wife.

Othello

Come, swear it, damn thyself

Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves

Should fear to seize thee: therefore be double damn’d:

Swear thou art honest.

Desdemona

Heaven doth truly know it.

Othello

Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.

Desdemona

To whom, my lord? with whom? how am I false?

Othello

O Desdemona! away! away! away!

Desdemona

Alas the heavy day! Why do you weep?

Am I the motive of these tears, my lord?

If haply you my father do suspect

An instrument of this your calling back,

Lay not your blame on me: If you have lost him,

Why, I have lost him too.

Othello

Had it pleased heaven

To try me with affliction; had they rain’d

All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head.

Steep’d me in poverty to the very lips,

Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes,

I should have found in some place of my soul

A drop of patience: but, alas, to make me

A fixed figure for the time of scorn

To point his slow unmoving 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;

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

To knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion there,

Patience, thou young and rose-lipp’d cherubin,—

Ay, there, look grim as hell!

Desdemona

I hope my noble lord esteems me honest.

Othello

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!

Desdemona

Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed?

Othello

Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,

Made to write ‘whore’ upon? What committed!

Committed! O thou public commoner!

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

Is hush’d within the hollow mine of earth,

And will not hear it. What committed!

Impudent strumpet!

Desdemona

By heaven, you do me wrong.

Othello

Are you not a strumpet?

Desdemona

No, as I am a Christian:

If to preserve this vessel for my lord

From any other foul unlawful touch

Be not to be a strumpet, I am none.

Othello

What, not a whore?

Desdemona

No, as I shall be saved.

Othello

Is’t possible?

Desdemona

O, heaven forgive us!

Othello

I cry you mercy, then:

I took you for that cunning whore of Venice

That married with Othello.

Raising his voice

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:

I pray you, turn the key and keep our counsel.

Exit

Emilia

Alas, what does this gentleman conceive?

How do you, madam? how do you, my good lady?

Desdemona

’Faith, half asleep.

Emilia

Good madam, what’s the matter with my lord?

Desdemona

With who?

Emilia

Why, with my lord, madam.

Desdemona

Who is thy lord?

Emilia

He that is yours, sweet lady.

Desdemona

I have none: do not talk to me, Emilia;

I cannot weep; nor answer have I none,

But what should go by water. Prithee, tonight

Lay on my bed my wedding sheets: remember;

And call thy husband hither.

Emilia

Here’s a change indeed!

Exit

Desdemona

’Tis meet I should be used so, very meet.

How have I been behaved, that he might stick

The small’st opinion on my least misuse?

Re-enter Emilia with Iago

Iago

What is your pleasure, madam?

How is’t with you?

Desdemona

I cannot tell. Those that do teach young babes

Do it with gentle means and easy tasks:

He might have chid me so; for, in good faith,

I am a child to chiding.

Iago

What’s the matter, lady?

Emilia

Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhored her.

Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her,

As true hearts cannot bear.

Desdemona

Am I that name, Iago?

Iago

What name, fair lady?

Desdemona

Such as she says my lord did say I was.

Emilia

He call’d her whore: a beggar in his drink

Could not have laid such terms upon his callat.

Iago

Why did he so?

Desdemona

I do not know; I am sure I am none such.

Iago

Do not weep, do not weep. Alas the day!

Emilia

Hath she forsook so many noble matches,

Her father and her country and her friends,

To be call’d whore? would it not make one weep?

Desdemona

It is my wretched fortune.

Iago

Beshrew him for’t!

How comes this trick upon him?

Desdemona

Nay, heaven doth know.

Emilia

I will be hang’d, if some eternal villain,

Some busy and insinuating rogue,

Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office,

Have not devised this slander; I’ll be hang’d else.

Iago

Fie, there is no such man; it is impossible.

Desdemona

If any such there be, heaven pardon him!

Emilia

A halter pardon him! and hell gnaw his bones!

Why should he call her whore? who keeps her company?

What place? what time? what form? what likelihood?

The Moor’s abused by some most villanous knave,

Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow.

O heaven, that such companions thou’ldst unfold,

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.

Emilia

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.

Desdemona

O good Iago,

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,

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.

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,

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:

The business of the state does him offence,

And he does chide with you.

Desdemona

If ’twere no other —

Iago

’Tis but so, I warrant.

Trumpets within

Hark, how these instruments summon to supper!

The messengers of Venice stay the meat;

Go in, and weep not; all things shall be well.

Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia

Enter Roderigo

How now, Roderigo!

Roderigo

I do not find that thou dealest justly with me.

Iago

What in the contrary?

Roderigo

Every day thou daffest me with some device, Iago; and rather, as it seems to me now, keepest from me all conveniency than suppliest me with the least advantage of hope. I will indeed no longer endure it, nor am I yet persuaded to put up in peace what already I have foolishly suffered.

Iago

Will you hear me, Roderigo?

Roderigo

’Faith, I have heard too much, for your words and performances are no kin together.

Iago

You charge me most unjustly.

Roderigo

With nought but truth. I have wasted myself out of my means. The jewels you have had from me to deliver to Desdemona would half have corrupted a votarist: you have told me she hath received them and returned me expectations and comforts of sudden respect and acquaintance, but I find none.

Iago

Well; go to; very well.

Roderigo

Very well! go to! I cannot go to, man; nor ’tis not very well: nay, I think it is scurvy, and begin to find myself fobbed in it.

Iago

Very well.

Roderigo

I tell you ’tis not very well. I will make myself known to Desdemona: if she will return me my jewels, I will give over my suit and repent my unlawful solicitation; if not, assure yourself I will seek satisfaction of you.

Iago

You have said now.

Roderigo

Ay, and said nothing but what I protest intendment of doing.

Iago

Why, now I see there’s mettle in thee, and even from this instant to build on thee a better opinion than ever before. Give me thy hand, Roderigo: thou hast taken against me a most just exception; but yet, I protest, I have dealt most directly in thy affair.

Roderigo

It hath not appeared.

Iago

I grant indeed it hath not appeared, and your suspicion is not without wit and judgment. But, Roderigo, if thou hast that in thee indeed, which I have greater reason to believe now than ever, I mean purpose, courage and valour, this night show it: if thou the next night following enjoy not Desdemona, take me from this world with treachery and devise engines for my life.

Roderigo

Well, what is it? is it within reason and compass?

Iago

Sir, there is especial commission come from Venice to depute Cassio in Othello’s place.

Roderigo

Is that true? why, then Othello and Desdemona return again to Venice.

Iago

O, no; he goes into Mauritania and takes away with him the fair Desdemona, unless his abode be lingered here by some accident: wherein none can be so determinate as the removing of Cassio.

Roderigo

How do you mean, removing of him?

Iago

Why, by making him uncapable of Othello’s place; knocking out his brains.

Roderigo

And that you would have me to do?

Iago

Ay, if you dare do yourself a profit and a right. He sups to-night with a harlotry, and thither will I go to him: he knows not yet of his horrorable fortune. If you will watch his going thence, which I will fashion to fall out between twelve and one, you may take him at your pleasure: I will be near to second your attempt, and he shall fall between us. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along with me; I will show you such a necessity in his death that you shall think yourself bound to put it on him. It is now high suppertime, and the night grows to waste: about it.

Roderigo

I will hear further reason for this.

Iago

And you shall be satisfied.

Exeunt

SCENE III. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

Enter Othello, Lodovico, Desdemona, Emilia and Attendants

Lodovico

I do beseech you, sir, trouble yourself no further.

Othello

O, pardon me: ’twill do me good to walk.

Lodovico

Madam, good night; I humbly thank your ladyship.

Desdemona

Your honour is most welcome.

Othello

Will you walk, sir?

O,— Desdemona,—

Desdemona

My lord?

Othello

Get you to bed on the instant; I will be returned forthwith: dismiss your attendant there: look it be done.

Desdemona

I will, my lord.

Exeunt Othello, Lodovico, and Attendants

Emilia

How goes it now? he looks gentler than he did.

Desdemona

He says he will return incontinent:

He hath commanded me to go to bed,

And bade me to dismiss you.

Emilia

Dismiss me!

Desdemona

It was his bidding: therefore, good Emilia,.

Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu:

We must not now displease him.

Emilia

I would you had never seen him!

Desdemona

So would not I my love doth so approve him,

That even his stubbornness, his cheques, his frowns —

Prithee, unpin me,— have grace and favour in them.

Emilia

I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed.

Desdemona

All’s one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds!

If I do die before thee prithee, shroud me

In one of those same sheets.

Emilia

Come, come you talk.

Desdemona

My mother had a maid call’d Barbara:

She was in love, and he she loved proved mad

And did forsake her: she had a song of ‘willow;’

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,

And sing it like poor Barbara. Prithee, dispatch.

Emilia

Shall I go fetch your night-gown?

Desdemona

No, unpin me here.

This Lodovico is a proper man.

Emilia

A very handsome man.

Desdemona

He speaks well.

Emilia

I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip.

Desdemona

[Singing] 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:

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:—

Singing

Sing willow, willow, willow;

Prithee, hie thee; he’ll come anon:—

Singing

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’t that knocks?

Emilia

It’s the wind.

Desdemona

[Singing] I call’d my love false love; but what said he then?

Sing willow, willow, willow:

If I court moe women, you’ll couch with moe men!

So, get thee gone; good night Ate eyes do itch;

Doth that bode weeping?

Emilia

’Tis neither here nor there.

Desdemona

I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men!

Dost thou in conscience think,— tell me, Emilia,—

That there be women do abuse their husbands

In such gross kind?

Emilia

There be some such, no question.

Desdemona

Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?

Emilia

Why, would not you?

Desdemona

No, by this heavenly light!

Emilia

Nor I neither by this heavenly light;

I might do’t as well i’ the dark.

Desdemona

Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?

Emilia

The world’s a huge thing: it is a great price.

For a small vice.

Desdemona

In troth, I think thou wouldst not.

Emilia

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 for measures of lawn, nor for gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any petty exhibition; but for the whole world,— why, who would not make her husband a cuckold to make him a monarch? I should venture purgatory for’t.

Desdemona

Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong

For the whole world.

Emilia

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.

Desdemona

I do not think there is any such woman.

Emilia

Yes, a dozen; and as many to the vantage as would store the world they played for.

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,

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

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?

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?

Then let them use us well: else let them know,

The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.

Desdemona

Good night, good night: heaven me such uses send,

Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend!

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,

And fix most firm thy resolution.

Roderigo

Be near at hand; I may miscarry in’t.

Iago

Here, at thy hand: be bold, and take thy stand.

Retires

Roderigo

I have no great devotion to the deed;

And yet he hath 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,

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,

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

May unfold me to him; there stand I in much peril:

No, he must die. But so: I hear him coming.

Enter Cassio

Roderigo

I know his gait, ’tis he.— Villain, thou diest!

Makes a pass at Cassio

Cassio

That thrust had been mine enemy indeed,

But that my coat is better than thou know’st

I will make proof of thine.

Draws, and wounds Roderigo

Roderigo

O, I am slain!

Iago from behind wounds Cassio in the leg, and exit

Cassio

I am maim’d for ever. Help, ho! murder! murder!

Falls

Enter Othello

Othello

The voice of Cassio: Iago keeps his word.

Roderigo

O, villain that I am!

Othello

It is even so.

Cassio

O, help, ho! light! a surgeon!

Othello

’Tis he:— O brave Iago, honest and just,

That hast such noble sense of thy friend’s wrong!

Thou teachest me. Minion, your dear lies dead,

And your unblest fate hies: strumpet, I come.

Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are blotted;

Thy bed, lust-stain’d, shall with lust’s blood be spotted.

Exit

Enter Lodovico and Gratiano

Cassio

What, ho! no watch? no passage? murder! murder!

Gratiano

’Tis some mischance; the cry is very direful.

Cassio

O, help!

Lodovico

Hark!

Roderigo

O wretched villain!

Lodovico

Two or three groan: it is a heavy night:

These may be counterfeits: let’s think’t unsafe

To come in to the cry without more help.

Roderigo

Nobody come? then shall I bleed to death.

Lodovico

Hark!

Re-enter Iago, with a light

Gratiano

Here’s one comes in his shirt, with light and weapons.

Iago

Who’s there? whose noise is this that ones on murder?

Lodovico

We do not know.

Iago

Did not you hear a cry?

Cassio

Here, here! for heaven’s sake, help me!

Iago

What’s the matter?

Gratiano

This is Othello’s ancient, as I take it.

Lodovico

The same indeed; a very valiant fellow.

Iago

What are you here that cry so grievously?

Cassio

Iago? O, I am spoil’d, undone by villains!

Give me some help.

Iago

O me, lieutenant! what villains have done this?

Cassio

I think that one of them is hereabout,

And cannot make away.

Iago

O treacherous villains!

What are you there? come in, and give some help.

To Lodovico and Gratiano

Roderigo

O, help me here!

Cassio

That’s one of them.

Iago

O murderous slave! O villain!

Stabs Roderigo

Roderigo

O damn’d Iago! O inhuman dog!

Iago

Kill men i’ the dark!— Where be these bloody thieves?—

How silent is this town!— Ho! murder! murder!—

What may you be? are you of good or evil?

Lodovico

As you shall prove us, praise us.

Iago

Signior Lodovico?

Lodovico

He, sir.

Iago

I cry you mercy. Here’s Cassio hurt by villains.

Gratiano

Cassio!

Iago

How is’t, brother!

Cassio

My leg is cut in two.

Iago

Marry, heaven forbid!

Light, gentlemen; I’ll bind it with my shirt.

Enter Bianca

Bianca

What is the matter, ho? who is’t that cried?

Iago

Who is’t that cried!

Bianca

O my dear Cassio! my sweet Cassio! O Cassio,

Cassio, Cassio!

Iago

O notable strumpet! Cassio, may you suspect

Who they should be that have thus many led you?

Cassio

No.

Gratiano

I am 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!

Bianca

Alas, he faints! O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio!

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?

Alas my friend and my dear countryman

Roderigo! no:— yes, sure: O heaven! Roderigo.

Gratiano

What, of Venice?

Iago

Even he, sir; did you know him?

Gratiano

Know him! ay.

Iago

Signior Gratiano? I cry you gentle pardon;

These bloody accidents must excuse my manners,

That so neglected you.

Gratiano

I am glad to see you.

Iago

How do you, Cassio? O, a chair, a chair!

Gratiano

Roderigo!

Iago

He, he ’tis he.

A chair brought in

O, that’s well said; the chair!

Gratiano

Some good man bear him carefully from hence;

I’ll fetch the general’s surgeon.

To Bianca

For you, mistress,

Save you your labour. He that lies slain here, Cassio,

Was my dear friend: what malice was between you?

Cassio

None in the world; nor do I know the man.

Iago

[To Bianca] What, look you pale? O, bear him out o’ the air.

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:

Do you see, gentlemen? nay, guiltiness will speak,

Though tongues were out of use.

Enter Emilia

Emilia

’Las, what’s the matter? what’s the matter, husband?

Iago

Cassio hath here been set on in the dark

By Roderigo and fellows that are scaped:

He’s almost slain, and Roderigo dead.

Emilia

Alas, good gentleman! alas, good Cassio!

Iago

This is the fruit of whoring. Prithee, Emilia,

Go know of Cassio where he supp’d to-night.

To Bianca

What, do you shake at that?

Bianca

He supp’d at my house; but I therefore shake not.

Iago

O, did he so? I charge you, go with me.

Emilia

Fie, fie upon thee, strumpet!

Bianca

I am no strumpet; but of life as honest

As you that thus abuse me.

Emilia

As I! foh! fie upon thee!

Iago

Kind gentlemen, let’s go see poor Cassio dress’d.

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? I pray.

Aside

This is the night

That either makes me or fordoes me quite.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A BEDCHAMBER IN THE CASTLE: DESDEMONA IN BED ASLEEP;

a light burning.

Enter Othello

Othello

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,

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,

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

That can thy light relume. When I have pluck’d the rose,

I cannot give it vital growth again.

It must needs wither: I’ll smell it on the tree.

Kissing her

Ah balmy breath, that dost almost persuade

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,

But they are cruel tears: this sorrow’s heavenly;

It strikes where it doth love. She wakes.

Desdemona

Who’s there? Othello?

Othello

Ay. Desdemona.

Desdemona

Will you come to bed, my lord?

Othello

Have you pray’d to-night, Desdemona?

Desdemona

Ay, my lord.

Othello

If you bethink yourself of any crime

Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace,

Solicit for it straight.

Desdemona

Alas, my lord, what do you mean by that?

Othello

Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by:

I would not kill thy unprepared spirit;

No; heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul.

Desdemona

Talk you of killing?

Othello

Ay, I do.

Desdemona

Then heaven

Have mercy on me!

Othello

Amen, with all my heart!

Desdemona

If you say so, I hope you will not kill me.

Othello

Hum!

Desdemona

And yet I fear you; for you are fatal then

When your eyes roll so: why I should fear I know not,

Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear.

Othello

Think on thy sins.

Desdemona

They are loves I bear to you.

Othello

Ay, and for that thou diest.

Desdemona

That death’s unnatural that kills for loving.

Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip?

Some bloody passion shakes your very frame:

These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope,

They do not point on me.

Othello

Peace, and be still!

Desdemona

I will so. What’s the matter?

Othello

That handkerchief which I so loved and gave thee

Thou gavest to Cassio.

Desdemona

No, by my life and soul!

Send for the man, and ask him.

Othello

Sweet soul, take heed,

Take heed of perjury; thou art on thy deathbed.

Desdemona

Ay, but not yet to die.

Othello

Yes, presently:

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.

Desdemona

Then Lord have mercy on me!

Othello

I say, amen.

Desdemona

And have you mercy too! I never did

Offend you in my life; never loved Cassio

But with such general warranty of heaven

As I might love: I never gave him token.

Othello

By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in’s hand.

O perjured woman! thou dost stone my heart,

And makest me call what I intend to do

A murder, which I thought a sacrifice:

I saw the handkerchief.

Desdemona

He found it then;

I never gave it him: send for him hither;

Let him confess a truth.

Othello

He hath confess’d.

Desdemona

What, my lord?

Othello

That he hath used thee.

Desdemona

How? unlawfully?

Othello

Ay.

Desdemona

He will not say so.

Othello

No, his mouth is stopp’d;

Honest Iago hath ta’en order for’t.

Desdemona

O! my fear interprets: what, is he dead?

Othello

Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge

Had stomach for them all.

Desdemona

Alas! he is betray’d and I undone.

Othello

Out, strumpet! weep’st thou for him to my face?

Desdemona

O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not!

Othello

Down, strumpet!

Desdemona

Kill me to-morrow: let me live to-night!

Othello

Nay, if you strive —

Desdemona

But half an hour!

Othello

Being done, there is no pause.

Desdemona

But while I say one prayer!

Othello

It is too late.

He stifles her

Emilia

[Within] My lord , my lord! what, ho! my lord, my lord!

Othello

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.

Emilia

[Within] What, ho! my lord, my lord!

Othello

Who’s there?

Emilia

[Within] O, good my lord, I would speak a word with you!

Othello

Yes: ’tis Emilia. By and by. She’s dead.

’Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio’s death.—

The noise was here. Ha! no more moving?

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!

Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse

Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe

Should yawn at alteration.

Emilia

[Within] I do beseech you

That I may speak with you, O, good my lord!

Othello

I had forgot thee: O, come in, Emilia;

Soft; by and by. Let me the curtains draw.

Where art thou?

Unlocks the door

Enter Emilia

What’s the matter with thee now?

Emilia

O, my good lord, yonder’s foul murders done!

Othello

What, now?

Emilia

But now, my lord.

Othello

It is the very error of the moon;

She comes more nearer earth than she was wont,

And makes men mad.

Emilia

Cassio, my lord, hath kill’d a young Venetian

Call’d Roderigo.

Othello

Roderigo kill’d!

And Cassio kill’d!

Emilia

No, Cassio is not kill’d.

Othello

Not Cassio kill’d! then murder’s out of tune,

And sweet revenge grows harsh.

Desdemona

O, falsely, falsely murder’d!

Emilia

Alas, what cry is that?

Othello

That! what?

Emilia

Out, and alas! that was my lady’s voice.

Help! help, ho! help! O lady, speak again!

Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak!

Desdemona

A guiltless death I die.

Emilia

O, who hath done this deed?

Desdemona

Nobody; I myself. Farewell

Commend me to my kind lord: O, farewell!

Dies

Othello

Why, how should she be murder’d?

Emilia

Alas, who knows?

Othello

You heard her say herself, it was not I.

Emilia

She said so: I must needs report the truth.

Othello

She’s, like a liar, gone to burning hell:

’Twas I that kill’d her.

Emilia

O, the more angel she,

And you the blacker devil!

Othello

She turn’d to folly, and she was a whore.

Emilia

Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil.

Othello

She was false as water.

Emilia

Thou art rash as fire, to say

That she was false: O, she was heavenly true!

Othello

Cassio did top her; ask thy husband else.

O, I were damn’d beneath all depth in hell,

But that I did proceed upon just grounds

To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all.

Emilia

My husband!

Othello

Thy husband.

Emilia

That she was false to wedlock?

Othello

Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true,

If heaven would make me such another world

Of one entire and Perfect chrysolite,

I’ld not have sold her for it.

Emilia

My husband!

Othello

Ay, ’twas he that told me first:

An honest man he is, and hates the slime

That sticks on filthy deeds.

Emilia

My husband!

Othello

What needs this iteration, woman? I say thy husband.

Emilia

O mistress, villany hath made mocks with love,

My husband say that she was false!

Othello

He, woman;

I say thy husband: dost understand the word?

My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago.

Emilia

If he say so, may his pernicious soul

Rot half a grain a day! he lies to the heart:

She was too fond of her most filthy bargain.

Othello

Ha!

Emilia

Do thy worst:

This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven

Than thou wast worthy her.

Othello

Peace, you were best.

Emilia

Thou hast not half that power to do me harm

As I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt!

As ignorant as dirt! thou hast done a deed —

I care not for thy sword; I’ll make thee known,

Though I lost twenty lives.— Help! help, ho! help!

The Moor hath kill’d my mistress! Murder! murder!

Enter Montano, Gratiano, Iago, and others

Montano

What is the matter? How now, general!

Emilia

O, are you come, Iago? you have done well,

That men must lay their murders on your neck.

Gratiano

What is the matter?

Emilia

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.

Iago

I told him what I thought, and told no more

Than what he found himself was apt and true.

Emilia

But did you ever tell him she was false?

Iago

I did.

Emilia

You told a lie, an odious, damned lie;

Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.

She false with Cassio!— did you say with Cassio?

Iago

With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your tongue.

Emilia

I will not charm my tongue; I am bound to speak:

My mistress here lies murder’d in her bed,—

All

O heavens forfend!

Emilia

And your reports have set the murder on.

Othello

Nay, stare not, masters: it is true, indeed.

Gratiano

’Tis a strange truth.

Montano

O monstrous act!

Emilia

Villany, villany, villany!

I think upon’t, I think: I smell’t: O villany!—

I thought so then:— I’ll kill myself for grief:—

O villany, villany!

Iago

What, are you mad? I charge you, get you home.

Emilia

Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak:

’Tis proper I obey him, but not now.

Perchance, Iago, I will ne’er go home.

Othello

O! O! O!

He falls on the bed

Emilia

Nay, lay thee down and roar;

For thou hast kill’d the sweetest innocent

That e’er did lift up eye.

Othello

[Rising] O, she was foul!

I scarce did know you, uncle: there lies your niece,

Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly stopp’d:

I know this act shows horrible and grim.

Gratiano

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.

Othello

’Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows

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

Which I first gave her; I saw it in his hand:

It was a handkerchief, an antique token

My father gave my mother.

Emilia

O heaven! O heavenly powers!

Iago

Come, hold your peace.

Emilia

’Twill out, ’twill out: I peace!

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.

Iago

Be wise, and get you home.

Emilia

I will not.

Iago offers to stab Emilia

Gratiano

Fie!

Your sword upon a woman?

Emilia

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,

More than indeed belong’d to such a trifle,

He begg’d of me to steal it.

Iago

Villanous whore!

Emilia

She give it Cassio! no, alas! I found it,

And I did give’t my husband.

Iago

Filth, thou liest!

Emilia

By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentlemen.

O murderous coxcomb! what should such a fool

Do with so good a woman?

Othello

Are there no stones in heaven

But what serve for the thunder?— Precious villain!

He runs at Iago Iago, from behind, stabs Emilia, and exit

Gratiano

The woman falls; sure, he hath kill’d his wife.

Emilia

Ay, ay: O, lay me by my mistress’ side.

Gratiano

He’s gone, but his wife’s kill’d.

Montano

’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

Othello

I am not valiant neither,

But ever puny whipster gets my sword:

But why should honour outlive honesty?

Let it go all.

Emilia

What did thy song bode, lady?

Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan.

And die in music.

Singing

Willow, willow, willow,—

Moor, she was chaste; she loved thee, cruel Moor;

So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true;

So speaking as I think, I die, I die.

Dies

Othello

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.

Gratiano

[Within] If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear:

Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer.

Othello

Look in upon me then and speak with me,

Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee.

Re-enter Gratiano

Gratiano

What is the matter?

Othello

Behold, I have a weapon;

A better never did itself sustain

Upon a soldier’s thigh: I have seen the day,

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.

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;

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,

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 slave!

Whip me, ye devils,

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!

Oh! Oh! Oh!

Enter Lodovico. Montano, Cassio carried in a chair, and Officers with Iago, prisoner

Lodovico

Where is this rash and most unfortunate man?

Othello

That’s he that was Othello: here I am.

Lodovico

Where is that viper? bring the villain forth.

Othello

I look down towards his feet; but that’s a fable.

If that thou best a devil, I cannot kill thee.

Wounds Iago

Lodovico

Wrench his sword from him.

Iago

I bleed, sir; but not kill’d.

Othello

I am not sorry neither: I’ld have thee live;

For, in my sense, ’tis happiness to die.

Lodovico

O thou Othello, thou wert once so good,

Fall’n in the practise of a damned slave,

What shall be said to thee?

Othello

Why, any thing:

An honourable murderer, if you will;

For nought I did in hate, but all in honour.

Lodovico

This wretch hath part confess’d his villany:

Did you and he consent in Cassio’s death?

Othello

Ay.

Cassio

Dear general, I never gave you cause.

Othello

I do believe it, and I ask your pardon.

Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil

Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body?

Iago

Demand me nothing: what you know, you know:

From this time forth I never will speak word.

Lodovico

What, not to pray?

Gratiano

Torments will ope your lips.

Othello

Well, thou dost best.

Lodovico

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;

And here another: the one of them imports

The death of Cassio to be undertook

By Roderigo.

Othello

O villain!

Cassio

Most heathenish and most gross!

Lodovico

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

Came in and satisfied him.

Othello

O the pernicious caitiff!

How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief

That was my wife’s?

Cassio

I found it in my chamber:

And he himself confess’d but even now

That there he dropp’d it for a special purpose

Which wrought to his desire.

Othello

O fool! fool! fool!

Cassio

There is besides in Roderigo’s letter,

How he upbraids Iago, that he made him

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.

Lodovico

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

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.

Othello

Soft you; a word or two before you go.

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,

Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,

Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak

Of one that loved not wisely but too well;

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 subdued eyes,

Albeit unused to the melting mood,

Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees

Their medicinal gum. Set you down this;

And say besides, that in Aleppo once,

Where a malignant and a turban’d Turk

Beat a Venetian and traduced the state,

I took by the throat the circumcised dog,

And smote him, thus.

Stabs himself

Lodovico

O bloody period!

Gratiano

All that’s spoke is marr’d.

Othello

I kiss’d thee ere I kill’d thee: no way but this;

Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.

Falls on the bed, and dies

Cassio

This did I fear, but thought he had no weapon;

For he was great of heart.

Lodovico

[To Iago] O Spartan dog,

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,

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

This heavy act with heavy heart relate.

Exeunt

King Lear

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. KING LEAR’S PALACE.

SCENE II. THE EARL OF GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

SCENE III. THE DUKE OF ALBANY’S PALACE.

SCENE IV. A HALL IN THE SAME.

SCENE V. COURT BEFORE THE SAME.

ACT II

SCENE I. GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

SCENE II. BEFORE GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

SCENE III. A WOOD.

SCENE IV. BEFORE GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE. KENT IN THE STOCKS.

ACT III

SCENE I. A HEATH.

SCENE II. ANOTHER PART OF THE HEATH. STORM STILL.

SCENE III. GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

SCENE IV. THE HEATH. BEFORE A HOVEL.

SCENE V. GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

SCENE VI. A CHAMBER IN A FARMHOUSE ADJOINING THE CASTLE.

SCENE VII. GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. THE HEATH.

SCENE II. BEFORE ALBANY’S PALACE.

SCENE III. THE FRENCH CAMP NEAR DOVER.

SCENE IV. THE SAME. A TENT.

SCENE V. GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

SCENE VI. FIELDS NEAR DOVER.

SCENE VII. A TENT IN THE FRENCH CAMP. LEAR ON A BED ASLEEP,

ACT V

SCENE I. THE BRITISH CAMP, NEAR DOVER.

SCENE II. A FIELD BETWEEN THE TWO CAMPS.

SCENE III. THE BRITISH CAMP NEAR DOVER.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Lear, King of Britain.

King Of France.

Duke of Burgundy.

Duke of Cornwall.

Duke of Albany.

Earl of Kent.

Earl of Gloucester.

Edgar, son of Gloucester.

Edmund, bastard son to Gloucester.

Curan, a courtier.

An Old Man, tenant to Gloucester.

A Doctor.

Lear's Fool.

Oswald, steward to Goneril.

A Captain under Edmund's command.

Gentlemen.

A Herald.

Servants to Cornwall.

Goneril, daughter to Lear.

Regan, daughter to Lear.

Cordelia, daughter to Lear.

Knights attending on Lear, Officers, Messengers, Soldiers, Attendants.

Scene: Britain.

ACT I

SCENE I. KING LEAR’S PALACE.

Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmund

Kent

I thought the king had more affected the Duke of

Albany than Cornwall.

Gloucester

It did always seem so to us: but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most; for equalities are so weighed, that curiosity in neither can make choice of either’s moiety.

Kent

Is not this your son, my lord?

Gloucester

His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge: I have so often blushed to acknowledge him, that now I am brazed to it.

Kent

I cannot conceive you.

Gloucester

Sir, this young fellow’s mother could: whereupon she grew round-wombed, and had, indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault?

Kent

I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper.

Gloucester

But I have, sir, a son by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account: though this knave came something saucily into the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair; there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged. Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?

Edmund

No, my lord.

Gloucester

My lord of Kent: remember him hereafter as my honourable friend.

Edmund

My services to your lordship.

Kent

I must love you, and sue to know you better.

Edmund

Sir, I shall study deserving.

Gloucester

He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. The king is coming.

Sennet. Enter King Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, and Attendants

King Lear

Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.

Gloucester

I shall, my liege.

Exeunt Gloucester and Edmund

King 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;

Conferring them on younger strengths, while we

Unburthen’d crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall,

And you, our no less loving son of Albany,

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,

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,—

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.

Goneril

Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;

Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty;

Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;

No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;

As much as child e’er loved, or father found;

A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable;

Beyond all manner of so much I love you.

Cordelia

[Aside] What shall Cordelia do?

Love, and be silent.

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,

Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.

Regan

Sir, I am made

Of the self-same metal that my sister is,

And prize me at her worth. In my true heart

I find she names my very deed of love;

Only she comes too short: that I profess

Myself an enemy to all other joys,

Which the most precious square of sense possesses;

And find I am alone felicitate

In your dear highness’ love.

Cordelia

[Aside] Then poor Cordelia!

And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love’s

More richer than my tongue.

King 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,

Although the last, not least; to whose young love

The vines of France and milk of Burgundy

Strive to be interess’d; what can you say to draw

A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

Cordelia

Nothing, my lord.

King Lear

Nothing!

Cordelia

Nothing.

King Lear

Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.

Cordelia

Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave

My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty

According to my bond; nor more nor less.

King Lear

How, how, Cordelia! mend your speech a little,

Lest it may mar your fortunes.

Cordelia

Good my lord,

You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I

Return those duties back as are right fit,

Obey you, love you, and most honour you.

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,

To love my father all.

King Lear

But goes thy heart with this?

Cordelia

Ay, good my lord.

King Lear

So young, and so untender?

Cordelia

So young, my lord, and true.

King Lear

Let it be so; thy truth, then, be thy dower:

For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,

The mysteries of Hecate, and the night;

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,

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

Be as well neighbour’d, pitied, and relieved,

As thou my sometime daughter.

Kent

Good my liege,—

King Lear

Peace, Kent!

Come not between the dragon and his wrath.

I loved 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?

Call Burgundy. Cornwall and Albany,

With my two daughters’ dowers digest this third:

Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her.

I do invest you jointly with my power,

Pre-eminence, and all the large effects

That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course,

With reservation of an hundred knights,

By you to be sustain’d, shall our abode

Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain

The name, and all the additions to a king;

The sway, revenue, execution of the rest,

Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm,

This coronet part betwixt you.

Giving the crown

Kent

Royal Lear,

Whom I have ever honour’d as my king,

Loved as my father, as my master follow’d,

As my great patron thought on in my prayers,—

King Lear

The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft.

Kent

Let it fall rather, though the fork invade

The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly,

When Lear is mad. What wilt thou do, old man?

Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak,

When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour’s bound,

When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom;

And, in thy best consideration, cheque

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.

King Lear

Kent, on thy life, no more.

Kent

My life I never held but as a pawn

To wage against thy enemies; nor fear to lose it,

Thy safety being the motive.

King Lear

Out of my sight!

Kent

See better, Lear; and let me still remain

The true blank of thine eye.

King Lear

Now, by Apollo,—

Kent

Now, by Apollo, king,

Thou swear’st thy gods in vain.

King Lear

O, vassal! miscreant!

Laying his hand on his sword

Albany

Cornwall

Dear sir, forbear.

Kent

Do:

Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow

Upon thy foul disease. Revoke thy doom;

Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat,

I’ll tell thee thou dost evil.

King Lear

Hear me, recreant!

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

To come between our sentence and our power,

Which nor our nature nor our place can bear,

Our potency made good, take thy reward.

Five days we do allot thee, for provision

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 revoked.

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,

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.

Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu;

He’ll shape his old course in a country new.

Exit

Flourish. Re-enter Gloucester, with King Of France, Burgundy, and Attendants

Gloucester

Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord.

King Lear

My lord of Burgundy.

We first address towards 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?

Burgundy

Most royal majesty,

I crave no more than what your highness offer’d,

Nor will you tender less.

King 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:

If aught within that little seeming substance,

Or all of it, with our displeasure pieced,

And nothing more, may fitly like your grace,

She’s there, and she is yours.

Burgundy

I know no answer.

King 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?

Burgundy

Pardon me, royal sir;

Election makes not up on such conditions.

King Lear

Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me,

I tell you all her wealth.

To King Of France

For you, great king,

I would not from your love make such a stray,

To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you

To avert your liking a more worthier way

Than on a wretch whom nature is ashamed

Almost to acknowledge hers.

King Of France

This is most strange,

That she, that even but now was your best object,

The argument of your praise, balm of your age,

Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time

Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle

So many folds of favour. Sure, her offence

Must be of such unnatural degree,

That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection

Fall’n into taint: which to believe of her,

Must be a faith that reason without miracle

Could never plant in me.

Cordelia

I yet beseech your majesty,—

If for I want that glib and oily art,

To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend,

I’ll do’t before I speak,— that you make known

It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness,

No unchaste action, or dishonour’d step,

That hath deprived 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

As I am glad I have not, though not to have it

Hath lost me in your liking.

King Lear

Better thou

Hadst not been born than not to have pleased me better.

King Of 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’s not love

When it is mingled with regards that stand

Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her?

She is herself a dowry.

Burgundy

Royal Lear,

Give but that portion which yourself proposed,

And here I take Cordelia by the hand,

Duchess of Burgundy.

King Lear

Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.

Burgundy

I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father

That you must lose a husband.

Cordelia

Peace be with Burgundy!

Since that respects of fortune are his love,

I shall not be his wife.

King Of France

Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;

Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised!

Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:

Be it lawful I take up what’s cast away.

Gods, gods! ’tis strange that from their cold’st neglect

My love should kindle to inflamed respect.

Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,

Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France:

Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy

Can buy this unprized precious maid of me.

Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind:

Thou losest here, a better where to find.

King 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.

Come, noble Burgundy.

Flourish. Exeunt all but King Of France, Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia

King Of France

Bid farewell to your sisters.

Cordelia

The jewels of our father, with wash’d eyes

Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are;

And like a sister am most loath to call

Your faults as they are named. Use well our father:

To your professed bosoms I commit him

But yet, alas, stood I within his grace,

I would prefer him to a better place.

So, farewell to you both.

Regan

Prescribe not us our duties.

Goneril

Let your study

Be to content your lord, who hath received you

At fortune’s alms. You have obedience scanted,

And well are worth the want that you have wanted.

Cordelia

Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides:

Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.

Well may you prosper!

King Of France

Come, my fair Cordelia.

Exeunt King Of France and Cordelia

Goneril

Sister, it is not a little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence to-night.

Regan

That’s most certain, and with you; next month with us.

Goneril

You see how full of changes his age is; the observation we have made of it hath not been little: he always loved our sister most; and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off appears too grossly.

Regan

’Tis the infirmity of his age: yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.

Goneril

The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then must we look to receive from his age, not alone the imperfections of long-engraffed condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them.

Regan

Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent’s banishment.

Goneril

There is further compliment of leavetaking between France and him. Pray you, let’s hit together: if our father carry authority with such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us.

Regan

We shall further think on’t.

Goneril

We must do something, and i’ the heat.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE EARL OF GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

Enter Edmund, with a letter

Edmund

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,

For that I am some twelve or fourteen moon-shines

Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base?

When my dimensions are as well compact,

My mind as generous, and my shape as true,

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

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:

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

Shall top the legitimate. I grow; I prosper:

Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

Enter Gloucester

Gloucester

Kent banish’d thus! and France in choler parted!

And the king gone to-night! subscribed his power!

Confined to exhibition! All this done

Upon the gad! Edmund, how now! what news?

Edmund

So please your lordship, none.

Putting up the letter

Gloucester

Why so earnestly seek you to put up that letter?

Edmund

I know no news, my lord.

Gloucester

What paper were you reading?

Edmund

Nothing, my lord.

Gloucester

No? What needed, then, that terrible dispatch of it into your pocket? the quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself. Let’s see: come, if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles.

Edmund

I beseech you, sir, pardon me: it is a letter from my brother, that I have not all o’er-read; and for so much as I have perused, I find it not fit for your o’er-looking.

Gloucester

Give me the letter, sir.

Edmund

I shall offend, either to detain or give it.

The contents, as in part I understand them, are to blame.

Gloucester

Let’s see, let’s see.

Edmund

I hope, for my brother’s justification, he wrote this but as an essay or taste of my virtue.

Gloucester

[Reads] ‘This policy and reverence of age makes the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny; who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered. Come to me, that of this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother, Edgar.’

Hum — conspiracy!—’sleep till I waked him,— you should enjoy half his revenue,’— My son Edgar! Had he a hand to write this? a heart and brain to breed it in?— When came this to you? who brought it?

Edmund

It was not brought me, my lord; there’s the cunning of it; I found it thrown in at the casement of my closet.

Gloucester

You know the character to be your brother’s?

Edmund

If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear it were his; but, in respect of that, I would fain think it were not.

Gloucester

It is his.

Edmund

It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heart is not in the contents.

Gloucester

Hath he never heretofore sounded you in this business?

Edmund

Never, my lord: but I have heard him oft maintain it to be fit, that, sons at perfect age, and fathers declining, the father should be as ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue.

Gloucester

O villain, villain! His very opinion in the letter! Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested, brutish villain! worse than brutish! Go, sirrah, seek him; I’ll apprehend him: abominable villain! Where is he?

Edmund

I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please you to suspend your indignation against my brother till you can derive from him better testimony of his intent, you shall run a certain course; where, if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your own honour, and shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life for him, that he hath wrote this to feel my affection to your honour, and to no further pretence of danger.

Gloucester

Think you so?

Edmund

If your honour judge it meet, I will place you where you shall hear us confer of this, and by an auricular assurance have your satisfaction; and that without any further delay than this very evening.

Gloucester

He cannot be such a monster —

Edmund

Nor is not, sure.

Gloucester

To his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him out: wind me into him, I pray you: frame the business after your own wisdom. I would unstate myself, to be in a due resolution.

Edmund

I will seek him, sir, presently: convey the business as I shall find means and acquaint you withal.

Gloucester

These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us: though the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by the sequent effects: love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide: in cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond cracked ’twixt son and father. This villain of mine comes under the prediction; there’s son against father: the king falls from bias of nature; there’s father against child. We have seen the best of our time: machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders, follow us disquietly to our graves. Find out this villain, Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing; do it carefully. And the noble and true-hearted Kent banished! his offence, honesty! ’Tis strange.

Exit

Edmund

This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune,— often the surfeit of our own behavior,— we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers, by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star! My father compounded with my mother under the dragon’s tail; and my nativity was under Ursa major; so that it follows, I am rough and lecherous. Tut, I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing. Edgar —

Enter Edgar

And pat he comes like the catastrophe of the old comedy: my cue is villanous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o’ Bedlam. O, these eclipses do portend these divisions! fa, sol, la, mi.

Edgar

How now, brother Edmund! what serious contemplation are you in?

Edmund

I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses.

Edgar

Do you busy yourself about that?

Edmund

I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily; as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state, menaces and maledictions against king and nobles; needless diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what.

Edgar

How long have you been a sectary astronomical?

Edmund

Come, come; when saw you my father last?

Edgar

Why, the night gone by.

Edmund

Spake you with him?

Edgar

Ay, two hours together.

Edmund

Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in him by word or countenance?

Edgar

None at all.

Edmund

Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him: and at my entreaty forbear his presence till some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure; which at this instant so rageth in him, that with the mischief of your person it would scarcely allay.

Edgar

Some villain hath done me wrong.

Edmund

That’s my fear. I pray you, have a continent forbearance till the spied of his rage goes slower; and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak: pray ye, go; there’s my key: if you do stir abroad, go armed.

Edgar

Armed, brother!

Edmund

Brother, I advise you to the best; go armed: I am no honest man if there be any good meaning towards you: I have told you what I have seen and heard; but faintly, nothing like the image and horror of it: pray you, away.

Edgar

Shall I hear from you anon?

Edmund

I do serve you in this business.

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 practises ride easy! I see the business.

Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit:

All with me’s meet that I can fashion fit.

Exit

SCENE III. THE DUKE OF ALBANY’S PALACE.

Enter Goneril, and Oswald, her steward

Goneril

Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?

Oswald

Yes, madam.

Goneril

By day and night he wrongs me; every hour

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:

If you come slack of former services,

You shall do well; the fault of it I’ll answer.

Oswald

He’s coming, madam; I hear him.

Horns within

Goneril

Put on what weary negligence you please,

You and your fellows; I’ll have it come to question:

If he dislike it, let him to our sister,

Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one,

Not to be over-ruled. 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 used

With cheques as flatteries,— when they are seen abused.

Remember what I tell you.

Oswald

Well, madam.

Goneril

And let his knights have colder looks among you;

What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so:

I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,

That I may speak: I’ll write straight to my sister,

To hold my very course. 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 defuse, my good intent

May carry through itself to that full issue

For which I razed my likeness. Now, banish’d Kent,

If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn’d,

So may it come, thy master, whom thou lovest,

Shall find thee full of labours.

Horns within. Enter King Lear, Knights, and Attendants

King Lear

Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready.

Exit an Attendant

How now! what art thou?

Kent

A man, sir.

King Lear

What dost thou profess? what wouldst thou with us?

Kent

I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that will put me in trust: to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise, and says little; to fear judgment; to fight when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish.

King Lear

What art thou?

Kent

A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the king.

King Lear

If thou be as poor for a subject as he is for a king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou?

Kent

Service.

King Lear

Who wouldst thou serve?

Kent

You.

King Lear

Dost thou know me, fellow?

Kent

No, sir; but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master.

King Lear

What’s that?

Kent

Authority.

King Lear

What services canst thou do?

Kent

I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in telling it, and deliver a plain message bluntly: that which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in; and the best of me is diligence.

King Lear

How old art thou?

Kent

Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing, nor so old to dote on her for any thing: I have years on my back forty eight.

King Lear

Follow me; thou shalt serve me: if I like thee no worse after dinner, I will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho, dinner! Where’s my knave? my fool? Go you, and call my fool hither.

Exit an Attendant

Enter Oswald

You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter?

Oswald

So please you,—

Exit

King Lear

What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back.

Exit a Knight

Where’s my fool, ho? I think the world’s asleep.

Re-enter Knight

How now! where’s that mongrel?

Knight

He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.

King Lear

Why came not the slave back to me when I called him.

Knight

Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he would not.

King Lear

He would not!

Knight

My lord, I know not what the matter is; but, to my judgment, your highness is not entertained with that ceremonious affection as you were wont; there’s a great abatement of kindness appears as well in the general dependants as in the duke himself also and your daughter.

King Lear

Ha! sayest thou so?

Knight

I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for my duty cannot be silent when I think your highness wronged.

King Lear

Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception: I have perceived a most faint neglect of late; which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness: I will look further into’t. But where’s my fool? I have not seen him this two days.

Knight

Since my young lady’s going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined away.

King Lear

No more of that; I have noted it well. Go you, and tell my daughter I would speak with her.

Exit an Attendant

Go you, call hither my fool.

Exit an Attendant

Re-enter Oswald

O, you sir, you, come you hither, sir: who am I, sir?

Oswald

My lady’s father.

King Lear

‘My lady’s father’! my lord’s knave: your whoreson dog! you slave! you cur!

Oswald

I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon.

King Lear

Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?

Striking him

Oswald

I’ll not be struck, my lord.

Kent

Nor tripped neither, you base football player.

Tripping up his heels

King Lear

I thank thee, fellow; thou servest me, and I’ll love thee.

Kent

Come, sir, arise, away! I’ll teach you differences: away, away! if you will measure your lubber’s length again, tarry: but away! go to; have you wisdom? so.

Pushes Oswald out

King Lear

Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there’s earnest of thy service.

Giving Kent money

Enter Fool

Fool

Let me hire him too: here’s my coxcomb.

Offering Kent his cap

King Lear

How now, my pretty knave! how dost thou?

Fool

Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.

Kent

Why, fool?

Fool

Why, for taking one’s part that’s out of favour: nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou’lt catch cold shortly: there, take my coxcomb: why, this fellow has banished two on’s daughters, and did the third a blessing against his will; if thou follow him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb. How now, nuncle! Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters!

King Lear

Why, my boy?

Fool

If I gave them all my living, I’ld keep my coxcombs myself. There’s mine; beg another of thy daughters.

King Lear

Take heed, sirrah; the whip.

Fool

Truth’s a dog must to kennel; he must be whipped out, when Lady the brach may stand by the fire and stink.

King Lear

A pestilent gall to me!

Fool

Sirrah, I’ll teach thee a speech.

King Lear

Do.

Fool

Mark it, nuncle:

Have more than thou showest,

Speak less than thou knowest,

Lend less than thou owest,

Ride more than thou goest,

Learn more than thou trowest,

Set less than thou throwest;

Leave thy drink and thy whore,

And keep in-a-door,

And thou shalt have more

Than two tens to a score.

Kent

This is nothing, fool.

Fool

Then ’tis like the breath of an unfee’d lawyer; you gave me nothing for’t. Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle?

King Lear

Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing.

Fool

[To Kent] Prithee, tell him, so much the rent of his land comes to: he will not believe a fool.

King Lear

A bitter fool!

Fool

Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet fool?

King Lear

No, lad; teach me.

Fool

That lord that counsell’d thee

To give away thy land,

Come place him here by me,

Do thou for him stand:

The sweet and bitter fool

Will presently appear;

The one in motley here,

The other found out there.

King Lear

Dost thou call me fool, boy?

Fool

All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born with.

Kent

This is not altogether fool, my lord.

Fool

No, faith, lords and great men will not let me; if I had a monopoly out, they would have part on’t: and ladies too, they will not let me have all fool to myself; they’ll be snatching. Give me an egg, nuncle, and I’ll give thee two crowns.

King Lear

What two crowns shall they be?

Fool

Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle, and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i’ the middle, and gavest away both parts, thou borest thy ass on thy back o’er the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown, when thou gavest thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds it so.

Singing

Fools had ne’er less wit in a year;

For wise men are grown foppish,

They know not how their wits to wear,

Their manners are so apish.

King Lear

When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?

Fool

I have used it, nuncle, ever since thou madest thy daughters thy mothers: for when thou gavest them the rod, and put’st down thine own breeches,

Singing

Then they for sudden joy did weep,

And I for sorrow sung,

That such a king should play bo-peep,

And go the fools among.

Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie: I would fain learn to lie.

King Lear

An you lie, sirrah, we’ll have you whipped.

Fool

I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are: they’ll have me whipped for speaking true, thou’lt have me whipped for lying; and sometimes I am whipped for 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.

Enter Goneril

King Lear

How now, daughter! what makes that frontlet on?

Methinks you are too much of late i’ the frown.

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 crum,

Weary of all, shall want some.

Pointing to King Lear

That’s a shealed peascod.

Goneril

Not only, sir, this your all-licensed fool,

But other of your insolent retinue

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,

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,

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.

Fool

For, you trow, nuncle,

The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long,

That it’s had it head bit off by it young.

So, out went the candle, and we were left darkling.

King Lear

Are you our daughter?

Goneril

Come, sir,

I would you would make use of that good wisdom,

Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away

These dispositions, that of late transform you

From what you rightly are.

Fool

May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug! I love thee.

King Lear

Doth any here know me? This is not Lear:

Doth Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes?

Either his notion weakens, his discernings

Are lethargied — Ha! waking? ’tis not so.

Who is it that can tell me who I am?

Fool

Lear’s shadow.

King Lear

I would learn that; for, by the marks of sovereignty, knowledge, and reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters.

Fool

Which they will make an obedient father.

King Lear

Your name, fair gentlewoman?

Goneril

This admiration, sir, is much o’ the savour

Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you

To understand my purposes aright:

As you are old and reverend, you should be wise.

Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires;

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

Than a graced palace. The shame itself doth speak

For instant remedy: be then desired

By her, that else will take the thing she begs,

A little to disquantity your train;

And the remainder, that shall still depend,

To be such men as may besort your age,

And know themselves and you.

King Lear

Darkness and devils!

Saddle my horses; call my train together:

Degenerate bastard! I’ll not trouble thee.

Yet have I left a daughter.

Goneril

You strike my people; and your disorder’d rabble

Make servants of their betters.

Enter Albany

King 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!

Albany

Pray, sir, be patient.

King Lear

[To Goneril] Detested kite! thou liest.

My train are men of choice and rarest parts,

That all particulars of duty know,

And in the most exact regard support

The worships of their name. O most small fault,

How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show!

That, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of nature

From the fix’d place; drew from heart all love,

And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!

Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in,

Striking his head

And thy dear judgment out! Go, go, my people.

Albany

My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant

Of what hath moved you.

King Lear

It may be so, my lord.

Hear, nature, hear; dear goddess, hear!

Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend

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

A babe to honour her! If she must teem,

Create her child of spleen; that it may live,

And be a thwart disnatured torment to her!

Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;

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

To have a thankless child! Away, away!

Exit

Albany

Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this?

Goneril

Never afflict yourself to know the cause;

But let his disposition have that scope

That dotage gives it.

Re-enter King Lear

King Lear

What, fifty of my followers at a clap!

Within a fortnight!

Albany

What’s the matter, sir?

King Lear

I’ll tell thee:

To Goneril

Life and death! I am ashamed

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!

The untented woundings of a father’s curse

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, it is come to this?

Let is be so: yet have I left a 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

I have cast off for ever: thou shalt,

I warrant thee.

Exeunt King Lear, Kent, and Attendants

Goneril

Do you mark that, my lord?

Albany

I cannot be so partial, Goneril,

To the great love I bear you,—

Goneril

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.

A fox, when one has caught her,

And such a daughter,

Should sure to the slaughter,

If my cap would buy a halter:

So the fool follows after.

Exit

Goneril

This man hath had good counsel:— a hundred knights!

’Tis politic and safe to let him keep

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!

Albany

Well, you may fear too far.

Goneril

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

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?

Oswald

Yes, madam.

Goneril

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;

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

Than praised for harmful mildness.

Albany

How far your eyes may pierce I can not tell:

Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.

Goneril

Nay, then —

Albany

Well, well; the event.

Exeunt

SCENE V. COURT BEFORE THE SAME.

Enter King Lear, Kent, and Fool

King 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 afore you.

Kent

I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter.

Exit

Fool

If a man’s brains were in’s heels, were’t not in danger of kibes?

King Lear

Ay, boy.

Fool

Then, I prithee, be merry; thy wit shall ne’er go slip-shod.

King Lear

Ha, ha, ha!

Fool

Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly; for though she’s as like this as a crab’s like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell.

King Lear

Why, what canst thou tell, my boy?

Fool

She will taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one’s nose stands i’ the middle on’s face?

King Lear

No.

Fool

Why, to keep one’s eyes of either side’s nose; that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into.

King Lear

I did her wrong —

Fool

Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?

King Lear

No.

Fool

Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.

King Lear

Why?

Fool

Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case.

King Lear

I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my horses ready?

Fool

Thy asses are gone about ’em. The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason.

King Lear

Because they are not eight?

Fool

Yes, indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.

King Lear

To take ’t again perforce! Monster ingratitude!

Fool

If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I’ld have thee beaten for being old before thy time.

King Lear

How’s that?

Fool

Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.

King Lear

O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven

Keep me in temper: I would not be mad!

Enter Gentleman

How now! are the horses ready?

Gentleman

Ready, my lord.

King Lear

Come, boy.

Fool

She that’s a maid now, and laughs at my departure,

Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

Enter Edmund, and Curan meets him

Edmund

Save thee, Curan.

Curan

And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan his duchess will be here with him this night.

Edmund

How comes that?

Curan

Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad; I mean the whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments?

Edmund

Not I pray you, what are they?

Curan

Have you heard of no likely wars toward, ’twixt the

Dukes of Cornwall and Albany?

Edmund

Not a word.

Curan

You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir.

Exit

Edmund

The duke be here to-night? The better! best!

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!

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:

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?

Advise yourself.

Edgar

I am sure on’t, not a word.

Edmund

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.

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

Do more than this in sport. Father, father!

Stop, stop! No help?

Enter Gloucester, and Servants with torches

Gloucester

Now, Edmund, where’s the villain?

Edmund

Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out,

Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon

To stand auspicious mistress,—

Gloucester

But where is he?

Edmund

Look, sir, I bleed.

Gloucester

Where is the villain, Edmund?

Edmund

Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could —

Gloucester

Pursue him, ho! Go after.

Exeunt some Servants

By no means what?

Edmund

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

The child was bound to the father; sir, in fine,

Seeing how loathly opposite I stood

To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion,

With his prepared sword, he charges home

My unprovided body, lanced mine arm:

But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits,

Bold in the quarrel’s right, roused to the encounter,

Or whether gasted by the noise I made,

Full suddenly he fled.

Gloucester

Let him fly far:

Not in this land shall he remain uncaught;

And found — dispatch. The noble duke my master,

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;

He that conceals him, death.

Edmund

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,

‘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,—

As this I would: ay, though thou didst produce

My very character,— I’ld turn it all

To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practise:

And thou must make a dullard of the world,

If they not thought the profits of my death

Were very pregnant and potential spurs

To make thee seek it.’

Gloucester

Strong and fasten’d villain

Would he deny his letter? I never got him.

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

May have the 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

Cornwall

How now, my noble friend! since I came hither,

Which I can call but now, I have heard strange news.

Regan

If it be true, all vengeance comes too short

Which can pursue the offender. How dost, my lord?

Gloucester

O, madam, my old heart is crack’d, it’s crack’d!

Regan

What, did my father’s godson seek your life?

He whom my father named? your Edgar?

Gloucester

O, lady, lady, shame would have it hid!

Regan

Was he not companion with the riotous knights

That tend upon my father?

Gloucester

I know not, madam: ’tis too bad, too bad.

Edmund

Yes, madam, he was of that consort.

Regan

No marvel, then, though he were ill affected:

’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,

That if they come to sojourn at my house,

I’ll not be there.

Cornwall

Nor I, assure thee, Regan.

Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father

A child-like office.

Edmund

’Twas my duty, sir.

Gloucester

He did bewray his practise; and received

This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him.

Cornwall

Is he pursued?

Gloucester

Ay, my good lord.

Cornwall

If he be taken, he shall never more

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:

Natures of such deep trust we shall much need;

You we first seize on.

Edmund

I shall serve you, sir,

Truly, however else.

Gloucester

For him I thank your grace.

Cornwall

You know not why we came to visit you,—

Regan

Thus out of season, threading dark-eyed night:

Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise,

Wherein we must have use of your advice:

Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister,

Of differences, which I least 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

Your needful counsel to our business,

Which craves the instant use.

Gloucester

I serve you, madam:

Your graces are right welcome.

Exeunt

SCENE II. BEFORE GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

Enter Kent and Oswald, severally

Oswald

Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house?

Kent

Ay.

Oswald

Where may we set our horses?

Kent

I’ the mire.

Oswald

Prithee, if thou lovest me, tell me.

Kent

I love thee not.

Oswald

Why, then, I care not for thee.

Kent

If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.

Oswald

Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.

Kent

Fellow, I know thee.

Oswald

What dost thou know me for?

Kent

A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson, glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition.

Oswald

Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that is neither known of thee nor knows thee!

Kent

What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I tripped up thy heels, and beat thee before the king? Draw, you rogue: for, though it be night, yet the moon shines; I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you: draw, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw.

Drawing his sword

Oswald

Away! I have nothing to do with thee.

Kent

Draw, you rascal: you come with letters against the king; and take vanity the puppet’s part against the royalty of her father: draw, you rogue, or I’ll so carbonado your shanks: draw, you rascal; come your ways.

Oswald

Help, ho! murder! help!

Kent

Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike.

Beating him

Oswald

Help, ho! murder! murder!

Enter Edmund, with his rapier drawn, Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, and Servants

Edmund

How now! What’s the matter?

Kent

With you, goodman boy, an you please: come, I’ll flesh ye; come on, young master.

Gloucester

Weapons! arms! What ’s the matter here?

Cornwall

Keep peace, upon your lives:

He dies that strikes again. What is the matter?

Regan

The messengers from our sister and the king.

Cornwall

What is your difference? speak.

Oswald

I am scarce in breath, my lord.

Kent

No marvel, you have so bestirred your valour. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee: a tailor made thee.

Cornwall

Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man?

Kent

Ay, a tailor, sir: a stone-cutter or painter could not have made him so ill, though he had been but two hours at the trade.

Cornwall

Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

Oswald

This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared at suit of his gray beard,—

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 gray beard, you wagtail?

Cornwall

Peace, sirrah!

You beastly knave, know you no reverence?

Kent

Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.

Cornwall

Why art thou angry?

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

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,

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,

I’ld drive ye cackling home to Camelot.

Cornwall

Why, art thou mad, old fellow?

Gloucester

How fell you out? say that.

Kent

No contraries hold more antipathy

Than I and such a knave.

Cornwall

Why dost thou call him a knave? What’s his offence?

Kent

His countenance likes me not.

Cornwall

No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor hers.

Kent

Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain:

I have seen better faces in my time

Than stands on any shoulder that I see

Before me at this instant.

Cornwall

This is some fellow,

Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect

A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb

Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he,

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

That stretch their duties nicely.

Kent

Sir, in good sooth, in sincere verity,

Under the allowance of your great aspect,

Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire

On flickering Phoebus’ front,—

Cornwall

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.

Cornwall

What was the offence you gave him?

Oswald

I never gave him any:

It pleased the king his master very late

To strike at me, upon his misconstruction;

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

For him attempting who was self-subdued;

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.

Cornwall

Fetch forth the stocks!

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:

You shall do small respect, show too bold malice

Against the grace and person of my master,

Stocking his messenger.

Cornwall

Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour,

There shall he sit till noon.

Regan

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.

Regan

Sir, being his knave, I will.

Cornwall

This is a fellow of the self-same colour

Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks!

Stocks brought out

Gloucester

Let me beseech your grace not to do so:

His fault is much, and the good king his master

Will cheque him for ’t: your purposed 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,

That he’s so slightly valued in his messenger,

Should have him thus restrain’d.

Cornwall

I’ll answer that.

Regan

My sister may receive it much more worse,

To have her gentleman abused, assaulted,

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

Gloucester

I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the duke’s pleasure,

Whose disposition, all the world well knows,

Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d: I’ll entreat for thee.

Kent

Pray, do not, sir: I have watched 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:

Give you good morrow!

Gloucester

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 comest

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,

Who hath most fortunately been inform’d

Of my obscured course; and shall find time

From this enormous state, seeking to give

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!

Sleeps

SCENE III. A WOOD.

Enter Edgar

Edgar

I heard myself proclaim’d;

And by the happy hollow of a tree

Escaped the hunt. No port is free; no place,

That guard, and most unusual vigilance,

Does not attend my taking. Whiles 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,

Brought near to beast: my face I’ll grime with filth;

Blanket my loins: elf all my hair in knots;

And with presented nakedness out-face

The winds and persecutions of the sky.

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 Turlygod! poor Tom!

That’s something yet: Edgar I nothing am.

Exit

SCENE IV. BEFORE GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE. KENT IN THE STOCKS.

Enter King Lear, Fool, and Gentleman

King Lear

’Tis strange that they should so depart from home,

And not send back my messenger.

Gentleman

As I learn’d,

The night before there was no purpose in them

Of this remove.

Kent

Hail to thee, noble master!

King Lear

Ha!

Makest thou this shame thy pastime?

Kent

No, my lord.

Fool

Ha, ha! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the heads, dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs: when a man’s over-lusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks.

King Lear

What’s he that hath so much thy place mistook

To set thee here?

Kent

It is both he and she;

Your son and daughter.

King Lear

No.

Kent

Yes.

King Lear

No, I say.

Kent

I say, yea.

King Lear

No, no, they would not.

Kent

Yes, they have.

King Lear

By Jupiter, I swear, no.

Kent

By Juno, I swear, ay.

King Lear

They durst not do ’t;

They could not, would not do ’t; ’tis worse than murder,

To do upon respect such violent outrage:

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

My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post,

Stew’d in his haste, half breathless, panting forth

From Goneril his mistress salutations;

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

The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks:

And meeting here the other messenger,

Whose welcome, I perceived, had poison’d mine,—

Being the very fellow that of late

Display’d so saucily against your highness,—

Having more man than wit about me, drew:

He raised the house with loud and coward cries.

Your son and daughter found this trespass worth

The shame which here it suffers.

Fool

Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild-geese fly that way.

Fathers that wear rags

Do make their children blind;

But fathers that bear bags

Shall see their children kind.

Fortune, that arrant whore,

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.

King Lear

O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!

Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow,

Thy element’s below! Where is this daughter?

Kent

With the earl, sir, here within.

King Lear

Follow me not;

Stay here.

Exit

Gentleman

Made you no more offence but what you speak of?

Kent

None.

How chance the king comes with so small a train?

Fool

And thou hadst been set i’ the stocks for that question, thou hadst well deserved it.

Kent

Why, fool?

Fool

We’ll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there’s no labouring 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,

Will pack when it begins to rain,

And leave thee in the storm,

But I will tarry; the fool will stay,

And let the wise man fly:

The knave turns fool that runs away;

The fool no knave, perdy.

Kent

Where learned you this, fool?

Fool

Not i’ the stocks, fool.

Re-enter King Lear with Gloucester

King Lear

Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary?

They have travell’d all the night? Mere fetches;

The images of revolt and flying off.

Fetch me a better answer.

Gloucester

My dear lord,

You know the fiery quality of the duke;

How unremoveable and fix’d he is

In his own course.

King Lear

Vengeance! plague! death! confusion!

Fiery? what quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester,

I’ld speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.

Gloucester

Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so.

King Lear

Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man?

Gloucester

Ay, my good lord.

King Lear

The king would speak with Cornwall; the dear father

Would with his daughter speak, commands her service:

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

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 indisposed and sickly fit

For the sound man. Death on my state! wherefore

Looking on Kent

Should he sit here? This act persuades me

That this remotion of the duke and her

Is practise only. Give me my servant forth.

Go tell the duke and ’s wife I’ld 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.

Gloucester

I would have all well betwixt you.

Exit

King 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.

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, and Servants

King Lear

Good morrow to you both.

Cornwall

Hail to your grace!

Kent is set at liberty

Regan

I am glad to see your highness.

King 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,

Sepulchring an adultress.

To Kent

O, are you free?

Some other time for that. Beloved Regan,

Thy sister’s naught: O Regan, she hath tied

Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here:

Points to his heart

I can scarce speak to thee; thou’lt not believe

With how depraved a quality — O Regan!

Regan

I pray you, sir, take patience: I have hope.

You less know how to value her desert

Than she to scant her duty.

King Lear

Say, how is that?

Regan

I cannot think my sister in the least

Would fail her obligation: if, sir, perchance

She have restrain’d the riots of your followers,

’Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,

As clears her from all blame.

King Lear

My curses on her!

Regan

O, sir, you are old.

Nature in you stands on the very verge

Of her confine: you should be ruled and led

By some discretion, that discerns your state

Better than you yourself. Therefore, I pray you,

That to our sister you do make return;

Say you have wrong’d her, sir.

King Lear

Ask her forgiveness?

Do you but mark how this becomes the house:

‘Dear daughter, I confess that I am old;

Kneeling

Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg

That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.’

Regan

Good sir, no more; these are unsightly tricks:

Return you to my sister.

King Lear

[Rising] Never, Regan:

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 stored vengeances of heaven fall

On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones,

You taking airs, with lameness!

Cornwall

Fie, sir, fie!

King Lear

You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames

Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty,

You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun,

To fall and blast her pride!

Regan

O the blest gods! so will you wish on me,

When the rash mood is on.

King 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

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

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.

Regan

Good sir, to the purpose.

King Lear

Who put my man i’ the stocks?

Tucket within

Cornwall

What trumpet’s that?

Regan

I know’t, my sister’s: this approves her letter,

That she would soon be here.

Enter Oswald

Is your lady come?

King Lear

This is a slave, whose easy-borrow’d pride

Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows.

Out, varlet, from my sight!

Cornwall

What means your grace?

King Lear

Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I have good hope

Thou didst not know on’t. Who comes here? O heavens,

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 ashamed to look upon this beard?

O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?

Goneril

Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended?

All’s not offence that indiscretion finds

And dotage terms so.

King Lear

O sides, you are too tough;

Will you yet hold? How came my man i’ the stocks?

Cornwall

I set him there, sir: but his own disorders

Deserved much less advancement.

King Lear

You! did you?

Regan

I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.

If, till the expiration of your month,

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.

King 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;

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

Goneril

At your choice, sir.

King 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;

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;

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:

I can be patient; I can stay with Regan,

I and my hundred knights.

Regan

Not altogether so:

I look’d not for you yet, nor am provided

For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister;

For those that mingle reason with your passion

Must be content to think you old, and so —

But she knows what she does.

King Lear

Is this well spoken?

Regan

I dare avouch it, sir: what, fifty followers?

Is it not well? What should you need of more?

Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger

Speak ’gainst so great a number? How, in one house,

Should many people, under two commands,

Hold amity? ’Tis hard; almost impossible.

Goneril

Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance

From those that she calls servants or from mine?

Regan

Why not, my lord? If then they chanced to slack you,

We could control them. If you will come to me,—

For now I spy a danger,— I entreat you

To bring but five and twenty: to no more

Will I give place or notice.

King Lear

I gave you all —

Regan

And in good time you gave it.

King Lear

Made you my guardians, my depositaries;

But kept a reservation to be follow’d

With such a number. What, must I come to you

With five and twenty, Regan? said you so?

Regan

And speak’t again, my lord; no more with me.

King Lear

Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour’d,

When others are more wicked: not being the worst

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.

Goneril

Hear me, my lord;

What need you five and twenty, ten, or five,

To follow in a house where twice so many

Have a command to tend you?

Regan

What need one?

King Lear

O, reason not the need: our basest beggars

Are in the poorest thing superfluous:

Allow not nature more than nature needs,

Man’s life’s as cheap as beast’s: thou art a lady;

If only to go warm were gorgeous,

Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear’st,

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!

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,

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

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,

Or ere I’ll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!

Exeunt King Lear, Gloucester, Kent, and Fool

Storm and tempest

Cornwall

Let us withdraw; ’twill be a storm.

Regan

This house is little: the old man and his people

Cannot be well bestow’d.

Goneril

’Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest,

And must needs taste his folly.

Regan

For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly,

But not one follower.

Goneril

So am I purposed.

Where is my lord of Gloucester?

Cornwall

Follow’d the old man forth: he is return’d.

Re-enter Gloucester

Gloucester

The king is in high rage.

Cornwall

Whither is he going?

Gloucester

He calls to horse; but will I know not whither.

Cornwall

’Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.

Goneril

My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.

Gloucester

Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds

Do sorely ruffle; for many miles a bout

There’s scarce a bush.

Regan

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;

And what they may incense him to, being apt

To have his ear abused, wisdom bids fear.

Cornwall

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.

Storm still. Enter Kent and a Gentleman, meeting

Kent

Who’s there, besides foul weather?

Gentleman

One minded like the weather, most unquietly.

Kent

I know you. Where’s the king?

Gentleman

Contending with the fretful element:

Bids the winds blow the earth into the sea,

Or swell the curled water ’bove the main,

That things might change or cease; tears his white hair,

Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage,

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,

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?

Gentleman

None but the fool; who labours to out-jest

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

With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Cornwall;

Who have — as who have not, that their great stars

Throned and set high?— servants, who seem no less,

Which are to France the spies and speculations

Intelligent of our state; what hath been seen,

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;

But, true it is, from France there comes a power

Into this scatter’d kingdom; who already,

Wise in our negligence, have secret feet

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

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;

And, from some knowledge and assurance, offer

This office to you.

Gentleman

I will talk further with you.

Kent

No, do not.

For confirmation that I am much more

Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take

What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia,—

As fear not but you shall,— show her this ring;

And she will tell you who your fellow is

That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm!

I will go seek the king.

Gentleman

Give me your hand: have you no more to say?

Kent

Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet;

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 King Lear and Fool

King 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,

Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,

Smite flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!

Crack nature’s moulds, an germens spill at once,

That make ingrateful man!

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.

King Lear

Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!

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 despised old man:

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!

Fool

He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece.

The cod-piece that will house

Before the head has any,

The head and he shall louse;

So beggars marry many.

The man that makes his toe

What he his heart should make

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.

King Lear

No, I will be the pattern of all patience;

I will say nothing.

Enter Kent

Kent

Who’s there?

Fool

Marry, here’s grace and a cod-piece; that’s a wise man and a fool.

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,

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

The affliction nor the fear.

King 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,

Unwhipp’d of justice: hide thee, thou bloody hand;

Thou perjured, and thou simular man of virtue

That art incestuous: caitiff, to pieces shake,

That under covert and convenient seeming

Hast practised 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;

Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest:

Repose you there; while I to this hard house —

More harder than the stones whereof ’tis raised;

Which even but now, demanding after you,

Denied me to come in — return, and force

Their scanted courtesy.

King Lear

My wits begin to turn.

Come on, my boy: how dost, my boy? art cold?

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

That’s sorry yet for thee.

Fool

[Singing]

He that has and a little tiny wit —

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,—

Must make content with his fortunes fit,

For the rain it raineth every day.

King Lear

True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.

Exeunt King Lear and Kent

Fool

This is a brave night to cool a courtezan.

I’ll speak a prophecy ere I go:

When priests are more in word than matter;

When brewers mar their malt with water;

When nobles are their tailors’ tutors;

No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors;

When every case in law is right;

No squire in debt, nor no poor knight;

When slanders do not live in tongues;

Nor cutpurses come not to throngs;

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:

Then comes the time, who lives to see’t,

That going shall be used with feet.

This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.

Exit

SCENE III. GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

Enter Gloucester and Edmund

Gloucester

Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I desire 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.

Edmund

Most savage and unnatural!

Gloucester

Go to; say you nothing. There’s a division betwixt 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. Though 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.

Exit

Edmund

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:

The younger rises when the old doth fall.

Exit

SCENE IV. THE HEATH. BEFORE A HOVEL.

Enter King Lear, Kent, and Fool

Kent

Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter:

The tyranny of the open night’s too rough

For nature to endure.

Storm still

King Lear

Let me alone.

Kent

Good my lord, enter here.

King Lear

Wilt break my heart?

Kent

I had rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter.

King Lear

Thou think’st ’tis much that this contentious storm

Invades us to the skin: so ’tis to thee;

But where the greater malady is fix’d,

The lesser is scarce felt. Thou’ldst shun a bear;

But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea,

Thou’ldst meet the bear i’ the mouth. When the mind’s free,

The body’s delicate: the tempest in my mind

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:

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,—

O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;

No more of that.

Kent

Good my lord, enter here.

King Lear

Prithee, go in thyself: seek thine own ease:

This tempest will not give me leave to ponder

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, whereso’er you are,

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

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.

Edgar

[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?

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 mad man

Edgar

Away! the foul fiend follows me!

Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind.

Hum! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.

King Lear

Hast thou given all to thy two daughters?

And art thou come to this?

Edgar

Who gives any thing to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, and through ford and whirlipool e’er bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pew; set ratsbane by his porridge; made film 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, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes: there could I have him now,— and there,— and there again, and there.

Storm still

King Lear

What, have his daughters brought him to this pass?

Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give them all?

Fool

Nay, he reserved a blanket, else we had been all shamed.

King Lear

Now, all the plagues that in the pendulous air

Hang fated o’er men’s faults light on thy daughters!

Kent

He hath no daughters, sir.

King Lear

Death, traitor! nothing could have subdued nature

To such a lowness but his unkind daughters.

Is it the fashion, that discarded fathers

Should have thus little mercy on their flesh?

Judicious punishment! ’twas this flesh begot

Those pelican daughters.

Edgar

Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill:

Halloo, halloo, loo, loo!

Fool

This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.

Edgar

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.

King Lear

What hast thou been?

Edgar

A serving-man, proud in heart and mind; that curled my hair; wore gloves in my cap; served the lust of my mistress’ 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

King 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.

Tearing off his clothes

Fool

Prithee, nuncle, be contented; ’tis a naughty night to swim in. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an old lecher’s heart; a small spark, all the rest on’s body cold. Look, here comes a walking fire.

Enter Gloucester, with a torch

Edgar

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 hare-lip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth.

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?

King Lear

What’s he?

Kent

Who’s there? What is’t you seek?

Gloucester

What are you there? Your names?

Edgar

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; 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!

Gloucester

What, hath your grace no better company?

Edgar

The prince of darkness is a gentleman:

Modo he’s call’d, and Mahu.

Gloucester

Our flesh and blood is grown so vile, my lord,

That it doth hate what gets it.

Edgar

Poor Tom’s a-cold.

Gloucester

Go in with me: my duty cannot suffer

To obey in all your daughters’ hard commands:

Though their injunction be to bar my doors,

And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you,

Yet have I ventured to come seek you out,

And bring you where both fire and food is ready.

King 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.

King Lear

I’ll talk a word with this same learned Theban.

What is your study?

Edgar

How to prevent the fiend, and to kill vermin.

King Lear

Let me ask you one word in private.

Kent

Importune him once more to go, my lord;

His wits begin to unsettle.

Gloucester

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 say’st the king grows mad; I’ll tell thee, friend,

I am almost mad myself: I had a son,

Now outlaw’d from my blood; he sought my life,

But lately, very late: I loved him, friend;

No father his son dearer: truth to tell thee,

The grief hath crazed my wits. What a night’s this!

I do beseech your grace,—

King Lear

O, cry your mercy, sir.

Noble philosopher, your company.

Edgar

Tom’s a-cold.

Gloucester

In, fellow, there, into the hovel: keep thee warm.

King Lear

Come let’s in all.

Kent

This way, my lord.

King Lear

With him;

I will keep still with my philosopher.

Kent

Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow.

Gloucester

Take him you on.

Kent

Sirrah, come on; go along with us.

King Lear

Come, good Athenian.

Gloucester

No words, no words: hush.

Edgar

Child Rowland to the dark tower came,

His word was still,— Fie, foh, and fum,

I smell the blood of a British man.

Exeunt

SCENE V. GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

Enter Cornwall and Edmund

Cornwall

I will have my revenge ere I depart his house.

Edmund

How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus gives way to loyalty, something fears me to think of.

Cornwall

I now perceive, it was not altogether your brother’s evil disposition made him seek his death; but a provoking merit, set a-work by a reprovable badness in himself.

Edmund

How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent to be just! This is the letter he spoke of, which approves him an intelligent party to the advantages of France: O heavens! that this treason were not, or not I the detector!

Cornwall

o with me to the duchess.

Edmund

If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand.

Cornwall

True or false, it hath made thee earl of Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension.

Edmund

[Aside] If I find him comforting the king, it will stuff his suspicion more fully.— I will persevere in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore between that and my blood.

Cornwall

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, King Lear, Kent, Fool, and Edgar

Gloucester

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.

Kent

All the power of his wits have given way to his impatience: the gods reward your kindness!

Exit Gloucester

Edgar

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?

King 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.

King Lear

To have a thousand with red burning spits

Come hissing in upon ’em,—

Edgar

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.

King Lear

It shall be done; I will arraign them straight.

To Edgar

Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer;

To the Fool

Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she foxes!

Edgar

Look, where he stands and glares!

Wantest thou eyes at trial, madam?

Come o’er the bourn, Bessy, to me,—

Fool

Her boat hath a leak,

And she must not speak

Why she dares not come over to thee.

Edgar

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 amazed:

Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions?

King Lear

I’ll see their trial first. Bring in the evidence.

To Edgar

Thou robed man of justice, take thy place;

To the Fool

And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity,

Bench by his side:

To Kent

you are o’ the commission,

Sit you too.

Edgar

Let us deal justly.

Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd?

Thy sheep be in the corn;

And for one blast of thy minikin mouth,

Thy sheep shall take no harm.

Pur! the cat is gray.

King Lear

Arraign her first; ’tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honourable assembly, she kicked the poor king her father.

Fool

Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril?

King Lear

She cannot deny it.

Fool

Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool.

King Lear

And here’s another, whose warp’d looks proclaim

What store her heart is made on. Stop her there!

Arms, arms, sword, fire! Corruption in the place!

False justicer, why hast thou let her ’scape?

Edgar

Bless thy five wits!

Kent

O pity! Sir, where is the patience now,

That thou so oft have boasted to retain?

Edgar

[Aside] My tears begin to take his part so much,

They’ll mar my counterfeiting.

King Lear

The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and

Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me.

Edgar

Tom will throw his head at them. Avaunt, you curs!

Be thy mouth or black or white,

Tooth that poisons if it bite;

Mastiff, grey-hound, mongrel grim,

Hound or spaniel, brach or lym,

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.

Do de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and fairs and market-towns. Poor Tom, thy horn is dry.

King 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 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.

King Lear

Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains: so, so, so. We’ll go to supper i’ he morning. So, so, so.

Fool

And I’ll go to bed at noon.

Re-enter Gloucester

Gloucester

Come hither, friend: where is the king my master?

Kent

Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are gone.

Gloucester

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 towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet

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;

And follow me, that will to some provision

Give thee quick conduct.

Kent

Oppressed nature sleeps:

This rest might yet have balm’d thy broken senses,

Which, if convenience will not allow,

Stand in hard cure.

To the Fool

Come, help to bear thy master;

Thou must not stay behind.

Gloucester

Come, come, away.

Exeunt all but Edgar

Edgar

When we our betters see bearing our woes,

We scarcely think our miseries our foes.

Who alone suffers suffers most i’ the mind,

Leaving free things and happy shows behind:

But then the mind much sufferance doth o’er skip,

When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.

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,

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. GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Edmund, and Servants

Cornwall

Post speedily to my lord your husband; show him this letter: the army of France is landed. Seek out the villain Gloucester.

Exeunt some of the Servants

Regan

Hang him instantly.

Goneril

Pluck out his eyes.

Cornwall

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.

Enter Oswald

How now! where’s the king?

Oswald

My lord of Gloucester hath convey’d him hence:

Some five or six and thirty of his knights,

Hot questrists after him, met him at gate;

Who, with some other of the lords dependants,

Are gone with him towards Dover; where they boast

To have well-armed friends.

Cornwall

Get horses for your mistress.

Goneril

Farewell, sweet lord, and sister.

Cornwall

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

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?

Enter Gloucester, brought in by two or three

Regan

Ingrateful fox! ’tis he.

Cornwall

Bind fast his corky arms.

Gloucester

What mean your graces? Good my friends, consider

You are my guests: do me no foul play, friends.

Cornwall

Bind him, I say.

Servants bind him

Regan

Hard, hard. O filthy traitor!

Gloucester

Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none.

Cornwall

To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find —

Regan plucks his beard

Gloucester

By the kind gods, ’tis most ignobly done

To pluck me by the beard.

Regan

So white, and such a traitor!

Gloucester

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

You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?

Cornwall

Come, sir, what letters had you late from France?

Regan

Be simple answerer, for we know the truth.

Cornwall

And what confederacy have you with the traitors

Late footed in the kingdom?

Regan

To whose hands have you sent the lunatic king? Speak.

Gloucester

I have a letter guessingly set down,

Which came from one that’s of a neutral heart,

And not from one opposed.

Cornwall

Cunning.

Regan

And false.

Cornwall

Where hast thou sent the king?

Gloucester

To Dover.

Regan

Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charged at peril —

Cornwall

Wherefore to Dover? Let him first answer that.

Gloucester

I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course.

Regan

Wherefore to Dover, sir?

Gloucester

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 endured, would have buoy’d up,

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 stern time,

Thou shouldst have said ‘Good porter, turn the key,’

All cruels else subscribed: but I shall see

The winged vengeance overtake such children.

Cornwall

See’t shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the chair.

Upon these eyes of thine I’ll set my foot.

Gloucester

He that will think to live till he be old,

Give me some help! O cruel! O you gods!

Regan

One side will mock another; the other too.

Cornwall

If you see vengeance,—

First Servant

Hold your hand, my lord:

I have served you ever since I was a child;

But better service have I never done you

Than now to bid you hold.

Regan

How now, you dog!

First Servant

If you did wear a beard upon your chin,

I’d shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean?

Cornwall

My villain!

They draw and fight

First Servant

Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger.

Regan

Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus!

Takes a sword, and runs at him behind

First Servant

O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left

To see some mischief on him. O!

Dies

Cornwall

Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly!

Where is thy lustre now?

Gloucester

All dark and comfortless. Where’s my son Edmund?

Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature,

To quit this horrid act.

Regan

Out, treacherous villain!

Thou call’st on him that hates thee: it was he

That made the overture of thy treasons to us;

Who is too good to pity thee.

Gloucester

O my follies! then Edgar was abused.

Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him!

Regan

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?

Cornwall

I have received a hurt: follow me, lady.

Turn out that eyeless villain; throw this slave

Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace:

Untimely comes this hurt: give me your arm.

Exit Cornwall, led by Regan

Second Servant

I’ll never care what wickedness I do,

If this man come to good.

Third Servant

If she live long,

And in the end meet the old course of death,

Women will all turn monsters.

Second Servant

Let’s follow the old earl, and get the Bedlam

To lead him where he would: his roguish madness

Allows itself to any thing.

Third Servant

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

Edgar

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:

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?

Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man

My father, poorly led? World, world, O world!

But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee,

Lie would not yield to age.

Old Man

O, my good lord, I have been your tenant, and your father’s tenant, these fourscore years.

Gloucester

Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone:

Thy comforts can do me no good at all;

Thee they may hurt.

Old Man

Alack, sir, you cannot see your way.

Gloucester

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

Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar,

The food of thy abused father’s wrath!

Might I but live to see thee in my touch,

I’ld say I had eyes again!

Old Man

How now! Who’s there?

Edgar

[Aside] O gods! Who is’t can say ‘I am at the worst’? I am worse than e’er I was.

Old Man

’Tis poor mad Tom.

Edgar

[Aside] And worse I may be yet: the worst is not

So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.’

Old Man

Fellow, where goest?

Gloucester

Is it a beggar-man?

Old Man

Madman and beggar too.

Gloucester

He has some reason, else he could not beg.

I’ the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw;

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.

They kill us for their sport.

Edgar

[Aside] How should this be?

Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow,

Angering itself and others.— Bless thee, master!

Gloucester

Is that the naked fellow?

Old Man

Ay, my lord.

Gloucester

Then, prithee, get thee gone: if, for my sake,

Thou wilt o’ertake us, hence a mile or twain,

I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love;

And bring some covering for this naked soul,

Who I’ll entreat to lead me.

Old Man

Alack, sir, he is mad.

Gloucester

’Tis the times’ plague, when madmen lead the blind.

Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure;

Above the rest, be gone.

Old Man

I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have,

Come on’t what will.

Exit

Gloucester

Sirrah, naked fellow,—

Edgar

Poor Tom’s a-cold.

Aside

I cannot daub it further.

Gloucester

Come hither, fellow.

Edgar

[Aside] And yet I must.— Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.

Gloucester

Know’st thou the way to Dover?

Edgar

Both stile and gate, horse-way and foot-path. 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; Hobbididence, prince of dumbness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting-women. So, bless thee, master!

Gloucester

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,

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?

Edgar

Ay, master.

Gloucester

There is a cliff, whose high and bending head

Looks fearfully in the confined deep:

Bring me but to the very brim of it,

And I’ll repair the misery thou dost bear

With something rich about me: from that place

I shall no leading need.

Edgar

Give me thy arm:

Poor Tom shall lead thee.

Exeunt

SCENE II. BEFORE ALBANY’S PALACE.

Enter Goneril and Edmund

Goneril

Welcome, my lord: I marvel our mild husband

Not met us on the way.

Enter Oswald

Now, where’s your master’?

Oswald

Madam, within; but never man so changed.

I told him of the army that was landed;

He smiled 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,

And told me I had turn’d the wrong side out:

What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him;

What like, offensive.

Goneril

[To Edmund] Then shall you go no further.

It is the cowish terror of his spirit,

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:

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,

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.

Edmund

Yours in the ranks of death.

Goneril

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 body.

Oswald

Madam, here comes my lord.

Exit

Enter Albany

Goneril

I have been worth the whistle.

Albany

O Goneril!

You are not worth the dust which the rude wind

Blows in your face. I fear your disposition:

That nature, which contemns its origin,

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.

Goneril

No more; the text is foolish.

Albany

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,

Whose reverence even the head-lugg’d bear would lick,

Most barbarous, most degenerate! have you madded.

Could my good brother suffer you to do it?

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,

Humanity must perforce prey on itself,

Like monsters of the deep.

Goneril

Milk-liver’d man!

That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;

Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning

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;

With plumed helm thy slayer begins threats;

Whiles thou, a moral fool, sit’st still, and criest

‘Alack, why does he so?’

Albany

See thyself, devil!

Proper deformity seems not in the fiend

So horrid as in woman.

Goneril

O vain fool!

Albany

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,

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.

Goneril

Marry, your manhood now —

Enter a Messenger

Albany

What news?

Messenger

O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s dead:

Slain by his servant, going to put out

The other eye of Gloucester.

Albany

Gloucester’s eye!

Messenger

A servant that he bred, thrill’d with remorse,

Opposed against the act, bending his sword

To his great master; who, thereat enraged,

Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him dead;

But not without that harmful stroke, which since

Hath pluck’d him after.

Albany

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?

Messenger

Both, both, my lord.

This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer;

’Tis from your sister.

Goneril

[Aside] One way I like this well;

But being widow, and my Gloucester with her,

May all the building in my fancy pluck

Upon my hateful life: another way,

The news is not so tart.— I’ll read, and answer.

Exit

Albany

Where was his son when they did take his eyes?

Messenger

Come with my lady hither.

Albany

He is not here.

Messenger

No, my good lord; I met him back again.

Albany

Knows he the wickedness?

Messenger

Ay, my good lord; ’twas he inform’d against him;

And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment

Might have the freer course.

Albany

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 know’st.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE FRENCH CAMP NEAR DOVER.

Enter Kent and a Gentleman

Kent

Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back know you the reason?

Gentleman

Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of; which imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger, that his personal return was most required and necessary.

Kent

Who hath he left behind him general?

Gentleman

The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far.

Kent

Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief?

Gentleman

Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence;

And now and then an ample tear trill’d down

Her delicate cheek: it seem’d she was a queen

Over her passion; who, most rebel-like,

Sought to be king o’er her.

Kent

O, then it moved her.

Gentleman

Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove

Who should express her goodliest. You have seen

Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears

Were like a better way: those happy smilets,

That play’d on her ripe lip, seem’d not to know

What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence,

As pearls from diamonds dropp’d. In brief,

Sorrow would be a rarity most beloved,

If all could so become it.

Kent

Made she no verbal question?

Gentleman

’Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of ‘father’

Pantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart:

Cried ‘sisters! sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters!

Kent! father! sisters! What, i’ the storm? i’ the night?

Let pity not be believed!’ There she shook

The holy water from her heavenly eyes,

And clamour moisten’d: then away she started

To deal with grief alone.

Kent

It is the stars,

The stars above us, govern our conditions;

Else one self mate and mate could not beget

Such different issues. You spoke not with her since?

Gentleman

No.

Kent

Was this before the king return’d?

Gentleman

No, since.

Kent

Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear’s i’ the town;

Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers

What we are come about, and by no means

Will yield to see his daughter.

Gentleman

Why, good sir?

Kent

A sovereign shame so elbows him: his own unkindness,

That stripp’d her from his benediction, turn’d her

To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights

To his dog-hearted daughters, these things sting

His mind so venomously, that burning shame

Detains him from Cordelia.

Gentleman

Alack, poor gentleman!

Kent

Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not?

Gentleman

’Tis so, they are afoot.

Kent

Well, sir, I’ll bring you to our master Lear,

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

Cordelia

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 bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers,

Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow

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

In the restoring his bereaved sense?

He that helps him take all my outward worth.

Doctor

There is means, madam:

Our foster-nurse of nature is repose,

The which he lacks; that to provoke in him,

Are many simples operative, whose power

Will close the eye of anguish.

Cordelia

All blest secrets,

All you unpublish’d virtues of the earth,

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

Messenger

News, madam;

The British powers are marching hitherward.

Cordelia

’Tis known before; our preparation stands

In expectation of them. O dear father,

It is thy business that I go about;

Therefore great France

My mourning and important tears hath pitied.

No blown ambition doth our arms incite,

But love, dear love, and our aged father’s right:

Soon may I hear and see him!

Exeunt

SCENE V. GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.

Enter Regan and Oswald

Regan

But are my brother’s powers set forth?

Oswald

Ay, madam.

Regan

Himself in person there?

Oswald

Madam, with much ado:

Your sister is the better soldier.

Regan

Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home?

Oswald

No, madam.

Regan

What might import my sister’s letter to him?

Oswald

I know not, lady.

Regan

’Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter.

It was great ignorance, Gloucester’s eyes being out,

To let him live: where he arrives he moves

All hearts against us: Edmund, I think, is gone,

In pity of his misery, to dispatch

His nighted life: moreover, to descry

The strength o’ the enemy.

Oswald

I must needs after him, madam, with my letter.

Regan

Our troops set forth to-morrow: stay with us;

The ways are dangerous.

Oswald

I may not, madam:

My lady charged my duty in this business.

Regan

Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you

Transport her purposes by word? Belike,

Something — I know not what: I’ll love thee much,

Let me unseal the letter.

Oswald

Madam, I had rather —

Regan

I know your lady does not love her husband;

I am sure of that: and at her late being here

She gave strange oeillades and most speaking looks

To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom.

Oswald

I, madam?

Regan

I speak in understanding; you are; I know’t:

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.

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.

If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor,

Preferment falls on him that cuts him off.

Oswald

Would I could meet him, madam! I should show

What party I do follow.

Regan

Fare thee well.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. FIELDS NEAR DOVER.

Enter Gloucester, and Edgar dressed like a peasant

Gloucester

When shall we come to the top of that same hill?

Edgar

You do climb up it now: look, how we labour.

Gloucester

Methinks the ground is even.

Edgar

Horrible steep.

Hark, do you hear the sea?

Gloucester

No, truly.

Edgar

Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect

By your eyes’ anguish.

Gloucester

So may it be, indeed:

Methinks thy voice is alter’d; and thou speak’st

In better phrase and matter than thou didst.

Edgar

You’re much deceived: in nothing am I changed

But in my garments.

Gloucester

Methinks you’re better spoken.

Edgar

Come on, sir; here’s the place: stand still. How fearful

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!

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

Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge,

That on the unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes,

Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more;

Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight

Topple down headlong.

Gloucester

Set me where you stand.

Edgar

Give me your hand: you are now within a foot

Of the extreme verge: for all beneath the moon

Would I not leap upright.

Gloucester

Let go my hand.

Here, friend, ’s another purse; in it a jewel

Well worth a poor man’s taking: fairies and gods

Prosper it with thee! Go thou farther off;

Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.

Edgar

Now fare you well, good sir.

Gloucester

With all my heart.

Edgar

Why I do trifle thus with his despair

Is done to cure it.

Gloucester

[Kneeling] O you mighty gods!

This world I do renounce, and, in your sights,

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

Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him!

Now, fellow, fare thee well.

He falls forward

Edgar

Gone, sir: farewell.

And yet I know not how conceit may rob

The treasury of life, when life itself

Yields to the theft: had he been where he thought,

By this, had thought been past. Alive or dead?

Ho, you sir! friend! Hear you, sir! speak!

Thus might he pass indeed: yet he revives.

What are you, sir?

Gloucester

Away, and let me die.

Edgar

Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air,

So many fathom down precipitating,

Thou’dst shiver’d like an egg: but thou dost breathe;

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.

Gloucester

But have I fall’n, or no?

Edgar

From the dread summit of this chalky bourn.

Look up a-height; the shrill-gorged lark so far

Cannot be seen or heard: do but look up.

Gloucester

Alack, I have no eyes.

Is wretchedness deprived that benefit,

To end itself by death? ’Twas yet some comfort,

When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage,

And frustrate his proud will.

Edgar

Give me your arm:

Up: so. How is ’t? Feel you your legs? You stand.

Gloucester

Too well, too well.

Edgar

This is above all strangeness.

Upon the crown o’ the cliff, what thing was that

Which parted from you?

Gloucester

A poor unfortunate beggar.

Edgar

As I stood here below, methought his eyes

Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses,

Horns whelk’d and waved like the enridged sea:

It was some fiend; therefore, thou happy father,

Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours

Of men’s impossibilities, have preserved thee.

Gloucester

I do remember now: henceforth I’ll bear

Affliction till it do cry out itself

‘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.

Edgar

Bear free and patient thoughts. But who comes here?

Enter King Lear, fantastically dressed with wild flowers

The safer sense will ne’er accommodate

His master thus.

King Lear

No, they cannot touch me for coining; I am the king himself.

Edgar

O thou side-piercing sight!

King 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.

Edgar

Sweet marjoram.

King Lear

Pass.

Gloucester

I know that voice.

King Lear

Ha! Goneril, with a white beard! They flattered 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 every thing that 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.

Gloucester

The trick of that voice I do well remember:

Is ’t not the king?

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? Adultery?

Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No:

The wren goes to ’t, and the small gilded fly

Does lecher in my sight.

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.

Behold yond simpering dame,

Whose face between her forks presages snow;

That minces virtue, and does shake the head

To hear of pleasure’s name;

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:

But to the girdle do the gods inherit,

Beneath is all the fiends’;

There’s hell, there’s darkness, there’s the sulphurous pit,

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.

Gloucester

O, let me kiss that hand!

King Lear

Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.

Gloucester

O ruin’d piece of nature! This great world

Shall so wear out to nought. Dost thou know me?

King 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.

Gloucester

Were all the letters suns, I could not see one.

Edgar

I would not take this from report; it is,

And my heart breaks at it.

King Lear

Read.

Gloucester

What, with the case of eyes?

King Lear

O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light; yet you see how this world goes.

Gloucester

I see it feelingly.

King Lear

What, art mad? A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears: see how yond justice rails upon yond simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places; and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a farmer’s dog bark at a beggar?

Gloucester

Ay, sir.

King Lear

And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of authority: a dog’s obeyed in office.

Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!

Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back;

Thou hotly lust’st to use her in that kind

For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener.

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 does pierce it.

None does offend, none, I say, none; I’ll able ’em:

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

To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now:

Pull off my boots: harder, harder: so.

Edgar

O, matter and impertinency mix’d! Reason in madness!

King 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,

We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee: mark.

Gloucester

Alack, alack the day!

King 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

A troop of horse with felt: I’ll put ’t in proof;

And when I have stol’n upon these sons-in-law,

Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

Enter a Gentleman, with Attendants

Gentleman

O, here he is: lay hand upon him. Sir,

Your most dear daughter —

King Lear

No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even

The natural fool of fortune. Use me well;

You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons;

I am cut to the brains.

Gentleman

You shall have any thing.

King Lear

No seconds? all myself?

Why, this would make a man a man of salt,

To use his eyes for garden water-pots,

Ay, and laying autumn’s dust.

Gentleman

Good sir,—

King Lear

I will die bravely, like a bridegroom. What!

I will be jovial: come, come; I am a king,

My masters, know you that.

Gentleman

You are a royal one, and we obey you.

King Lear

Then there’s life in’t. Nay, if you get it, you shall get it with running. Sa, sa, sa, sa.

Exit running; Attendants follow

Gentleman

A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch,

Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter,

Who redeems nature from the general curse

Which twain have brought her to.

Edgar

Hail, gentle sir.

Gentleman

Sir, speed you: what’s your will?

Edgar

Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward?

Gentleman

Most sure and vulgar: every one hears that,

Which can distinguish sound.

Edgar

But, by your favour,

How near’s the other army?

Gentleman

Near and on speedy foot; the main descry

Stands on the hourly thought.

Edgar

I thank you, sir: that’s all.

Gentleman

Though that the queen on special cause is here,

Her army is moved on.

Edgar

I thank you, sir.

Exit Gentleman

Gloucester

You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me:

Let not my worser spirit tempt me again

To die before you please!

Edgar

Well pray you, father.

Gloucester

Now, good sir, what are you?

Edgar

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.

Gloucester

Hearty thanks:

The bounty and the benison of heaven

To boot, and boot!

Enter Oswald

Oswald

A proclaim’d prize! Most happy!

That eyeless head of thine was first framed flesh

To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor,

Briefly thyself remember: the sword is out

That must destroy thee.

Gloucester

Now let thy friendly hand

Put strength enough to’t.

Edgar interposes

Oswald

Wherefore, bold peasant,

Darest thou support a publish’d traitor? Hence;

Lest that the infection of his fortune take

Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.

Edgar

Ch’ill not let go, zir, without vurther ’casion.

Oswald

Let go, slave, or thou diest!

Edgar

Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volk pass. An chud ha’ bin zwaggered out of my life, ’twould not ha’ bin zo long as ’tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th’ old man; keep out, che vor ye, or ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the harder: ch’ill be plain with you.

Oswald

Out, dunghill!

Edgar

Ch’ill pick your teeth, zir: come; no matter vor your foins.

They fight, and Edgar knocks him down

Oswald

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 British party: O, untimely death!

Dies

Edgar

I know thee well: a serviceable villain;

As duteous to the vices of thy mistress

As badness would desire.

Gloucester

What, is he dead?

Edgar

Sit you down, father; rest you

Let’s see these pockets: the letters that he speaks of

May be my friends. He’s dead; I am only sorry

He had no other death’s-man. Let us see:

Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not:

To know our enemies’ minds, we’ld rip their hearts;

Their papers, is more lawful.

[Reads] ‘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 goal; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labour.

‘Your — wife, so I would say —

‘Affectionate servant,

‘Goneril.’

O undistinguish’d space of woman’s will!

A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life;

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

Of the death practised duke: for him ’tis well

That of thy death and business I can tell.

Gloucester

The king is mad: how stiff is my vile sense,

That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling

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.

Edgar

Give me your hand:

Drum afar off

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. LEAR ON A BED ASLEEP,

soft music playing; Gentleman, and others attending.

Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Doctor

Cordelia

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 acknowledged, madam, is o’erpaid.

All my reports go with the modest truth;

Nor more nor clipp’d, but so.

Cordelia

Be better suited:

These weeds are memories of those worser hours:

I prithee, put them off.

Kent

Pardon me, dear madam;

Yet to be known shortens my made intent:

My boon I make it, that you know me not

Till time and I think meet.

Cordelia

Then be’t so, my good lord.

To the Doctor

How does the king?

Doctor

Madam, sleeps still.

Cordelia

O you kind gods,

Cure this great breach in his abused nature!

The untuned and jarring senses, O, wind up

Of this child-changed father!

Doctor

So please your majesty

That we may wake the king: he hath slept long.

Cordelia

Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceed

I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d?

Gentleman

Ay, madam; in the heaviness of his sleep

We put fresh garments on him.

Doctor

Be by, good madam, when we do awake him;

I doubt not of his temperance.

Cordelia

Very well.

Doctor

Please you, draw near. Louder the music there!

Cordelia

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!

Cordelia

Had you not been their father, these white flakes

Had challenged pity of them. Was this a face

To be opposed against the warring winds?

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,

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!

’Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once

Had not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him.

Doctor

Madam, do you; ’tis fittest.

Cordelia

How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?

King 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 moulten lead.

Cordelia

Sir, do you know me?

King Lear

You are a spirit, I know: when did you die?

Cordelia

Still, still, far wide!

Doctor

He’s scarce awake: let him alone awhile.

King Lear

Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight?

I am mightily abused. I should e’en 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 assured

Of my condition!

Cordelia

O, look upon me, sir,

And hold your hands in benediction o’er me:

No, sir, you must not kneel.

King Lear

Pray, do not mock me:

I am a very foolish fond old man,

Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;

And, to deal plainly,

I fear I am not in my perfect mind.

Methinks I should know you, and know this man;

Yet I am doubtful for I am mainly ignorant

What place this is; and all the skill I have

Remembers not these garments; nor I know not

Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;

For, as I am a man, I think this lady

To be my child Cordelia.

Cordelia

And so I am, I am.

King Lear

Be your tears wet? yes, ’faith. I pray, weep not:

If you have poison for me, I will drink it.

I know you do not love me; for your sisters

Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:

You have some cause, they have not.

Cordelia

No cause, no cause.

King Lear

Am I in France?

Kent

In your own kingdom, sir.

King Lear

Do not abuse me.

Doctor

Be comforted, good madam: the great rage,

You see, is kill’d in him: and yet it is danger

To make him even o’er the time he has lost.

Desire him to go in; trouble him no more

Till further settling.

Cordelia

Will’t please your highness walk?

King Lear

You must bear with me:

Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish.

Exeunt all but Kent and Gentleman

Gentleman

Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain?

Kent

Most certain, sir.

Gentleman

Who is conductor of his people?

Kent

As ’tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester.

Gentleman

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.

Gentleman

The arbitrement is like to be bloody. Fare you well, sir.

Exit

Kent

My point and period will be throughly wrought,

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, Gentlemen, and Soldiers.

Edmund

Know of the duke if his last purpose hold,

Or whether since he is advised by aught

To change the course: he’s full of alteration

And self-reproving: bring his constant pleasure.

To a Gentleman, who goes out

Regan

Our sister’s man is certainly miscarried.

Edmund

’Tis to be doubted, madam.

Regan

Now, sweet lord,

You know the goodness I intend upon you:

Tell me — but truly — but then speak the truth,

Do you not love my sister?

Edmund

In honour’d love.

Regan

But have you never found my brother’s way

To the forfended place?

Edmund

That thought abuses you.

Regan

I am doubtful that you have been conjunct

And bosom’d with her, as far as we call hers.

Edmund

No, by mine honour, madam.

Regan

I never shall endure her: dear my lord,

Be not familiar with her.

Edmund

Fear me not:

She and the duke her husband!

Enter, with drum and colours, Albany, Goneril, and Soldiers

Goneril

[Aside] I had rather lose the battle than that sister

Should loosen him and me.

Albany

Our very loving sister, well be-met.

Sir, this I hear; the king is come to his daughter,

With others whom the rigor of our state

Forced to cry out. Where I could not be honest,

I never yet was valiant: for this business,

It toucheth us, as France invades our land,

Not bolds the king, with others, whom, I fear,

Most just and heavy causes make oppose.

Edmund

Sir, you speak nobly.

Regan

Why is this reason’d?

Goneril

Combine together ’gainst the enemy;

For these domestic and particular broils

Are not the question here.

Albany

Let’s then determine

With the ancient of war on our proceedings.

Edmund

I shall attend you presently at your tent.

Regan

Sister, you’ll go with us?

Goneril

No.

Regan

’Tis most convenient; pray you, go with us.

Goneril

[Aside] O, ho, I know the riddle.— I will go.

As they are going out, enter Edgar disguised

Edgar

If e’er your grace had speech with man so poor,

Hear me one word.

Albany

I’ll overtake you. Speak.

Exeunt all but Albany and Edgar

Edgar

Before you fight the battle, ope this letter.

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,

Your business of the world hath so an end,

And machination ceases. Fortune love you.

Albany

Stay till I have read the letter.

Edgar

I was forbid it.

When time shall serve, let but the herald cry,

And I’ll appear again.

Albany

Why, fare thee well: I will o’erlook thy paper.

Exit Edgar

Re-enter Edmund

Edmund

The enemy’s in view; draw up your powers.

Here is the guess of their true strength and forces

By diligent discovery; but your haste

Is now urged on you.

Albany

We will greet the time.

Exit

Edmund

To both these sisters have I sworn my love;

Each jealous of the other, as the stung

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;

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

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

Stands on me to defend, not to debate.

Exit

SCENE II. A FIELD BETWEEN THE TWO CAMPS.

Alarum within. Enter, with drum and colours, King Lear, Cordelia, and Soldiers, over the stage; and exeunt

Enter Edgar and Gloucester

Edgar

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.

Gloucester

Grace go with you, sir!

Exit Edgar

Alarum and retreat within. Re-enter Edgar

Edgar

Away, old man; give me thy hand; away!

King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta’en:

Give me thy hand; come on.

Gloucester

No farther, sir; a man may rot even here.

Edgar

What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure

Their going hence, even as their coming hither;

Ripeness is all: come on.

Gloucester

And that’s true too.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE BRITISH CAMP NEAR DOVER.

Enter, in conquest, with drum and colours, Edmund, King Lear and Cordelia, prisoners; Captain, Soldiers, & c

Edmund

Some officers take them away: good guard,

Until their greater pleasures first be known

That are to censure them.

Cordelia

We are not the first

Who, with best meaning, have incurr’d the worst.

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?

King Lear

No, no, no, no! Come, let’s away to prison:

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

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,

As if we were God’s spies: and we’ll wear out,

In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones,

That ebb and flow by the moon.

Edmund

Take them away.

King Lear

Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,

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 good-years shall devour them, flesh and fell,

Ere they shall make us weep: we’ll see ’em starve first. Come.

Exeunt King Lear and Cordelia, guarded

Edmund

Come hither, captain; hark.

Take thou this note;

Giving a paper

go follow them to prison:

One step I have advanced 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

Does not become a sword: thy great employment

Will not bear question; either say thou’lt do ’t,

Or thrive by other means.

Captain

I’ll do ’t, my lord.

Edmund

About it; and write happy when thou hast done.

Mark, I say, instantly; and carry it so

As I have set it down.

Captain

I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats;

If it be man’s work, I’ll do ’t.

Exit

Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril, Regan, another Captain, and Soldiers

Albany

Sir, you have shown to-day your valiant strain,

And fortune led you well: you have the captives

That were the opposites of this day’s strife:

We do require them of you, so to use them

As we shall find their merits and our safety

May equally determine.

Edmund

Sir, I thought it fit

To send the old and miserable king

To some retention and appointed guard;

Whose age has charms in it, whose title more,

To pluck the common bosom on his side,

An turn our impress’d lances in our eyes

Which do command them. With him I sent the queen;

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;

And the best quarrels, in the heat, are cursed

By those that feel their sharpness:

The question of Cordelia and her father

Requires a fitter place.

Albany

Sir, by your patience,

I hold you but a subject of this war,

Not as a brother.

Regan

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;

Bore the commission of my place and person;

The which immediacy may well stand up,

And call itself your brother.

Goneril

Not so hot:

In his own grace he doth exalt himself,

More than in your addition.

Regan

In my rights,

By me invested, he compeers the best.

Goneril

That were the most, if he should husband you.

Regan

Jesters do oft prove prophets.

Goneril

Holla, holla!

That eye that told you so look’d but a-squint.

Regan

Lady, I am not well; else I should answer

From a full-flowing stomach. General,

Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony;

Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine:

Witness the world, that I create thee here

My lord and master.

Goneril

Mean you to enjoy him?

Albany

The let-alone lies not in your good will.

Edmund

Nor in thine, lord.

Albany

Half-blooded fellow, yes.

Regan

[To Edmund] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine.

Albany

Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee

On capital treason; and, in thine attaint,

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.

If you will marry, make your loves to me,

My lady is bespoke.

Goneril

An interlude!

Albany

Thou art arm’d, Gloucester: let the trumpet sound:

If none appear to prove upon thy head

Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons,

There is my pledge;

Throwing 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.

Regan

Sick, O, sick!

Goneril

[Aside] If not, I’ll ne’er trust medicine.

Edmund

There’s my exchange:

Throwing down a glove

what in the world he is

That names me traitor, villain-like he lies:

Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach,

On him, on you, who not? I will maintain

My truth and honour firmly.

Albany

A herald, ho!

Edmund

A herald, ho, a herald!

Albany

Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers,

All levied in my name, have in my name

Took their discharge.

Regan

My sickness grows upon me.

Albany

She is not well; convey her to my tent.

Exit Regan, led

Enter a Herald

Come hither, herald,— Let the trumpet sound,

And read out this.

Captain

Sound, trumpet!

A trumpet sounds

Herald

[Reads] ‘If any man of quality or degree within the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear by the third sound of the trumpet: he is bold in his defence.’

Edmund

Sound!

First trumpet

Herald

Again!

Second trumpet

Herald

Again!

Third trumpet

Trumpet answers within

Enter Edgar, at the third sound, armed, with a trumpet before him

Albany

Ask him his purposes, why he appears

Upon this call o’ the trumpet.

Herald

What are you?

Your name, your quality? and why you answer

This present summons?

Edgar

Know, my name is lost;

By treason’s tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit:

Yet am I noble as the adversary

I come to cope.

Albany

Which is that adversary?

Edgar

What’s he that speaks for Edmund Earl of Gloucester?

Edmund

Himself: what say’st thou to him?

Edgar

Draw thy sword,

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,

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,’

This sword, this arm, and my best spirits, are bent

To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak,

Thou liest.

Edmund

In wisdom I should ask thy name;

But, since thy outside looks so fair and warlike,

And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes,

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;

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!

Alarums. They fight. Edmund falls

Albany

Save him, save him!

Goneril

This is practise, Gloucester:

By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer

An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish’d,

But cozen’d and beguiled.

Albany

Shut your mouth, dame,

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

Goneril

Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine:

Who can arraign me for’t.

Albany

Most monstrous! oh!

Know’st thou this paper?

Goneril

Ask me not what I know.

Exit

Albany

Go after her: she’s desperate; govern her.

Edmund

What you have charged me with, that have I done;

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.

Edgar

Let’s exchange charity.

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

Make instruments to plague us:

The dark and vicious place where thee he got

Cost him his eyes.

Edmund

Thou hast spoken right, ’tis true;

The wheel is come full circle: I am here.

Albany

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!

Edgar

Worthy prince, I know’t.

Albany

Where have you hid yourself?

How have you known the miseries of your father?

Edgar

By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale;

And when ’tis told, O, that my heart would burst!

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

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,

Led him, begg’d for him, saved 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

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.

Edmund

This speech of yours hath moved me,

And shall perchance do good: but speak you on;

You look as you had something more to say.

Albany

If there be more, more woeful, hold it in;

For I am almost ready to dissolve,

Hearing of this.

Edgar

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.

Whilst I was big in clamour came there in a man,

Who, having seen me in my worst estate,

Shunn’d my abhorr’d society; but then, finding

Who ’twas that so endured, with his strong arms

He fastened on my neck, and bellow’d out

As he’ld burst heaven; threw him on my father;

Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him

That ever ear received: which in recounting

His grief grew puissant and the strings of life

Began to crack: twice then the trumpets sounded,

And there I left him tranced.

Albany

But who was this?

Edgar

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

Gentleman

Help, help, O, help!

Edgar

What kind of help?

Albany

Speak, man.

Edgar

What means that bloody knife?

Gentleman

’Tis hot, it smokes;

It came even from the heart of — O, she’s dead!

Albany

Who dead? speak, man.

Gentleman

Your lady, sir, your lady: and her sister

By her is poisoned; she hath confess’d it.

Edmund

I was contracted to them both: all three

Now marry in an instant.

Edgar

Here comes Kent.

Albany

Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead:

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

To bid my king and master aye good night:

Is he not here?

Albany

Great thing of us forgot!

Speak, Edmund, where’s the king? and where’s Cordelia?

See’st thou this object, Kent?

The bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in

Kent

Alack, why thus?

Edmund

Yet Edmund was beloved:

The one the other poison’d for my sake,

And after slew herself.

Albany

Even so. Cover their faces.

Edmund

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:

Nay, send in time.

Albany

Run, run, O, run!

Edgar

To who, my lord? Who hath the office? send

Thy token of reprieve.

Edmund

Well thought on: take my sword,

Give it the captain.

Albany

Haste thee, for thy life.

Exit Edgar

Edmund

He hath commission from thy wife and me

To hang Cordelia in the prison, and

To lay the blame upon her own despair,

That she fordid herself.

Albany

The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile.

Edmund is borne off

Re-enter King Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms; Edgar, Captain, and others following

King Lear

Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones:

Had I your tongues and eyes, I’ld use them so

That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone for ever!

I know when one is dead, and when one lives;

She’s dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass;

If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,

Why, then she lives.

Kent

Is this the promised end

Edgar

Or image of that horror?

Albany

Fall, and cease!

King Lear

This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so,

It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows

That ever I have felt.

Kent

[Kneeling] O my good master!

King Lear

Prithee, away.

Edgar

’Tis noble Kent, your friend.

King Lear

A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!

I might have saved her; now she’s gone for ever!

Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha!

What is’t thou say’st? Her voice was ever soft,

Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.

I kill’d the slave that was a-hanging thee.

Captain

’Tis true, my lords, he did.

King 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.

Kent

If fortune brag of two she loved and hated,

One of them we behold.

King Lear

This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent?

Kent

The same,

Your servant Kent: Where is your servant Caius?

King Lear

He’s a good fellow, I can tell you that;

He’ll strike, and quickly too: he’s dead and rotten.

Kent

No, my good lord; I am the very man,—

King Lear

I’ll see that straight.

Kent

That, from your first of difference and decay,

Have follow’d your sad steps.

King Lear

You are welcome hither.

Kent

Nor no man else: all’s cheerless, dark, and deadly.

Your eldest daughters have fordone them selves,

And desperately are dead.

King Lear

Ay, so I think.

Albany

He knows not what he says: and vain it is

That we present us to him.

Edgar

Very bootless.

Enter a Captain

Captain

Edmund is dead, my lord.

Albany

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,

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

The cup of their deservings. O, see, see!

King Lear

And my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no life!

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,

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,

Look there, look there!

Dies

Edgar

He faints! My lord, my lord!

Kent

Break, heart; I prithee, break!

Edgar

Look up, my lord.

Kent

Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! he hates him much

That would upon the rack of this tough world

Stretch him out longer.

Edgar

He is gone, indeed.

Kent

The wonder is, he hath endured so long:

He but usurp’d his life.

Albany

Bear them from hence. Our present business

Is general woe.

To Kent and Edgar

Friends of my soul, you twain

Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain.

Kent

I have a journey, sir, shortly to go;

My master calls me, I must not say no.

Albany

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.

Exeunt, with a dead march

The Tragedy of Macbeth

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. A DESERT PLACE.

SCENE II. A CAMP NEAR FORRES.

SCENE III. A HEATH NEAR FORRES.

SCENE IV. FORRES. THE PALACE.

SCENE V. INVERNESS. MACBETH’S CASTLE.

SCENE VI. BEFORE MACBETH’S CASTLE.

SCENE VII. MACBETH’S CASTLE.

ACT II

SCENE I. COURT OF MACBETH’S CASTLE.

SCENE II. THE SAME.

SCENE III. THE SAME.

SCENE IV. OUTSIDE MACBETH’S CASTLE.

ACT III

SCENE I. FORRES. THE PALACE.

SCENE II. THE PALACE.

SCENE III. A PARK NEAR THE PALACE.

SCENE IV. THE SAME. HALL IN THE PALACE.

SCENE V. A HEATH.

SCENE VI. FORRES. THE PALACE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. A CAVERN. IN THE MIDDLE, A BOILING CAULDRON.

SCENE II. FIFE. MACDUFF’S CASTLE.

SCENE III. ENGLAND. BEFORE THE KING’S PALACE.

ACT V

SCENE I. DUNSINANE. ANTE-ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE II. THE COUNTRY NEAR DUNSINANE.

SCENE III. DUNSINANE. A ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

SCENE IV. COUNTRY NEAR BIRNAM WOOD.

SCENE V. DUNSINANE. WITHIN THE CASTLE.

SCENE VI. DUNSINANE. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

SCENE VII. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE VIII. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Duncan, King of Scotland.

Macbeth, Thane of Glamis and Cawdor, a general in the King's army.

Lady Macbeth, his wife.

Macduff, Thane of Fife, a nobleman of Scotland.

Lady Macduff, his wife.

Malcolm, elder son of Duncan.

Donalbain, younger son of Duncan.

Banquo, Thane of Lochaber, a general in the King's army.

Fleance, his son.

Lennox, Ross, Menteith, Angus, Caithness, noblemen of Scotland.

Siward, Earl of Northumberland, general of the English forces.

Young Siward, his son.

Seyton, attendant to Macbeth.

Hecate, Queen of the Witches.

Witches.

Boy, Son of Macduff.

Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth.

An English Doctor.

A Scottish Doctor.

A Sergeant.

A Porter.

An Old Man.

The Ghost of Banquo and other Apparitions.

Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murtherers, Attendants, and Messengers.

Scene: Scotland and England.

ACT I

SCENE I. A DESERT PLACE.

Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches

First Witch

When shall we three meet again

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

Second Witch

When the hurlyburly’s done,

When the battle’s lost and won.

Third Witch

That will be ere the set of sun.

First Witch

Where the place?

Second Witch

Upon the heath.

Third Witch

There to meet with Macbeth.

First Witch

I come, Graymalkin!

Second 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 Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Sergeant

Duncan

What bloody man is that? He can report,

As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt

The newest state.

Malcolm

This is the sergeant

Who like a good and hardy soldier fought

’Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend!

Say to the king the knowledge of the broil

As thou didst leave it.

Sergeant

Doubtful it stood;

As two spent swimmers, that do cling together

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

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 —

Disdaining fortune, with his brandish’d steel,

Which smoked with bloody execution,

Like valour’s minion carved out his passage

Till he faced the slave;

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.

Duncan

O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman!

Sergeant

As whence the sun ’gins his reflection

Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break,

So from that spring whence comfort seem’d to come

Discomfort swells. Mark, king of Scotland, mark:

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

Began a fresh assault.

Duncan

Dismay’d not this

Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo?

Sergeant

Yes;

As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion.

If I say sooth, I must report they were

As cannons overcharged with double cracks, so they

Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe:

Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds,

Or memorise another Golgotha,

I cannot tell.

But I am faint, my gashes cry for help.

Duncan

So well thy words become thee as thy wounds;

They smack of honour both. Go get him surgeons.

Exit Sergeant, attended

Who comes here?

Enter Ross

Malcolm

The worthy thane of Ross.

Lennox

What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look

That seems to speak things strange.

Ross

God save the king!

Duncan

Whence camest 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,

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,

Point against point rebellious, arm ’gainst arm.

Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude,

The victory fell on us.

Duncan

Great happiness!

Ross

That now

Sweno, the Norways’ king, craves composition:

Nor would we deign him burial of his men

Till he disbursed at Saint Colme’s inch

Ten thousand dollars to our general use.

Duncan

No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive

Our bosom interest: go pronounce his present death,

And with his former title greet Macbeth.

Ross

I’ll see it done.

Duncan

What he hath lost noble Macbeth hath won.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A HEATH NEAR FORRES.

Thunder. Enter the three Witches

First Witch

Where hast thou been, sister?

Second Witch

Killing swine.

Third Witch

Sister, where thou?

First Witch

A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap,

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,

And, like a rat without a tail,

I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.

Second Witch

I’ll give thee a wind.

First Witch

Thou’rt kind.

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

I’ the shipman’s card.

I will drain him dry as hay:

Sleep shall neither night nor day

Hang upon his pent-house lid;

He shall live a man forbid:

Weary se’nnights nine times nine

Shall he dwindle, peak and pine:

Though his bark cannot be lost,

Yet it shall be tempest-tost.

Look what I have.

Second Witch

Show me, show me.

First Witch

Here I have a pilot’s thumb,

Wreck’d as homeward he did come.

Drum within

Third Witch

A drum, a drum!

Macbeth doth come.

All

The weird sisters, hand in hand,

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.

Peace! the charm’s wound up.

Enter Macbeth and Banquo

Macbeth

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

Banquo

How far is’t call’d to Forres? What are these

So wither’d and so wild in their attire,

That look not like the 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 chappy finger laying

Upon her skinny lips: you should be women,

And yet your beards forbid me to interpret

That you are so.

Macbeth

Speak, if you can: what are you?

First Witch

All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of Glamis!

Second Witch

All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!

Third Witch

All hail, Macbeth, thou shalt be king hereafter!

Banquo

Good sir, why do you start; and seem to fear

Things that do sound so fair? I’ the name of truth,

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,

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

Your favours nor your hate.

First Witch

Hail!

Second Witch

Hail!

Third Witch

Hail!

First Witch

Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.

Second Witch

Not so happy, yet much happier.

Third Witch

Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none:

So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!

First Witch

Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!

Macbeth

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

Stands not within the prospect of belief,

No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence

You owe this strange intelligence? or why

Upon this blasted heath you stop our way

With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you.

Witches vanish

Banquo

The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,

And these are of them. Whither are they vanish’d?

Macbeth

Into the air; and what seem’d corporal melted

As breath into the wind. Would they had stay’d!

Banquo

Were such things here as we do speak about?

Or have we eaten on the insane root

That takes the reason prisoner?

Macbeth

Your children shall be kings.

Banquo

You shall be king.

Macbeth

And thane of Cawdor too: went it not so?

Banquo

To the selfsame tune and words. Who’s here?

Enter Ross and Angus

Ross

The king hath happily received, Macbeth,

The news of thy success; and when he reads

Thy personal venture in the rebels’ fight,

His wonders and his praises do contend

Which should be thine or his: silenced with that,

In viewing o’er the rest o’ the selfsame day,

He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks,

Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make,

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.

Angus

We are sent

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:

In which addition, hail, most worthy thane!

For it is thine.

Banquo

What, can the devil speak true?

Macbeth

The thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me

In borrow’d robes?

Angus

Who was the thane lives yet;

But under heavy judgment bears that life

Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combined

With those of Norway, or did line the rebel

With hidden help and vantage, or that with both

He labour’d in his country’s wreck, I know not;

But treasons capital, confess’d and proved,

Have overthrown him.

Macbeth

[Aside] Glamis, and thane of Cawdor!

The greatest is behind.

To Ross and Angus

Thanks for your pains.

To Banquo

Do you not hope your children shall be kings,

When those that gave the thane of Cawdor to me

Promised no less to them?

Banquo

That trusted home

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,

Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s

In deepest consequence.

Cousins, a word, I pray you.

Macbeth

[Aside] Two truths are told,

As happy prologues to the swelling act

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,

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

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

But what is not.

Banquo

Look, how our partner’s rapt.

Macbeth

[Aside] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me,

Without my stir.

Banquo

New horrors come upon him,

Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould

But with the aid of use.

Macbeth

[Aside] Come what come may,

Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.

Banquo

Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure.

Macbeth

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 chanced, and, at more time,

The interim having weigh’d it, let us speak

Our free hearts each to other.

Banquo

Very gladly.

Macbeth

Till then, enough. Come, friends.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. FORRES. THE PALACE.

Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and Attendants

Duncan

Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not

Those in commission yet return’d?

Malcolm

My liege,

They are not yet come back. But I have spoke

With one that saw him die: who did report

That very frankly he confess’d his treasons,

Implored your highness’ pardon and set forth

A deep repentance: nothing in his life

Became him like the leaving it; he died

As one that had been studied in his death

To throw away the dearest thing he owed,

As ’twere a careless trifle.

Duncan

There’s no art

To find the mind’s construction in the face:

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

That swiftest wing of recompense is slow

To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserved,

That the proportion both of thanks and payment

Might have been mine! only I have left to say,

More is thy due than more than all can pay.

Macbeth

The service and the loyalty I owe,

In doing it, pays itself. Your highness’ part

Is to receive our duties; and our duties

Are to your throne and state children and servants,

Which do but what they should, by doing every thing

Safe toward your love and honour.

Duncan

Welcome hither:

I have begun to plant thee, and will labour

To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,

That hast no less deserved, nor must be known

No less to have done so, let me enfold thee

And hold thee to my heart.

Banquo

There if I grow,

The harvest is your own.

Duncan

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

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,

But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine

On all deservers. From hence to Inverness,

And bind us further to you.

Macbeth

The rest is labour, which is not used for you:

I’ll be myself the harbinger and make joyful

The hearing of my wife with your approach;

So humbly take my leave.

Duncan

My worthy Cawdor!

Macbeth

[Aside] The Prince of Cumberland! that is a step

On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap,

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,

Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.

Exit

Duncan

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,

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

Lady Macbeth

‘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 shalt be!’ This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightst 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

What thou art promised: 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

The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly,

That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false,

And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou’ldst have, great Glamis,

That which cries ‘Thus thou must do, if thou have it;

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

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?

Messenger

The king comes here to-night.

Lady Macbeth

Thou’rt mad to say it:

Is not thy master with him? who, were’t so,

Would have inform’d for preparation.

Messenger

So please you, it is true: our thane is coming:

One of my fellows had the speed of him,

Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more

Than would make up his message.

Lady Macbeth

Give him tending;

He brings great news.

Exit Messenger

The raven himself is hoarse

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan

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;

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,

Wherever in your sightless substances

You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night,

And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,

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!

Thy letters have transported me beyond

This ignorant present, and I feel now

The future in the instant.

Macbeth

My dearest love,

Duncan comes here to-night.

Lady Macbeth

And when goes hence?

Macbeth

To-morrow, as he purposes.

Lady Macbeth

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

This night’s great business into my dispatch;

Which shall to all our nights and days to come

Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.

Macbeth

We will speak further.

Lady Macbeth

Only look up clear;

To alter favour ever is to fear:

Leave all the rest to me.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. BEFORE MACBETH’S CASTLE.

Hautboys and torches. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus, and Attendants

Duncan

This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air

Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself

Unto our gentle senses.

Banquo

This guest of summer,

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,

By his loved 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:

Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed,

The air is delicate.

Enter Lady Macbeth

Duncan

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

How you shall bid God ’ild us for your pains,

And thank us for your trouble.

Lady Macbeth

All our service

In every point twice done and then done double

Were poor and single business to contend

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.

Duncan

Where’s the thane of Cawdor?

We coursed 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 Macbeth

Your servants ever

Have theirs, themselves and what is theirs, in compt,

To make their audit at your highness’ pleasure,

Still to return your own.

Duncan

Give me your hand;

Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly,

And shall continue our graces towards him.

By your leave, hostess.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. MACBETH’S CASTLE.

Hautboys and torches. Enter a Sewer, and divers Servants with dishes and service, and pass over the stage. Then enter Macbeth

Macbeth

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

Might be the be-all and the end-all here,

But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,

We’ld jump the life to come. But in these cases

We still have judgment here; that we but teach

Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return

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;

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

So clear in his great office, that his virtues

Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against

The deep damnation of his taking-off;

And pity, like a naked new-born babe,

Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubim, horsed

Upon the sightless couriers of the air,

Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,

That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur

To prick the sides of my intent, but only

Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself

And falls on the other.

Enter Lady Macbeth

How now! what news?

Lady Macbeth

He has almost supp’d: why have you left the chamber?

Macbeth

Hath he ask’d for me?

Lady Macbeth

Know you not he has?

Macbeth

We will proceed no further in this business:

He hath honour’d me of late; and I have bought

Golden opinions from all sorts of people,

Which would be worn now in their newest gloss,

Not cast aside so soon.

Lady Macbeth

Was the hope drunk

Wherein you dress’d yourself? hath it slept since?

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

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,’

Like the poor cat i’ the adage?

Macbeth

Prithee, peace:

I dare do all that may become a man;

Who dares do more is none.

Lady Macbeth

What beast was’t, then,

That made you break this enterprise to me?

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:

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,

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.

Macbeth

If we should fail?

Lady Macbeth

We fail!

But screw your courage to the sticking-place,

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

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,

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?

Macbeth

Bring forth men-children only;

For thy undaunted mettle should compose

Nothing but males. Will it not be received,

When we have mark’d with blood those sleepy two

Of his own chamber and used their very daggers,

That they have done’t?

Lady Macbeth

Who dares receive it other,

As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar

Upon his death?

Macbeth

I am settled, and bend up

Each corporal agent to this terrible feat.

Away, and mock the time with fairest show:

False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. COURT OF MACBETH’S CASTLE.

Enter Banquo, and Fleance bearing a torch before him

Banquo

How goes the night, boy?

Fleance

The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.

Banquo

And she goes down at twelve.

Fleance

I take’t, ’tis later, sir.

Banquo

Hold, take my sword. There’s husbandry in heaven;

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.

Who’s there?

Macbeth

A friend.

Banquo

What, sir, not yet at rest? The king’s a-bed:

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.

Macbeth

Being unprepared,

Our will became the servant to defect;

Which else should free have wrought.

Banquo

All’s well.

I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters:

To you they have show’d some truth.

Macbeth

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.

Banquo

At your kind’st leisure.

Macbeth

If you shall cleave to my consent, when ’tis,

It shall make honour for you.

Banquo

So I lose none

In seeking to augment it, but still keep

My bosom franchised and allegiance clear,

I shall be counsell’d.

Macbeth

Good repose the while!

Banquo

Thanks, sir: the like to you!

Exeunt Banquo and Fleance

Macbeth

Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,

She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.

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

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

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,

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

Thus to mine eyes. Now o’er the one halfworld

Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse

The curtain’d sleep; witchcraft celebrates

Pale Hecate’s offerings, and wither’d murder,

Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf,

Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.

With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design

Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,

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:

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.

Exit

SCENE II. THE SAME.

Enter Lady Macbeth

Lady Macbeth

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,

Which gives the stern’st good-night. He is about it:

The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms

Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg’d their possets,

That death and nature do contend about them,

Whether they live or die.

Macbeth

[Within] Who’s there? what, ho!

Lady Macbeth

Alack, I am afraid they have awaked,

And ’tis not done. The attempt and not the deed

Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready;

He could not miss ’em. Had he not resembled

My father as he slept, I had done’t.

Enter Macbeth

My husband!

Macbeth

I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?

Lady Macbeth

I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.

Did not you speak?

Macbeth

When?

Lady Macbeth

Now.

Macbeth

As I descended?

Lady Macbeth

Ay.

Macbeth

Hark!

Who lies i’ the second chamber?

Lady Macbeth

Donalbain.

Macbeth

This is a sorry sight.

Looking on his hands

Lady Macbeth

A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

Macbeth

There’s one did laugh in’s sleep, and one cried

‘Murder!’

That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them:

But they did say their prayers, and address’d them

Again to sleep.

Lady Macbeth

There are two lodged together.

Macbeth

One cried ‘God bless us!’ and ‘Amen’ the other;

As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands.

Listening their fear, I could not say ‘Amen,’

When they did say ‘God bless us!’

Lady Macbeth

Consider it not so deeply.

Macbeth

But wherefore could not I pronounce ‘Amen’?

I had most need of blessing, and ‘Amen’

Stuck in my throat.

Lady Macbeth

These deeds must not be thought

After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

Macbeth

Methought I heard a voice cry ‘sleep no more!

Macbeth does murder sleep’, the innocent sleep,

Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of care,

The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,

Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,

Chief nourisher in life’s feast,—

Lady Macbeth

What do you mean?

Macbeth

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.’

Lady Macbeth

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.

Why did you bring these daggers from the place?

They must lie there: go carry them; and smear

The sleepy grooms with blood.

Macbeth

I’ll go no more:

I am afraid to think what I have done;

Look on’t again I dare not.

Lady Macbeth

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,

I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withal;

For it must seem their guilt.

Exit. Knocking within

Macbeth

Whence is that knocking?

How is’t with me, when every noise appals me?

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes.

Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood

Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather

The multitudinous seas in incarnadine,

Making the green one red.

Re-enter Lady Macbeth

Lady Macbeth

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:

How easy is it, then! Your constancy

Hath left you unattended.

Knocking within

Hark! more knocking.

Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,

And show us to be watchers. Be not lost

So poorly in your thoughts.

Macbeth

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 enow about you; here you’ll sweat for’t.

Knocking within

Knock, knock! Who’s there, in 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.

Opens the gate

Enter Macduff and Lennox

Macduff

Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed,

That you do lie so late?

Porter

’Faith sir, we were carousing till the second cock: and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.

Macduff

What three things does drink especially provoke?

Porter

Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance: therefore, much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and, giving him the lie, leaves him.

Macduff

I believe drink gave thee the lie last night.

Porter

That it did, sir, i’ the very throat on me: but I requited him for his lie; and, I think, being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him.

Macduff

Is thy master stirring?

Enter Macbeth

Our knocking has awaked him; here he comes.

Lennox

Good morrow, noble sir.

Macbeth

Good morrow, both.

Macduff

Is the king stirring, worthy thane?

Macbeth

Not yet.

Macduff

He did command me to call timely on him:

I have almost slipp’d the hour.

Macbeth

I’ll bring you to him.

Macduff

I know this is a joyful trouble to you;

But yet ’tis one.

Macbeth

The labour we delight in physics pain.

This is the door.

Macduff

I’ll make so bold to call,

For ’tis my limited service.

Exit

Lennox

Goes the king hence to-day?

Macbeth

He does: he did appoint so.

Lennox

The night has been unruly: where we lay,

Our chimneys 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 confused events

New hatch’d to the woeful time: the obscure bird

Clamour’d the livelong night: some say, the earth

Was feverous and did shake.

Macbeth

’Twas a rough night.

Lennox

My young remembrance cannot parallel

A fellow to it.

Re-enter Macduff

Macduff

O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart

Cannot conceive nor name thee!

Macbeth

Lennox

What’s the matter.

Macduff

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece!

Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope

The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence

The life o’ the building!

Macbeth

What is ’t you say? the life?

Lennox

Mean you his majesty?

Macduff

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!

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

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 Macbeth

What’s the business,

That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley

The sleepers of the house? speak, speak!

Macduff

O gentle lady,

’Tis not for you to hear what I can speak:

The repetition, in a woman’s ear,

Would murder as it fell.

Enter Banquo

O Banquo, Banquo,

Our royal master ’s murder’d!

Lady Macbeth

Woe, alas!

What, in our house?

Banquo

Too cruel any where.

Dear Duff, I prithee, contradict thyself,

And say it is not so.

Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross

Macbeth

Had I but died an hour before this chance,

I had lived a blessed time; for, from this instant,

There ’s nothing serious in mortality:

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

Donalbain

What is amiss?

Macbeth

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.

Macduff

Your royal father ’s murder’d.

Malcolm

O, by whom?

Lennox

Those of his chamber, as it seem’d, had done ’t:

Their hands and faces were an badged with blood;

So were their daggers, which unwiped we found

Upon their pillows:

They stared, and were distracted; no man’s life

Was to be trusted with them.

Macbeth

O, yet I do repent me of my fury,

That I did kill them.

Macduff

Wherefore did you so?

Macbeth

Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious,

Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man:

The expedition my violent love

Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan,

His silver skin laced with his golden blood;

And his gash’d stabs look’d like a breach in nature

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

Courage to make ’s love kno wn?

Lady Macbeth

Help me hence, ho!

Macduff

Look to the lady.

Malcolm

[Aside to Donalbain] Why do we hold our tongues,

That most may claim this argument for ours?

Donalbain

[Aside to Malcolm] What should be spoken here, where our fate,

Hid in an auger-hole, may rush, and seize us?

Let ’s away;

Our tears are not yet brew’d.

Malcolm

[Aside to Donalbain] Nor our strong sorrow

Upon the foot of motion.

Banquo

Look to the lady:

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

Against the undivulged pretence I fight

Of treasonous malice.

Macduff

And so do I.

All

So all.

Macbeth

Let’s briefly put on manly readiness,

And meet i’ the hall together.

All

Well contented.

Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.

Malcolm

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.

Donalbain

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.

Malcolm

This murderous shaft that’s shot

Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way

Is to avoid the aim. Therefore, to horse;

And let us not be dainty of leave-taking,

But shift away: there’s warrant in that theft

Which steals itself, when there’s no mercy left.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. OUTSIDE MACBETH’S CASTLE.

Enter Ross and an old Man

Old Man

Threescore and ten I can remember well:

Within the volume of which time I have seen

Hours dreadful and things strange; but this sore night

Hath trifled former knowings.

Ross

Ah, good father,

Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man’s act,

Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock, ’tis day,

And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp:

Is’t night’s predominance, or the day’s shame,

That darkness does the face of earth entomb,

When living light should kiss it?

Old Man

’Tis unnatural,

Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last,

A falcon, towering in her pride of place,

Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d.

Ross

And Duncan’s horses — a thing most strange and certain —

Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race,

Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out,

Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would make

War with mankind.

Old Man

’Tis said they eat each other.

Ross

They did so, to the amazement of mine eyes

That look’d upon’t. Here comes the good Macduff.

Enter Macduff

How goes the world, sir, now?

Macduff

Why, see you not?

Ross

Is’t known who did this more than bloody deed?

Macduff

Those that Macbeth hath slain.

Ross

Alas, the day!

What good could they pretend?

Macduff

They were suborn’d:

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

Thine own life’s means! Then ’tis most like

The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth.

Macduff

He is already named, and gone to Scone

To be invested.

Ross

Where is Duncan’s body?

Macduff

Carried to Colmekill,

The sacred storehouse of his predecessors,

And guardian of their bones.

Ross

Will you to Scone?

Macduff

No, cousin, I’ll to Fife.

Ross

Well, I will thither.

Macduff

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

That would make good of bad, and friends of foes!

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. FORRES. THE PALACE.

Enter Banquo

Banquo

Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all,

As the weird women promised, and, I fear,

Thou play’dst most foully for’t: yet it was said

It should not stand in thy posterity,

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,

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

Macbeth

Here’s our chief guest.

Lady Macbeth

If he had been forgotten,

It had been as a gap in our great feast,

And all-thing unbecoming.

Macbeth

To-night we hold a solemn supper sir,

And I’ll request your presence.

Banquo

Let your highness

Command upon me; to the which my duties

Are with a most indissoluble tie

For ever knit.

Macbeth

Ride you this afternoon?

Banquo

Ay, my good lord.

Macbeth

We should have else desired 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?

Banquo

As far, my lord, as will fill up the time

’Twixt this and supper: go not my horse the better,

I must become a borrower of the night

For a dark hour or twain.

Macbeth

Fail not our feast.

Banquo

My lord, I will not.

Macbeth

We hear, our bloody cousins are bestow’d

In England and in Ireland, not confessing

Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers

With strange invention: but of that to-morrow,

When therewithal we shall have cause of state

Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse: adieu,

Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you?

Banquo

Ay, my good lord: our time does call upon ’s.

Macbeth

I wish your horses swift and sure of foot;

And so I do commend you to their backs. Farewell.

Exit Banquo

Let every man be master of his time

Till seven at night: to make society

The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself

Till supper-time alone: while then, God be with you!

Exeunt all but Macbeth, and an attendant

Sirrah, a word with you: attend those men

Our pleasure?

Attendant

They are, my lord, without the palace gate.

Macbeth

Bring them before us.

Exit Attendant

To be thus is nothing;

But to be safely thus.— Our fears in Banquo

Stick deep; and in his royalty of nature

Reigns that which would be fear’d: ’tis much he dares;

And, to that dauntless temper of his mind,

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 rebuked; as, it is said,

Mark Antony’s was by Caesar. 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:

Upon my head they placed 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,

For Banquo’s issue have I filed 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

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!

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 Murderer

It was, so please your highness.

Macbeth

Well then, now

Have you consider’d of my speeches? Know

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,

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 crazed

Say ‘Thus did Banquo.’

First Murderer

You made it known to us.

Macbeth

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,

Whose heavy hand hath bow’d you to the grave

And beggar’d yours for ever?

First Murderer

We are men, my liege.

Macbeth

Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men;

As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs,

Shoughs, water-rugs and demi-wolves, are clept

All by the name of dogs: the valued file

Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,

The housekeeper, the hunter, every one

According to the gift which bounteous nature

Hath in him closed; whereby he does receive

Particular addition. from the bill

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 ’t;

And I will put that business in your bosoms,

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.

Second Murderer

I am one, my liege,

Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world

Have so incensed that I am reckless what

I do to spite the world.

First Murderer

And I another

So weary with disasters, tugg’d with fortune,

That I would set my lie on any chance,

To mend it, or be rid on’t.

Macbeth

Both of you

Know Banquo was your enemy.

Both Murderers

True, my lord.

Macbeth

So is he mine; and in such bloody distance,

That every minute of his being thrusts

Against my near’st of life: and though I could

With barefaced power sweep him from my sight

And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not,

For certain friends that are both his and mine,

Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall

Who I myself struck down; and thence it is,

That I to your assistance do make love,

Masking the business from the common eye

For sundry weighty reasons.

Second Murderer

We shall, my lord,

Perform what you command us.

First Murderer

Though our lives —

Macbeth

Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most

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 —

To leave no rubs nor botches in the work —

Fleance his son, that keeps him company,

Whose absence is no less material to me

Than is his father’s, must embrace the fate

Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart:

I’ll come to you anon.

Both Murderers

We are resolved, my lord.

Macbeth

I’ll call upon you straight: abide within.

Exeunt Murderers

It is concluded. Banquo, thy soul’s flight,

If it find heaven, must find it out to-night.

Exit

SCENE II. THE PALACE.

Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant

Lady Macbeth

Is Banquo gone from court?

Servant

Ay, madam, but returns again to-night.

Lady Macbeth

Say to the king, I would attend his leisure

For a few words.

Servant

Madam, I will.

Exit

Lady Macbeth

Nought’s had, all’s spent,

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,

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.

Macbeth

We have scotch’d the snake, not kill’d it:

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,

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

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,

Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,

Can touch him further.

Lady Macbeth

Come on;

Gentle my lord, sleek o’er your rugged looks;

Be bright and jovial among your guests to-night.

Macbeth

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

Must lave our honours in these flattering streams,

And make our faces vizards to our hearts,

Disguising what they are.

Lady Macbeth

You must leave this.

Macbeth

O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!

Thou know’st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives.

Lady Macbeth

But in them nature’s copy’s not eterne.

Macbeth

There’s comfort yet; they are assailable;

Then be thou jocund: ere the bat hath flown

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 Macbeth

What’s to be done?

Macbeth

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

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;

While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.

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. A PARK NEAR THE PALACE.

Enter three Murderers

First Murderer

But who did bid thee join with us?

Third Murderer

Macbeth.

Second Murderer

He needs not our mistrust, since he delivers

Our offices and what we have to do

To the direction just.

First Murderer

Then stand with us.

The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day:

Now spurs the lated traveller apace

To gain the timely inn; and near approaches

The subject of our watch.

Third Murderer

Hark! I hear horses.

Banquo

[Within] Give us a light there, ho!

Second Murderer

Then ’tis he: the rest

That are within the note of expectation

Already are i’ the court.

First Murderer

His horses go about.

Third Murderer

Almost a mile: but he does usually,

So all men do, from hence to the palace gate

Make it their walk.

Second Murderer

A light, a light!

Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch

Third Murderer

’Tis he.

First Murderer

Stand to’t.

Banquo

It will be rain to-night.

First Murderer

Let it come down.

They set upon Banquo

Banquo

O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly!

Thou mayst revenge. O slave!

Dies. Fleance escapes

Third Murderer

Who did strike out the light?

First Murderer

Wast not the way?

Third Murderer

There’s but one down; the son is fled.

Second Murderer

We have lost

Best half of our affair.

First Murderer

Well, let’s away, and say how much is done.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. THE SAME. HALL IN THE PALACE.

A banquet prepared. Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants

Macbeth

You know your own degrees; sit down: at first

And last the hearty welcome.

Lords

Thanks to your majesty.

Macbeth

Ourself will mingle with society,

And play the humble host.

Our hostess keeps her state, but in best time

We will require her welcome.

Lady Macbeth

Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends;

For my heart speaks they are welcome.

First Murderer appears at the door

Macbeth

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 on thy face.

First Murderer

’Tis Banquo’s then.

Macbeth

’Tis better thee without than he within.

Is he dispatch’d?

First Murderer

My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.

Macbeth

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.

First Murderer

Most royal sir,

Fleance is ’scaped.

Macbeth

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, confined, bound in

To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo’s safe?

First Murderer

Ay, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides,

With twenty trenched gashes on his head;

The least a death to nature.

Macbeth

Thanks for that:

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 Macbeth

My royal lord,

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;

Meeting were bare without it.

Macbeth

Sweet remembrancer!

Now, good digestion wait on appetite,

And health on both!

Lennox

May’t please your highness sit.

The Ghost Of Banquo enters, and sits in Macbeth’s place

Macbeth

Here had we now our country’s honour roof’d,

Were the graced 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

To grace us with your royal company.

Macbeth

The table’s full.

Lennox

Here is a place reserved, sir.

Macbeth

Where?

Lennox

Here, my good lord. What is’t that moves your highness?

Macbeth

Which of you have done this?

Lords

What, my good lord?

Macbeth

Thou canst not say I did it: never shake

Thy gory locks at me.

Ross

Gentlemen, rise: his highness is not well.

Lady Macbeth

Sit, worthy friends: my lord is often thus,

And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat;

The fit is momentary; upon a thought

He will again be well: if much you note him,

You shall offend him and extend his passion:

Feed, and regard him not. Are you a man?

Macbeth

Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that

Which might appal the devil.

Lady Macbeth

O proper stuff!

This is the very painting of your fear:

This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said,

Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws and starts,

Impostors to true fear, would well become

A woman’s story at a winter’s fire,

Authorized by her grandam. Shame itself!

Why do you make such faces? When all’s done,

You look but on a stool.

Macbeth

Prithee, see there! behold! look! lo! how say you?

Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.

If charnel-houses and our graves must send

Those that we bury back, our monuments

Shall be the maws of kites.

Ghost Of Banquo vanishes

Lady Macbeth

What, quite unmann’d in folly?

Macbeth

If I stand here, I saw him.

Lady Macbeth

Fie, for shame!

Macbeth

Blood hath been shed ere now, i’ the olden time,

Ere human statute purged the gentle weal;

Ay, and since too, murders have been perform’d

Too terrible for the ear: the times have been,

That, when the brains were out, the man would die,

And there an end; but now they rise again,

With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,

And push us from our stools: this is more strange

Than such a murder is.

Lady Macbeth

My worthy lord,

Your noble friends do lack you.

Macbeth

I do forget.

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 o’ the whole table,

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.

Re-enter Ghost Of Banquo

Macbeth

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 Macbeth

Think of this, good peers,

But as a thing of custom: ’tis no other;

Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.

Macbeth

What man dare, I dare:

Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,

The arm’d rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;

Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves

Shall never tremble: or be alive again,

And dare me to the desert with thy sword;

If trembling I inhabit then, protest me

The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow!

Unreal mockery, hence!

Ghost Of Banquo vanishes

Why, so: being gone,

I am a man again. Pray you, sit still.

Lady Macbeth

You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting,

With most admired disorder.

Macbeth

Can such things be,

And overcome us like a summer’s cloud,

Without our special wonder? You make me strange

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 is blanched with fear.

Ross

What sights, my lord?

Lady Macbeth

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.

Lennox

Good night; and better health

Attend his majesty!

Lady Macbeth

A kind good night to all!

Exeunt all but Macbeth and Lady Macbeth

Macbeth

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

By magot-pies and choughs and rooks brought forth

The secret’st man of blood. What is the night?

Lady Macbeth

Almost at odds with morning, which is which.

Macbeth

How say’st thou, that Macduff denies his person

At our great bidding?

Lady Macbeth

Did you send to him, sir?

Macbeth

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,

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

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 Macbeth

You lack the season of all natures, sleep.

Macbeth

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.

Hecate

Have I not reason, beldams as you are,

Saucy and overbold? How did you dare

To trade and traffic with Macbeth

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,

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,

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

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

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;

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

Shall draw him on to his confusion:

He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear

He hopes ’bove wisdom, grace and fear:

And you all know, security

Is mortals’ chiefest enemy.

Music and a 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. THE PALACE.

Enter Lennox and another Lord

Lennox

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:

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

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,

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,

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

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,

From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth

Lives in the English court, and is received

Of the most pious Edward with such grace

That the malevolence of fortune nothing

Takes from his high respect: thither Macduff

Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid

To wake Northumberland and warlike Siward:

That, by the help of these — with Him above

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

Hath so exasperate the king that he

Prepares for some attempt of war.

Lennox

Sent he to Macduff?

Lord

He did: and with an absolute ‘sir, not I,’

The cloudy messenger turns me his back,

And hums, as who should say ‘You’ll rue the time

That clogs me with this answer.’

Lennox

And that well might

Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance

His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel

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

Under a hand accursed!

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.

Second Witch

Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.

Third Witch

Harpier cries ’Tis time, ’tis time.

First Witch

Round about the cauldron go;

In the poison’d entrails throw.

Toad, that under cold stone

Days and nights has thirty-one

Swelter’d venom sleeping got,

Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.

All

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Second Witch

Fillet of a fenny snake,

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,

Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing,

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

All

Double, double toil and trouble;

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,

Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,

Liver of blaspheming Jew,

Gall of goat, and slips of yew

Silver’d in the moon’s eclipse,

Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips,

Finger of birth-strangled babe

Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,

Make the gruel thick and slab:

Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,

For the ingredients of our cauldron.

All

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Second Witch

Cool it with a baboon’s blood,

Then the charm is firm and good.

Enter Hecate to the other three Witches

Hecate

O well done! I commend your pains;

And every one shall share i’ the gains;

And now about the cauldron sing,

Live elves and fairies in a ring,

Enchanting all that you put in.

Music and a song: ‘Black spirits,’ & c

Hecate retires

Second Witch

By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes.

Open, locks,

Whoever knocks!

Enter Macbeth

Macbeth

How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags!

What is’t you do?

All

A deed without a name.

Macbeth

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

Against the churches; though the yesty waves

Confound and swallow navigation up;

Though bladed corn be lodged and trees blown down;

Though castles topple on their warders’ heads;

Though palaces and pyramids do slope

Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure

Of nature’s germens tumble all together,

Even till destruction sicken; answer me

To what I ask you.

First Witch

Speak.

Second Witch

Demand.

Third Witch

We’ll answer.

First Witch

Say, if thou’dst rather hear it from our mouths,

Or from our masters?

Macbeth

Call ’em; let me see ’em.

First Witch

Pour in sow’s blood, that hath eaten

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!

Thunder. First Apparition: an armed Head

Macbeth

Tell me, thou unknown power,—

First Witch

He knows thy thought:

Hear his speech, but say thou nought.

First Apparition

Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! beware Macduff;

Beware the thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough.

Descends

Macbeth

Whate’er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks;

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.

Thunder. Second Apparition: A bloody Child

Second Apparition

Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!

Macbeth

Had I three ears, I’ld hear thee.

Second Apparition

Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn

The power of man, for none of woman born

Shall harm Macbeth.

Descends

Macbeth

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;

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

And top of sovereignty?

All

Listen, but speak not to’t.

Third Apparition

Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care

Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are:

Macbeth shall never vanquish’d be until

Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill

Shall come against him.

Descends

Macbeth

That will never be

Who can impress the forest, bid the tree

Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements! good!

Rebellion’s head, rise never till the wood

Of Birnam rise, and our high-placed Macbeth

Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath

To time and mortal custom. Yet my heart

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.

Macbeth

I will be satisfied: deny me this,

And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know.

Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this?

Hautboys

First Witch

Show!

Second Witch

Show!

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; Ghost Of Banquo following

Macbeth

Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo: down!

Thy crown does sear mine eye-balls. 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!

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 scepters carry:

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?

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:

I’ll charm the air to give a sound,

While you perform your antic round:

That this great king may kindly say,

Our duties did his welcome pay.

Music. The witches dance and then vanish, with Hecate

Macbeth

Where are they? Gone? Let this pernicious hour

Stand aye accursed in the calendar!

Come in, without there!

Enter Lennox

Lennox

What’s your grace’s will?

Macbeth

Saw you the weird sisters?

Lennox

No, my lord.

Macbeth

Came they not by you?

Lennox

No, indeed, my lord.

Macbeth

Infected be the air whereon they ride;

And damn’d all those that trust them! I did hear

The galloping of horse: who was’t came by?

Lennox

’Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word

Macduff is fled to England.

Macbeth

Fled to England!

Lennox

Ay, my good lord.

Macbeth

Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits:

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,

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 o’ the sword

His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls

That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool;

This deed I’ll do before this purpose cool.

But no more sights!— Where are these gentlemen?

Come, bring me where they are.

Exeunt

SCENE II. FIFE. MACDUFF’S CASTLE.

Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross

Lady Macduff

What had he done, to make him fly the land?

Ross

You must have patience, madam.

Lady Macduff

He had none:

His flight was madness: when our actions do not,

Our fears do make us traitors.

Ross

You know not

Whether it was his wisdom or his fear.

Lady Macduff

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;

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;

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

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

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

To what they were before. My pretty cousin,

Blessing upon you!

Lady Macduff

Father’d he is, and yet he’s fatherless.

Ross

I am so much a fool, should I stay longer,

It would be my disgrace and your discomfort:

I take my leave at once.

Exit

Lady Macduff

Sirrah, your father’s dead;

And what will you do now? How will you live?

Son

As birds do, mother.

Lady Macduff

What, with worms and flies?

Son

With what I get, I mean; and so do they.

Lady Macduff

Poor bird! thou’ldst never fear the net nor lime,

The pitfall nor the gin.

Son

Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for.

My father is not dead, for all your saying.

Lady Macduff

Yes, he is dead; how wilt thou do for a father?

Son

Nay, how will you do for a husband?

Lady Macduff

Why, I can buy me twenty at any market.

Son

Then you’ll buy ’em to sell again.

Lady Macduff

Thou speak’st with all thy wit: and yet, i’ faith,

With wit enough for thee.

Son

Was my father a traitor, mother?

Lady Macduff

Ay, that he was.

Son

What is a traitor?

Lady Macduff

Why, one that swears and lies.

Son

And be all traitors that do so?

Lady Macduff

Every one that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged.

Son

And must they all be hanged that swear and lie?

Lady Macduff

Every one.

Son

Who must hang them?

Lady Macduff

Why, the honest men.

Son

Then the liars and swearers are fools, for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them.

Lady Macduff

Now, God help thee, poor monkey!

But how wilt thou do for a father?

Son

If he were dead, you’ld weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father.

Lady Macduff

Poor prattler, how thou talk’st!

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known,

Though in your state of honour I am perfect.

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,

Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you!

I dare abide no longer.

Exit

Lady Macduff

Whither should I fly?

I have done no harm. But I remember now

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,

To say I have done no harm?

Enter Murderers

What are these faces?

First Murderer

Where is your husband?

Lady Macduff

I hope, in no place so unsanctified

Where such as thou mayst find him.

First Murderer

He’s a traitor.

Son

Thou liest, thou shag-hair’d villain!

First Murderer

What, you egg!

Stabbing him

Young fry of treachery!

Son

He has kill’d me, mother:

Run away, I pray you!

Dies

Exit Lady Macduff, crying ‘Murder!’ Exeunt Murderers, following her

SCENE III. ENGLAND. BEFORE THE KING’S PALACE.

Enter Malcolm and Macduff

Malcolm

Let us seek out some desolate shade, and there

Weep our sad bosoms empty.

Macduff

Let us rather

Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men

Bestride our down-fall’n birthdom: each new morn

New widows howl, 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.

Malcolm

What I believe I’ll wail,

What know believe, and what I can redress,

As I shall find the time to friend, I will.

What you have spoke, it may be so perchance.

This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,

Was once thought honest: you have loved him well.

He hath not touch’d you yet. I am young; but something

You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom

To offer up a weak poor innocent lamb

To appease an angry god.

Macduff

I am not treacherous.

Malcolm

But Macbeth is.

A good and virtuous nature may recoil

In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon;

That which you are my thoughts cannot transpose:

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell;

Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace,

Yet grace must still look so.

Macduff

I have lost my hopes.

Malcolm

Perchance even there where I did find my doubts.

Why in that rawness left you wife and child,

Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,

Without leave-taking? I pray you,

Let not my jealousies be your dishonours,

But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just,

Whatever I shall think.

Macduff

Bleed, bleed, poor country!

Great tyranny! lay thou thy basis sure,

For goodness dare not cheque 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.

Malcolm

Be not offended:

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

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,

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,

By him that shall succeed.

Macduff

What should he be?

Malcolm

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

Esteem him as a lamb, being compared

With my confineless harms.

Macduff

Not in the legions

Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d

In evils to top Macbeth.

Malcolm

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,

Your matrons and your maids, could not fill up

The cistern of my lust, and my desire

All continent impediments would o’erbear

That did oppose my will: better Macbeth

Than such an one to reign.

Macduff

Boundless intemperance

In nature is a tyranny; it hath been

The untimely emptying of the happy throne

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.

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 inclined.

Malcolm

With this there grows

In my most ill-composed 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:

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.

Macduff

This avarice

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.

Of your mere own: all these are portable,

With other graces weigh’d.

Malcolm

But I have none: the king-becoming graces,

As justice, verity, temperance, stableness,

Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,

Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,

I have no relish of them, but abound

In the division of each several crime,

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.

Macduff

O Scotland, Scotland!

Malcolm

If such a one be fit to govern, speak:

I am as I have spoken.

Macduff

Fit to govern!

No, not to live. O nation miserable,

With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter’d,

When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,

Since that the truest issue of thy throne

By his own interdiction stands accursed,

And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father

Was a most sainted king: the queen that bore thee,

Oftener upon her knees than on her feet,

Died every day she lived. Fare thee well!

These evils thou repeat’st upon thyself

Have banish’d me from Scotland. O my breast,

Thy hope ends here!

Malcolm

Macduff, this noble passion,

Child of integrity, hath from my soul

Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts

To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth

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

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,

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

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:

Whither indeed, before thy here-approach,

Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike 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?

Macduff

Such welcome and unwelcome things at once

’Tis hard to reconcile.

Enter a Doctor

Malcolm

Well; more anon.— Comes the king forth, I pray you?

Doctor

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 —

They presently amend.

Malcolm

I thank you, doctor.

Exit Doctor

Macduff

What’s the disease he means?

Malcolm

’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,

Himself best knows: but strangely-visited people,

All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,

The mere despair of surgery, he cures,

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,

He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy,

And sundry blessings hang about his throne,

That speak him full of grace.

Enter Ross

Macduff

See, who comes here?

Malcolm

My countryman; but yet I know him not.

Macduff

My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.

Malcolm

I know him now. Good God, betimes remove

The means that makes us strangers!

Ross

Sir, amen.

Macduff

Stands Scotland where it did?

Ross

Alas, poor country!

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 rend the air

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,

Dying or ere they sicken.

Macduff

O, relation

Too nice, and yet too true!

Malcolm

What’s the newest grief?

Ross

That of an hour’s age doth hiss the speaker:

Each minute teems a new one.

Macduff

How does my wife?

Ross

Why, well.

Macduff

And all my children?

Ross

Well too.

Macduff

The tyrant has not batter’d at their peace?

Ross

No; they were well at peace when I did leave ’em.

Macduff

But not a niggard of your speech: how goes’t?

Ross

When I came hither to transport the tidings,

Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour

Of many worthy fellows that were out;

Which was to my belief witness’d the rather,

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.

Malcolm

Be’t their comfort

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

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.

Macduff

What concern they?

The general cause? or is it a fee-grief

Due to some single breast?

Ross

No mind that’s honest

But in it shares some woe; though the main part

Pertains to you alone.

Macduff

If it be mine,

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.

Ross

Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,

Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound

That ever yet they heard.

Macduff

Hum! I guess at it.

Ross

Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes

Savagely slaughter’d: to relate the manner,

Were, on the quarry of these murder’d deer,

To add the death of you.

Malcolm

Merciful heaven!

What, man! ne’er pull your hat upon your brows;

Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak

Whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.

Macduff

My children too?

Ross

Wife, children, servants, all

That could be found.

Macduff

And I must be from thence!

My wife kill’d too?

Ross

I have said.

Malcolm

Be comforted:

Let’s make us medicines of our great revenge,

To cure this deadly grief.

Macduff

He has no children. All my pretty ones?

Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?

What, all my pretty chickens and their dam

At one fell swoop?

Malcolm

Dispute it like a man.

Macduff

I shall do so;

But I must also feel it as a man:

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,

Not for their own demerits, but for mine,

Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now!

Malcolm

Be this the whetstone of your sword: let grief

Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.

Macduff

O, I could play the woman with mine eyes

And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle heavens,

Cut short all intermission; front to front

Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself;

Within my sword’s length set him; if he ’scape,

Heaven forgive him too!

Malcolm

This tune goes manly.

Come, go we to the king; our power is ready;

Our lack is nothing but our leave; Macbeth

Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above

Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may:

The night is long that never finds the day.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. DUNSINANE. ANTE-ROOM IN THE CASTLE.

Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman

Doctor

I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?

Gentlewoman

Since his majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon’t, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.

Doctor

A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching! In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?

Gentlewoman

That, sir, which I will not report after her.

Doctor

You may to me: and ’tis most meet you should.

Gentlewoman

Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm my speech.

Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper

Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.

Doctor

How came she by that light?

Gentlewoman

Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; ’tis her command.

Doctor

You see, her eyes are open.

Gentlewoman

Ay, but their sense is shut.

Doctor

What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs her hands.

Gentlewoman

It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.

Lady Macbeth

Yet here’s a spot.

Doctor

Hark! she speaks: I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

Lady Macbeth

Out, damned spot! out, I say!— One: two: why, then, ’tis time to do’t.— Hell is murky!— Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?— Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him.

Doctor

Do you mark that?

Lady Macbeth

The thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?— What, will these hands ne’er be clean?— No more o’ that, my lord, no more o’ that: you mar all with this starting.

Doctor

Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.

Gentlewoman

She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known.

Lady Macbeth

Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!

Doctor

What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.

Gentlewoman

I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body.

Doctor

Well, well, well,—

Gentlewoman

Pray God it be, sir.

Doctor

This disease is beyond my practise: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds.

Lady Macbeth

Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale.— I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out on’s grave.

Doctor

Even so?

Lady Macbeth

To bed, to bed! there’s knocking at the gate: come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone.— To bed, to bed, to bed!

Exit

Doctor

Will she go now to bed?

Gentlewoman

Directly.

Doctor

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.

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 amazed my sight.

I think, but dare not speak.

Gentlewoman

Good night, good doctor.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE COUNTRY NEAR DUNSINANE.

Drum and colours. Enter Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers

Menteith

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

Excite the mortified man.

Angus

Near Birnam wood

Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming.

Caithness

Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother?

Lennox

For certain, sir, he is not: I have a file

Of all the gentry: there is Siward’s son,

And many unrough youths that even now

Protest their first of manhood.

Menteith

What does the tyrant?

Caithness

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.

Angus

Now does he feel

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

Hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe

Upon a dwarfish thief.

Menteith

Who then shall blame

His pester’d senses to recoil and start,

When all that is within him does condemn

Itself for being there?

Caithness

Well, march we on,

To give obedience where ’tis truly owed:

Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal,

And with him pour we in our country’s purge

Each drop of us.

Lennox

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

Macbeth

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

All mortal consequences have pronounced 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:

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-faced loon!

Where got’st thou that goose look?

Servant

There is ten thousand —

Macbeth

Geese, villain!

Servant

Soldiers, sir.

Macbeth

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, whey-face?

Servant

The English force, so please you.

Macbeth

Take thy face hence.

Exit Servant

Seyton!— I am sick at heart,

When I behold — Seyton, I say!— This push

Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now.

I have lived long enough: my way of life

Is fall’n into the sear, the yellow leaf;

And that which should accompany old age,

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. Seyton!

Enter Seyton

Seyton

What is your gracious pleasure?

Macbeth

What news more?

Seyton

All is confirm’d, my lord, which was reported.

Macbeth

I’ll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack’d.

Give me my armour.

Seyton

’Tis not needed yet.

Macbeth

I’ll put it on.

Send out more horses; skirr the country round;

Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour.

How does your patient, doctor?

Doctor

Not so sick, my lord,

As she is troubled with thick coming fancies,

That keep her from her rest.

Macbeth

Cure her of that.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,

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?

Doctor

Therein the patient

Must minister to himself.

Macbeth

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.

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,

I would applaud thee to the very echo,

That should applaud again.— Pull’t off, I say.—

What rhubarb, cyme, or what purgative drug,

Would scour these English hence? Hear’st thou of them?

Doctor

Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation

Makes us hear something.

Macbeth

Bring it after me.

I will not be afraid of death and bane,

Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.

Doctor

[Aside] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear,

Profit again should hardly draw me here.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. COUNTRY NEAR BIRNAM WOOD.

Drum and colours. Enter Malcolm, Siward and Young Siward, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross, and Soldiers, marching

Malcolm

Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand

That chambers will be safe.

Menteith

We doubt it nothing.

Siward

What wood is this before us?

Menteith

The wood of Birnam.

Malcolm

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.

Soldiers

It shall be done.

Siward

We learn no other but the confident tyrant

Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure

Our setting down before ’t.

Malcolm

’Tis his main hope:

For where there is advantage to be given,

Both more and less have given him the revolt,

And none serve with him but constrained things

Whose hearts are absent too.

Macduff

Let our just censures

Attend the true event, and put we on

Industrious soldiership.

Siward

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:

Towards which advance the war.

Exeunt, marching

SCENE V. DUNSINANE. WITHIN THE CASTLE.

Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers, with drum and colours

Macbeth

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:

Were they not forced 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?

Seyton

It is the cry of women, my good lord.

Exit

Macbeth

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

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?

Seyton

The queen, my lord, is dead.

Macbeth

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

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

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.

Enter a Messenger

Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.

Messenger

Gracious my lord,

I should report that which I say I saw,

But know not how to do it.

Macbeth

Well, say, sir.

Messenger

As I did stand my watch upon the hill,

I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methought,

The wood began to move.

Macbeth

Liar and slave!

Messenger

Let me endure your wrath, if’t be not so:

Within this three mile may you see it coming;

I say, a moving grove.

Macbeth

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.

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

Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out!

If this which he avouches does appear,

There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here.

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.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. DUNSINANE. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

Drum and colours. Enter Malcolm, Siward, Macduff, and their Army, with boughs

Malcolm

Now near enough: your leafy 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

Shall take upon ’s what else remains to do,

According to our order.

Siward

Fare you well.

Do we but find the tyrant’s power to-night,

Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight.

Macduff

Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath,

Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Alarums. Enter Macbeth

Macbeth

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.

Enter Young Siward

Young Siward

What is thy name?

Macbeth

Thou’lt be afraid to hear it.

Young Siward

No; though thou call’st thyself a hotter name

Than any is in hell.

Macbeth

My name’s Macbeth.

Young Siward

The devil himself could not pronounce a title

More hateful to mine ear.

Macbeth

No, nor more fearful.

Young Siward

Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword

I’ll prove the lie thou speak’st.

They fight and Young Siward is slain

Macbeth

Thou wast born of woman

But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn,

Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born.

Exit

Alarums. Enter Macduff

Macduff

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.

I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms

Are hired to bear their staves: either thou, Macbeth,

Or else my sword with an unbatter’d edge

I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be;

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 Siward

Siward

This way, my lord; the castle’s gently render’d:

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.

Malcolm

We have met with foes

That strike beside us.

Siward

Enter, sir, the castle.

Exeunt. Alarums

SCENE VIII. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Enter Macbeth

Macbeth

Why should I play the Roman fool, and die

On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes

Do better upon them.

Enter Macduff

Macduff

Turn, hell-hound, turn!

Macbeth

Of all men else I have avoided thee:

But get thee back; my soul is too much charged

With blood of thine already.

Macduff

I have no words:

My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain

Than terms can give thee out!

They fight

Macbeth

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;

I bear a charmed life, which must not yield,

To one of woman born.

Macduff

Despair thy charm;

And let the angel whom thou still hast served

Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb

Untimely ripp’d.

Macbeth

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 believed,

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.

Macduff

Then yield thee, coward,

And live to be the show and gaze o’ the time:

We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,

Painted on a pole, and underwrit,

‘Here may you see the tyrant.’

Macbeth

I will not yield,

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 opposed, being of no woman born,

Yet I will try the last. Before my body

I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,

And damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’

Exeunt, fighting. Alarums

Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, Siward, Ross, the other Thanes, and Soldiers

Malcolm

I would the friends we miss were safe arrived.

Siward

Some must go off: and yet, by these I see,

So great a day as this is cheaply bought.

Malcolm

Macduff is missing, and your noble son.

Ross

Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier’s debt:

He only lived but till he was a man;

The which no sooner had his prowess confirm’d

In the unshrinking station where he fought,

But like a man he died.

Siward

Then he is dead?

Ross

Ay, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrow

Must not be measured by his worth, for then

It hath no end.

Siward

Had he his hurts before?

Ross

Ay, on the front.

Siward

Why then, God’s soldier be he!

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.

Malcolm

He’s worth more sorrow,

And that I’ll spend for him.

Siward

He’s worth no more

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

Macduff

Hail, king! for so thou art: behold, where stands

The usurper’s cursed head: the time is free:

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!

Flourish

Malcolm

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 named. What’s more to do,

Which would be planted newly with the time,

As calling home our exiled friends abroad

That fled the snares of watchful tyranny;

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

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.

Flourish. Exeunt

The Life of Timon of Athens

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. ATHENS. A HALL IN TIMON’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. A BANQUETING-ROOM IN TIMON’S HOUSE.

ACT II

SCENE I. A SENATOR’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. THE SAME. A HALL IN TIMON’S HOUSE.

ACT III

SCENE I. A ROOM IN LUCULLUS’ HOUSE.

SCENE II. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN SEMPRONIUS’ HOUSE.

SCENE IV. THE SAME. A HALL IN TIMON’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. THE SAME. THE SENATE-HOUSE. THE SENATE SITTING.

SCENE VI. THE SAME. A BANQUETING-ROOM IN TIMON’S HOUSE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. WITHOUT THE WALLS OF ATHENS.

SCENE II. ATHENS. A ROOM IN TIMON’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. WOODS AND CAVE, NEAR THE SEASHORE.

ACT V

SCENE I. THE WOODS. BEFORE TIMON’S CAVE.

SCENE II. BEFORE THE WALLS OF ATHENS.

SCENE III. THE WOODS. TIMON’S CAVE, AND A RUDE TOMB SEEN.

SCENE IV. BEFORE THE WALLS OF ATHENS.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Timon of Athens.

Lucius, Lucullus and Sempronius, flattering lords.

Ventidius, one of Timon's false friends.

Alcibiades, an Athenian captain.

Apemantus, a churlish philosopher.

Flavius, steward to Timon.

Flaminius, Lucilius and Servilius, Timon's servants.

Caphis, Philotus, Titus and Hortensius, servants to Timon's creditors.

Poet.

Painter.

Jeweller.

Merchant.

Mercer.

An Old Athenian.

Three Strangers.

A Page.

A Fool.

Phrynia and Timandra, mistresses to Alcibiades.

Cupid and Amazons, in the Masque.

Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Servants, Thieves, and Attendants.

Scene: Athens and the neighbouring woods.

ACT I

SCENE I. ATHENS. A HALL IN TIMON’S HOUSE.

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and others, at several doors

Poet

Good day, sir.

Painter

I am glad you’re well.

Poet

I have not seen you long: how goes the world?

Painter

It wears, sir, as it grows.

Poet

Ay, that’s well known:

But what particular rarity? what strange,

Which manifold record not matches? See,

Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power

Hath conjured to attend. I know the merchant.

Painter

I know them both; th’ other’s a jeweller.

Merchant

O, ’tis a worthy lord.

Jeweller

Nay, that’s most fix’d.

Merchant

A most incomparable man, breathed, as it were,

To an untirable and continuate goodness:

He passes.

Jeweller: I have a jewel here —

Merchant

O, pray, let’s see’t: for the Lord Timon, sir?

Jeweller: If he will touch the estimate: but, for that —

Poet

[Reciting to himself] ‘When we for recompense have praised the vile,

It stains the glory in that happy verse

Which aptly sings the good.’

Merchant

’Tis a good form.

Looking at the jewel

Jeweller

And rich: here is a water, look ye.

Painter

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

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

Each bound it chafes. What have you there?

Painter

A picture, sir. When comes your book forth?

Poet

Upon the heels of my presentment, sir.

Let’s see your piece.

Painter

’Tis a good piece.

Poet

So ’tis: this comes off well and excellent.

Painter

Indifferent.

Poet

Admirable: how this grace

Speaks his own standing! what a mental power

This eye shoots forth! how big imagination

Moves in this lip! to the dumbness of the gesture

One might interpret.

Painter

It is a pretty mocking of the life.

Here is a touch; is’t good?

Poet

I will say of it,

It tutors nature: artificial strife

Lives in these touches, livelier than life.

Enter certain Senators, and pass over

Painter

How this lord is follow’d!

Poet

The senators of Athens: happy man!

Painter

Look, more!

Poet

You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors.

I have, in this rough work, shaped out a man,

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

Infects one comma in the course I hold;

But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on,

Leaving no tract behind.

Painter

How shall I understand you?

Poet

I will unbolt to you.

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

Subdues and properties to his love and tendance

All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-faced flatterer

To Apemantus, that few things loves better

Than to abhor himself: even he drops down

The knee before him, and returns in peace

Most rich in Timon’s nod.

Painter

I saw them speak together.

Poet

Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill

Feign’d Fortune to be throned: 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,

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

Translates his rivals.

Painter

’Tis conceived to scope.

This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks,

With one man beckon’d from the rest below,

Bowing his head against the sleepy mount

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

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.

Painter

Ay, marry, what of these?

Poet

When Fortune in her shift and change of mood

Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants

Which labour’d after him to the mountain’s top

Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down,

Not one accompanying his declining foot.

Painter

’Tis common:

A thousand moral paintings I can show

That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune’s

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 Timon, addressing himself courteously to every suitor; a Messenger from Ventidius talking with him; Lucilius and other servants following

Timon

Imprison’d is he, say you?

Messenger

Ay, my good lord: five talents is his debt,

His means most short, his creditors most strait:

Your honourable letter he desires

To those have shut him up; which failing,

Periods his comfort.

Timon

Noble Ventidius! Well;

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.

Messenger

Your lordship ever binds him.

Timon

Commend me to him: I will send his ransom;

And being enfranchised, bid him come to me.

’Tis not enough to help the feeble up,

But to support him after. Fare you well.

Messenger

All happiness to your honour!

Exit

Enter an old Athenian

Old Athenian

Lord Timon, hear me speak.

Timon

Freely, good father.

Old Athenian

Thou hast a servant named Lucilius.

Timon

I have so: what of him?

Old Athenian

Most noble Timon, call the man before thee.

Timon

Attends he here, or no? Lucilius!

Lucilius

Here, at your lordship’s service.

Old Athenian

This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy creature,

By night frequents my house. I am a man

That from my first have been inclined to thrift;

And my estate deserves an heir more raised

Than one which holds a trencher.

Timon

Well; what further?

Old Athenian

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,

And I have bred her at my dearest cost

In qualities of the best. This man of thine

Attempts her love: I prithee, noble lord,

Join with me to forbid him her resort;

Myself have spoke in vain.

Timon

The man is honest.

Old Athenian

Therefore he will be, Timon:

His honesty rewards him in itself;

It must not bear my daughter.

Timon

Does she love him?

Old Athenian

She is young and apt:

Our own precedent passions do instruct us

What levity’s in youth.

Timon

[To Lucilius] Love you the maid?

Lucilius

Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it.

Old Athenian

If in her marriage my consent be missing,

I call the gods to witness, I will choose

Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world,

And dispossess her all.

Timon

How shall she be endow’d, if she be mated with an equal husband?

Old Athenian

Three talents on the present; in future, all.

Timon

This gentleman of mine hath served me long:

To build his fortune I will strain a little,

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 Athenian

Most noble lord,

Pawn me to this your honour, she is his.

Timon

My hand to thee; mine honour on my promise.

Lucilius

Humbly I thank your lordship: never may

The state or fortune fall into my keeping,

Which is not owed to you!

Exeunt Lucilius and Old Athenian

Poet

Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship!

Timon

I thank you; you shall hear from me anon:

Go not away. What have you there, my friend?

Painter

A piece of painting, which I do beseech

Your lordship to accept.

Timon

Painting is welcome.

The painting is almost the natural man;

or since dishonour traffics with man’s nature,

He is but outside: these pencill’d figures are

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.

Painter

The gods preserve ye!

Timon

Well fare you, gentleman: give me your hand;

We must needs dine together. Sir, your jewel

Hath suffer’d under praise.

Jeweller

What, my lord! dispraise?

Timon

A more satiety of commendations.

If I should pay you for’t as ’tis extoll’d,

It would unclew me quite.

Jeweller

My lord, ’tis rated

As those which sell would give: but you well know,

Things of like value differing in the owners

Are prized by their masters: believe’t, dear lord,

You mend the jewel by the wearing it.

Timon

Well mock’d.

Merchant

No, my good lord; he speaks the common tongue,

Which all men speak with him.

Timon

Look, who comes here: will you be chid?

Enter Apemantus

Jeweller: We’ll bear, with your lordship.

Merchant

He’ll spare none.

Timon

Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus!

Apemantus

Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good morrow;

When thou art Timon’s dog, and these knaves honest.

Timon

Why dost thou call them knaves? thou know’st them not.

Apemantus

Are they not Athenians?

Timon

Yes.

Apemantus

Then I repent not.

Jeweller: You know me, Apemantus?

Apemantus

Thou know’st I do: I call’d thee by thy name.

Timon

Thou art proud, Apemantus.

Apemantus

Of nothing so much as that I am not like Timon.

Timon

Whither art going?

Apemantus

To knock out an honest Athenian’s brains.

Timon

That’s a deed thou’lt die for.

Apemantus

Right, if doing nothing be death by the law.

Timon

How likest thou this picture, Apemantus?

Apemantus

The best, for the innocence.

Timon

Wrought he not well that painted it?

Apemantus

He wrought better that made the painter; and yet he’s but a filthy piece of work.

Painter

You’re a dog.

Apemantus

Thy mother’s of my generation: what’s she, if I be a dog?

Timon

Wilt dine with me, Apemantus?

Apemantus

No; I eat not lords.

Timon

An thou shouldst, thou ’ldst anger ladies.

Apemantus

O, they eat lords; so they come by great bellies.

Timon

That’s a lascivious apprehension.

Apemantus

So thou apprehendest it: take it for thy labour.

Timon

How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus?

Apemantus

Not so well as plain-dealing, which will not cost a man a doit.

Timon

What dost thou think ’tis worth?

Apemantus

Not worth my thinking. How now, poet!

Poet

How now, philosopher!

Apemantus

Thou liest.

Poet

Art not one?

Apemantus

Yes.

Poet

Then I lie not.

Apemantus

Art not a poet?

Poet

Yes.

Apemantus

Then thou liest: look in thy last work, where thou hast feigned him a worthy fellow.

Poet

That’s not feigned; he is so.

Apemantus

Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee for thy labour: he that loves to be flattered is worthy o’ the flatterer. Heavens, that I were a lord!

Timon

What wouldst do then, Apemantus?

Apemantus

E’en as Apemantus does now; hate a lord with my heart.

Timon

What, thyself?

Apemantus

Ay.

Timon

Wherefore?

Apemantus

That I had no angry wit to be a lord.

Art not thou a merchant?

Merchant

Ay, Apemantus.

Apemantus

Traffic confound thee, if the gods will not!

Merchant

If traffic do it, the gods do it.

Apemantus

Traffic’s thy god; and thy god confound thee!

Trumpet sounds. Enter a Messenger

Timon

What trumpet’s that?

Messenger

’Tis Alcibiades, and some twenty horse,

All of companionship.

Timon

Pray, entertain them; give them guide to us.

Exeunt some Attendants

You must needs dine with me: go not you hence

Till I have thank’d you: when dinner’s done,

Show me this piece. I am joyful of your sights.

Enter Alcibiades, with the rest

Most welcome, sir!

Apemantus

So, so, there!

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

Into baboon and monkey.

Alcibiades

Sir, you have saved my longing, and I feed

Most hungerly on your sight.

Timon

Right welcome, sir!

Ere we depart, we’ll share a bounteous time

In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in.

Exeunt all except Apemantus

Enter two Lords

First Lord

What time o’ day is’t, Apemantus?

Apemantus

Time to be honest.

First Lord

That time serves still.

Apemantus

The more accursed thou, that still omitt’st it.

Second Lord

Thou art going to Lord Timon’s feast?

Apemantus

Ay, to see meat fill knaves and wine heat fools.

Second Lord

Fare thee well, fare thee well.

Apemantus

Thou art a fool to bid me farewell twice.

Second Lord

Why, Apemantus?

Apemantus

Shouldst have kept one to thyself, for I mean to give thee none.

First Lord

Hang thyself!

Apemantus

No, I will do nothing at thy bidding: make thy requests to thy friend.

Second Lord

Away, unpeaceable dog, or I’ll spurn thee hence!

Apemantus

I will fly, like a dog, the heels o’ the ass.

Exit

First Lord

He’s opposite to humanity. Come, shall we in,

And taste Lord Timon’s bounty? he outgoes

The very heart of kindness.

Second Lord

He pours it out; Plutus, the god of gold,

Is but his steward: no meed, but he repays

Sevenfold above itself; no gift to him,

But breeds the giver a return exceeding

All use of quittance.

First Lord

The noblest mind he carries

That ever govern’d man.

Second Lord

Long may he live in fortunes! Shall we in?

First Lord

I’ll keep you company.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A BANQUETING-ROOM IN TIMON’S HOUSE.

Hautboys playing loud music. A great banquet served in; Flavius and others attending; then enter Timon, Alcibiades, Lords, Senators, and Ventidius. Then comes, dropping, after all, Apemantus, discontentedly, like himself

Ventidius

Most honour’d Timon,

It hath pleased the gods to remember my father’s age,

And call him to long peace.

He is gone happy, and has left me rich:

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 derived liberty.

Timon

O, by no means,

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

To imitate them; faults that are rich are fair.

Ventidius

A noble spirit!

Timon

Nay, my lords,

They all stand ceremoniously looking on Timon

Ceremony was but devised at first

To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes,

Recanting goodness, sorry ere ’tis shown;

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.

Apemantus

Ho, ho, confess’d it! hang’d it, have you not?

Timon

O, Apemantus, you are welcome.

Apemantus

No;

You shall not make me welcome:

I come to have thee thrust me out of doors.

Timon

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;’ 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’t, indeed.

Apemantus

Let me stay at thine apperil, Timon: I come to observe; I give thee warning on’t.

Timon

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.

Apemantus

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 ’em not! 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.

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 sits next him now, parts bread with him, pledges the breath of him in a divided draught, is the readiest man to kill him: ’t has been proved. If I were a huge man, I should fear to drink at meals;

Lest they should spy my windpipe’s dangerous notes:

Great men should drink with harness on their throats.

Timon

My lord, in heart; and let the health go round.

Second Lord

Let it flow this way, my good lord.

Apemantus

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, 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.

Apemantus’ grace.

Immortal gods, I crave no pelf;

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;

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:

Rich men sin, and I eat root.

Eats and drinks

Much good dich thy good heart, Apemantus!

Timon

Captain Alcibiades, your heart’s in the field now.

Alcibiades

My heart is ever at your service, my lord.

Timon

You had rather be at a breakfast of enemies than a dinner of friends.

Alcibiades

So the were bleeding-new, my lord, there’s no meat like ’em: I could wish my best friend at such a feast.

Apemantus

Would all those fatterers were thine enemies then, that then thou mightst kill ’em and bid me to ’em!

First Lord

Might we but have that happiness, my lord, that you would once use our hearts, whereby we might express some part of our zeals, we should think ourselves for ever perfect.

Timon

O, no doubt, my good friends, but the gods themselves have provided that I shall have much help from you: how had you been my friends else? why have you that charitable title from thousands, did not you chiefly belong to my heart? I have told more of you to myself than you can with modesty speak in your own behalf; and thus far I confirm you. O you gods, think I, what need we have any friends, if we should ne’er have need of ’em? they were the most needless creatures living, should we ne’er have use for ’em, and would most resemble sweet instruments hung up in cases that keep their sounds to themselves. Why, I have often wished myself poorer, that I might come nearer to you. We are born to do benefits: and what better or properer can we can our own than the riches of our friends? O, what a precious comfort ’tis, to have so many, like brothers, commanding one another’s fortunes! O joy, e’en made away ere ’t can be born! Mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks: to forget their faults, I drink to you.

Apemantus

Thou weepest to make them drink, Timon.

Second Lord

Joy had the like conception in our eyes

And at that instant like a babe sprung up.

Apemantus

Ho, ho! I laugh to think that babe a bastard.

Third Lord

I promise you, my lord, you moved me much.

Apemantus

Much!

Tucket, within

Timon

What means that trump?

Enter a Servant

How now?

Servant

Please you, my lord, there are certain ladies most desirous of admittance.

Timon

Ladies! what are their wills?

Servant

There comes with them a forerunner, my lord, which bears that office, to signify their pleasures.

Timon

I pray, let them be admitted.

Enter Cupid

Cupid

Hail to thee, worthy Timon, and to all

That of his bounties taste! The five best senses

Acknowledge thee their patron; and come freely

To gratulate thy plenteous bosom: th’ ear,

Taste, touch and smell, pleased from thy tale rise;

They only now come but to feast thine eyes.

Timon

They’re welcome all; let ’em have kind admittance:

Music, make their welcome!

Exit Cupid

First Lord

You see, my lord, how ample you’re beloved.

Music. Re-enter Cupid with a mask of Ladies as Amazons, with lutes in their hands, dancing and playing

Apemantus

Hoy-day, what a sweep of vanity comes this way!

They dance! they are mad women.

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

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

Of their friends’ gift?

I should fear those that dance before me now

Would one day stamp upon me: ’t has been done;

Men shut their doors against a setting sun.

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

Timon

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,

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.

Apemantus

’Faith, for the worst is filthy; and would not hold taking, I doubt me.

Timon

Ladies, there is an idle banquet attends you:

Please you to dispose yourselves.

All Ladies

Most thankfully, my lord.

Exeunt Cupid and Ladies

Timon

Flavius.

Flavius

My lord?

Timon

The little casket bring me hither.

Flavius

Yes, my lord. More jewels yet!

There is no crossing him in ’s humour;

Aside

Else I should tell him,— well, i’ faith I should,

When all’s spent, he ’ld 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?

Servant

Here, my lord, in readiness.

Second Lord

Our horses!

Re-enter Flavius, with the casket

Timon

O my friends,

I have one word to say to you: look you, my good lord,

I must entreat you, honour me so much

As to advance this jewel; accept it and wear it,

Kind my lord.

First Lord

I am so far already in your gifts,—

All

So are we all.

Enter a Servant

Servant

My lord, there are certain nobles of the senate

Newly alighted, and come to visit you.

Timon

They are fairly welcome.

Flavius

I beseech your honour,

Vouchsafe me a word; it does concern you near.

Timon

Near! why then, another time I’ll hear thee:

I prithee, let’s be provided to show them entertainment.

Flavius

[Aside] I scarce know how.

Enter a Second Servant

Second Servant

May it please your honour, Lord Lucius,

Out of his free love, hath presented to you

Four milk-white horses, trapp’d in silver.

Timon

I shall accept them fairly; let the presents

Be worthily entertain’d.

Enter a third Servant

How now! what news?

Third Servant

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.

Timon

I’ll hunt with him; and let them be received,

Not without fair reward.

Flavius

[Aside] What will this come to?

He commands us to provide, and give great gifts,

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,

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

Pays interest for ’t; his land’s put to their books.

Well, would I were gently put out of office

Before I were forced out!

Happier is he that has no friend to feed

Than such that do e’en enemies exceed.

I bleed inwardly for my lord.

Exit

Timon

You do yourselves

Much wrong, you bate too much of your own merits:

Here, my lord, a trifle of our love.

Second Lord

With more than common thanks I will receive it.

Third Lord

O, he’s the very soul of bounty!

Timon

And now I remember, my lord, you gave

Good words the other day of a bay courser

I rode on: it is yours, because you liked it.

Second Lord

O, I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, in that.

Timon

You may take my word, my lord; I know, no man

Can justly praise but what he does affect:

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.

Timon

I take all and your several visitations

So kind to heart, ’tis not enough to give;

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.

Alcibiades

Ay, defiled land, my lord.

First Lord

We are so virtuously bound —

Timon

And so

Am I to you.

Second Lord

So infinitely endear’d —

Timon

All to you. Lights, more lights!

First Lord

The best of happiness,

Honour and fortunes, keep with you, Lord Timon!

Timon

Ready for his friends.

Exeunt all but Apemantus and Timon

Apemantus

What a coil’s here!

Serving of becks and jutting-out of bums!

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 court’sies.

Timon

Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen, I would be good to thee.

Apemantus

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?

Timon

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

Apemantus

So:

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. A SENATOR’S HOUSE.

Enter Senator, with papers in his hand

Senator

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.

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,

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

Can found his state in safety. Caphis, ho!

Caphis, I say!

Enter Caphis

Caphis

Here, sir; what is your pleasure?

Senator

Get on your cloak, and haste you to Lord Timon;

Importune him for my moneys; be not ceased

With slight denial, nor then silenced 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

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

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,

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 phoenix. Get you gone.

Caphis

I go, sir.

Senator

‘I go, sir!’— Take the bonds along with you,

And have the dates in contempt.

Caphis

I will, sir.

Senator

Go.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME. A HALL IN TIMON’S HOUSE.

Enter Flavius, with many bills in his hand

Flavius

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

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.

Fie, fie, fie, fie!

Enter Caphis, and the Servants of Isidore and Varro

Caphis

Good even, Varro: what,

You come for money?

Varro’s Servant Is’t not your business too?

Caphis

It is: and yours too, Isidore?

Isidore’s Servant It is so.

Caphis

Would we were all discharged!

Varro’s Servant I fear it.

Caphis

Here comes the lord.

Enter Timon, Alcibiades, and Lords, & c

Timon

So soon as dinner’s done, we’ll forth again,

My Alcibiades. With me? what is your will?

Caphis

My lord, here is a note of certain dues.

Timon

Dues! Whence are you?

Caphis

Of Athens here, my lord.

Timon

Go to my steward.

Caphis

Please it your lordship, he hath put me off

To the succession of new days this month:

My master is awaked 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.

Timon

Mine honest friend,

I prithee, but repair to me next morning.

Caphis

Nay, good my lord,—

Timon

Contain thyself, good friend.

Varro’s Servant One Varro’s servant, my good lord,—

Isidore’s Servant From Isidore;

He humbly prays your speedy payment.

Caphis

If you did know, my lord, my master’s wants —

Varro’s Servant ’Twas due on forfeiture, my lord, six weeks And past.

Isidore’s Servant Your steward puts me off, my lord;

And I am sent expressly to your lordship.

Timon

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,

How goes the world, that I am thus encounter’d

With clamourous demands of date-broke bonds,

And the detention of long-since-due debts,

Against my honour?

Flavius

Please you, gentlemen,

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.

Timon

Do so, my friends. See them well entertain’d.

Exit

Flavius

Pray, draw near.

Exit

Enter Apemantus and Fool

Caphis

Stay, stay, here comes the fool with Apemantus: let’s ha’ some sport with ’em. Varro’s Servant Hang him, he’ll abuse us. Isidore’s Servant A plague upon him, dog! Varro’s Servant How dost, fool?

Apemantus

Dost dialogue with thy shadow?

Varro’s Servant I speak not to thee.

Apemantus

No,’tis to thyself.

To the Fool

Come away.

Isidore’s Servant There’s the fool hangs on your back already.

Apemantus

No, thou stand’st single, thou’rt not on him yet.

Caphis

Where’s the fool now?

Apemantus

He last asked the question. Poor rogues, and usurers’ men! bawds between gold and want!

All Servants

What are we, Apemantus?

Apemantus

Asses.

All Servants

Why?

Apemantus

That you ask me what you are, and do not know yourselves. Speak to ’em, fool.

Fool

How do you, gentlemen?

All Servants

Gramercies, good fool: how does your mistress?

Fool

She’s e’en setting on water to scald such chickens as you are. Would we could see you at Corinth!

Apemantus

Good! gramercy.

Enter Page

Fool

Look you, here comes my mistress’ page.

Page

[To the Fool] Why, how now, captain! what do you in this wise company? How dost thou, Apemantus?

Apemantus

Would I had a rod in my mouth, that I might answer thee profitably.

Page

Prithee, Apemantus, read me the superscription of these letters: I know not which is which.

Apemantus

Canst not read?

Page

No.

Apemantus

There will little learning die then, that day thou art hanged. This is to Lord Timon; this to Alcibiades. Go; thou wast born a bastard, and thou’t die a bawd.

Page

Thou wast whelped a dog, and thou shalt famish a dog’s death. Answer not; I am gone.

Exit

Apemantus

E’en so thou outrunnest grace. Fool, I will go with you to Lord Timon’s.

Fool

Will you leave me there?

Apemantus

If Timon stay at home. You three serve three usurers?

All Servants

Ay; would they served us!

Apemantus

So would I,— as good a trick as ever hangman served thief.

Fool

Are you three usurers’ men?

All Servants

Ay, fool.

Fool

I think no usurer but has a fool to his servant: my mistress is one, and I am her fool. When men come to borrow of your masters, they approach sadly, and go away merry; but they enter my mistress’ house merrily, and go away sadly: the reason of this? Varro’s Servant I could render one.

Apemantus

Do it then, that we may account thee a whoremaster and a knave; which not-withstanding, thou shalt be no less esteemed. Varro’s Servant What is a whoremaster, fool?

Fool

A fool in good clothes, and something like thee. ’Tis a spirit: sometime’t appears like a lord; sometime like a lawyer; sometime like a philosopher, with two stones moe than’s artificial one: he is very often like a knight; and, generally, in all shapes that man goes up and down in from fourscore to thirteen, this spirit walks in. Varro’s Servant Thou art not altogether a fool.

Fool

Nor thou altogether a wise man: as much foolery as

I have, so much wit thou lackest.

Apemantus

That answer might have become Apemantus.

All Servants

Aside, aside; here comes Lord Timon.

Re-enter Timon and Flavius

Apemantus

Come with me, fool, come.

Fool

I do not always follow lover, elder brother and woman; sometime the philosopher.

Exeunt Apemantus and Fool

Flavius

Pray you, walk near: I’ll speak with you anon.

Exeunt Servants

Timon

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,

As I had leave of means?

Flavius

You would not hear me,

At many leisures I proposed.

Timon

Go to:

Perchance some single vantages you took.

When my indispos ition put you back:

And that unaptness made your minister,

Thus to excuse yourself.

Flavius

O my good lord,

At many times I brought in my accounts,

Laid them before you; you would throw them off,

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

To hold your hand more close: I did endure

Not seldom, nor no slight cheques, when I have

Prompted you in the ebb of your estate

And your great flow of debts. My loved lord,

Though you hear now, too late — yet now’s a time —

The greatest of your having lacks a half

To pay your present debts.

Timon

Let all my land be sold.

Flavius

’Tis all engaged, some forfeited and gone;

And what remains will hardly stop the mouth

Of present dues: the future comes apace:

What shall defend the interim? and at length

How goes our reckoning?

Timon

To Lacedaemon did my land extend.

Flavius

O my good lord, the world is but a word:

Were it all yours to give it in a breath,

How quickly were it gone!

Timon

You tell me true.

Flavius

If you suspect my husbandry or falsehood,

Call me before the exactest auditors

And set me on the proof. So the gods bless me,

When all our offices have been oppress’d

With riotous feeders, when our vaults have wept

With drunken spilth of wine, when every room

Hath blazed with lights and bray’d with minstrelsy,

I have retired me to a wasteful cock,

And set mine eyes at flow.

Timon

Prithee, no more.

Flavius

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?

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,

The breath is gone whereof this praise is made:

Feast-won, fast-lost; one cloud of winter showers,

These flies are couch’d.

Timon

Come, sermon me no further:

No villanous bounty yet hath pass’d my heart;

Unwisely, not ignobly, have I given.

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

As I can bid thee speak.

Flavius

Assurance bless your thoughts!

Timon

And, in some sort, these wants of mine are crown’d,

That I account them blessings; for by these

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

Servants

My lord? my lord?

Timon

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 ’em toward a supply of money: let the request be fifty talents.

Flaminius

As you have said, my lord.

Flavius

[Aside] Lord Lucius and Lucullus? hum!

Timon

Go you, sir, to the senators —

Of whom, even to the state’s best health, I have

Deserved this hearing — bid ’em send o’ the instant

A thousand talents to me.

Flavius

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.

Timon

Is’t true? can’t be?

Flavius

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,—

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,

After distasteful looks and these hard fractions,

With certain half-caps and cold-moving nods

They froze me into silence.

Timon

You gods, reward them!

Prithee, man, look cheerly. These old fellows

Have their ingratitude in them hereditary:

Their blood is caked, ’tis cold, it seldom flows;

’Tis lack of kindly warmth they are not kind;

And nature, as it grows again toward earth,

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; ingeniously I speak.

No blame belongs to thee.

To Servant

Ventidius lately

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;

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.

Flavius

I would I could not think it: that thought is bounty’s foe; Being free itself, it thinks all others so.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. A ROOM IN LUCULLUS’ HOUSE.

Flaminius waiting. Enter a Servant to him

Servant

I have told my lord of you; he is coming down to you.

Flaminius

I thank you, sir.

Enter Lucullus

Servant

Here’s my lord.

Lucullus

[Aside] One of Lord Timon’s men? a gift, I warrant. Why, this hits right; I dreamt of a silver basin and ewer to-night. Flaminius, honest Flaminius; you are very respectively welcome, sir. Fill me some wine.

Exit Servants

And how does that honourable, complete, free-hearted gentleman of Athens, thy very bountiful good lord and master?

Flaminius

His health is well sir.

Lucullus

I am right glad that his health is well, sir: and what hast thou there under thy cloak, pretty Flaminius?

Flaminius

’Faith, nothing but an empty box, sir; which, in my lord’s behalf, I come to entreat your honour to supply; who, having great and instant occasion to use fifty talents, hath sent to your lordship to furnish him, nothing doubting your present assistance therein.

Lucullus

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’t.

Re-enter Servant, with wine

Servant

Please your lordship, here is the wine.

Lucullus

Flaminius, I have noted thee always wise. Here’s to thee.

Flaminius

Your lordship speaks your pleasure.

Lucullus

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 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.

Flaminius

Is’t possible the world should so much differ,

And we alive that lived? Fly, damned baseness,

To him that worships thee!

Throwing the money back

Lucullus

Ha! now I see thou art a fool, and fit for thy master.

Exit

Flaminius

May these add to the number that may scald thee!

Let moulten coin be thy damnation,

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 master’s passion! this slave,

Unto his honour, 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!

And, when he’s sick to death, let not that part of nature

Which my lord paid for, be of any power

To expel sickness, but prolong his hour!

Exit

SCENE II. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter Lucilius, with three Strangers

Lucilius

Who, the Lord Timon? he is my very good friend, and an honourable gentleman.

First Stranger

We know him for no less, though we are but strangers to him. But I can tell you one thing, my lord, and which I hear from common rumours: now Lord Timon’s happy hours are done and past, and his estate shrinks from him.

Lucilius

Fie, no, do not believe it; he cannot want for money.

Second Stranger

But believe you this, my lord, that, not long ago, one of his men was with the Lord Lucullus to borrow so many talents, nay, urged extremely for’t and showed what necessity belonged to’t, and yet was denied.

Lucilius

How!

Second Stranger

I tell you, denied, my lord.

Lucilius

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.

Enter Servilius

Servilius

See, by good hap, yonder’s my lord;

I have sweat to see his honour. My honoured lord,—

To Lucius

Lucilius

Servilius! you are kindly met, sir. Fare thee well: commend me to thy honourable virtuous lord, my very exquisite friend.

Servilius

May it please your honour, my lord hath sent —

Lucilius

Ha! what has he sent? I am so much endeared to that lord; he’s ever sending: how shall I thank him, thinkest thou? And what has he sent now?

Servilius

Has only sent his present occasion now, my lord; requesting your lordship to supply his instant use with so many talents.

Lucilius

I know his lordship is but merry with me;

He cannot want fifty five hundred talents.

Servilius

But in the mean time he wants less, my lord.

If his occasion were not virtuous,

I should not urge it half so faithfully.

Lucilius

Dost thou speak seriously, Servilius?

Servilius

Upon my soul,’tis true, sir.

Lucilius

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 honoured! 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’t 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?

Servilius

Yes, sir, I shall.

Lucilius

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 Stranger

Do you observe this, Hostilius?

Second Stranger

Ay, too well.

First Stranger

Why, this is the world’s soul; and just of the same piece

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,

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

When he looks out in an ungrateful shape!—

He does deny him, in respect of his,

What charitable men afford to beggars.

Third Stranger

Religion groans at it.

First Stranger

For mine own part,

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

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,

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. A ROOM IN SEMPRONIUS’ HOUSE.

Enter Sempronius, and a Servant of Timon’s

Sempronius

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

Owe their estates unto him.

Servant

My lord,

They have all been touch’d and found base metal, for

They have au denied him.

Sempronius

How! have they denied him?

Has Ventidius and Lucullus denied him?

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,

Thrive, give him over: must I take the cure upon me?

Has much disgraced me in’t; I’m angry at him,

That might have known my place: I see no sense for’t,

But his occasion might have woo’d me first;

For, in my conscience, I was the first man

That e’er received gift from him:

And does he think so backwardly of me now,

That I’ll requite its last? No:

So it may prove an argument of laughter

To the rest, and ’mongst lords I be thought a fool.

I’ld rather than the worth of thrice the sum,

Had sent to me first, but for my mind’s sake;

I’d such a courage to do him good. But now return,

And with their faint reply this answer join;

Who bates mine honour shall not know my coin.

Exit

Servant

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 villainies 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,

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.

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 of Timon’s creditors, waiting his coming out

Varro’s

First Servant

Well met; good morrow, Titus and Hortensius.

Titus

The like to you kind Varro.

Hortensius

Lucius!

What, do we meet together?

Lucilius’ Servant Ay, and I think

One business does command us all; for mine Is money.

Titus

So is theirs and ours.

Enter Philotus

Lucilius’ Servant And Sir Philotus too!

Philotus

Good day at once.

Lucilius’ Servant Welcome, good brother.

What do you think the hour?

Philotus

Labouring for nine.

Lucilius’ Servant So much?

Philotus

Is not my lord seen yet?

Lucilius’ Servant Not yet.

Philotus

I wonder on’t; he was wont to shine at seven.

Lucilius’ Servant Ay, but the days are wax’d shorter with him:

You must consider that a prodigal course

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

Find little.

Philotus

I am of your fear for that.

Titus

I’ll show you how to observe a strange event.

Your lord sends now for money.

Hortensius

Most true, he does.

Titus

And he wears jewels now of Timon’s gift,

For which I wait for money.

Hortensius

It is against my heart.

Lucilius’ Servant 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.

Hortensius

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.

Varro’s

First Servant

Yes, mine’s three thousand crowns: what’s yours?

Lucilius’ Servant Five thousand mine.

Varro’s

First Servant

’Tis much deep: and it should seem by the sun,

Your master’s confidence was above mine;

Else, surely, his had equall’d.

Enter Flaminius.

Titus

One of Lord Timon’s men. Lucilius’ Servant Flaminius! Sir, a word: pray, is my lord ready to come forth?

Flaminius

No, indeed, he is not.

Titus

We attend his lordship; pray, signify so much.

Flaminius

I need not tell him that; he knows you are too diligent.

Exit

Enter Flavius in a cloak, muffled

Lucilius’ Servant Ha! is not that his steward muffled so?

He goes away in a cloud: call him, call him.

Titus

Do you hear, sir?

Varro’s

Second Servant

By your leave, sir,—

Flavius

What do ye ask of me, my friend?

Titus

We wait for certain money here, sir.

Flavius

Ay,

If money were as certain as your waiting,

’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.

You do yourselves but wrong to stir me up;

Let me pass quietly:

Believe ’t, my lord and I have made an end;

I have no more to reckon, he to spend.

Lucilius’ Servant Ay, but this answer will not serve.

Flavius

If ’twill not serve,’tis not so base as you;

For you serve knaves.

Exit

Varro’s

First Servant

How! what does his cashiered worship mutter?

Varro’s

Second Servant

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

Titus

O, here’s Servilius; now we shall know some answer.

Servilius

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. Lucilius’ Servant: Many do keep their chambers are not sick:

And, if it be so far beyond his health,

Methinks he should the sooner pay his debts,

And make a clear way to the gods.

Servilius

Good gods!

Titus

We cannot take this for answer, sir.

Flaminius

[Within] Servilius, help! My lord! my lord!

Enter Timon, in a rage, Flaminius following

Timon

What, are my doors opposed against my passage?

Have I been ever free, and must my house

Be my retentive enemy, my gaol?

The place which I have feasted, does it now,

Like all mankind, show me an iron heart?

Lucilius’ Servant Put in now, Titus.

Titus

My lord, here is my bill.

Lucilius’ Servant Here’s mine.

Hortensius

And mine, my lord.

Both

Varro’s Servants And ours, my lord.

Philotus

All our bills.

Timon

Knock me down with ’em: cleave me to the girdle.

Lucilius’ Servant Alas, my lord,-

Timon

Cut my heart in sums.

Titus

Mine, fifty talents.

Timon

Tell out my blood.

Lucilius’ Servant Five thousand crowns, my lord.

Timon

Five thousand drops pays that.

What yours?— and yours?

Varro’s

First Servant

My lord,—

Varro’s

Second Servant

My lord,—

Timon

Tear me, take me, and the gods fall upon you!

Exit

Hortensius

’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

Timon

They have e’en put my breath from me, the slaves.

Creditors? devils!

Flavius

My dear lord,—

Timon

What if it should be so?

Flavius

My lord,—

Timon

I’ll have it so. My steward!

Flavius

Here, my lord.

Timon

So fitly? Go, bid all my friends again,

Lucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius:

All, sirrah, all:

I’ll once more feast the rascals.

Flavius

O my lord,

You only speak from your distracted soul;

There is not so much left, to furnish out

A moderate table.

Timon

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 Senator

My lord, you have my voice to it; the fault’s

Bloody; ’tis necessary he should die:

Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.

Second Senator

Most true; the law shall bruise him.

Enter Alcibiades, with Attendants

Alcibiades

Honour, health, and compassion to the senate!

First Senator

Now, captain?

Alcibiades

I am an humble suitor to your virtues;

For pity is the virtue of the law,

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, do plunge into ’t.

He is a man, setting his fate aside,

Of comely virtues:

Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice —

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:

And with such sober and unnoted passion

He did behave his anger, ere ’twas spent,

As if he had but proved an argument.

First Senator

You undergo too strict a paradox,

Striving to make an ugly deed look fair:

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

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

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,

What folly ’tis to hazard life for ill!

Alcibiades

My lord,—

First Senator

You cannot make gross sins look clear:

To revenge is no valour, but to bear.

Alcibiades

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,

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

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,

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.

To be in anger is impiety;

But who is man that is not angry?

Weigh but the crime with this.

Second Senator

You breathe in vain.

Alcibiades

In vain! his service done

At Lacedaemon and Byzantium

Were a sufficient briber for his life.

First Senator

What’s that?

Alcibiades

I say, my lords, he has done fair service,

And slain in fight many of your enemies:

How full of valour did he bear himself

In the last conflict, and made plenteous wounds!

Second Senator

He has made too much plenty with ’em;

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

He has been known to commit outrages,

And cherish factions: ’tis inferr’d to us,

His days are foul and his drink dangerous.

First Senator

He dies.

Alcibiades

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:

And, for I know your reverend ages love

Security, I’ll pawn my victories, all

My honours to you, upon his good returns.

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 Senator

We are for law: he dies; urge it no more,

On height of our displeasure: friend or brother,

He forfeits his own blood that spills another.

Alcibiades

Must it be so? it must not be. My lords,

I do beseech you, know me.

Second Senator

How!

Alcibiades

Call me to your remembrances.

Third Senator

What!

Alcibiades

I cannot think but your age has forgot me;

It could not else be, I should prove so base,

To sue, and be denied such common grace:

My wounds ache at you.

First Senator

Do you dare our anger?

’Tis in few words, but spacious in effect;

We banish thee for ever.

Alcibiades

Banish me!

Banish your dotage; banish usury,

That makes the senate ugly.

First Senator

If, after two days’ shine, Athens contain thee,

Attend our weightier judgment. And, not to swell our spirit,

He shall be executed presently.

Exeunt Senators

Alcibiades

Now the gods keep you old enough; that you may live

Only in bone, that none may look on you!

I’m worse than mad: I have kept back their foes,

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

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

My discontented troops, and lay for hearts.

’Tis honour with most lands to be at odds;

Soldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods.

Exit

SCENE VI. THE SAME. A BANQUETING-ROOM IN TIMON’S HOUSE.

Music. Tables set out: Servants attending. Enter divers Lords, Senators and others, at several doors

First Lord

The good time of day to you, sir.

Second Lord

I also wish it to you. I think this honourable lord did but try us this other day.

First Lord

Upon that were my thoughts tiring, when we encountered: I hope it is not so low with him as he made it seem in the trial of his several friends.

Second Lord

It should not be, by the persuasion of his new feasting.

First Lord

I should think so: he hath sent me an earnest inviting, which many my near occasions did urge me to put off; but he hath conjured me beyond them, and I must needs appear.

Second Lord

In like manner was I in debt to my importunate business, but he would not hear my excuse. I am sorry, when he sent to borrow of me, that my provision was out.

First Lord

I am sick of that grief too, as I understand how all things go.

Second Lord

Every man here’s so. What would he have borrowed of you?

First Lord

A thousand pieces.

Second Lord

A thousand pieces!

First Lord

What of you?

Second Lord

He sent to me, sir,— Here he comes.

Enter Timon and Attendants

Timon

With all my heart, gentlemen both; and how fare you?

First Lord

Ever at the best, hearing well of your lordship.

Second Lord

The swallow follows not summer more willing than we your lordship.

Timon

[Aside] Nor more willingly leaves winter; such summer-birds are men. Gentlemen, our dinner will not recompense this long stay: feast your ears with the music awhile, if they will fare so harshly o’ the trumpet’s sound; we shall to ’t presently.

First Lord

I hope it remains not unkindly with your lordship that I returned you an empty messenger.

Timon

O, sir, let it not trouble you.

Second Lord

My noble lord,—

Timon

Ah, my good friend, what cheer?

Second Lord

My most honourable lord, I am e’en sick of shame, that, when your lordship this other day sent to me, I was so unfortunate a beggar.

Timon

Think not on ’t, sir.

Second Lord

If you had sent but two hours before,—

Timon

Let it not cumber your better remembrance.

The banquet brought in

Come, bring in all together.

Second Lord

All covered dishes!

First Lord

Royal cheer, I warrant you.

Third Lord

Doubt not that, if money and the season can yield it.

First Lord

How do you? What’s the news?

Third Lord

Alcibiades is banished: hear you of it?

First Lord

Second Lord

Alcibiades banished!

Third Lord

’Tis so, be sure of it.

First Lord

How! how!

Second Lord

I pray you, upon what?

Timon

My worthy friends, will you draw near?

Third Lord

I’ll tell you more anon. Here’s a noble feast toward.

Second Lord

This is the old man still.

Third Lord

Will ’t hold? will ’t hold?

Second Lord

It does: but time will — and so —

Third Lord

I do conceive.

Timon

Each man to his stool, with that spur as he would to the lip of his mistress: your diet shall be in all places alike. Make not a city feast of it, to let the meat cool ere we can agree upon the first place: sit, sit. The gods require our thanks. You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves praised: but reserve still to give, lest your deities be despised. Lend to each man enough, that one need not lend to another; for, were your godheads to borrow of men, men would forsake the gods. Make the meat be beloved more than the man that gives it. Let no assembly of twenty be without a score of villains: if there sit twelve women at the table, let a dozen of them be — as they are. The rest of your fees, O gods — the senators of Athens, together with the common lag of people — what is amiss in them, you gods, make suitable for destruction. For these my present friends, as they are to me nothing, so in nothing bless them, and to nothing are they welcome. Uncover, dogs, and lap.

The dishes are uncovered and seen to be full of warm water

Some Speak

What does his lordship mean?

Some Others

I know not.

Timon

May you a better feast never behold,

You knot of mouth-friends I smoke and lukewarm water

Is your perfection. This is Timon’s last;

Who, stuck and spangled with your flatteries,

Washes it off, and sprinkles in your faces

Your reeking villany.

Throwing the water in their faces

Live loathed and long,

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

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.

Throws the dishes at them, and drives them out

What, all in motion? Henceforth be no feast,

Whereat a villain’s not a welcome guest.

Burn, house! sink, Athens! henceforth hated be

Of Timon man and all humanity!

Exit

Re-enter the Lords, Senators, & c

First Lord

How now, my lords!

Second Lord

Know you the quality of Lord Timon’s fury?

Third Lord

Push! did you see my cap?

Fourth Lord

I have lost my gown.

First Lord

He’s but a mad lord, and nought but humour sways him. He gave me a jewel th’ other day, and now he has beat it out of my hat: did you see my jewel?

Third Lord

Did you see my cap?

Second Lord

Here ’tis.

Fourth Lord

Here lies my gown.

First Lord

Let’s make no stay.

Second Lord

Lord Timon’s mad.

Third Lord

I feel ’t upon my bones.

Fourth Lord

One day he gives us diamonds, next day stones.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. WITHOUT THE WALLS OF ATHENS.

Enter Timon

Timon

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,

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;

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;

Thy mistress is o’ the brothel! Son of sixteen,

Pluck the lined crutch from thy old limping sire,

With it beat out his brains! Piety, and fear,

Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth,

Domestic awe, night-rest, and neighbourhood,

Instruction, manners, mysteries, and trades,

Degrees, observances, customs, and laws,

Decline to your confounding contraries,

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,

Sow all the Athenian bosoms; and their crop

Be general leprosy! Breath infect breath,

At their society, as their friendship, may

Merely poison! Nothing I’ll bear from thee,

But nakedness, thou detestable town!

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 —

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! Amen.

Exit

SCENE II. ATHENS. A ROOM IN TIMON’S HOUSE.

Enter Flavius, with two or three Servants

First Servant

Hear you, master steward, where’s our master?

Are we undone? cast off? nothing remaining?

Flavius

Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you?

Let me be recorded by the righteous gods,

I am as poor as you.

First Servant

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!

Second Servant

As we do turn our backs

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,

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

Flavius

All broken implements of a ruin’d house.

Third Servant

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,

Hearing the surges threat: we must all part

Into this sea of air.

Flavius

Good fellows all,

The latest of my wealth I’ll share amongst you.

Wherever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake,

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;

Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more:

Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor.

Servants 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?

Who would be so mock’d with glory? or to live

But in a dream of friendship?

To have his pomp and all what state compounds

But only painted, like his varnish’d friends?

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 again?

For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men.

My dearest lord, bless’d, to be most accursed,

Rich, only to be wretched, thy great fortunes

Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord!

He’s flung in rage from this ingrateful seat

Of monstrous friends, nor has he with him to

Supply his life, or that which can command it.

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 SEASHORE.

Enter Timon, from the cave

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,

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.

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,

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 grise of fortune

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

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

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,

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 heads:

This yellow slave

Will knit and break religions, bless the accursed,

Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves

And give them title, knee and approbation

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

To the April day again. Come, damned earth,

Thou common whore of mankind, that put’st odds

Among the route of nations, I will make thee

Do thy right nature.

March afar off

Ha! a drum ? Thou’rt quick,

But yet I’ll bury thee: thou’lt go, strong thief,

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

Alcibiades

What art thou there? speak.

Timon

A beast, as thou art. The canker gnaw thy heart,

For showing me again the eyes of man!

Alcibiades

What is thy name? Is man so hateful to thee,

That art thyself a man?

Timon

I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind.

For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,

That I might love thee something.

Alcibiades

I know thee well;

But in thy fortunes am unlearn’d and strange.

Timon

I know thee too; and more than that I know thee,

I not desire to know. Follow thy drum;

With man’s blood paint the ground, gules, gules:

Religious canons, civil laws are cruel;

Then what should war be? This fell whore of thine

Hath in her more destruction than thy sword,

For all her cherubim look.

Phrynia

Thy lips rot off!

Timon

I will not kiss thee; then the rot returns

To thine own lips again.

Alcibiades

How came the noble Timon to this change?

Timon

As the moon does, by wanting light to give:

But then renew I could not, like the moon;

There were no suns to borrow of.

Alcibiades

Noble Timon,

What friendship may I do thee?

Timon

None, but to

Maintain my opinion.

Alcibiades

What is it, Timon?

Timon

Promise me friendship, but perform none: if thou wilt not promise, the gods plague thee, for thou art a man! if thou dost perform, confound thee, for thou art a man!

Alcibiades

I have heard in some sort of thy miseries.

Timon

Thou saw’st them, when I had prosperity.

Alcibiades

I see them now; then was a blessed time.

Timon

As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots.

Timandra

Is this the Athenian minion, whom the world

Voiced so regardfully?

Timon

Art thou Timandra?

Timandra

Yes.

Timon

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

For tubs and baths; bring down rose-cheeked youth

To the tub-fast and the diet.

Timandra

Hang thee, monster!

Alcibiades

Pardon him, sweet Timandra; for his wits

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 grieved,

How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth,

Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states,

But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them,—

Timon

I prithee, beat thy drum, and get thee gone.

Alcibiades

I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon.

Timon

How dost thou pity him whom thou dost trouble?

I had rather be alone.

Alcibiades

Why, fare thee well:

Here is some gold for thee.

Timon

Keep it, I cannot eat it.

Alcibiades

When I have laid proud Athens on a heap,—

Timon

Warr’st thou ’gainst Athens?

Alcibiades

Ay, Timon, and have cause.

Timon

The gods confound them all in thy conquest;

And thee after, when thou hast conquer’d!

Alcibiades

Why me, Timon?

Timon

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

Will o’er some high-viced city hang his poison

In the sick air: let not thy sword skip one:

Pity not honour’d age for his white beard;

He is an 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 milk-paps,

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;

Think it a bastard, whom the oracle

Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut,

And mince it sans remorse: swear against objects;

Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes;

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 soldiers:

Make large confusion; and, thy fury spent,

Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone.

Alcibiades

Hast thou gold yet? I’ll take the gold thou givest me, Not all thy counsel.

Timon

Dost thou, or dost thou not, heaven’s curse upon thee!

Phrynia

Timandra

Give us some gold, good Timon: hast thou more?

Timon

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

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,

Be quite contrary: and thatch your poor thin roofs

With burthens 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,

A pox of wrinkles!

Phrynia

Timandra

Well, more gold: what then?

Believe’t, that we’ll do any thing for gold.

Timon

Consumptions sow

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,

And not believes himself: down with the nose,

Down with it flat; take the bridge quite away

Of him that, his particular to foresee,

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

The source of all erection. There’s more gold:

Do you damn others, and let this damn you,

And ditches grave you all!

Phrynia

Timandra

More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon.

Timon

More whore, more mischief first; I have given you earnest.

Alcibiades

Strike up the drum towards Athens! Farewell, Timon:

If I thrive well, I’ll visit thee again.

Timon

If I hope well, I’ll never see thee more.

Alcibiades

I never did thee harm.

Timon

Yes, thou spokest well of me.

Alcibiades

Call’st thou that harm?

Timon

Men daily find it. Get thee away, and take

Thy beagles with thee.

Alcibiades

We but offend him. Strike!

Drum beats. Exeunt Alcibiades, Phrynia, and Timandra

Timon

That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness,

Should yet be hungry! Common mother, thou,

Digging

Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,

Teems, and feeds all; whose self-same mettle,

Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff’d,

Engenders the black toad and adder blue,

The gilded newt and eyeless venom’d worm,

With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven

Whereon 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,

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

Never presented!— O, a root,— dear thanks!—

Dry up thy marrows, vines, and plough-torn leas;

Whereof ungrateful man, with liquorish draughts

And morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind,

That from it all consideration slips!

Enter Apemantus

More man? plague, plague!

Apemantus

I was directed hither: men report

Thou dost affect my manners, and dost use them.

Timon

’Tis, then, because thou dost not keep a dog,

Whom I would imitate: consumption catch thee!

Apemantus

This is in thee a nature but infected;

A poor unmanly melancholy sprung

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 diseased perfumes, and have forgot

That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods,

By putting on the cunning of a carper.

Be thou a flatterer now, and seek 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 gavest thine ears like tapsters that bid welcome

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.

Timon

Were I like thee, I’ld throw away myself.

Apemantus

Thou hast cast away thyself, being like thyself;

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,

That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels,

And skip where thou point’st out? will the cold brook,

Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste,

To cure thy o’er-night’s surfeit? Call the creatures

Whose naked natures live in an the spite

Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks,

To the conflicting elements exposed,

Answer mere nature; bid them flatter thee;

O, thou shalt find —

Timon

A fool of thee: depart.

Apemantus

I love thee better now than e’er I did.

Timon

I hate thee worse.

Apemantus

Why?

Timon

Thou flatter’st misery.

Apemantus

I flatter not; but say thou art a caitiff.

Timon

Why dost thou seek me out?

Apemantus

To vex thee.

Timon

Always a villain’s office or a fool’s.

Dost please thyself in’t?

Apemantus

Ay.

Timon

What! a knave too?

Apemantus

If thou didst put this sour-cold habit on

To castigate thy pride, ’twere well: but thou

Dost it enforcedly; thou’ldst courtier be again,

Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery

Outlives encertain pomp, is crown’d before:

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.

Thou shouldst desire to die, being miserable.

Timon

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.

Hadst thou, like us from our first swath, proceeded

The sweet degrees that this brief world affords

To such as may the passive drugs of it

Freely command, thou wouldst have plunged thyself

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,

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

Do on the oak, hive 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:

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,

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.

Apemantus

Art thou proud yet?

Timon

Ay, that I am not thee.

Apemantus

I, that I was

No prodigal.

Timon

I, that I am one now:

Were all the wealth I have shut up in thee,

I’ld 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

Apemantus

Here; I will mend thy feast.

Offering him a root

Timon

First mend my company, take away thyself.

Apemantus

So I shall mend mine own, by the lack of thine.

Timon

’Tis not well mended so, it is but botch’d; if not, I would it were.

Apemantus

What wouldst thou have to Athens?

Timon

Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou wilt,

Tell them there I have gold; look, so I have.

Apemantus

Here is no use for gold.

Timon

The best and truest;

For here it sleeps, and does no hired harm.

Apemantus

Where liest o’ nights, Timon?

Timon

Under that’s above me.

Where feed’st thou o’ days, Apemantus?

Apemantus

Where my stomach finds meat; or, rather, where I eat it.

Timon

Would poison were obedient and knew my mind!

Apemantus

Where wouldst thou send it?

Timon

To sauce thy dishes.

Apemantus

The middle of humanity thou never knewest, but the extremity of both ends: when thou wast in thy gilt and thy perfume, they mocked thee for too much curiosity; in thy rags thou knowest none, but art despised for the contrary. There’s a medlar for thee, eat it.

Timon

On what I hate I feed not.

Apemantus

Dost hate a medlar?

Timon

Ay, though it look like thee.

Apemantus

An thou hadst hated meddlers sooner, thou shouldst have loved thyself better now. What man didst thou ever know unthrift that was beloved after his means?

Timon

Who, without those means thou talkest of, didst thou ever know beloved?

Apemantus

Myself.

Timon

I understand thee; thou hadst some means to keep a dog.

Apemantus

What things in the world canst thou nearest compare to thy flatterers?

Timon

Women nearest; but men, men are the things themselves. What wouldst thou do with the world, Apemantus, if it lay in thy power?

Apemantus

Give it the beasts, to be rid of the men.

Timon

Wouldst thou have thyself fall in the confusion of men, and remain a beast with the beasts?

Apemantus

Ay, Timon.

Timon

A beastly ambition, which the gods grant thee t’ attain to! If thou wert the lion, the fox would beguile thee; if thou wert the lamb, the fox would eat three: if thou wert the fox, the lion would suspect thee, when peradventure thou wert accused by the ass: if thou wert the ass, thy dulness would torment thee, and still thou livedst but as a breakfast to the wolf: if thou wert the wolf, thy greediness would afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst hazard thy life for thy dinner: wert thou the unicorn, pride and wrath would confound thee and make thine own self the conquest of thy fury: wert thou a bear, thou wouldst be killed by the horse: wert thou a horse, thou wouldst be seized by the leopard: wert thou a leopard, thou wert german to the lion and the spots of thy kindred were jurors on thy life: all thy safety were remotion and thy defence absence. What beast couldst thou be, that were not subject to a beast? and what a beast art thou already, that seest not thy loss in transformation!

Apemantus

If thou couldst please me with speaking to me, thou mightst have hit upon it here: the commonwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts.

Timon

How has the ass broke the wall, that thou art out of the city?

Apemantus

Yonder comes a poet and a painter: the plague of company light upon thee! I will fear to catch it and give way: when I know not what else to do, I’ll see thee again.

Timon

When there is nothing living but thee, thou shalt be welcome. I had rather be a beggar’s dog than Apemantus.

Apemantus

Thou art the cap of all the fools alive.

Timon

Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon!

Apemantus

A plague on thee! thou art too bad to curse.

Timon

All villains that do stand by thee are pure.

Apemantus

There is no leprosy but what thou speak’st.

Timon

If I name thee.

I’ll beat thee, but I should infect my hands.

Apemantus

I would my tongue could rot them off!

Timon

Away, thou issue of a mangy dog!

Choler does kill me that thou art alive;

I swound to see thee.

Apemantus

Would thou wouldst burst!

Timon

Away,

Thou tedious rogue! I am sorry I shall lose

A stone by thee.

Throws a stone at him

Apemantus

Beast!

Timon

Slave!

Apemantus

Toad!

Timon

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;

Lie where the light foam the sea may beat

Thy grave-stone daily: make thine epitaph,

That death in me at others’ lives may laugh.

To the gold

O thou sweet king-killer, and dear divorce

’Twixt natural son and sire! thou bright defiler

Of Hymen’s purest bed! thou valiant Mars!

Thou ever young, fresh, loved and delicate wooer,

Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

That lies on Dian’s lap! thou visible god,

That solder’st close impossibilities,

And makest them kiss! that speak’st with every tongue,

To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts!

Think, thy slave man rebels, and by thy virtue

Set them into confounding odds, that beasts

May have the world in empire!

Apemantus

Would ’twere so!

But not till I am dead. I’ll say thou’st gold:

Thou wilt be throng’d to shortly.

Timon

Throng’d to!

Apemantus

Ay.

Timon

Thy back, I prithee.

Apemantus

Live, and love thy misery.

Timon

Long live so, and so die.

Exit Apemantus

I am quit.

Moe things like men! Eat, Timon, and abhor them.

Enter Banditti

First Bandit

Where should he have this gold? It is some poor fragment, some slender sort of his remainder: the mere want of gold, and the falling-from of his friends, drove him into this melancholy.

Second Bandit

It is noised he hath a mass of treasure.

Third Bandit

Let us make the assay upon him: if he care not for’t, he will supply us easily; if he covetously reserve it, how shall’s get it?

Second Bandit

True; for he bears it not about him, ’tis hid.

First Bandit

Is not this he?

Banditti

Where?

Second Bandit

’Tis his description.

Third Bandit

He; I know him.

Banditti

Save thee, Timon.

Timon

Now, thieves?

Banditti

Soldiers, not thieves.

Timon

Both too; and women’s sons.

Banditti

We are not thieves, but men that much do want.

Timon

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;

The bounteous housewife, nature, on each bush

Lays her full mess before you. Want! why want?

First Bandit

We cannot live on grass, on berries, water,

As beasts and birds and fishes.

Timon

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

In holier shapes: for there is boundless theft

In limited professions. Rascal thieves,

Here’s gold. Go, suck the subtle blood o’ the grape,

Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth,

And so ’scape hanging: trust not the physician;

His antidotes are poison, and he slays

Moe than you rob: take wealth and lives together;

Do villany, do, since you protest to do’t,

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:

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

Have uncheque’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,

But thieves do lose it: steal no less for this

I give you; and gold confound you howsoe’er! Amen.

Third Bandit

Has almost charmed me from my profession, by persuading me to it.

First Bandit

’Tis in the malice of mankind that he thus advises us; not to have us thrive in our mystery.

Second Bandit

I’ll believe him as an enemy, and give over my trade.

First Bandit

Let us first see peace in Athens: there is no time so miserable but a man may be true.

Exeunt Banditti

Enter Flavius

Flavius

O you gods!

Is yond despised and ruinous man my lord?

Full of decay and failing? O monument

And wonder of good deeds evilly bestow’d!

What an alteration of honour

Has desperate want made!

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!

Grant I may ever love, and rather woo

Those that would mischief me than those that do!

Has caught me in his eye: I will present

My honest grief unto him; and, as my lord,

Still serve him with my life. My dearest master!

Timon

Away! what art thou?

Flavius

Have you forgot me, sir?

Timon

Why dost ask that? I have forgot all men;

Then, if thou grant’st thou’rt a man, I have forgot thee.

Flavius

An honest poor servant of yours.

Timon

Then I know thee not:

I never had honest man about me, I; all

I kept were knaves, to serve in meat to villains.

Flavius

The gods are witness,

Ne’er did poor steward wear a truer grief

For his undone lord than mine eyes for you.

Timon

What, dost thou weep? Come nearer. Then I love thee,

Because thou art a woman, and disclaim’st

Flinty mankind; whose eyes do never give

But thorough lust and laughter. Pity’s sleeping:

Strange times, that weep with laughing, not with weeping!

Flavius

I beg of you to know me, good my lord,

To accept my grief and whilst this poor wealth lasts

To entertain me as your steward still.

Timon

Had I a steward

So true, so just, and now so comfortable?

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,

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!

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,

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,

If not a usuring kindness, and, as rich men deal gifts,

Expecting in return twenty for one?

Flavius

No, my most worthy master; in whose breast

Doubt and suspect, alas, are placed too late:

You should have fear’d false times when you did feast:

Suspect still comes where an estate is least.

That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love,

Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind,

Care of your food and living; and, believe it,

My most honour’d lord,

For any benefit that points to me,

Either in hope or present, I’ld exchange

For this one wish, that you had power and wealth

To requite me, by making rich yourself.

Timon

Look thee, ’tis so! Thou singly honest man,

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,

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,

And may diseases lick up their false bloods!

And so farewell and thrive.

Flavius

O, let me stay,

And comfort you, my master.

Timon

If thou hatest curses,

Stay not; fly, whilst thou art blest and free:

Ne’er see thou man, and let me ne’er see thee.

Exit Flavius. Timon retires to his cave

ACT V

SCENE I. THE WOODS. BEFORE TIMON’S CAVE.

Enter Poet and Painter; Timon watching them from his cave

Painter

As I took note of the place, it cannot be far where he abides.

Poet

What’s to be thought of him? does the rumour hold for true, that he’s so full of gold?

Painter

Certain: Alcibiades reports it; Phrynia and Timandra had gold of him: he likewise enriched poor straggling soldiers with great quantity: ’tis said he gave unto his steward a mighty sum.

Poet

Then this breaking of his has been but a try for his friends.

Painter

Nothing else: you shall see him a palm in Athens again, and flourish with the highest. Therefore ’tis not amiss we tender our loves to him, in this supposed distress of his: it will show honestly in us; and is very likely to load our purposes with what they travail for, if it be a just true report that goes of his having.

Poet

What have you now to present unto him?

Painter

Nothing at this time but my visitation: only I will promise him an excellent piece.

Poet

I must serve him so too, tell him of an intent that’s coming toward him.

Painter

Good as the best. Promising is the very air o’ the time: it opens the eyes of expectation: performance is ever the duller for his act; and, but in the plainer and simpler kind of people, the deed of saying is quite out of use. To promise is most courtly and fashionable: performance is a kind of will or testament which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it.

Timon comes from his cave, behind

Timon

[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.

Timon

[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.

Poet

Nay, let’s seek him:

Then do we sin against our own estate,

When we may profit meet, and come too late.

Painter

True;

When the day serves, before black-corner’d night,

Find what thou want’st by free and offer’d light. Come.

Timon

[Aside] I’ll meet you at the turn. What a god’s gold,

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:

To thee be worship! and thy saints for aye

Be crown’d with plagues that thee alone obey!

Fit I meet them.

Coming forward

Poet

Hail, worthy Timon!

Painter

Our late noble master!

Timon

Have I once lived to see two honest men?

Poet

Sir,

Having often of your open bounty tasted,

Hearing you were retired, 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

The monstrous bulk of this ingratitude

With any size of words.

Timon

Let it go naked, men may see’t the better:

You that are honest, by being what you are,

Make them best seen and known.

Painter

He and myself

Have travail’d in the great shower of your gifts,

And sweetly felt it.

Timon

Ay, you are honest men.

Painter

We are hither come to offer you our service.

Timon

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.

Timon

Ye’re honest men: ye’ve heard that I have gold;

I am sure you have: speak truth; ye’re honest men.

Painter

So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore

Came not my friend nor I.

Timon

Good honest men! Thou draw’st a counterfeit

Best in all Athens: thou’rt, indeed, the best;

Thou counterfeit’st most lively.

Painter

So, so, my lord.

Timon

E’en so, sir, as I say. And, for thy fiction,

Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth

That thou art even natural in thine art.

But, for all this, my honest-natured friends,

I must needs say you have a little fault:

Marry, ’tis not monstrous in you, neither wish I

You take much pains to mend.

Both

Beseech your honour

To make it known to us.

Timon

You’ll take it ill.

Both

Most thankfully, my lord.

Timon

Will you, indeed?

Both

Doubt it not, worthy lord.

Timon

There’s never a one of you but trusts a knave,

That mightily deceives you.

Both

Do we, my lord?

Timon

Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble,

Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him,

Keep in your bosom: yet remain assured

That he’s a made-up villain.

Painter

I know none such, my lord.

Poet

Nor I.

Timon

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,

I’ll give you gold enough.

Both

Name them, my lord, let’s know them.

Timon

You that way and you this, but two in company;

Each man apart, all single and alone,

Yet an arch-villain keeps him company.

If where thou art two villains shall not be,

Come not near him. If thou wouldst not reside

But where one villain is, then him abandon.

Hence, pack! there’s gold; you came for gold, ye slaves:

To Painter

You have work’d for me; there’s payment for you: hence!

To Poet

You are an alchemist; make gold of that.

Out, rascal dogs!

Beats them out, and then retires to his cave

Enter Flavius and two Senators

Flavius

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 Senator

Bring us to his cave:

It is our part and promise to the Athenians

To speak with Timon.

Second Senator

At all times alike

Men are not still the same: ’twas time and griefs

That framed him thus: time, with his fairer hand,

Offering the fortunes of his former days,

The former man may make him. Bring us to him,

And chance it as it may.

Flavius

Here is his cave.

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.

Timon comes from his cave

Timon

Thou sun, that comfort’st, burn! Speak, and be hang’d:

For each true word, a blister! and each false

Be as cauterizing to the root o’ the tongue,

Consuming it with speaking!

First Senator

Worthy Timon,—

Timon

Of none but such as you, and you of Timon.

First Senator

The senators of Athens greet thee, Timon.

Timon

I thank them; and would send them back the plague,

Could I but catch it for them.

First Senator

O, forget

What we are sorry for ourselves in thee.

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.

Second Senator

They confess

Toward thee forgetfulness too 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

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 blot out what wrongs were theirs

And write in thee the figures of their love,

Ever to read them thine.

Timon

You witch me in it;

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 Senator

Therefore, so please thee to return with us

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,

Who, like a boar too savage, doth root up

His country’s peace.

Second Senator

And shakes his threatening sword

Against the walls of Athens.

First Senator

Therefore, Timon,—

Timon

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 be sack fair Athens,

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,

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

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,

As thieves to keepers.

Flavius

Stay not, all’s in vain.

Timon

Why, I was writing of my epitaph;

It will be seen to-morrow: my long sickness

Of health and living now begins to mend,

And nothing brings me all things. Go, live still;

Be Alcibiades your plague, you his,

And last so long enough!

First Senator

We speak in vain.

Timon

But yet I love my country, and am not

One that rejoices in the common wreck,

As common bruit doth put it.

First Senator

That’s well spoke.

Timon

Commend me to my loving countrymen,—

First Senator

These words become your lips as they pass thorough them.

Second Senator

And enter in our ears like great triumphers

In their applauding gates.

Timon

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.

First Senator

I like this well; he will return again.

Timon

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,

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,

And hang himself. I pray you, do my greeting.

Flavius

Trouble him no further; thus you still shall find him.

Timon

Come not to me again: but say to Athens,

Timon hath made his everlasting mansion

Upon the beached verge of the salt flood;

Who once a day with his embossed froth

The turbulent surge shall cover: thither come,

And let my grave-stone be your oracle.

Lips, let sour words go by and language end:

What is amiss plague and infection mend!

Graves only be men’s works and death their gain!

Sun, hide thy beams! Timon hath done his reign.

Retires to his cave

First Senator

His discontents are unremoveably

Coupled to nature.

Second Senator

Our hope in him is dead: let us return,

And strain what other means is left unto us

In our dear peril.

First Senator

It requires swift foot.

Exeunt

SCENE II. BEFORE THE WALLS OF ATHENS.

Enter two Senators and a Messenger

First Senator

Thou hast painfully discover’d: are his files

As full as thy report?

Messenger

have spoke the least:

Besides, his expedition promises

Present approach.

Second Senator

We stand much hazard, if they bring not Timon.

Messenger

I met a courier, one mine ancient friend;

Whom, though in general part we were opposed,

Yet our old love made a particular force,

And made us speak like friends: this man was riding

From Alcibiades to Timon’s cave,

With letters of entreaty, which imported

His fellowship i’ the cause against your city,

In part for his sake moved.

First Senator

Here come our brothers.

Enter the Senators from Timon

Third Senator

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.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE WOODS. TIMON’S CAVE, AND A RUDE TOMB SEEN.

Enter a Soldier, seeking Timon

Soldier

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; there does not live a man.

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 aged interpreter, though young in days:

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 Alcibiades with his powers

Alcibiades

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

The scope of justice; till now myself and such

As slept within the shadow of your power

Hav e wander’d with our traversed arms and breathed

Our sufferance vainly: now the time is flush,

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

With fear and horrid flight.

First Senator

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,

To wipe out our ingratitude with loves

Above their quantity.

Second Senator

So did we woo

Transformed Timon to our city’s love

By humble message and by promised means:

We were not all unkind, nor all deserve

The common stroke of war.

First Senator

These walls of ours

Were not erected by their hands from whom

You have received your griefs; nor are they such

That these great towers, trophies and schools should fall

For private faults in them.

Second Senator

Nor are they living

Who were the motives that you first went out;

Shame that they wanted cunning, in excess

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

Which nature loathes — take thou the destined tenth,

And by the hazard of the spotted die

Let die the spotted.

First Senator

All have not offended;

For those that were, it is not square to take

On those that are, revenges: crimes, like lands,

Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman,

Bring in thy ranks, but leave without thy rage:

Spare thy Athenian cradle and those kin

Which in the bluster of thy wrath must fall

With those that have offended: like a shepherd,

Approach the fold and cull the infected forth,

But kill not all together.

Second Senator

What thou wilt,

Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile

Than hew to’t with thy sword.

First Senator

Set but thy foot

Against our rampired gates, and they shall ope;

So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before,

To say thou’lt enter friendly.

Second Senator

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

Shall make their harbour in our town, till we

Have seal’d thy full desire.

Alcibiades

Then there’s my glove;

Descend, and open your uncharged ports:

Those enemies of Timon’s and mine own

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

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.

Alcibiades

Descend, and keep your words.

The Senators descend, and open the gates

Enter Soldier

Soldier

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

Interprets for my poor ignorance.

Alcibiades

[Reads the epitaph] ‘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:

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

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

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.

Let our drums strike.

Exeunt

The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. ALEXANDRIA. A ROOM IN CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

SCENE II. THE SAME. ANOTHER ROOM.

SCENE III. THE SAME. ANOTHER ROOM.

SCENE IV. ROME. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

ACT II

SCENE I. MESSINA. POMPEY’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. ROME. THE HOUSE OF LEPIDUS.

SCENE III. THE SAME. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S HOUSE.

SCENE IV. THE SAME. A STREET.

SCENE V. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

SCENE VI. NEAR MISENUM.

SCENE VII. ON BOARD POMPEY’S GALLEY, OFF MISENUM.

ACT III

SCENE I. A PLAIN IN SYRIA.

SCENE II. ROME. AN ANTE-CHAMBER IN OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

SCENE IV. ATHENS. A ROOM IN MARK ANTONY’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. THE SAME. ANOTHER ROOM.

SCENE VI. ROME. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S HOUSE.

SCENE VII. NEAR ACTIUM. MARK ANTONY’S CAMP.

SCENE VIII. A PLAIN NEAR ACTIUM.

SCENE IX. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAIN.

SCENE X. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAIN.

SCENE XI. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

SCENE XII. EGYPT. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S CAMP.

SCENE XIII. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. BEFORE ALEXANDRIA. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S CAMP.

SCENE II. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

SCENE III. THE SAME. BEFORE THE PALACE.

SCENE IV. THE SAME. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

SCENE V. ALEXANDRIA. MARK ANTONY’S CAMP.

SCENE VI. ALEXANDRIA. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S CAMP.

SCENE VII. FIELD OF BATTLE BETWEEN THE CAMPS.

SCENE VIII. UNDER THE WALLS OF ALEXANDRIA.

SCENE IX. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S CAMP.

SCENE X. BETWEEN THE TWO CAMPS.

SCENE XI. ANOTHER PART OF THE SAME.

SCENE XII. ANOTHER PART OF THE SAME.

SCENE XIII. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

SCENE XIV. THE SAME. ANOTHER ROOM.

SCENE XV. THE SAME. A MONUMENT.

ACT V

SCENE I. ALEXANDRIA. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S CAMP.

SCENE II. ALEXANDRIA. A ROOM IN THE MONUMENT.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

MARK ANTONY, OCTAVIUS CAESAR and LEPIDUS, triumvirs.

SEXTUS POMPEIUS (POMPEY)

DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS, VENTIDIUS, EROS, SCARUS, DERCETAS, DEMETRIUS, PHILO, friends to Antony.

MECAENAS, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, PROCULEIUS, THYREUS, GALLUS, MENAS, friends to Caesar.

MENECRATES, VARRIUS, friends to Pompey.

TAURUS, lieutenant-general to Caesar.

CANIDIUS, lieutenant-general to Antony.

SILIUS, an officer in Ventidius's army.

EUPHRONIUS, an ambassador from Antony to Caesar.

ALEXAS, SELEUCUS, DIOMEDES, attendants on Cleopatra.

MARDIAN, a Eunuch.

A SOOTHSAYER.

A CLOWN.

CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt.

OCTAVIA, sister to Caesar and wife to Antony.

CHARMIAN and 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

Philo

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,

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,

And is become the bellows and the fan

To cool a gipsy’s lust.

Flourish. Enter Antony, Cleopatra, her Ladies, the Train, with Eunuchs fanning her

Look, where they come:

Take but good note, and you shall see in him.

The triple pillar of the world transform’d

Into a strumpet’s fool: behold and see.

Cleopatra

If it be love indeed, tell me how much.

Mark Antony

There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d.

Cleopatra

I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved.

Mark Antony

Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

Enter an Attendant

Attendant

News, my good lord, from Rome.

Mark Antony

Grates me: the sum.

Cleopatra

Nay, hear them, Antony:

Fulvia perchance is angry; or, who knows

If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent

His powerful mandate to you, ‘Do this, or this;

Take in that kingdom, and enfranchise that;

Perform ’t, or else we damn thee.’

Mark Antony

How, my love!

Cleopatra

Perchance! nay, and most like:

You must not stay here longer, your dismission

Is come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony.

Where’s Fulvia’s process? Caesar’s I would say? both?

Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt’s queen,

Thou blushest, Antony; and that blood of thine

Is Caesar’s homager: else so thy cheek pays shame

When shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds. The messengers!

Mark Antony

Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch

Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space.

Kingdoms are clay: our dungy earth alike

Feeds beast as man: the nobleness of life

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.

Cleopatra

Excellent falsehood!

Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?

I’ll seem the fool I am not; Antony

Will be himself.

Mark Antony

But stirr’d by Cleopatra.

Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours,

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 tonight?

Cleopatra

Hear the ambassadors.

Mark Antony

Fie, wrangling queen!

Whom every thing becomes, to chide, to laugh,

To weep; whose every passion fully strives

To make itself, in thee, fair and admired!

No messenger, but thine; and all alone

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 Mark Antony and Cleopatra with their train

Demetrius

Is Caesar with Antonius prized so slight?

Philo

Sir, sometimes, when he is not Antony,

He comes too short of that great property

Which still should go with Antony.

Demetrius

I am full sorry

That he approves the common liar, who

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

Charmian

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!

Alexas

Soothsayer!

Soothsayer

Your will?

Charmian

Is this the man? Is’t you, sir, that know things?

Soothsayer

In nature’s infinite book of secrecy

A little I can read.

Alexas

Show him your hand.

Enter Domitius Enobarbus

Domitius Enobarbus

Bring in the banquet quickly; wine enough

Cleopatra’s health to drink.

Charmian

Good sir, give me good fortune.

Soothsayer

I make not, but foresee.

Charmian

Pray, then, foresee me one.

Soothsayer

You shall be yet far fairer than you are.

Charmian

He means in flesh.

Iras

No, you shall paint when you are old.

Charmian

Wrinkles forbid!

Alexas

Vex not his prescience; be attentive.

Charmian

Hush!

Soothsayer

You shall be more beloving than beloved.

Charmian

I had rather heat my liver with drinking.

Alexas

Nay, hear him.

Charmian

Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me be married to three kings in a forenoon, and widow them all: let me have a child at fifty, to whom Herod of Jewry may do homage: find me to marry me with Octavius Caesar, and companion me with my mistress.

Soothsayer

You shall outlive the lady whom you serve.

Charmian

O excellent! I love long life better than figs.

Soothsayer

You have seen and proved a fairer former fortune

Than that which is to approach.

Charmian

Then belike my children shall have no names: prithee, how many boys and wenches must I have?

Soothsayer

If every of your wishes had a womb.

And fertile every wish, a million.

Charmian

Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch.

Alexas

You think none but your sheets are privy to your wishes.

Charmian

Nay, come, tell Iras hers.

Alexas

We’ll know all our fortunes.

Domitius Enobarbus

Mine, and most of our fortunes, to-night, shall be — drunk to bed.

Iras

There’s a palm presages chastity, if nothing else.

Charmian

E’en as the o’erflowing Nilus presageth famine.

Iras

Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay.

Charmian

Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prognostication, I cannot scratch mine ear. Prithee, tell her but a worky-day fortune.

Soothsayer

Your fortunes are alike.

Iras

But how, but how? give me particulars.

Soothsayer

I have said.

Iras

Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?

Charmian

Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than

I, where would you choose it?

Iras

Not in my husband’s nose.

Charmian

Our worser thoughts heavens mend! Alexas,— come, his fortune, his fortune! O, let him marry a woman that cannot go, sweet Isis, I beseech thee! and let her die too, and give him a worse! and let worst follow worse, till the worst of all follow him laughing to his grave, fifty-fold a cuckold! Good Isis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny me a matter of more weight; good Isis, I beseech thee!

Iras

Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people! for, as it is a heartbreaking to see a handsome man loose-wived, so it is a deadly sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuckolded: therefore, dear Isis, keep decorum, and fortune him accordingly!

Charmian

Amen.

Alexas

Lo, now, if it lay in their hands to make me a cuckold, they would make themselves whores, but they’ld do’t!

Domitius Enobarbus

Hush! here comes Antony.

Charmian

Not he; the queen.

Enter Cleopatra

Cleopatra

Saw you my lord?

Domitius Enobarbus

No, lady.

Cleopatra

Was he not here?

Charmian

No, madam.

Cleopatra

He was disposed to mirth; but on the sudden

A Roman thought hath struck him. Enobarbus!

Domitius Enobarbus

Madam?

Cleopatra

Seek him, and bring him hither.

Where’s Alexas?

Alexas

Here, at your service. My lord approaches.

Cleopatra

We will not look upon him: go with us.

Exeunt

Enter Mark Antony with a Messenger and Attendants

Messenger

Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.

Mark Antony

Against my brother Lucius?

Messenger

Ay:

But soon that war had end, and the time’s state

Made friends of them, joining their force ’gainst Caesar;

Whose better issue in the war, from Italy,

Upon the first encounter, drave them.

Mark Antony

Well, what worst?

Messenger

The nature of bad news infects the teller.

Mark Antony

When it concerns the fool or coward. On:

Things that are past are done with me. ’Tis thus:

Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death,

I hear him as he flatter’d.

Messenger

Labienus —

This is stiff news — hath, with his Parthian force,

Extended Asia from Euphrates;

His conquering banner shook from Syria

To Lydia and to Ionia; Whilst —

Mark Antony

Antony, thou wouldst say,—

Messenger

O, my lord!

Mark Antony

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

With such full licence as both truth and malice

Have power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds,

When our quick minds lie still; and our ills told us

Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile.

Messenger

At your noble pleasure.

Exit

Mark Antony

From Sicyon, ho, the news! Speak there!

First Attendant

The man from Sicyon,— is there such an one?

Second Attendant

He stays upon your will.

Mark Antony

Let him appear.

These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,

Or lose myself in dotage.

Enter another Messenger

What are you?

Second Messenger

Fulvia thy wife is dead.

Mark Antony

Where died she?

Second Messenger

In Sicyon:

Her length of sickness, with what else more serious

Importeth thee to know, this bears.

Gives a letter

Mark Antony

Forbear me.

Exit Second Messenger

There’s a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it:

What our contempt doth often hurl from us,

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 shoved her on.

I must from this enchanting queen break off:

Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know,

My idleness doth hatch. How now! Enobarbus!

Re-enter Domitius Enobarbus

Domitius Enobarbus

What’s your pleasure, sir?

Mark Antony

I must with haste from hence.

Domitius Enobarbus

Why, then, we kill all our women: we see how mortal an unkindness is to them; if they suffer our departure, death’s the word.

Mark Antony

I must be gone.

Domitius Enobarbus

Under a compelling occasion, let women die; it were pity to cast them away for nothing; though, between them and a great cause, they should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies instantly; I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment: I do think there is mettle in death, which commits some loving act upon her, she hath such a celerity in dying.

Mark Antony

She is cunning past man’s thought.

Exit Alexas

Domitius Enobarbus

Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love: we cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report: this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.

Mark Antony

Would I had never seen her.

Domitius Enobarbus

O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work; which not to have been blest withal would have discredited your travel.

Mark Antony

Fulvia is dead.

Domitius Enobarbus

Sir?

Mark Antony

Fulvia is dead.

Domitius Enobarbus

Fulvia!

Mark Antony

Dead.

Domitius Enobarbus

Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a man from him, it shows to man the tailors of the earth; comforting therein, that when old robes are worn out, there are members to make new. If there were no more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut, and the case to be lamented: this grief is crowned with consolation; your old smock brings forth a new petticoat: and indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.

Mark Antony

The business she hath broached in the state

Cannot endure my absence.

Domitius Enobarbus

And the business you have broached here cannot be without you; especially that of Cleopatra’s, which wholly depends on your abode.

Mark Antony

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

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

Hath given the dare to Caesar, 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

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,

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

Our quick remove from hence.

Domitius Enobarbus

I shall do’t.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE SAME. ANOTHER ROOM.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas

Cleopatra

Where is he?

Charmian

I did not see him since.

Cleopatra

See where he is, who’s with him, what he does:

I did not send you: if you find him sad,

Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report

That I am sudden sick: quick, and return.

Exit Alexas

Charmian

Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,

You do not hold the method to enforce

The like from him.

Cleopatra

What should I do, I do not?

Charmian

In each thing give him way, cross him nothing.

Cleopatra

Thou teachest like a fool; the way to lose him.

Charmian

Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear:

In time we hate that which we often fear.

But here comes Antony.

Enter Mark Antony

Cleopatra

I am sick and sullen.

Mark Antony

I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose,—

Cleopatra

Help me away, dear Charmian; I shall fall:

It cannot be thus long, the sides of nature

Will not sustain it.

Mark Antony

Now, my dearest queen,—

Cleopatra

Pray you, stand further from me.

Mark Antony

What’s the matter?

Cleopatra

I know, by that same eye, there’s some good news.

What says the married woman? You may go:

Would she had never given you leave to come!

Let her not say ’tis I that keep you here:

I have no power upon you; hers you are.

Mark Antony

The gods best know,—

Cleopatra

O, never was there queen

So mightily betray’d! yet at the first

I saw the treasons planted.

Mark Antony

Cleopatra,—

Cleopatra

Why should I think you can be mine and true,

Though you in swearing shake the throned gods,

Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness,

To be entangled with those mouth-made vows,

Which break themselves in swearing!

Mark Antony

Most sweet queen,—

Cleopatra

Nay, pray you, seek no colour for your going,

But bid farewell, and go: when you sued 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,

But was a race of heaven: they are so still,

Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world,

Art turn’d the greatest liar.

Mark Antony

How now, lady!

Cleopatra

I would I had thy inches; thou shouldst know

There were a heart in Egypt.

Mark Antony

Hear me, queen:

The strong necessity of time commands

Our services awhile; but my full heart

Remains in use with you. Our Italy

Shines o’er with civil swords: Sextus Pompeius

Makes his approaches to the port of Rome:

Equality of two domestic powers

Breed scrupulous faction: the hated, grown to strength,

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 thrived

Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten;

And quietness, grown sick 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.

Cleopatra

Though age from folly could not give me freedom,

It does from childishness: can Fulvia die?

Mark Antony

She’s dead, my queen:

Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read

The garboils she awaked; at the last, best:

See when and where she died.

Cleopatra

O most false love!

Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill

With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see,

In Fulvia’s death, how mine received shall be.

Mark Antony

Quarrel no more, but be prepared to know

The purposes I bear; which are, or cease,

As you shall give the advice. By the fire

That quickens Nilus’ slime, I go from hence

Thy soldier, servant; making peace or war

As thou affect’st.

Cleopatra

Cut my lace, Charmian, come;

But let it be: I am quickly ill, and well,

So Antony loves.

Mark Antony

My precious queen, forbear;

And give true evidence to his love, which stands

An honourable trial.

Cleopatra

So Fulvia told me.

I prithee, turn aside and weep for her,

Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears

Belong to Egypt: good now, play one scene

Of excellent dissembling; and let it look

Life perfect honour.

Mark Antony

You’ll heat my blood: no more.

Cleopatra

You can do better yet; but this is meetly.

Mark Antony

Now, by my sword,—

Cleopatra

And target. Still he mends;

But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian,

How this Herculean Roman does become

The carriage of his chafe.

Mark Antony

I’ll leave you, lady.

Cleopatra

Courteous lord, one word.

Sir, you and I must part, but that’s not it:

Sir, you and I have loved, but there’s not it;

That you know well: something it is I would,

O, my oblivion is a very Antony,

And I am all forgotten.

Mark Antony

But that your royalty

Holds idleness your subject, I should take you

For idleness itself.

Cleopatra

’Tis sweating labour

To bear such idleness so near the heart

As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me;

Since my becomings kill me, when they do not

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

Be strew’d before your feet!

Mark Antony

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. Away!

Exeunt

SCENE IV. ROME. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S HOUSE.

Enter Octavius Caesar, reading a letter, Lepidus, and their Train

Octavius Caesar

You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know,

It is not Caesar’s natural vice to hate

Our great competitor: from Alexandria

This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes

The lamps of night in revel; is not more man-like

Than Cleopatra; nor the queen of Ptolemy

More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or

Vouchsafed to think he had partners: you shall find there

A man who is the abstract of all faults

That all men follow.

Lepidus

I must not think there are

Evils enow to darken all his goodness:

His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven,

More fiery by night’s blackness; hereditary,

Rather than purchased; what he cannot change,

Than what he chooses.

Octavius Caesar

You are too indulgent. Let us grant, it is not

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

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

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,

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

Lepidus

Here’s more news.

Messenger

Thy biddings have been done; and every hour,

Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report

How ’tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea;

And it appears he is beloved of those

That only have fear’d Caesar: to the ports

The discontents repair, and men’s reports

Give him much wrong’d.

Octavius Caesar

I should have known no less.

It hath been taught us from the primal state,

That he which is was wish’d until he were;

And the ebb’d man, ne’er loved till ne’er worth love,

Comes dear’d by being lack’d. This common body,

Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,

Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,

To rot itself with motion.

Messenger

Caesar, I bring thee word,

Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates,

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:

No vessel can peep forth, but ’tis as soon

Taken as seen; for Pompey’s name strikes more

Than could his war resisted.

Octavius Caesar

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

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;

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 —

It wounds thine honour that I speak it now —

Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek

So much as lank’d not.

Lepidus

’Tis pity of him.

Octavius Caesar

Let his shames quickly

Drive him to Rome: ’tis time we twain

Did show ourselves i’ the field; and to that end

Assemble we immediate council: Pompey

Thrives in our idleness.

Lepidus

To-morrow, Caesar,

I shall be furnish’d to inform you rightly

Both what by sea and land I can be able

To front this present time.

Octavius Caesar

Till which encounter,

It is my business too. Farewell.

Lepidus

Farewell, my lord: what you shall know meantime

Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir,

To let me be partaker.

Octavius Caesar

Doubt not, sir;

I knew it for my bond.

Exeunt

SCENE V. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Mardian

Cleopatra

Charmian!

Charmian

Madam?

Cleopatra

Ha, ha!

Give me to drink mandragora.

Charmian

Why, madam?

Cleopatra

That I might sleep out this great gap of time

My Antony is away.

Charmian

You think of him too much.

Cleopatra

O, ’tis treason!

Charmian

Madam, I trust, not so.

Cleopatra

Thou, eunuch Mardian!

Mardian

What’s your highness’ pleasure?

Cleopatra

Not now to hear thee sing; I take no pleasure

In aught an eunuch has: ’tis well for thee,

That, being unseminar’d, thy freer thoughts

May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?

Mardian

Yes, gracious madam.

Cleopatra

Indeed!

Mardian

Not in deed, madam; for I can do nothing

But what indeed is honest to be done:

Yet have I fierce affections, and think

What Venus did with Mars.

Cleopatra

O Charmian,

Where think’st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he?

Or does he walk? or is he on his horse?

O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!

Do bravely, horse! for wot’st thou whom thou movest?

The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm

And burgonet of men. He’s speaking now,

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 Phoebus’ amorous pinches black,

And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Caesar,

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;

There would he anchor his aspect and die

With looking on his life.

Enter Alexas, from Octavius Caesar

Alexas

Sovereign of Egypt, hail!

Cleopatra

How much unlike art thou Mark Antony!

Yet, coming from him, that great medicine hath

With his tinct gilded thee.

How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?

Alexas

Last thing he did, dear queen,

He kiss’d,— the last of many doubled kisses,—

This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.

Cleopatra

Mine ear must pluck it thence.

Alexas

‘Good friend,’ quoth he,

’say, the firm Roman to great Egypt sends

This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,

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,

Who neigh’d so high, that what I would have spoke

Was beastly dumb’d by him.

Cleopatra

What, was he sad or merry?

Alexas

Like to the time o’ the year between the extremes

Of hot and cold, he was nor sad nor merry.

Cleopatra

O well-divided disposition! Note him,

Note him good Charmian, ’tis the man; but note him:

He was not sad, for he would shine on those

That make their looks by his; he was not merry,

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,

So does it no man else. Met’st thou my posts?

Alexas

Ay, madam, twenty several messengers:

Why do you send so thick?

Cleopatra

Who’s born that day

When I forget to send to Antony,

Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian.

Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian,

Ever love Caesar so?

Charmian

O that brave Caesar!

Cleopatra

Be choked with such another emphasis!

Say, the brave Antony.

Charmian

The valiant Caesar!

Cleopatra

By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth,

If thou with Caesar paragon again

My man of men.

Charmian

By your most gracious pardon,

I sing but after you.

Cleopatra

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:

He shall have every day a several greeting,

Or I’ll unpeople Egypt.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. MESSINA. POMPEY’S HOUSE.

Enter Pompey, Menecrates, and Menas, in warlike manner

Pompey

If the great gods be just, they shall assist

The deeds of justest men.

Menecrates

Know, worthy Pompey,

That what they do delay, they not deny.

Pompey

Whiles we are suitors to their throne, decays

The thing we sue for.

Menecrates

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.

Pompey

I shall do well:

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

No wars without doors: Caesar gets money where

He loses hearts: Lepidus flatters both,

Of both is flatter’d; but he neither loves,

Nor either cares for him.

Menas

Caesar and Lepidus

Are in the field: a mighty strength they carry.

Pompey

Where have you this? ’tis false.

Menas

From Silvius, sir.

Pompey

He dreams: I know they are in Rome together,

Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love,

Salt Cleopatra, soften thy waned lip!

Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!

Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts,

Keep his brain fuming; Epicurean cooks

Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite;

That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour

Even till a Lethe’d dulness!

Enter Varrius

How now, Varrius!

Varrius

This is most certain that I shall deliver:

Mark Antony is every hour in Rome

Expected: since he went from Egypt ’tis

A space for further travel.

Pompey

I could have given less matter

A better ear. Menas, I did not think

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

Can from the lap of Egypt’s widow pluck

The ne’er-lust-wearied Antony.

Menas

I cannot hope

Caesar and Antony shall well greet together:

His wife that’s dead did trespasses to Caesar;

His brother warr’d upon him; although, I think,

Not moved by Antony.

Pompey

I know not, Menas,

How lesser enmities may give way to greater.

Were’t not that we stand up against them all,

’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

The petty difference, we yet not know.

Be’t as our gods will have’t! It only stands

Our lives upon to use our strongest hands.

Come, Menas.

Exeunt

SCENE II. ROME. THE HOUSE OF LEPIDUS.

Enter Domitius Enobarbus and Lepidus

Lepidus

Good Enobarbus, ’tis a worthy deed,

And shall become you well, to entreat your captain

To soft and gentle speech.

Domitius Enobarbus

I shall entreat him

To answer like himself: if Caesar move him,

Let Antony look over Caesar’s head

And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter,

Were I the wearer of Antonius’ beard,

I would not shave’t to-day.

Lepidus

’Tis not a time

For private stomaching.

Domitius Enobarbus

Every time

Serves for the matter that is then born in’t.

Lepidus

But small to greater matters must give way.

Domitius Enobarbus

Not if the small come first.

Lepidus

Your speech is passion:

But, pray you, stir no embers up. Here comes

The noble Antony.

Enter Mark Antony and Ventidius

Domitius Enobarbus

And yonder, Caesar.

Enter Octavius Caesar, Mecaenas, and Agrippa

Mark Antony

If we compose well here, to Parthia:

Hark, Ventidius.

Octavius Caesar

I do not know,

Mecaenas; ask Agrippa.

Lepidus

Noble friends,

That which combined us was most great, and let not

A leaner action rend us. What’s amiss,

May it be gently heard: when we debate

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,

Nor curstness grow to the matter.

Mark Antony

’Tis spoken well.

Were we before our armies, and to fight.

I should do thus.

Flourish

Octavius Caesar

Welcome to Rome.

Mark Antony

Thank you.

Octavius Caesar

Sit.

Mark Antony

Sit, sir.

Octavius Caesar

Nay, then.

Mark Antony

I learn, you take things ill which are not so,

Or being, concern you not.

Octavius Caesar

I must be laugh’d at,

If, or for nothing or a little, I

Should say myself offended, and with you

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.

Mark Antony

My being in Egypt, Caesar,

What was’t to you?

Octavius Caesar

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.

Mark Antony

How intend you, practised?

Octavius Caesar

You may be pleased to catch at mine intent

By what did here befal me. Your wife and brother

Made wars upon me; and their contestation

Was theme for you, you were the word of war.

Mark Antony

You do mistake your business; my brother never

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

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,

As matter whole you have not to make it with,

It must not be with this.

Octavius Caesar

You praise yourself

By laying defects of judgment to me; but

You patch’d up your excuses.

Mark Antony

Not so, not so;

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,

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.

Domitius Enobarbus

Would we had all such wives, that the men might go to wars with the women!

Mark Antony

So much uncurbable, her garboils, Caesar

Made out of her impatience, which not wanted

Shrewdness of policy too, I grieving grant

Did you too much disquiet: for that you must

But say, I could not help it.

Octavius Caesar

I wrote to you

When rioting in Alexandria; you

Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts

Did gibe my missive out of audience.

Mark Antony

Sir,

He fell upon me ere admitted: then

Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want

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,

Out of our question wipe him.

Octavius Caesar

You have broken

The article of your oath; which you shall never

Have tongue to charge me with.

Lepidus

Soft, Caesar!

Mark Antony

No,

Lepidus, let him speak:

The honour is sacred which he talks on now,

Supposing that I lack’d it. But, on, Caesar;

The article of my oath.

Octavius Caesar

To lend me arms and aid when I required them;

The which you both denied.

Mark Antony

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

Work without it. Truth is, that Fulvia,

To have me out of Egypt, made wars here;

For which myself, the ignorant motive, do

So far ask pardon as befits mine honour

To stoop in such a case.

Lepidus

’Tis noble spoken.

Mecaenas

If it might please you, to enforce no further

The griefs between ye: to forget them quite

Were to remember that the present need

Speaks to atone you.

Lepidus

Worthily spoken, Mecaenas.

Domitius Enobarbus

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.

Mark Antony

Thou art a soldier only: speak no more.

Domitius Enobarbus

That truth should be silent I had almost forgot.

Mark Antony

You wrong this presence; therefore speak no more.

Domitius Enobarbus

Go to, then; your considerate stone.

Octavius Caesar

I do not much dislike the matter, but

The manner of his speech; for’t cannot be

We shall remain in friendship, our conditions

So differing in their acts. Yet if I knew

What hoop should hold us stanch, from edge to edge

O’ the world I would pursue it.

Agrippa

Give me leave, Caesar,—

Octavius Caesar

Speak, Agrippa.

Agrippa

Thou hast a sister by the mother’s side,

Admired Octavia: great Mark Antony

Is now a widower.

Octavius Caesar

Say not so, Agrippa:

If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof

Were well deserved of rashness.

Mark Antony

I am not married, Caesar: let me hear

Agrippa further speak.

Agrippa

To hold you in perpetual amity,

To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts

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,

All little jealousies, which now seem great,

And all great fears, which now import their dangers,

Would then be nothing: truths would be tales,

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,

By duty ruminated.

Mark Antony

Will Caesar speak?

Octavius Caesar

Not till he hears how Antony is touch’d

With what is spoke already.

Mark Antony

What power is in Agrippa,

If I would say, ‘Agrippa, be it so,’

To make this good?

Octavius Caesar

The power of Caesar, and

His power unto Octavia.

Mark Antony

May I never

To this good purpose, that so fairly shows,

Dream of impediment! Let me have thy hand:

Further this act of grace: and from this hour

The heart of brothers govern in our loves

And sway our great designs!

Octavius Caesar

There is my hand.

A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother

Did ever love so dearly: let her live

To join our kingdoms and our hearts; and never

Fly off our loves again!

Lepidus

Happily, amen!

Mark Antony

I did not think to draw my sword ’gainst Pompey;

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.

Lepidus

Time calls upon’s:

Of us must Pompey presently be sought,

Or else he seeks out us.

Mark Antony

Where lies he?

Octavius Caesar

About the mount Misenum.

Mark Antony

What is his strength by land?

Octavius Caesar

Great and increasing: but by sea

He is an absolute master.

Mark Antony

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.

Octavius Caesar

With most gladness:

And do invite you to my sister’s view,

Whither straight I’ll lead you.

Mark Antony

Let us, Lepidus,

Not lack your company.

Lepidus

Noble Antony,

Not sickness should detain me.

Flourish. Exeunt Octavius Caesar, Mark Antony, and Lepidus

Mecaenas

Welcome from Egypt, sir.

Domitius Enobarbus

Half the heart of Caesar, worthy Mecaenas! My honourable friend, Agrippa!

Agrippa

Good Enobarbus!

Mecaenas

We have cause to be glad that matters are so well digested. You stayed well by ’t in Egypt.

Domitius Enobarbus

Ay, sir; we did sleep day out of countenance, and made the night light with drinking.

Mecaenas

Eight wild-boars roasted whole at a breakfast, and but twelve persons there; is this true?

Domitius Enobarbus

This was but as a fly by an eagle: we had much more monstrous matter of feast, which worthily deserved noting.

Mecaenas

She’s a most triumphant lady, if report be square to her.

Domitius Enobarbus

When she first met Mark Antony, she pursed up his heart, upon the river of Cydnus.

Agrippa

There she appeared indeed; or my reporter devised well for her.

Domitius Enobarbus

I will tell you.

The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne,

Burn’d on the water: the poop was beaten gold;

Purple the sails, and so perfumed that

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,

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

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.

Agrippa

O, rare for Antony!

Domitius Enobarbus

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

Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands,

That yarely frame the office. From the barge

A strange invisible perfume hits the sense

Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast

Her people out upon her; and Antony,

Enthroned i’ the market-place, did sit alone,

Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy,

Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,

And made a gap in nature.

Agrippa

Rare Egyptian!

Domitius Enobarbus

Upon her landing, Antony sent to her,

Invited her to supper: she replied,

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

For what his eyes eat only.

Agrippa

Royal wench!

She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed:

He plough’d her, and she cropp’d.

Domitius Enobarbus

I saw her once

Hop forty paces through the public street;

And having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted,

That she did make defect perfection,

And, breathless, power breathe forth.

Mecaenas

Now Antony must leave her utterly.

Domitius Enobarbus

Never; he will not:

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale

Her infinite variety: other women cloy

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.

Mecaenas

If beauty, wisdom, modesty, can settle

The heart of Antony, Octavia is

A blessed lottery to him.

Agrippa

Let us go.

Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest

Whilst you abide here.

Domitius Enobarbus

Humbly, sir, I thank you.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE SAME. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S HOUSE.

Enter Mark Antony, Octavius Caesar, Octavia between them, and Attendants

Mark Antony

The world and my great office will sometimes

Divide me from your bosom.

Octavia

All which time

Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers

To them for you.

Mark Antony

Good night, sir. My Octavia,

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.

Good night, sir.

Octavius Caesar

Good night.

Exeunt Octavius Caesar and Octavia

Enter Soothsayer

Mark Antony

Now, sirrah; you do wish yourself in Egypt?

Soothsayer

Would I had never come from thence, nor you Thither!

Mark Antony

If you can, your reason?

Soothsayer

I see it in

My motion, have it not in my tongue: but yet

Hie you to Egypt again.

Mark Antony

Say to me,

Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Caesar’s or mine?

Soothsayer

Caesar’s.

Therefore, O Antony, stay not by his side:

Thy demon, that’s thy spirit which keeps thee, is

Noble, courageous high, unmatchable,

Where Caesar’s is not; but, near him, thy angel

Becomes a fear, as being o’erpower’d: therefore

Make space enough between you.

Mark Antony

Speak this no more.

Soothsayer

To none but thee; no more, but when to thee.

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

Is all afraid to govern thee near him;

But, he away, ’tis noble.

Mark Antony

Get thee gone:

Say to Ventidius I would speak with him:

Exit Soothsayer

He shall to Parthia. Be it art or hap,

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,

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,

You must to Parthia: your commission’s ready;

Follow me, and receive’t.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. THE SAME. A STREET.

Enter Lepidus, Mecaenas, and Agrippa

Lepidus

Trouble yourselves no further: pray you, hasten

Your generals after.

Agrippa

Sir, Mark Antony

Will e’en but kiss Octavia, and we’ll follow.

Lepidus

Till I shall see you in your soldier’s dress,

Which will become you both, farewell.

Mecaenas

We shall,

As I conceive the journey, be at the Mount

Before you, Lepidus.

Lepidus

Your way is shorter;

My purposes do draw me much about:

You’ll win two days upon me.

Mecaenas

Agrippa

Sir, good success!

Lepidus

Farewell.

Exeunt

SCENE V. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas

Cleopatra

Give me some music; music, moody food

Of us that trade in love.

Attendants

The music, ho!

Enter Mardian

Cleopatra

Let it alone; let’s to billiards: come, Charmian.

Charmian

My arm is sore; best play with Mardian.

Cleopatra

As well a woman with an eunuch play’d

As with a woman. Come, you’ll play with me, sir?

Mardian

As well as I can, madam.

Cleopatra

And when good will is show’d, though’t come too short,

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

Their slimy jaws; and, as I draw them up,

I’ll think them every one an Antony,

And say ‘Ah, ha! you’re caught.’

Charmian

’Twas merry when

You wager’d on your angling; when your diver

Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he

With fervency drew up.

Cleopatra

That time,— O times!—

I laugh’d him out of patience; and that night

I laugh’d him into patience; and next morn,

Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed;

Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst

I wore his sword Philippan.

Enter a Messenger

O, from Italy

Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears,

That long time have been barren.

Messenger

Madam, madam,—

Cleopatra

Antonius dead!— If thou say so, villain,

Thou kill’st thy mistress: but well and free,

If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here

My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings

Have lipp’d, and trembled kissing.

Messenger

First, madam, he is well.

Cleopatra

Why, there’s more gold.

But, sirrah, mark, we use

To say the dead are well: bring it to that,

The gold I give thee will I melt and pour

Down thy ill-uttering throat.

Messenger

Good madam, hear me.

Cleopatra

Well, go to, I will;

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,

Not like a formal man.

Messenger

Will’t please you hear me?

Cleopatra

I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak’st:

Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well,

Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him,

I’ll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail

Rich pearls upon thee.

Messenger

Madam, he’s well.

Cleopatra

Well said.

Messenger

And friends with Caesar.

Cleopatra

Thou’rt an honest man.

Messenger

Caesar and he are greater friends than ever.

Cleopatra

Make thee a fortune from me.

Messenger

But yet, madam,—

Cleopatra

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

Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend,

Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear,

The good and bad together: he’s friends with Caesar:

In state of health thou say’st; and thou say’st free.

Messenger

Free, madam! no; I made no such report:

He’s bound unto Octavia.

Cleopatra

For what good turn?

Messenger

For the best turn i’ the bed.

Cleopatra

I am pale, Charmian.

Messenger

Madam, he’s married to Octavia.

Cleopatra

The most infectious pestilence upon thee!

Strikes him down

Messenger

Good madam, patience.

Cleopatra

What say you? Hence,

Strikes him again

Horrible villain! or I’ll spurn thine eyes

Like balls before me; I’ll unhair thy head:

She hales him up and down

Thou shalt be whipp’d with wire, and stew’d in brine,

Smarting in lingering pickle.

Messenger

Gracious madam,

I that do bring the news made not the match.

Cleopatra

Say ’tis not so, a province I will give thee,

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.

Messenger

He’s married, madam.

Cleopatra

Rogue, thou hast lived too long.

Draws a knife

Messenger

Nay, then I’ll run.

What mean you, madam? I have made no fault.

Exit

Charmian

Good madam, keep yourself within yourself:

The man is innocent.

Cleopatra

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.

Charmian

He is afeard to come.

Cleopatra

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.

Though it be honest, it is never good

To bring bad news: give to a gracious message.

An host of tongues; but let ill tidings tell

Themselves when they be felt.

Messenger

I have done my duty.

Cleopatra

Is he married?

I cannot hate thee worser than I do,

If thou again say ‘Yes.’

Messenger

He’s married, madam.

Cleopatra

The gods confound thee! dost thou hold there still?

Messenger

Should I lie, madam?

Cleopatra

O, I would thou didst,

So half my Egypt were submerged and made

A cistern for scaled snakes! Go, get thee hence:

Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me

Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married?

Messenger

I crave your highness’ pardon.

Cleopatra

He is married?

Messenger

Take no offence that I would not offend you:

To punish me for what you make me do.

Seems much unequal: he’s married to Octavia.

Cleopatra

O, that his fault should make a knave of thee,

That art not what thou’rt sure of! Get thee hence:

The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome

Are all too dear for me: lie they upon thy hand,

And be undone by ’em!

Exit Messenger

Charmian

Good your highness, patience.

Cleopatra

In praising Antony, I have dispraised Caesar.

Charmian

Many times, madam.

Cleopatra

I am paid for’t now.

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,

Her inclination, let him not leave out

The colour of her hair: bring me word quickly.

Exit Alexas

Let him for ever go:— let him not — Charmian,

Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon,

The other way’s a Mars. Bid you Alexas

To Mardian

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 door, with drum and trumpet: at another, Octavius Caesar, Mark Antony, Lepidus, Domitius Enobarbus, Mecaenas, with Soldiers marching

Pompey

Your hostages I have, so have you mine;

And we shall talk before we fight.

Octavius Caesar

Most meet

That first we come to words; and therefore have we

Our written purposes before us sent;

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.

Pompey

To you all three,

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 Caesar,

Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted,

There saw you labouring for him. What was’t

That moved pale Cassius to conspire; and what

Made the all-honour’d, honest Roman, Brutus,

With the arm’d rest, courtiers and beauteous freedom,

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 burthen

The anger’d ocean foams; with which I meant

To scourge the ingratitude that despiteful Rome

Cast on my noble father.

Octavius Caesar

Take your time.

Mark Antony

Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails;

We’ll speak with thee at sea: at land, thou know’st

How much we do o’er-count thee.

Pompey

At land, indeed,

Thou dost o’er-count me of my father’s house:

But, since the cuckoo builds not for himself,

Remain in’t as thou mayst.

Lepidus

Be pleased to tell us —

For this is from the present — how you take

The offers we have sent you.

Octavius Caesar

There’s the point.

Mark Antony

Which do not be entreated to, but weigh

What it is worth embraced.

Octavius Caesar

And what may follow,

To try a larger fortune.

Pompey

You have made me offer

Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must

Rid all the sea of pirates; then, to send

Measures of wheat to Rome; this ’greed upon

To part with unhack’d edges, and bear back

Our targes undinted.

Octavius Caesar

Mark Antony

Lepidus

That’s our offer.

Pompey

Know, then,

I came before you here a man prepared

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 Caesar and your brother were at blows,

Your mother came to Sicily and did find

Her welcome friendly.

Mark Antony

I have heard it, Pompey;

And am well studied for a liberal thanks

Which I do owe you.

Pompey

Let me have your hand:

I did not think, sir, to have met you here.

Mark Antony

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.

Octavius Caesar

Since I saw you last,

There is a change upon you.

Pompey

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.

Lepidus

Well met here.

Pompey

I hope so, Lepidus. Thus we are agreed:

I crave our composition may be written,

And seal’d between us.

Octavius Caesar

That’s the next to do.

Pompey

We’ll feast each other ere we part; and let’s

Draw lots who shall begin.

Mark Antony

That will I, Pompey.

Pompey

No, Antony, take the lot: but, first

Or last, your fine Egyptian cookery

Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar

Grew fat with feasting there.

Mark Antony

You have heard much.

Pompey

I have fair meanings, sir.

Mark Antony

And fair words to them.

Pompey

Then so much have I heard:

And I have heard, Apollodorus carried —

Domitius Enobarbus

No more of that: he did so.

Pompey

What, I pray you?

Domitius Enobarbus

A certain queen to Caesar in a mattress.

Pompey

I know thee now: how farest thou, soldier?

Domitius Enobarbus

Well;

And well am like to do; for, I perceive,

Four feasts are toward.

Pompey

Let me shake thy hand;

I never hated thee: I have seen thee fight,

When I have envied thy behavior.

Domitius Enobarbus

Sir,

I never loved you much; but I ha’ praised ye,

When you have well deserved ten times as much

As I have said you did.

Pompey

Enjoy thy plainness,

It nothing ill becomes thee.

Aboard my galley I invite you all:

Will you lead, lords?

Octavius Caesar

Mark Antony

Lepidus

Show us the way, sir.

Pompey

Come.

Exeunt all but Menas and Enobarbus

Menas

[Aside] Thy father, Pompey, would ne’er have made this treaty.— You and I have known, sir.

Domitius Enobarbus

At sea, I think.

Menas

We have, sir.

Domitius Enobarbus

You have done well by water.

Menas

And you by land.

Domitius Enobarbus

I will praise any man that will praise me; though it cannot be denied what I have done by land.

Menas

Nor what I have done by water.

Domitius Enobarbus

Yes, something you can deny for your own safety: you have been a great thief by sea.

Menas

And you by land.

Domitius Enobarbus

There I deny my land service. But give me your hand, Menas: if our eyes had authority, here they might take two thieves kissing.

Menas

All men’s faces are true, whatsome’er their hands are.

Domitius Enobarbus

But there is never a fair woman has a true face.

Menas

No slander; they steal hearts.

Domitius Enobarbus

We came hither to fight with you.

Menas

For my part, I am sorry it is turned to a drinking.

Pompey doth this day laugh away his fortune.

Domitius Enobarbus

If he do, sure, he cannot weep’t back again.

Menas

You’ve said, sir. We looked not for Mark Antony here: pray you, is he married to Cleopatra?

Domitius Enobarbus

Caesar’s sister is called Octavia.

Menas

True, sir; she was the wife of Caius Marcellus.

Domitius Enobarbus

But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius.

Menas

Pray ye, sir?

Domitius Enobarbus

’Tis true.

Menas

Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together.

Domitius Enobarbus

If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not prophesy so.

Menas

I think the policy of that purpose made more in the marriage than the love of the parties.

Domitius Enobarbus

I think so too. But you shall find, the band that seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity: Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation.

Menas

Who would not have his wife so?

Domitius Enobarbus

Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony. He will to his Egyptian dish again: then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up in Caesar; and, as I said before, that which is the strength of their amity shall prove the immediate author of their variance. Antony will use his affection where it is: he married but his occasion here.

Menas

And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you aboard?

I have a health for you.

Domitius Enobarbus

I shall take it, sir: we have used our throats in Egypt.

Menas

Come, let’s away.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. ON BOARD POMPEY’S GALLEY, OFF MISENUM.

Music plays. Enter two or three Servants with a banquet

First Servant

Here they’ll be, man. Some o’ their plants are ill-rooted already: the least wind i’ the world will blow them down.

Second Servant

Lepidus is high-coloured.

First Servant

They have made him drink alms-drink.

Second Servant

As they pinch one another by the disposition, he cries out ‘No more;’ reconciles them to his entreaty, and himself to the drink.

First Servant

But it raises the greater war between him and his discretion.

Second Servant

Why, this is to have a name in great men’s fellowship: I had as lief have a reed that will do me no service as a partisan I could not heave.

First Servant

To be called into a huge sphere, and not to be seen to move in’t, are the holes where eyes should be, which pitifully disaster the cheeks.

A sennet sounded. Enter Octavius Caesar, Mark Antony, Lepidus, Pompey, Agrippa, Mecaenas, Domitius Enobarbus, Menas, with other captains

Mark Antony

[To Octavius Caesar] Thus do they, sir: they take the flow o’ the Nile

By certain scales i’ the pyramid; they know,

By the height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth

Or foison follow: the higher Nilus swells,

The more it promises: as it ebbs, the seedsman

Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain,

And shortly comes to harvest.

Lepidus

You’ve strange serpents there.

Mark Antony

Ay, Lepidus.

Lepidus

Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud by the operation of your sun: so is your crocodile.

Mark Antony

They are so.

Pompey

Sit,— and some wine! A health to Lepidus!

Lepidus

I am not so well as I should be, but I’ll ne’er out.

Domitius Enobarbus

Not till you have slept; I fear me you’ll be in till then.

Lepidus

Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies’ pyramises are very goodly things; without contradiction, I have heard that.

Menas

[Aside to Pompey] Pompey, a word.

Pompey

[Aside to Menas] Say in mine ear: what is’t?

Menas

[Aside to Pompey] Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee, captain,

And hear me speak a word.

Pompey

[Aside to Menas] Forbear me till anon.

This wine for Lepidus!

Lepidus

What manner o’ thing is your crocodile?

Mark Antony

It is shaped, sir, like itself; and it is as broad as it hath breadth: it is just so high as it is, and moves with its own organs: it lives by that which nourisheth it; and the elements once out of it, it transmigrates.

Lepidus

What colour is it of?

Mark Antony

Of it own colour too.

Lepidus

’Tis a strange serpent.

Mark Antony

’Tis so. And the tears of it are wet.

Octavius Caesar

Will this description satisfy him?

Mark Antony

With the health that Pompey gives him, else he is a very epicure.

Pompey

[Aside to Menas] Go hang, sir, hang! Tell me of that? away! Do as I bid you. Where’s this cup I call’d for?

Menas

[Aside to Pompey] If for the sake of merit thou wilt hear me, Rise from thy stool.

Pompey

[Aside to Menas] I think thou’rt mad.

The matter?

Rises, and walks aside

Menas

I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes.

Pompey

Thou hast served me with much faith. What’s else to say?

Be jolly, lords.

Mark Antony

These quick-sands, Lepidus,

Keep off them, for you sink.

Menas

Wilt thou be lord of all the world?

Pompey

What say’st thou?

Menas

Wilt thou be lord of the whole world? That’s twice.

Pompey

How should that be?

Menas

But entertain it,

And, though thou think me poor, I am the man

Will give thee all the world.

Pompey

Hast thou drunk well?

Menas

Now, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup.

Thou art, if thou darest be, the earthly Jove:

Whate’er the ocean pales, or sky inclips,

Is thine, if thou wilt ha’t.

Pompey

Show me which way.

Menas

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.

Pompey

Ah, this thou shouldst have done,

And not have spoke on’t! In me ’tis villany;

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,

I should have found it afterwards well done;

But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.

Menas

[Aside] For this,

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.

Pompey

This health to Lepidus!

Mark Antony

Bear him ashore. I’ll pledge it for him, Pompey.

Domitius Enobarbus

Here’s to thee, Menas!

Menas

Enobarbus, welcome!

Pompey

Fill till the cup be hid.

Domitius Enobarbus

There’s a strong fellow, Menas.

Pointing to the Attendant who carries off Lepidus

Menas

Why?

Domitius Enobarbus

A’ bears the third part of the world, man; see’st not?

Menas

The third part, then, is drunk: would it were all,

That it might go on wheels!

Domitius Enobarbus

Drink thou; increase the reels.

Menas

Come.

Pompey

This is not yet an Alexandrian feast.

Mark Antony

It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho?

Here is to Caesar!

Octavius Caesar

I could well forbear’t.

It’s monstrous labour, when I wash my brain,

And it grows fouler.

Mark Antony

Be a child o’ the time.

Octavius Caesar

Possess it, I’ll make answer:

But I had rather fast from all four days

Than drink so much in one.

Domitius Enobarbus

Ha, my brave emperor!

To Mark Antony

Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals,

And celebrate our drink?

Pompey

Let’s ha’t, good soldier.

Mark Antony

Come, let’s all take hands,

Till that the conquering wine hath steep’d our sense

In soft and delicate Lethe.

Domitius Enobarbus

All take hands.

Make battery to our ears with the loud music:

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. Domitius Enobarbus places them hand in hand

The Song.

Come, thou monarch of the vine,

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,

Cup us, till the world go round!

Octavius Caesar

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

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.

Good Antony, your hand.

Pompey

I’ll try you on the shore.

Mark Antony

And shall, sir; give’s your hand.

Pompey

O Antony,

You have my father’s house,— But, what? we are friends.

Come, down into the boat.

Domitius Enobarbus

Take heed you fall not.

Exeunt all but Domitius Enobarbus and Menas

Menas, I’ll not on shore.

Menas

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!

Sound a flourish, with drums

Domitius Enobarbus

Ho! says a’ There’s my cap.

Menas

Ho! Noble captain, come.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. A PLAIN IN SYRIA.

Enter Ventidius as it were in triumph, with Silius, and other Romans, Officers, and Soldiers; the dead body of Pacorus borne before him

Ventidius

Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck; and now

Pleased fortune does of Marcus Crassus’ death

Make me revenger. Bear the king’s son’s body

Before our army. Thy Pacorus, Orodes,

Pays this for Marcus Crassus.

Silius

Noble Ventidius,

Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm,

The fugitive Parthians follow; spur through Media,

Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither

The routed fly: so thy grand captain Antony

Shall set thee on triumphant chariots and

Put garlands on thy head.

Ventidius

O Silius, Silius,

I have done enough; a lower place, note well,

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.

Caesar and Antony have ever won

More in their officer than person: Sossius,

One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant,

For quick accumulation of renown,

Which he achieved by the minute, lost his favour.

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.

I could do more to do Antonius good,

But ’twould offend him; and in his offence

Should my performance perish.

Silius

Thou hast, Ventidius, that

Without the which a soldier, and his sword,

Grants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to Antony!

Ventidius

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

We have jaded out o’ the field.

Silius

Where is he now?

Ventidius

He purposeth to Athens: whither, with what haste

The weight we must convey with’s will permit,

We shall appear before him. On there; pass along!

Exeunt

SCENE II. ROME. AN ANTE-CHAMBER IN OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S HOUSE.

Enter Agrippa at one door, Domitius Enobarbus at another

Agrippa

What, are the brothers parted?

Domitius Enobarbus

They have dispatch’d with Pompey, he is gone;

The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps

To part from Rome; Caesar is sad; and Lepidus,

Since Pompey’s feast, as Menas says, is troubled

With the green sickness.

Agrippa

’Tis a noble Lepidus.

Domitius Enobarbus

A very fine one: O, how he loves Caesar!

Agrippa

Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony!

Domitius Enobarbus

Caesar? Why, he’s the Jupiter of men.

Agrippa

What’s Antony? The god of Jupiter.

Domitius Enobarbus

Spake you of Caesar? How! the non-pareil!

Agrippa

O Antony! O thou Arabian bird!

Domitius Enobarbus

Would you praise Caesar, say ‘Caesar:’ go no further.

Agrippa

Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.

Domitius Enobarbus

But he loves Caesar best; yet he loves Antony:

Ho! hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot

Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number, ho!

His love to Antony. But as for Caesar,

Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder.

Agrippa

Both he loves.

Domitius Enobarbus

They are his shards, and he their beetle.

Trumpets within

So;

This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa.

Agrippa

Good fortune, worthy soldier; and farewell.

Enter Octavius Caesar, Mark Antony, Lepidus, and Octavia

Mark Antony

No further, sir.

Octavius Caesar

You take from me a great part of myself;

Use me well in ’t. Sister, prove such a wife

As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest band

Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony,

Let not the piece of virtue, which is set

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 loved without this mean, if on both parts

This be not cherish’d.

Mark Antony

Make me not offended

In your distrust.

Octavius Caesar

I have said.

Mark Antony

You shall not find,

Though you be therein curious, the least cause

For what you seem to fear: so, the gods keep you,

And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends!

We will here part.

Octavius Caesar

Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well:

The elements be kind to thee, and make

Thy spirits all of comfort! fare thee well.

Octavia

My noble brother!

Mark Antony

The April ’s in her eyes: it is love’s spring,

And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful.

Octavia

Sir, look well to my husband’s house; and —

Octavius Caesar

What, Octavia?

Octavia

I’ll tell you in your ear.

Mark Antony

Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can

Her heart inform her tongue,— the swan’s down-feather,

That stands upon the swell at full of tide,

And neither way inclines.

Domitius Enobarbus

[Aside to Agrippa] Will Caesar weep?

Agrippa

[Aside to Domitius Enobarbus] He has a cloud in ’s face.

Domitius Enobarbus

[Aside to Agrippa] He were the worse for that, were he a horse; So is he, being a man.

Agrippa

[Aside to Domitius Enobarbus] Why, Enobarbus,

When Antony found Julius Caesar dead,

He cried almost to roaring; and he wept

When at Philippi he found Brutus slain.

Domitius Enobarbus

[Aside to Agrippa] That year, indeed, he was troubled with a rheum;

What willingly he did confound he wail’d,

Believe’t, till I wept too.

Octavius Caesar

No, sweet Octavia,

You shall hear from me still; the time shall not

Out-go my thinking on you.

Mark Antony

Come, sir, come;

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.

Octavius Caesar

Adieu; be happy!

Lepidus

Let all the number of the stars give light

To thy fair way!

Octavius Caesar

Farewell, fa rewell!

Kisses Octavia

Mark Antony

Farewell!

Trumpets sound. Exeunt

SCENE III. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Alexas

Cleopatra

Where is the fellow?

Alexas

Half afeard to come.

Cleopatra

Go to, go to.

Enter the Messenger as before

Come hither, sir.

Alexas

Good majesty,

Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you

But when you are well pleased.

Cleopatra

That Herod’s head

I’ll have: but how, when Antony is gone

Through whom I might command it? Come thou near.

Messenger

Most gracious majesty,—

Cleopatra

Didst thou behold Octavia?

Messenger

Ay, dread queen.

Cleopatra

Where?

Messenger

Madam, in Rome;

I look’d her in the face, and saw her led

Between her brother and Mark Antony.

Cleopatra

Is she as tall as me?

Messenger

She is not, madam.

Cleopatra

Didst hear her speak? is she shrill-tongued or low?

Messenger

Madam, I heard her speak; she is low-voiced.

Cleopatra

That’s not so good: he cannot like her long.

Charmian

Like her! O Isis! ’tis impossible.

Cleopatra

I think so, Charmian: dull of tongue, and dwarfish!

What majesty is in her gait? Remember,

If e’er thou look’dst on majesty.

Messenger

She creeps:

Her motion and her station are as one;

She shows a body rather than a life,

A statue than a breather.

Cleopatra

Is this certain?

Messenger

Or I have no observance.

Charmian

Three in Egypt

Cannot make better note.

Cleopatra

He’s very knowing;

I do perceive’t: there’s nothing in her yet:

The fellow has good judgment.

Charmian

Excellent.

Cleopatra

Guess at her years, I prithee.

Messenger

Madam,

She was a widow,—

Cleopatra

Widow! Charmian, hark.

Messenger

And I do think she’s thirty.

Cleopatra

Bear’st thou her face in mind? is’t long or round?

Messenger

Round even to faultiness.

Cleopatra

For the most part, too, they are foolish that are so.

Her hair, what colour?

Messenger

Brown, madam: and her forehead

As low as she would wish it.

Cleopatra

There’s gold for thee.

Thou must not take my former sharpness ill:

I will employ thee back again; I find thee

Most fit for business: go make thee ready;

Our letters are prepared.

Exit Messenger

Charmian

A proper man.

Cleopatra

Indeed, he is so: I repent me much

That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him,

This creature’s no such thing.

Charmian

Nothing, madam.

Cleopatra

The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.

Charmian

Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend,

And serving you so long!

Cleopatra

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.

Charmian

I warrant you, madam.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. ATHENS. A ROOM IN MARK ANTONY’S HOUSE.

Enter Mark Antony and Octavia

Mark Antony

Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that,—

That were excusable, that, and thousands more

Of semblable import,— but he hath waged

New wars ’gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it

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:

When the best hint was given him, he not took’t,

Or did it from his teeth.

Octavia

O my good lord,

Believe not all; or, if you must believe,

Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady,

If this division chance, ne’er stood between,

Praying for both parts:

The good gods me presently,

When I shall pray, ‘O bless my lord and husband!’

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.

Mark Antony

Gentle Octavia,

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,

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.

Octavia

Thanks to my lord.

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.

Mark Antony

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;

Choose your own company, and command what cost

Your heart has mind to.

Exeunt

SCENE V. THE SAME. ANOTHER ROOM.

Enter Domitius Enobarbus and Eros, meeting

Domitius Enobarbus

How now, friend Eros!

Eros

There’s strange news come, sir.

Domitius Enobarbus

What, man?

Eros

Caesar and Lepidus have made wars upon Pompey.

Domitius Enobarbus

This is old: what is the success?

Eros

Caesar, having made use of him in the wars ’gainst Pompey, presently denied him rivality; would not let him partake in the glory of the action: and not resting here, accuses him of letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey; upon his own appeal, seizes him: so the poor third is up, till death enlarge his confine.

Domitius Enobarbus

Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps, no more;

And throw between them all the food thou hast,

They’ll grind the one the other. Where’s Antony?

Eros

He’s walking in the garden — thus; and spurns

The rush that lies before him; cries, ‘Fool Lepidus!’

And threats the throat of that his officer

That murder’d Pompey.

Domitius Enobarbus

Our great navy’s rigg’d.

Eros

For Italy and Caesar. More, Domitius;

My lord desires you presently: my news

I might have told hereafter.

Domitius Enobarbus

’Twill be naught:

But let it be. Bring me to Antony.

Eros

Come, sir.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. ROME. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S HOUSE.

Enter Octavius Caesar, Agrippa, and Mecaenas

Octavius Caesar

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

Were publicly enthroned: at the feet sat

Caesarion, 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

Of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia,

Absolute queen.

Mecaenas

This in the public eye?

Octavius Caesar

I’ the common show-place, where they exercise.

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 Phoenicia: she

In the habiliments of the goddess Isis

That day appear’d; and oft before gave audience,

As ’tis reported, so.

Mecaenas

Let Rome be thus Inform’d.

Agrippa

Who, queasy with his insolence

Already, will their good thoughts call from him.

Octavius Caesar

The people know it; and have now received

His accusations.

Agrippa

Who does he accuse?

Octavius Caesar

Caesar: and that, having in Sicily

Sextus Pompeius spoil’d, we had not rated him

His part o’ the isle: then does he say, he lent me

Some shipping unrestored: lastly, he frets

That Lepidus of the triumvirate

Should be deposed; and, being, that we detain

All his revenue.

Agrippa

Sir, this should be answer’d.

Octavius Caesar

’Tis done already, and the messenger gone.

I have told him, Lepidus was grown too cruel;

That he his high authority abused,

And did deserve his change: for what I have conquer’d,

I grant him part; but then, in his Armenia,

And other of his conquer’d kingdoms, I

Demand the like.

Mecaenas

He’ll never yield to that.

Octavius Caesar

Nor must not then be yielded to in this.

Enter Octavia with her train

Octavia

Hail, Caesar, and my lord! hail, most dear Caesar!

Octavius Caesar

That ever I should call thee castaway!

Octavia

You have not call’d me so, nor have you cause.

Octavius Caesar

Why have you stol’n upon us thus! You come not

Like Caesar’s sister: the wife of Antony

Should have an army for an usher, and

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

Should have ascended to the roof of heaven,

Raised by your populous troops: but you are come

A market-maid to Rome; and have prevented

The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown,

Is often left unloved; we should have met you

By sea and land; supplying every stage

With an augmented greeting.

Octavia

Good my lord,

To come thus was I not constrain’d, but did

On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony,

Hearing that you prepared for war, acquainted

My grieved ear withal; whereon, I begg’d

His pardon for return.

Octavius Caesar

Which soon he granted,

Being an obstruct ’tween his lust and him.

Octavia

Do not say so, my lord.

Octavius Caesar

I have eyes upon him,

And his affairs come to me on the wind.

Where is he now?

Octavia

My lord, in Athens.

Octavius Caesar

No, my most wronged 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

Bocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus,

Of Cappadocia; Philadelphos, king

Of Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas;

King Malchus of Arabia; King of Pont;

Herod of Jewry; Mithridates, king

Of Comagene; Polemon and Amyntas,

The kings of Mede and Lycaonia,

With a more larger list of sceptres.

Octavia

Ay me, most wretched,

That have my heart parted betwixt two friends

That do afflict each other!

Octavius Caesar

Welcome hither:

Your letters did withhold our breaking forth;

Till we perceived, both how you were wrong led,

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 determined things to destiny

Hold unbewail’d their way. Welcome to Rome;

Nothing more dear to me. You are abused

Beyond the mark of thought: and the high gods,

To do you justice, make them ministers

Of us and those that love you. Best of comfort;

And ever welcome to us.

Agrippa

Welcome, lady.

Mecaenas

Welcome, dear madam.

Each heart in Rome does love and pity you:

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.

Octavia

Is it so, sir?

Octavius Caesar

Most certain. Sister, welcome: pray you,

Be ever known to patience: my dear’st sister!

Exeunt

SCENE VII. NEAR ACTIUM. MARK ANTONY’S CAMP.

Enter Cleopatra and Domitius Enobarbus

Cleopatra

I will be even with thee, doubt it not.

Domitius Enobarbus

But why, why, why?

Cleopatra

Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars,

And say’st it is not fit.

Domitius Enobarbus

Well, is it, is it?

Cleopatra

If not denounced against us, why should not we

Be there in person?

Domitius Enobarbus

[Aside] Well, I could reply:

If we should serve with horse and mares together,

The horse were merely lost; the mares would bear

A soldier and his horse.

Cleopatra

What is’t you say?

Domitius Enobarbus

Your presence needs must puzzle Antony;

Take from his heart, take from his brain, from’s time,

What should not then be spared. He is already

Traduced for levity; and ’tis said in Rome

That Photinus an eunuch and your maids

Manage this war.

Cleopatra

Sink Rome, and their tongues rot

That speak against us! A charge we bear i’ the war,

And, as the president of my kingdom, will

Appear there for a man. Speak not against it:

I will not stay behind.

Domitius Enobarbus

Nay, I have done.

Here comes the emperor.

Enter Mark Antony and Canidius

Mark Antony

Is it not strange, Canidius,

That from Tarentum and Brundusium

He could so quickly cut the Ionian sea,

And take in Toryne? You have heard on’t, sweet?

Cleopatra

Celerity is never more admired

Than by the negligent.

Mark Antony

A good rebuke,

Which might have well becomed the best of men,

To taunt at slackness. Canidius, we

Will fight with him by sea.

Cleopatra

By sea! what else?

Canidius

Why will my lord do so?

Mark Antony

For that he dares us to’t.

Domitius Enobarbus

So hath my lord dared him to single fight.

Canidius

Ay, and to wage this battle at Pharsalia.

Where Caesar fought with Pompey: but these offers,

Which serve not for his vantage, be shakes off;

And so should you.

Domitius Enobarbus

Your ships are not well mann’d;

Your mariners are muleters, reapers, people

Ingross’d by swift impress; in Caesar’s fleet

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 prepared for land.

Mark Antony

By sea, by sea.

Domitius Enobarbus

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

Your own renowned knowledge; quite forego

The way which promises assurance; and

Give up yourself merely to chance and hazard,

From firm security.

Mark Antony

I’ll fight at sea.

Cleopatra

I have sixty sails, Caesar none better.

Mark Antony

Our overplus of shipping will we burn;

And, with the rest full-mann’d, from the head of Actium

Beat the approaching Caesar. But if we fail,

We then can do’t at land.

Enter a Messenger

Thy business?

Messenger

The news is true, my lord; he is descried;

Caesar has taken Toryne.

Mark Antony

Can he be there in person? ’tis impossible;

Strange that 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?

Soldier

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 Phoenicians go a-ducking; we

Have used to conquer, standing on the earth,

And fighting foot to foot.

Mark Antony

Well, well: away!

Exeunt Mark Antony, Queen Cleopatra, and Domitius Enobarbus

Soldier

By Hercules, I think I am i’ the right.

Canidius

Soldier, thou art: but his whole action grows

Not in the power on’t: so our leader’s led,

And we are women’s men.

Soldier

You keep by land

The legions and the horse whole, do you not?

Canidius

Marcus Octavius, Marcus Justeius,

Publicola, and Caelius, are for sea:

But we keep whole by land. This speed of Caesar’s

Carries beyond belief.

Soldier

While he was yet in Rome,

His power went out in such distractions as

Beguiled all spies.

Canidius

Who’s his lieutenant, hear you?

Soldier

They say, one Taurus.

Canidius

Well I know the man.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

The emperor calls Canidius.

Canidius

With news the time’s with labour, and throes forth,

Each minute, some.

Exeunt

SCENE VIII. A PLAIN NEAR ACTIUM.

Enter Octavius Caesar, and Taurus, with his army, marching

Octavius Caesar

Taurus!

Taurus

My lord?

Octavius Caesar

Strike not by land; keep whole: provoke not battle,

Till we have done at sea. Do not exceed

The prescript of this scroll: our fortune lies

Upon this jump.

Exeunt

SCENE IX. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAIN.

Enter Mark Antony and Domitius Enobarbus

Mark Antony

Set we our squadrons on yond side o’ the hill,

In eye of Caesar’s battle; from which place

We may the number of the ships behold,

And so proceed accordingly.

Exeunt

SCENE X. ANOTHER PART OF THE PLAIN.

Canidius marcheth with his land army one way over the stage; and Taurus, the lieutenant of Octavius Caesar, the other way. After their going in, is heard the noise of a sea-fight

Alarum. Enter Domitius Enobarbus

Domitius Enobarbus

Naught, naught all, naught! I can behold no longer:

The Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral,

With all their sixty, fly and turn the rudder:

To see’t mine eyes are blasted.

Enter Scarus

Scarus

Gods and goddesses,

All the whole synod of them!

Domitius Enobarbus

What’s thy passion!

Scarus

The greater cantle of the world is lost

With very ignorance; we have kiss’d away

Kingdoms and provinces.

Domitius Enobarbus

How appears the fight?

Scarus

On our side like the token’d pestilence,

Where death is sure. Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt,—

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,

Hoists sails and flies.

Domitius Enobarbus

That I beheld:

Mine eyes did sicken at the sight, and could not

Endure a further view.

Scarus

She once being loof’d,

The noble ruin of her magic, Antony,

Claps on 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

Did violate so itself.

Domitius Enobarbus

Alack, alack!

Enter Canidius

Canidius

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:

O, he has given example for our flight,

Most grossly, by his own!

Domitius Enobarbus

Ay, are you thereabouts?

Why, then, good night indeed.

Canidius

Toward Peloponnesus are they fled.

Scarus

’Tis easy to’t; and there I will attend

What further comes.

Canidius

To Caesar will I render

My legions and my horse: six kings already

Show me the way of yielding.

Domitius Enobarbus

I’ll yet follow

The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason

Sits in the wind against me.

Exeunt

SCENE XI. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

Enter Mark Antony with Attendants

Mark Antony

Hark! the land bids me tread no more upon’t;

It is ashamed 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

Laden with gold; take that, divide it; fly,

And make your peace with Caesar.

All

Fly! not we.

Mark Antony

I have fled myself; and have instructed cowards

To run and show their shoulders. Friends, be gone;

I have myself resolved 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:

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

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.

Leave me, I pray, a little: pray you now:

Nay, do so; for, indeed, I have lost command,

Therefore I pray you: I’ll see you by and by.

Sits down

Enter Cleopatra led by Charmian and Iras; Eros following

Eros

Nay, gentle madam, to him, comfort him.

Iras

Do, most dear queen.

Charmian

Do! why: what else?

Cleopatra

Let me sit down. O Juno!

Mark Antony

No, no, no, no, no.

Eros

See you here, sir?

Mark Antony

O fie, fie, fie!

Charmian

Madam!

Iras

Madam, O good empress!

Eros

Sir, sir,—

Mark Antony

Yes, my lord, yes; he at Philippi kept

His sword e’en like a dancer; while I struck

The lean and wrinkled Cassius; and ’twas I

That the mad Brutus ended: he alone

Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practise had

In the brave squares of war: yet now — No matter.

Cleopatra

Ah, stand by.

Eros

The queen, my lord, the queen.

Iras

Go to him, madam, speak to him:

He is unqualitied with very shame.

Cleopatra

Well then, sustain him: O!

Eros

Most noble sir, arise; the queen approaches:

Her head’s declined, and death will seize her, but

Your comfort makes the rescue.

Mark Antony

I have offended reputation,

A most unnoble swerving.

Eros

Sir, the queen.

Mark Antony

O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See,

How I convey my shame out of thine eyes

By looking back what I have left behind

’stroy’d in dishonour.

Cleopatra

O my lord, my lord,

Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought

You would have follow’d.

Mark Antony

Egypt, thou knew’st too well

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

Command me.

Cleopatra

O, my pardon!

Mark Antony

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 pleased,

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.

Cleopatra

Pardon, pardon!

Mark Antony

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.

Some wine, within there, and our viands! Fortune knows

We scorn her most when most she offers blows.

Exeunt

SCENE XII. EGYPT. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S CAMP.

Enter Octavius Caesar, Dolabella, Thyreus, with others

Octavius Caesar

Let him appear that’s come from Antony.

Know you him?

Dolabella

Caesar, ’tis his schoolmaster:

An argument that he is pluck’d, when hither

He sends so poor a pinion off his wing,

Which had superfluous kings for messengers

Not many moons gone by.

Enter Euphronius, ambassador from Mark Antony

Octavius Caesar

Approach, and speak.

Euphronius

Such as I am, I come from Antony:

I was of late as petty to his ends

As is the morn-dew on the myrtle-leaf

To his grand sea.

Octavius Caesar

Be’t so: declare thine office.

Euphronius

Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and

Requires to live in Egypt: which not granted,

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;

Submits her to thy might; and of thee craves

The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs,

Now hazarded to thy grace.

Octavius Caesar

For Antony,

I have no ears to his request. The queen

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.

Euphronius

Fortune pursue thee!

Octavius Caesar

Bring him through the bands.

Exit Euphronius

To Thyreus

From Antony win Cleopatra: promise,

And in our name, what she requires; add more,

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

Will answer as a law.

Thyreus

Caesar, I go.

Octavius Caesar

Observe how Antony becomes his flaw,

And what thou think’st his very action speaks

In every power that moves.

Thyreus

Caesar, I shall.

Exeunt

SCENE XIII. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

Enter Cleopatra, Domitius Enobarbus, Charmian, and Iras

Cleopatra

What shall we do, Enobarbus?

Domitius Enobarbus

Think, and die.

Cleopatra

Is Antony or we in fault for this?

Domitius Enobarbus

Antony only, that would make his will

Lord of his reason. What though you fled

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,

When half to half the world opposed, he being

The meered question: ’twas a shame no less

Than was his loss, to course your flying flags,

And leave his navy gazing.

Cleopatra

Prithee, peace.

Enter Mark Antony with Euphronius, the Ambassador

Mark Antony

Is that his answer?

Euphronius

Ay, my lord.

Mark Antony

The queen shall then have courtesy, so she

Will yield us up.

Euphronius

He says so.

Mark Antony

Let her know’t.

To the boy Caesar send this grizzled head,

And he will fill thy wishes to the brim

With principalities.

Cleopatra

That head, my lord?

Mark Antony

To him again: tell him he wears the rose

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

As i’ the command of Caesar: I dare him therefore

To lay his gay comparisons apart,

And answer me declined, sword against sword,

Ourselves alone. I’ll write it: follow me.

Exeunt Mark Antony and Euphronius

Domitius Enobarbus

[Aside] Yes, like enough, high-battled Caesar will

Unstate his happiness, and be staged 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,

To suffer all alike. That he should dream,

Knowing all measures, the full Caesar will

Answer his emptiness! Caesar, thou hast subdued

His judgment too.

Enter an Attendant

Attendant

A messenger from Caesar.

Cleopatra

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.

Exit Attendant

Domitius Enobarbus

[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

Does conquer him that did his master conquer

And earns a place i’ the story.

Enter Thyreus

Cleopatra

Caesar’s will?

Thyreus

Hear it apart.

Cleopatra

None but friends: say boldly.

Thyreus

So, haply, are they friends to Antony.

Domitius Enobarbus

He needs as many, sir, as Caesar has;

Or needs not us. If Caesar please, our master

Will leap to be his friend: for us, you know,

Whose he is we are, and that is, Caesar’s.

Thyreus

So.

Thus then, thou most renown’d: Caesar entreats,

Not to consider in what case thou stand’st,

Further than he is Caesar.

Cleopatra

Go on: right royal.

Thyreus

He knows that you embrace not Antony

As you did love, but as you fear’d him.

Cleopatra

O!

Thyreus

The scars upon your honour, therefore, he

Does pity, as constrained blemishes,

Not as deserved.

Cleopatra

He is a god, and knows

What is most right: mine honour was not yielded,

But conquer’d merely.

Domitius Enobarbus

[Aside] To be sure of that,

I will ask Antony. Sir, sir, thou art so leaky,

That we must leave thee to thy sinking, for

Thy dearest quit thee.

Exit

Thyreus

Shall I say to Caesar

What you require of him? for he partly begs

To be desired to give. It much would please him,

That of his fortunes you should make a staff

To lean upon: but it would warm his spirits,

To hear from me you had left Antony,

And put yourself under his shrowd,

The universal landlord.

Cleopatra

What’s your name?

Thyreus

My name is Thyreus.

Cleopatra

Most kind messenger,

Say to great Caesar this: in deputation

I kiss his conquering hand: tell him, I am prompt

To lay my crown at ’s feet, and there to kneel:

Tell him from his all-obeying breath I hear

The doom of Egypt.

Thyreus

’Tis your noblest course.

Wisdom and fortune combating together,

If that the former dare but what it can,

No chance may shake it. Give me grace to lay

My duty on your hand.

Cleopatra

Your Caesar’s father oft,

When he hath mused of taking kingdoms in,

Bestow’d his lips on that unworthy place,

As it rain’d kisses.

Re-enter Mark Antony and Domitius Enobarbus

Mark Antony

Favours, by Jove that thunders!

What art thou, fellow?

Thyreus

One that but performs

The bidding of the fullest man, and worthiest

To have command obey’d.

Domitius Enobarbus

[Aside] You will be whipp’d.

Mark Antony

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.

Domitius Enobarbus

[Aside] ’Tis better playing with a lion’s whelp

Than with an old one dying.

Mark Antony

Moon and stars!

Whip him. Were’t twenty of the greatest tributaries

That do acknowledge Caesar, 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,

And whine aloud for mercy: take him hence.

Thyreus

Mark Antony!

Mark Antony

Tug him away: being whipp’d,

Bring him again: this Jack of Caesar’s shall

Bear us an errand to him.

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 abused

By one that looks on feeders?

Cleopatra

Good my lord,—

Mark Antony

You have been a boggler ever:

But when we in our viciousness grow hard —

O misery on’t!— the wise gods seel our eyes;

In our own filth drop our clear judgments; make us

Adore our errors; laugh at’s, while we strut

To our confusion.

Cleopatra

O, is’t come to this?

Mark Antony

I found you as a morsel cold upon

Dead Caesar’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,

Though you can guess what temperance should be,

You know not what it is.

Cleopatra

Wherefore is this?

Mark Antony

To let a fellow that will take rewards

And say ‘God quit you!’ be familiar with

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;

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 Attendant

Soundly, my lord.

Mark Antony

Cried he? and begg’d a’ pardon?

First Attendant

He did ask favour.

Mark Antony

If that thy father live, let him repent

Thou wast not made his daughter; and be thou sorry

To follow Caesar in his triumph, since

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 Caesar,

Tell him thy entertainment: look, thou say

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,

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

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, begone!

Exit Thyreus

Cleopatra

Have you done yet?

Mark Antony

Alack, our terrene moon

Is now eclipsed; and it portends alone

The fall of Antony!

Cleopatra

I must stay his time.

Mark Antony

To flatter Caesar, would you mingle eyes

With one that ties his points?

Cleopatra

Not know me yet?

Mark Antony

Cold-hearted toward me?

Cleopatra

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

Dissolve my life! The next Caesarion smite!

Till by degrees the memory of my womb,

Together with my brave Egyptians all,

By the discandying of this pelleted storm,

Lie graveless, till the flies and gnats of Nile

Have buried them for prey!

Mark Antony

I am satisfied.

Caesar sits down in Alexandria; where

I will oppose his fate. Our force by land

Hath nobly held; our sever’d navy too

Have knit again, and fleet, threatening most sea-like.

Where hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, lady?

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.

Cleopatra

That’s my brave lord!

Mark Antony

I will be treble-sinew’d, hearted, breathed,

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,

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.

Cleopatra

It is my birth-day:

I had thought to have held it poor: but, since my lord

Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.

Mark Antony

We will yet do well.

Cleopatra

Call all his noble captains to my lord.

Mark Antony

Do so, we’ll speak to them; and to-night I’ll force

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

Even with his pestilent scythe.

Exeunt all but Domitius Enobarbus

Domitius Enobarbus

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,

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. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S CAMP.

Enter Octavius Caesar, Agrippa, and Mecaenas, with his Army; Octavius Caesar reading a letter

Octavius Caesar

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,

Caesar to Antony: let the old ruffian know

I have many other ways to die; meantime

Laugh at his challenge.

Mecaenas

Caesar must think,

When one so great begins to rage, he’s hunted

Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now

Make boot of his distraction: never anger

Made good guard for itself.

Octavius Caesar

Let our best heads

Know, that to-morrow the last of many battles

We mean to fight: within our files there are,

Of those that served 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. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

Enter Mark Antony, Cleopatra, Domitius Enobarbus, Charmian, Iras, Alexas, with others

Mark Antony

He will not fight with me, Domitius.

Domitius Enobarbus

No.

Mark Antony

Why should he not?

Domitius Enobarbus

He thinks, being twenty times of better fortune,

He is twenty men to one.

Mark Antony

To-morrow, soldier,

By sea and land I’ll fight: or I will live,

Or bathe my dying honour in the blood

Shall make it live again. Woo’t thou fight well?

Domitius Enobarbus

I’ll strike, and cry ‘Take all.’

Mark Antony

Well said; come on.

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 served me well,

And kings have been your fellows.

Cleopatra

[Aside to Domitius Enobarbus] What means this?

Domitius Enobarbus

[Aside to Cleopatra] ’Tis one of those odd tricks which sorrow shoots Out of the mind.

Mark Antony

And thou art honest too.

I wish I could be made so many men,

And all of you clapp’d up together in

An Antony, that I might do you service

So good as you have done.

All

The gods forbid!

Mark Antony

Well, my good fellows, wait on me to-night:

Scant not my cups; and make as much of me

As when mine empire was your fellow too,

And suffer’d my command.

Cleopatra

[Aside to Domitius Enobarbus] What does he mean?

Domitius Enobarbus

[Aside to Cleopatra] To make his followers weep.

Mark Antony

Tend me to-night;

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

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,

And the gods yield you for’t!

Domitius Enobarbus

What mean you, sir,

To give them this discomfort? Look, they weep;

And I, an ass, am onion-eyed: for shame,

Transform us not to women.

Mark Antony

Ho, ho, ho!

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

To burn this night with torches: know, my hearts,

I hope well of to-morrow; and will lead you

Where rather I’ll expect victorious life

Than death and honour. Let’s to supper, come,

And drown consideration.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE SAME. BEFORE THE PALACE.

Enter two Soldiers to their guard

First Soldier

Brother, good night: to-morrow is the day.

Second Soldier

It will determine one way: fare you well.

Heard you of nothing strange about the streets?

First Soldier

Nothing. What news?

Second Soldier

Belike ’tis but a rumour. Good night to you.

First Soldier

Well, sir, good night.

Enter two other Soldiers

Second Soldier

Soldiers, have careful watch.

Third Soldier

And you. Good night, good night.

They place themselves in every corner of the stage

Fourth Soldier

Here we: and if to-morrow

Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope

Our landmen will stand up.

Third Soldier

’Tis a brave army,

And full of purpose.

Music of the hautboys as under the stage

Fourth Soldier

Peace! what noise?

First Soldier

List, list!

Second Soldier

Hark!

First Soldier

Music i’ the air.

Third Soldier

Under the earth.

Fourth Soldier

It signs well, does it not?

Third Soldier

No.

First Soldier

Peace, I say!

What should this mean?

Second Soldier

’Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony loved,

Now leaves him.

First Soldier

Walk; let’s see if other watchmen

Do hear what we do?

They advance to another post

Second Soldier

How now, masters!

All

[Speaking together] How now!

How now! do you hear this?

First Soldier

Ay; is’t not strange?

Third Soldier

Do you hear, masters? do you hear?

First Soldier

Follow the noise so far as we have quarter;

Let’s see how it will give off.

All

Content. ’Tis strange.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. THE SAME. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

Enter Mark Antony and Cleopatra, Charmian, and others attending

Mark Antony

Eros! mine armour, Eros!

Cleopatra

Sleep a little.

Mark Antony

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

Because we brave her: come.

Cleopatra

Nay, I’ll help too.

What’s this for?

Mark Antony

Ah, let be, let be! thou art

The armourer of my heart: false, false; this, this.

Cleopatra

Sooth, la, I’ll help: thus it must be.

Mark Antony

Well, well;

We shall thrive now. Seest thou, my good fellow?

Go put on thy defences.

Eros

Briefly, sir.

Cleopatra

Is not this buckled well?

Mark Antony

Rarely, rarely:

He that unbuckles this, till we do please

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

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 warlike charge:

To business that we love we rise betime,

And go to’t with delight.

Soldier

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

Captain

The morn is fair. Good morrow, general.

All

Good morrow, general.

Mark Antony

’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.

Fare thee well, dame, whate’er becomes of me:

This is a soldier’s kiss: rebukeable

Kisses her

And worthy shameful cheque it were, to stand

On more mechanic compliment; I’ll leave thee

Now, like a man of steel. You that will fight,

Follow me close; I’ll bring you to’t. Adieu.

Exeunt Mark Antony, Eros, Captains, and Soldiers

Charmian

Please you, retire to your chamber.

Cleopatra

Lead me.

He goes forth gallantly. That he and Caesar might

Determine this great war in single fight!

Then Antony,— but now — Well, on.

Exeunt

SCENE V. ALEXANDRIA. MARK ANTONY’S CAMP.

Trumpets sound. Enter Mark Antony and Eros; a Soldier meeting them

Soldier

The gods make this a happy day to Antony!

Mark Antony

Would thou and those thy scars had once prevail’d

To make me fight at land!

Soldier

Hadst thou done so,

The kings that have revolted, and the soldier

That has this morning left thee, would have still

Follow’d thy heels.

Mark Antony

Who’s gone this morning?

Soldier

Who!

One ever near thee: call for Enobarbus,

He shall not hear thee; or from Caesar’s camp

Say ‘I am none of thine.’

Mark Antony

What say’st thou?

Soldier

Sir,

He is with Caesar.

Eros

Sir, his chests and treasure

He has not with him.

Mark Antony

Is he gone?

Soldier

Most certain.

Mark Antony

Go, Eros, send his treasure after; do it;

Detain no jot, I charge thee: write to him —

I will subscribe — gentle adieus and greetings;

Say that I wish he never find more cause

To change a master. O, my fortunes have

Corrupted honest men! Dispatch.— Enobarbus!

Exeunt

SCENE VI. ALEXANDRIA. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S CAMP.

Flourish. Enter Octavius Caesar, Agrippa, with Domitius Enobarbus, and others

Octavius Caesar

Go forth, Agrippa, and begin the fight:

Our will is Antony be took alive;

Make it so known.

Agrippa

Caesar, I shall.

Exit

Octavius Caesar

The time of universal peace is near:

Prove this a prosperous day, the three-nook’d world

Shall bear the olive freely.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

Antony

Is come into the field.

Octavius Caesar

Go charge Agrippa

Plant those that have revolted in the van,

That Antony may seem to spend his fury

Upon himself.

Exeunt all but Domitius Enobarbus

Domitius Enobarbus

Alexas did revolt; and went to Jewry on

Affairs of Antony; there did persuade

Great Herod to incline himself to Caesar,

And leave his master Antony: for this pains

Caesar hath hang’d him. Canidius and the rest

That fell away have entertainment, but

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 Caesar’s

Soldier

Enobarbus, Antony

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.

Domitius Enobarbus

I give it you.

Soldier

Mock not, Enobarbus.

I tell you true: best you safed the bringer

Out of the host; I must attend mine office,

Or would have done’t myself. Your emperor

Continues still a Jove.

Exit

Domitius Enobarbus

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

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.

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

Agrippa

Retire, we have engaged ourselves too far:

Caesar himself has work, and our oppression

Exceeds what we expected.

Exeunt

Alarums. Enter Mark Antony and Scarus wounded

Scarus

O my brave emperor, this is fought indeed!

Had we done so at first, we had droven them home

With clouts about their heads.

Mark Antony

Thou bleed’st apace.

Scarus

I had a wound here that was like a T,

But now ’tis made an H.

Mark Antony

They do retire.

Scarus

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.

Scarus

Let us score their backs,

And snatch ’em up, as we take hares, behind:

’Tis sport to maul a runner.

Mark Antony

I will reward thee

Once for thy spritely comfort, and ten-fold

For thy good valour. Come thee on.

Scarus

I’ll halt after.

Exeunt

SCENE VIII. UNDER THE WALLS OF ALEXANDRIA.

Alarum. Enter Mark Antony, in a march; Scarus, with others

Mark Antony

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 escaped. I thank you all;

For doughty-handed are you, and have fought

Not as you served 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,

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,

Make her thanks bless thee.

To Cleopatra

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!

Cleopatra

Lord of lords!

O infinite virtue, comest thou smiling from

The world’s great snare uncaught?

Mark Antony

My nightingale,

We have beat them to their beds. What, girl! though grey

Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha’ we

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

As if a god, in hate of mankind, had

Destroy’d in such a shape.

Cleopatra

I’ll give thee, friend,

An armour all of gold; it was a king’s.

Mark Antony

He has deserved it, were it carbuncled

Like holy Phoebus’ car. Give me thy hand:

Through Alexandria make a jolly march;

Bear our hack’d targets like the men that owe them:

Had our great palace the capacity

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;

Make mingle with rattling tabourines;

That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together,

Applauding our approach.

Exeunt

SCENE IX. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S CAMP.

Sentinels at their post

First Soldier

If we be not relieved 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.

Second Soldier

This last day was

A shrewd one to’s.

Enter Domitius Enobarbus

Domitius Enobarbus

O, bear me witness, night,—

Third Soldier

What man is this?

Second Soldier

Stand close, and list him.

Domitius Enobarbus

Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon,

When men revolted shall upon record

Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did

Before thy face repent!

First Soldier

Enobarbus!

Third Soldier

Peace!

Hark further.

Domitius Enobarbus

O sovereign mistress of true melancholy,

The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me,

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:

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;

But let the world rank me in register

A master-leaver and a fugitive:

O Antony! O Antony!

Dies

Second Soldier

Let’s speak To him.

First Soldier

Let’s hear him, for the things he speaks

May concern Caesar.

Third Soldier

Let’s do so. But he sleeps.

First Soldier

Swoons rather; for so bad a prayer as his

Was never yet for sleep.

Second Soldier

Go we to him.

Third Soldier

Awake, sir, awake; speak to us.

Second Soldier

Hear you, sir?

First Soldier

The hand 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 Soldier

Come on, then;

He may recover yet.

Exeunt with the body

SCENE X. BETWEEN THE TWO CAMPS.

Enter Mark Antony and Scarus, with their Army

Mark Antony

Their preparation is to-day by sea;

We please them not by land.

Scarus

For both, my lord.

Mark Antony

I would they’ld fight i’ the fire or i’ the air;

We’ld fight there too. But this it is; our foot

Upon the hills adjoining to the city

Shall stay with us: order for sea is given;

They have put forth the haven

Where their appointment we may best discover,

And look on their endeavour.

Exeunt

SCENE XI. ANOTHER PART OF THE SAME.

Enter Octavius Caesar, and his Army

Octavius Caesar

But being charged, 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,

And hold our best advantage.

Exeunt

SCENE XII. ANOTHER PART OF THE SAME.

Enter Mark Antony and Scarus

Mark Antony

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

Scarus

Swallows have built

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,

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 Mark Antony

Mark Antony

All is lost;

This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me:

My fleet hath yielded to the foe; and yonder

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;

For when I am revenged upon my charm,

I have done all. Bid them all fly; begone.

Exit Scarus

O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more:

Fortune and Antony part here; even here

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 Caesar; and this pine is bark’d,

That overtopp’d them all. Betray’d I am:

O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,—

Whose eye beck’d forth my wars, and call’d them home;

Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,—

Like a right gipsy, hath, at fast and loose,

Beguiled me to the very heart of loss.

What, Eros, Eros!

Enter Cleopatra

Ah, thou spell! Avaunt!

Cleopatra

Why is my lord enraged against his love?

Mark Antony

Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving,

And blemish Caesar’s triumph. Let him take thee,

And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians:

Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot

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,

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,

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

Under this plot; she dies for’t. Eros, ho!

Exit

SCENE XIII. ALEXANDRIA. CLEOPATRA’S PALACE.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and Mardian

Cleopatra

Help me, my women! O, he is more mad

Than Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly

Was never so emboss’d.

Charmian

To the monument!

There lock yourself, and send him word you are dead.

The soul and body rive not more in parting

Than greatness going off.

Cleopatra

To the monument!

Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself;

Say, that the last I spoke was ‘Antony,’

And word it, prithee, piteously: hence, Mardian,

And bring me how he takes my death.

To the monument!

Exeunt

SCENE XIV. THE SAME. ANOTHER ROOM.

Enter Mark Antony and Eros

Mark Antony

Eros, thou yet behold’st me?

Eros

Ay, noble lord.

Mark Antony

Sometimes we see a cloud that’s dragonish;

A vapour sometime like a bear or lion,

A tower’d citadel, a pendent rock,

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,

Mark Antony

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.

Mark Antony

My good knave Eros, now thy captain is

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,—

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 Caesar, and false-play’d my glory

Unto an enemy’s triumph.

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.

Mardian

No, Antony;

My mistress loved thee, and her fortunes mingled

With thine entirely.

Mark Antony

Hence, saucy eunuch; peace!

She hath betray’d me and shall die the death.

Mardian

Death of one person can be paid but once,

And that she has discharged: what thou wouldst do

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

Between her heart and lips: she render’d life,

Thy name so buried in her.

Mark Antony

Dead, then?

Mardian

Dead.

Mark Antony

Unarm, Eros; the long day’s task is done,

And we must sleep.

To Mardian

That thou depart’st hence safe,

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,

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

Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now

All length is torture: since the torch is out,

Lie down, and stray no farther: now all labour

Mars what it does; yea, very force entangles

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:

Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops,

And all the haunt be ours. Come, Eros, Eros!

Re-enter Eros

Eros

What would my lord?

Mark Antony

Since Cleopatra died,

I have lived in such dishonour, that the gods

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

Than she which by her death our Caesar 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

Disgrace and horror, that, on my command,

Thou then wouldst kill me: do’t; the time is come:

Thou strikest not me, ’tis Caesar 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?

Mark Antony

Eros,

Wouldst thou be window’d in great Rome and see

Thy master thus with pleach’d arms, bending down

His corrigible neck, his face subdued

To penetrative shame, whilst the wheel’d seat

Of fortunate Caesar, drawn before him, branded

His baseness that ensued?

Eros

I would not see’t.

Mark Antony

Come, then; for with a wound I must be cured.

Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn

Most useful for thy country.

Eros

O, sir, pardon me!

Mark Antony

When I did make thee free, sworest thou not then

To do this when I bade thee? Do it at once;

Or thy precedent services are all

But accidents unpurposed. Draw, and come.

Eros

Turn from me, then, that noble countenance,

Wherein the worship of the whole world lies.

Mark Antony

Lo thee!

Turning from him

Eros

My sword is drawn.

Mark Antony

Then let it do at once

The thing why thou hast drawn it.

Eros

My dear master,

My captain, and my emperor, let me say,

Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell.

Mark Antony

’Tis said, man; and farewell.

Eros

Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike now?

Mark Antony

Now, Eros.

Eros

Why, there then: thus I do escape the sorrow

Of Antony’s death.

Kills himself

Mark Antony

Thrice-nobler than myself!

Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what

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

As to a lover’s bed. Come, then; and, Eros,

Thy master dies thy scholar: to do thus

Falling 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?

Mark Antony

I have done my work in, friends: O, make an end

Of what I have begun.

Second Guard

The star is fall’n.

First Guard

And time is at his period.

All

Alas, and woe!

Mark Antony

Let him that loves me strike me dead.

First Guard

Not I.

Second Guard

Nor I.

Third Guard

Nor any one.

Exeunt Guard

Dercetas

Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly.

This sword but shown to Caesar, with this tidings,

Shall enter me with him.

Enter Diomedes

Diomedes

Where’s Antony?

Dercetas

There, Diomed there.

Diomedes

Lives he?

Wilt thou not answer, man?

Exit Dercetas

Mark Antony

Art thou there, Diomed? Draw thy sword, and give me

Sufficing strokes for death.

Diomedes

Most absolute lord,

My mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee.

Mark Antony

When did she send thee?

Diomedes

Now, my lord.

Mark Antony

Where is she?

Diomedes

Lock’d in her monument. She had a prophesying fear

Of what hath come to pass: for when she saw —

Which never shall be found — you did suspect

She had disposed with Caesar, and that your rage

Would not be purged, she sent you word she was dead;

But, fearing since how it might work, hath sent

Me to proclaim the truth; and I am come,

I dread, too late.

Mark Antony

Too late, good Diomed: call my guard, I prithee.

Diomedes

What, ho, the emperor’s guard! The guard, what, ho!

Come, your lord calls!

Enter four or five of the Guard of Mark Antony

Mark Antony

Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides;

’Tis the last service that I shall command you.

First Guard

Woe, woe are we, sir, you may not live to wear

All your true followers out.

All

Most heavy day!

Mark Antony

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

Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up:

I have led you oft: carry me now, good friends,

And have my thanks for all.

Exeunt, bearing Mark Antony

SCENE XV. THE SAME. A MONUMENT.

Enter Cleopatra and her maids aloft, with Charmian and Iras

Cleopatra

O Charmian, I will never go from hence.

Charmian

Be comforted, dear madam.

Cleopatra

No, I will not:

All strange and terrible events are welcome,

But comforts we despise; our size of sorrow,

Proportion’d to our cause, must be as great

As that which makes it.

Enter, below, Diomedes

How now! is he dead?

Diomedes

His death’s upon him, but not dead.

Look out o’ the other side your monument;

His guard have brought him thither.

Enter, below, Mark Antony, borne by the Guard

Cleopatra

O sun,

Burn the great sphere thou movest in! darkling stand

The varying shore o’ the world. O Antony,

Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian, help, Iras, help;

Help, friends below; let’s draw him hither.

Mark Antony

Peace!

Not Caesar’s valour hath o’erthrown Antony,

But Antony’s hath triumph’d on itself.

Cleopatra

So it should be, that none but Antony

Should conquer Antony; but woe ’tis so!

Mark Antony

I am dying, Egypt, dying; only

I here importune death awhile, until

Of many thousand kisses the poor last

I lay up thy lips.

Cleopatra

I dare not, dear,—

Dear my lord, pardon,— I dare not,

Lest I be taken: not the imperious show

Of the full-fortuned Caesar ever shall

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

Demuring upon me. But come, come, Antony,—

Help me, my women,— we must draw thee up:

Assist, good friends.

Mark Antony

O, quick, or I am gone.

Cleopatra

Here’s sport indeed! How heavy weighs my lord!

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,—

Wishes were ever fools,— O, come, come, come;

They heave Mark Antony aloft to Cleopatra

And welcome, welcome! die where thou hast lived:

Quicken with kissing: had my lips that power,

Thus would I wear them out.

All

A heavy sight!

Mark Antony

I am dying, Egypt, dying:

Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.

Cleopatra

No, let me speak; and let me rail so high,

That the false housewife Fortune break her wheel,

Provoked by my offence.

Mark Antony

One word, sweet queen:

Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety. O!

Cleopatra

They do not go together.

Mark Antony

Gentle, hear me:

None about Caesar trust but Proculeius.

Cleopatra

My resolution and my hands I’ll trust;

None about Caesar.

Mark Antony

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 lived, the greatest prince o’ the world,

The noblest; and do now not basely die,

Not cowardly put off my helmet to

My countryman,— a Roman by a Roman

Valiantly vanquish’d. Now my spirit is going;

I can no more.

Cleopatra

Noblest of men, woo’t die?

Hast thou no care of me? shall I abide

In this dull world, which in thy absence is

No better than a sty? O, see, my women,

Mark Antony dies

The crown o’ the earth doth melt. My lord!

O, wither’d is the garland of the war,

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.

Faints

Charmian

O, quietness, lady!

Iras

She is dead too, our sovereign.

Charmian

Lady!

Iras

Madam!

Charmian

O madam, madam, madam!

Iras

Royal Egypt, Empress!

Charmian

Peace, peace, Iras!

Cleopatra

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;

To tell them that this world did equal theirs

Till they had stol’n our jewel. All’s but naught;

Patience is scottish, and impatience does

Become a dog that’s mad: then is it sin

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,

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:

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 Mark Antony’s body

ACT V

SCENE I. ALEXANDRIA. OCTAVIUS CAESAR’S CAMP.

Enter Octavius Caesar, Agrippa, Dolabella, Mecaenas, Gallus, Proculeius, and others, his council of war

Octavius Caesar

Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield;

Being so frustrate, tell him he mocks

The pauses that he makes.

Dolabella

Caesar, I shall.

Exit

Enter Dercetas, with the sword of Mark Antony

Octavius Caesar

Wherefore is that? and what art thou that darest

Appear thus to us?

Dercetas

I am call’d Dercetas;

Mark Antony I served, who best was worthy

Best to be served: whilst he stood up and spoke,

He was my master; and I wore my life

To spend upon his haters. If thou please

To take me to thee, as I was to him

I’ll be to Caesar; if thou pleasest not,

I yield thee up my life.

Octavius Caesar

What is’t thou say’st?

Dercetas

I say, O Caesar, Antony is dead.

Octavius Caesar

The breaking of so great a thing should make

A greater crack: the round world

Should have shook lions into civil streets,

And citizens to their dens: the death of Antony

Is not a single doom; in the name lay

A moiety of the world.

Dercetas

He is dead, Caesar:

Not by a public minister of justice,

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;

I robb’d his wound of it; behold it stain’d

With his most noble blood.

Octavius Caesar

Look you sad, friends?

The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings

To wash the eyes of kings.

Agrippa

And strange it is,

That nature must compel us to lament

Our most persisted deeds.

Mecaenas

His taints and honours

Waged equal with him.

Agrippa

A rarer spirit never

Did steer humanity: but you, gods, will give us

Some faults to make us men. Caesar is touch’d.

Mecaenas

When such a spacious mirror’s set before him,

He needs must see himself.

Octavius Caesar

O Antony!

I have follow’d thee to this; but we do lance

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,

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,

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 —

But I will tell you at some meeter season:

Enter an Egyptian

The business of this man looks out of him;

We’ll hear him what he says. Whence are you?

Egyptian

A poor Egyptian yet. The queen my mistress,

Confined in all she has, her monument,

Of thy intents desires instruction,

That she preparedly may frame herself

To the way she’s forced to.

Octavius Caesar

Bid her have good heart:

She soon shall know of us, by some of ours,

How honourable and how kindly we

Determine for her; for Caesar cannot live

To be ungentle.

Egyptian

So the gods preserve thee!

Exit

Octavius Caesar

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

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.

Proculeius

Caesar, I shall.

Exit

Octavius Caesar

Gallus, go you along.

Exit Gallus

Where’s Dolabella,

To second Proculeius?

All

Dolabella!

Octavius Caesar

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

How hardly I was drawn into this war;

How calm and gentle I proceeded still

In all my writings: go with me, and see

What I can show in this.

Exeunt

SCENE II. ALEXANDRIA. A ROOM IN THE MONUMENT.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, and Iras

Cleopatra

My desolation does begin to make

A better life. ’Tis paltry to be Caesar;

Not being Fortune, he’s but Fortune’s knave,

A minister of her will: and it is great

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 Caesar’s.

Enter, to the gates of the monument, Proculeius, Gallus and Soldiers

Proculeius

Caesar sends greeting to the Queen of Egypt;

And bids thee study on what fair demands

Thou mean’st to have him grant thee.

Cleopatra

What’s thy name?

Proculeius

My name is Proculeius.

Cleopatra

Antony

Did tell me of you, bade me trust you; but

I do not greatly care to be deceived,

That have no use for trusting. If your master

Would have a queen his beggar, you must tell him,

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

Will kneel to him with thanks.

Proculeius

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

On all that need: let me report to him

Your sweet dependency; and you shall find

A conqueror that will pray in aid for kindness,

Where he for grace is kneel’d to.

Cleopatra

Pray you, tell him

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.

Proculeius

This I’ll report, dear lady.

Have comfort, for I know your plight is pitied

Of him that caused it.

Gallus

You see how easily she may be surprised:

Here Proculeius and two of the Guard ascend the monument by a ladder placed against a window, and, having descended, come behind Cleopatra. Some of the Guard unbar and open the gates

To Proculeius and the Guard

Guard her till Caesar come.

Exit

Iras

Royal queen!

Charmian

O Cleopatra! thou art taken, queen:

Cleopatra

Quick, quick, good hands.

Drawing a dagger

Proculeius

Hold, worthy lady, hold:

Seizes and disarms her

Do not yourself such wrong, who are in this

Relieved, but not betray’d.

Cleopatra

What, of death too,

That rids our dogs of languish?

Proculeius

Cleopatra,

Do not abuse my master’s bounty by

The undoing of yourself: let the world see

His nobleness well acted, which your death

Will never let come forth.

Cleopatra

Where art thou, death?

Come hither, come! come, come, and take a queen

Worthy many babes and beggars!

Proculeius

O, temperance, lady!

Cleopatra

Sir, I will eat no meat, I’ll not drink, sir;

If idle talk will once be necessary,

I’ll not sleep neither: this mortal house I’ll ruin,

Do Caesar what he can. Know, sir, that I

Will not wait pinion’d at your master’s court;

Nor once be chastised with the sober eye

Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up

And show me to the shouting varletry

Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt

Be gentle grave unto me! rather on Nilus’ mud

Lay me stark naked, and let the water-flies

Blow me into abhorring! rather make

My country’s high pyramides my gibbet,

And hang me up in chains!

Proculeius

You do extend

These thoughts of horror further than you shall

Find cause in Caesar.

Enter Dolabella

Dolabella

Proculeius,

What thou hast done thy master Caesar knows,

And he hath sent for thee: for the queen,

I’ll take her to my guard.

Proculeius

So, Dolabella,

It shall content me best: be gentle to her.

To Cleopatra

To Caesar I will speak what you shall please,

If you’ll employ me to him.

Cleopatra

Say, I would die.

Exeunt Proculeius and Soldiers

Dolabella

Most noble empress, you have heard of me?

Cleopatra

I cannot tell.

Dolabella

Assuredly you know me.

Cleopatra

No matter, sir, what I have heard or known.

You laugh when boys or women tell their dreams;

Is’t not your trick?

Dolabella

I understand not, madam.

Cleopatra

I dream’d there was an Emperor Antony:

O, such another sleep, that I might see

But such another man!

Dolabella

If it might please ye,—

Cleopatra

His face was as the heavens; and therein stuck

A sun and moon, which kept their course, and lighted

The little O, the earth.

Dolabella

Most sovereign creature,—

Cleopatra

His legs bestrid the ocean: his rear’d arm

Crested the world: his voice was propertied

As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends;

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

Were dolphin-like; they show’d his back above

The element they lived in: in his livery

Walk’d crowns and crownets; realms and islands were

As plates dropp’d from his pocket.

Dolabella

Cleopatra!

Cleopatra

Think you there was, or might be, such a man

As this I dream’d of?

Dolabella

Gentle madam, no.

Cleopatra

You lie, up to the hearing of the gods.

But, if there be, or ever were, one such,

It’s past the size of dreaming: nature wants stuff

To vie strange forms with fancy; yet, to imagine

And Antony, were nature’s piece ’gainst fancy,

Condemning shadows quite.

Dolabella

Hear me, good madam.

Your loss is as yourself, great; and you bear it

As answering to the weight: would I might never

O’ertake pursued success, but I do feel,

By the rebound of yours, a grief that smites

My very heart at root.

Cleopatra

I thank you, sir,

Know you what Caesar means to do with me?

Dolabella

I am loath to tell you what I would you knew.

Cleopatra

Nay, pray you, sir,—

Dolabella

Though he be honourable,—

Cleopatra

He’ll lead me, then, in triumph?

Dolabella

Madam, he will; I know’t.

Flourish, and shout within, ‘Make way there: Octavius Caesar!’

Enter Octavius Caesar, Gallus, Proculeius, Mecaenas, Seleucus, and others of his Train

Octavius Caesar

Which is the Queen of Egypt?

Dolabella

It is the emperor, madam.

Cleopatra kneels

Octavius Caesar

Arise, you shall not kneel:

I pray you, rise; rise, Egypt.

Cleopatra

Sir, the gods

Will have it thus; my master and my lord

I must obey.

Octavius Caesar

Take to you no hard thoughts:

The record of what injuries you did us,

Though written in our flesh, we shall remember

As things but done by chance.

Cleopatra

Sole sir o’ the world,

I cannot project mine own cause so well

To make it clear; but do confess I have

Been laden with like frailties which before

Have often shamed our sex.

Octavius Caesar

Cleopatra, know,

We will extenuate rather than enforce:

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

Antony’s course, you shall bereave yourself

Of my good purposes, and put your children

To that destruction which I’ll guard them from,

If thereon you rely. I’ll take my leave.

Cleopatra

And may, through all the world: ’tis yours; and we,

Your scutcheons and your signs of conquest, shall

Hang in what place you please. Here, my good lord.

Octavius Caesar

You shall advise me in all for Cleopatra.

Cleopatra

This is the brief of money, plate, and jewels,

I am possess’d of: ’tis exactly valued;

Not petty things admitted. Where’s Seleucus?

Seleucus

Here, madam.

Cleopatra

This is my treasurer: let him speak, my lord,

Upon his peril, that I have reserved

To myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus.

Seleucus

Madam,

I had rather seal my lips, than, to my peril,

Speak that which is not.

Cleopatra

What have I kept back?

Seleucus

Enough to purchase what you have made known.

Octavius Caesar

Nay, blush not, Cleopatra; I approve

Your wisdom in the deed.

Cleopatra

See, Caesar! O, behold,

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

Even make me wild: O slave, of no more trust

Than love that’s hired! 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!

O rarely base!

Octavius Caesar

Good queen, let us entreat you.

Cleopatra

O Caesar, what a wounding shame is this,

That thou, vouchsafing here to visit me,

Doing the honour of thy lordliness

To one so meek, that mine own servant should

Parcel the sum of my disgraces by

Addition of his envy! Say, good Caesar,

That I some lady trifles have reserved,

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

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

Through the ashes of my chance: wert thou a man,

Thou wouldst have mercy on me.

Octavius Caesar

Forbear, Seleucus.

Exit Seleucus

Cleopatra

Be it known, that we, the greatest, are misthought

For things that others do; and, when we fall,

We answer others’ merits in our name,

Are therefore to be pitied.

Octavius Caesar

Cleopatra,

Not what you have reserved, nor what acknowledged,

Put we i’ the roll of conquest: still be’t yours,

Bestow it at your pleasure; and believe,

Caesar’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;

For we intend so to dispose you as

Yourself shall give us counsel. Feed, and sleep:

Our care and pity is so much upon you,

That we remain your friend; and so, adieu.

Cleopatra

My master, and my lord!

Octavius Caesar

Not so. Adieu.

Flourish. Exeunt Octavius Caesar and his train

Cleopatra

He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not

Be noble to myself: but, hark thee, Charmian.

Whispers Charmian

Iras

Finish, good lady; the bright day is done,

And we are for the dark.

Cleopatra

Hie thee again:

I have spoke already, and it is provided;

Go put it to the haste.

Charmian

Madam, I will.

Re-enter Dolabella

Dolabella

Where is the queen?

Charmian

Behold, sir.

Exit

Cleopatra

Dolabella!

Dolabella

Madam, as thereto sworn by your command,

Which my love makes religion to obey,

I tell you this: Caesar through Syria

Intends his journey; and within three days

You with your children will he send before:

Make your best use of this: I have perform’d

Your pleasure and my promise.

Cleopatra

Dolabella,

I shall remain your debtor.

Dolabella

I your servant,

Adieu, good queen; I must attend on Caesar.

Cleopatra

Farewell, and thanks.

Exit Dolabella

Now, Iras, what think’st thou?

Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shalt be shown

In Rome, as well as I mechanic slaves

With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall

Uplift us to the view; in their thick breaths,

Rank of gross diet, shall be enclouded,

And forced to drink their vapour.

Iras

The gods forbid!

Cleopatra

Nay, ’tis most certain, Iras: saucy lictors

Will catch at us, like strumpets; and scald rhymers

Ballad us out o’ tune: the quick comedians

Extemporally will stage us, and present

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!

Cleopatra

Nay, that’s certain.

Iras

I’ll never see ’t; for, I am sure, my nails

Are stronger than mine eyes.

Cleopatra

Why, that’s the way

To fool their preparation, and to conquer

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.

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.

Wherefore’s this noise?

Exit Iras. A noise within

Enter a Guardsman

Guard

Here is a rural fellow

That will not be denied your highness presence:

He brings you figs.

Cleopatra

Let him come in.

Exit Guardsman

What poor an instrument

May do a noble deed! he brings me liberty.

My resolution’s placed, 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 Guardsman, with Clown bringing in a basket

Guard

This is the man.

Cleopatra

Avoid, and leave him.

Exit Guardsman

Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there,

That kills and pains not?

Clown

Truly, I have him: but I would not be the party that should desire you to touch him, for his biting is immortal; those that do die of it do seldom or never recover.

Cleopatra

Rememberest thou any that have died on’t?

Clown

Very many, men and women too. I heard of one of them no longer than yesterday: a very honest woman, but something given to lie; as a woman should not do, but in the way of honesty: how she died of the biting of it, what pain she felt: truly, she makes a very good report o’ the worm; but he that will believe all that they say, shall never be saved by half that they do: but this is most fallible, the worm’s an odd worm.

Cleopatra

Get thee hence; farewell.

Clown

I wish you all joy of the worm.

Setting down his basket

Cleopatra

Farewell.

Clown

You must think this, look you, that the worm will do his kind.

Cleopatra

Ay, ay; farewell.

Clown

Look you, the worm is not to be trusted but in the keeping of wise people; for, indeed, there is no goodness in worm.

Cleopatra

Take thou no care; it shall be heeded.

Clown

Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth the feeding.

Cleopatra

Will it eat me?

Clown

You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself will not eat a woman: I know that a woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not. But, truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women; for in every ten that they make, the devils mar five.

Cleopatra

Well, get thee gone; farewell.

Clown

Yes, forsooth: I wish you joy o’ the worm.

Exit

Re-enter Iras with a robe, crown, & c

Cleopatra

Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have

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 Caesar, which the gods give men

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?

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,

The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch,

Which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still?

If thus thou vanishest, thou tell’st the world

It is not worth leave-taking.

Charmian

Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain; that I may say,

The gods themselves do weep!

Cleopatra

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,

To an asp, which she applies to her breast

With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate

Of life at once untie: poor venomous fool

Be angry, and dispatch. O, couldst thou speak,

That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass

Unpolicied!

Charmian

O eastern star!

Cleopatra

Peace, peace!

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,

That sucks the nurse asleep?

Charmian

O, break! O, break!

Cleopatra

As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,—

O Antony!— Nay, I will take thee too.

Applying another asp to her arm

What should I stay —

Dies

Charmian

In this vile world? So, fare thee well.

Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies

A lass unparallel’d. Downy windows, close;

And golden Phoebus never be beheld

Of eyes again so royal! Your crown’s awry;

I’ll mend it, and then play.

Enter the Guard, rushing in

First Guard

Where is the queen?

Charmian

Speak softly, wake her not.

First Guard

Caesar hath sent —

Charmian

Too slow a messenger.

Applies an asp

O, come apace, dispatch! I partly feel thee.

First Guard

Approach, ho! All’s not well: Caesar’s beguiled.

Second Guard

There’s Dolabella sent from Caesar; call him.

First Guard

What work is here! Charmian, is this well done?

Charmian

It is well done, and fitting for a princess

Descended of so many royal kings.

Ah, soldier!

Dies

Re-enter Dolabella

Dolabella

How goes it here?

Second Guard

All dead.

Dolabella

Caesar, thy thoughts

Touch their effects in this: thyself art coming

To see perform’d the dreaded act which thou

So sought’st to hinder.

[Within] ‘A way there, a way for Caesar!’

Re-enter Octavius Caesar and all his train marching

Dolabella

O sir, you are too sure an augurer;

That you did fear is done.

Octavius Caesar

Bravest at the last,

She levell’d at our purposes, and, being royal,

Took her own way. The manner of their deaths?

I do not see them bleed.

Dolabella

Who was last with them?

First Guard

A simple countryman, that brought her figs:

This was his basket.

Octavius Caesar

Poison’d, then.

First Guard

O Caesar,

This Charmian lived but now; she stood and spake:

I found her trimming up the diadem

On her dead mistress; tremblingly she stood

And on the sudden dropp’d.

Octavius Caesar

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

In her strong toil of grace.

Dolabella

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

Have slime upon them, such as the aspic leaves

Upon the caves of Nile.

Octavius Caesar

Most probable

That so she died; for her physician tells me

She hath pursued conclusions infinite

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

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;

And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see

High order in this great solemnity.

Exeunt

The Tragedy of Coriolanus

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. ROME. A STREET.

SCENE II. CORIOLI. THE SENATE-HOUSE.

SCENE III. ROME. A ROOM IN MARCIUS’ HOUSE.

SCENE IV. BEFORE CORIOLI.

SCENE V. CORIOLI. A STREET.

SCENE VI. NEAR THE CAMP OF COMINIUS.

SCENE VII. THE GATES OF CORIOLI.

SCENE VIII. A FIELD OF BATTLE.

SCENE IX. THE ROMAN CAMP.

SCENE X. THE CAMP OF THE VOLSCES.

ACT II

SCENE I. ROME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE II. THE SAME. THE CAPITOL.

SCENE III. THE SAME. THE FORUM.

ACT III

SCENE I. ROME. A STREET.

SCENE II. A ROOM IN CORIOLANUS’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. THE SAME. THE FORUM.

ACT IV

SCENE I. ROME. BEFORE A GATE OF THE CITY.

SCENE II. THE SAME. A STREET NEAR THE GATE.

SCENE III. A HIGHWAY BETWEEN ROME AND ANTIUM.

SCENE IV. ANTIUM. BEFORE AUFIDIUS’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. THE SAME. A HALL IN AUFIDIUS’S HOUSE.

SCENE VI. ROME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE VII. A CAMP, AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM ROME.

ACT V

SCENE I. ROME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE II. ENTRANCE OF THE VOLSCIAN CAMP BEFORE ROME.

SCENE III. THE TENT OF CORIOLANUS.

SCENE IV. ROME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE V. THE SAME. A STREET NEAR THE GATE.

SCENE VI. ANTIUM. A PUBLIC PLACE.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Caius Marcius, afterwards Coriolanus.

Titus Lartius and Cominius, generals against the Volscians.

Menenius Agrippa, friend to Coriolanus.

Sicinius Velutus and 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.

A Citizen of Antium.

Volsce.

Volumnia, mother to Coriolanus.

Virgilia, wife to Coriolanus.

Valeria, friend to Virgilia.

Gentlewoman, attending on Virgilia.

Roman and Volscian Senators, Patricians, AEdiles, Lictors, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, Servants to Aufidius, and other Attendants.

Scene: Rome and the neighbourhood; Corioli and the neighbourhood; Antium.

ACT I

SCENE I. ROME. A STREET.

Enter a company of mutinous Citizens, with staves, clubs, and other weapons

First Citizen

Before we proceed any further, hear me speak.

All

Speak, speak.

First Citizen

You are all resolved rather to die than to famish?

All

Resolved. resolved.

First Citizen

First, you know Caius Marcius is chief enemy to the people.

All

We know’t, we know’t.

First Citizen

Let us kill him, and we’ll have corn at our own price.

Is’t a verdict?

All

No more talking on’t; let it be done: away, away!

Second Citizen

One word, good citizens.

First Citizen

We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good. What authority surfeits on would relieve us: if they would yield us but the superfluity, while it were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely; but they think we are too dear: the leanness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an inventory to particularise their abundance; our sufferance is a gain to them Let us revenge this with our pikes, ere we become rakes: for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge.

Second Citizen

Would you proceed especially against Caius Marcius?

All

Against him first: he’s a very dog to the commonalty.

Second Citizen

Consider you what services he has done for his country?

First Citizen

Very well; and could be content to give him good report fort, but that he pays himself with being proud.

Second Citizen

Nay, but speak not maliciously.

First Citizen

I say unto you, what he hath done famously, he did it to that end: though soft-conscienced men can be content to say it was for his country he did it to please his mother and to be partly proud; which he is, even till the altitude of his virtue.

Second Citizen

What he cannot help in his nature, you account a vice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous.

First Citizen

If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations; he hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition.

Shouts within

What shouts are these? The other side o’ the city is risen: why stay we prating here? to the Capitol!

All

Come, come.

First Citizen

Soft! who comes here?

Enter Menenius Agrippa

Second Citizen

Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath always loved the people.

First Citizen

He’s one honest enough: would all the rest were so!

Menenius

What work’s, my countrymen, in hand? where go you

With bats and clubs? The matter? speak, I pray you.

First Citizen

Our business is not unknown to the senate; they have had inkling this fortnight what we intend to do, which now we’ll show ’em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong breaths: they shall know we have strong arms too.

Menenius

Why, masters, my good friends, mine honest neighbours,

Will you undo yourselves?

First Citizen

We cannot, sir, we are undone already.

Menenius

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

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

Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack,

You are transported by calamity

Thither where more attends you, and you slander

The helms o’ the state, who care for you like fathers,

When you curse them as enemies.

First Citizen

Care for us! True, indeed! They ne’er cared for us yet: suffer us to famish, and their store-houses 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.

Menenius

Either you must

Confess yourselves wondrous malicious,

Or be accused 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 stale ’t a little more.

First Citizen

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.

Menenius

There was a time when all the body’s members

Rebell’d against the belly, thus accused it:

That only like a gulf it did remain

I’ the midst o’ the body, idle and unactive,

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

Unto the appetite and affection common

Of the whole body. The belly answer’d —

First Citizen

Well, sir, what answer made the belly?

Menenius

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

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 Citizen

Your belly’s answer? What!

The kingly-crowned head, the vigilant eye,

The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier,

Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter.

With other muniments and petty helps

In this our fabric, if that they —

Menenius

What then?

’Fore me, this fellow speaks! What then? what then?

First Citizen

Should by the cormorant belly be restrain’d,

Who is the sink o’ the body,—

Menenius

Well, what then?

First Citizen

The former agents, if they did complain,

What could the belly answer?

Menenius

I will tell you

If you’ll bestow a small — of what you have little —

Patience awhile, you’ll hear the belly’s answer.

First Citizen

Ye’re long about it.

Menenius

Note me this, good friend;

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,

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,

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

Whereby they live: and though that all at once,

You, my good friends,’— this says the belly, mark me,—

First Citizen

Ay, sir; well, well.

Menenius

‘Though all at once cannot

See what I do deliver out to each,

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 Citizen

It was an answer: how apply you this?

Menenius

The senators of Rome are this good belly,

And you the mutinous members; for examine

Their counsels and their cares, digest things rightly

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,

You, the great toe of this assembly?

First Citizen

I the great toe! why the great toe?

Menenius

For that, being one o’ the lowest, basest, poorest,

Of this most wise rebellion, thou go’st foremost:

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!

Marcius

Thanks. What’s the matter, you dissentious rogues,

That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,

Make yourselves scabs?

First Citizen

We have ever your good word.

Marcius

He that will give good words to thee will flatter

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,

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

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

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,

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,

Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else

Would feed on one another? What’s their seeking?

Menenius

For corn at their own rates; whereof, they say,

The city is well stored.

Marcius

Hang ’em! They say!

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!

Would the nobility lay aside their ruth,

And let me use my sword, I’ll make a quarry

With thousands of these quarter’d slaves, as high

As I could pick my lance.

Menenius

Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded;

For though abundantly they lack discretion,

Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you,

What says the other troop?

Marcius

They are dissolved: hang ’em!

They said they were an-hungry; sigh’d forth proverbs,

That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat,

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,

And make bold power look pale — they threw their caps

As they would hang them on the horns o’ the moon,

Shouting their emulation.

Menenius

What is granted them?

Marcius

Five tribunes to defend their vulgar wisdoms,

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

Win upon power and throw forth greater themes

For insurrection’s arguing.

Menenius

This is strange.

Marcius

Go, get you home, you fragments!

Enter a Messenger, hastily

Messenger

Where’s Caius Marcius?

Marcius

Here: what’s the matter?

Messenger

The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms.

Marcius

I am glad on ’t: then we shall ha’ means to vent

Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders.

Enter Cominius, Titus Lartius, and other Senators; Junius Brutus and Sicinius Velutus

First Senator

Marcius, ’tis true that you have lately told us;

The Volsces are in arms.

Marcius

They have a leader,

Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to ’t.

I sin in envying his nobility,

And were I any thing but what I am,

I would wish me only he.

Cominius

You have fought together.

Marcius

Were half to half the world by the ears and he.

Upon my party, I’ld revolt to make

Only my wars with him: he is a lion

That I am proud to hunt.

First Senator

Then, worthy Marcius,

Attend upon Cominius to these wars.

Cominius

It is your former promise.

Marcius

Sir, it is;

And I am constant. Titus Lartius, thou

Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus’ face.

What, art thou stiff? stand’st out?

Titus

No, Caius Marcius;

I’ll lean upon one crutch and fight with t’other,

Ere stay behind this business.

Menenius

O, true-bred!

First Senator

Your company to the Capitol; where, I know,

Our greatest friends attend us.

Titus

[To Cominius] Lead you on.

To Marcius

Right worthy you priority.

Cominius

Noble Marcius!

First Senator

[To the Citizens] Hence to your homes; be gone!

Marcius

Nay, let them follow:

The Volsces have much corn; take these rats thither

To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutiners,

Your valour puts well forth: pray, follow.

Citizens steal away. Exeunt all but Sicinius and Brutus

Sicinius

Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius?

Brutus

He has no equal.

Sicinius

When we were chosen tribunes for the people,—

Brutus

Mark’d you his lip and eyes?

Sicinius

Nay. but his taunts.

Brutus

Being moved, he will not spare to gird the gods.

Sicinius

Be-mock the modest moon.

Brutus

The present wars devour him: he is grown

Too proud to be so valiant.

Sicinius

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

Under Cominius.

Brutus

Fame, at the which he aims,

In whom already he’s well graced, can not

Better be held nor more attain’d than by

A place below the first: for what miscarries

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!’

Sicinius

Besides, if things go well,

Opinion that so sticks on Marcius shall

Of his demerits rob Cominius.

Brutus

Come:

Half all Cominius’ honours are to Marcius.

Though Marcius earned them not, and all his faults

To Marcius shall be honours, though indeed

In aught he merit not.

Sicinius

Let’s hence, and hear

How the dispatch is made, and in what fashion,

More than his singularity, he goes

Upon this present action.

Brutus

Lets along.

Exeunt

SCENE II. CORIOLI. THE SENATE-HOUSE.

Enter Tullus Aufidius and certain Senators

First Senator

So, your opinion is, Aufidius,

That they of Rome are entered in our counsels

And know how we proceed.

Aufidius

Is it not yours?

What ever have been thought on in this state,

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.

Reads

‘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,

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:

Consider of it.’

First Senator

Our army’s in the field

We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready

To answer us.

Aufidius

Nor did you think it folly

To keep your great pretences veil’d till when

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

Should know we were afoot.

Second Senator

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

Bring your army; but, I think, you’ll find

They’ve not prepared for us.

Aufidius

O, doubt not that;

I speak from certainties. Nay, more,

Some parcels of their power are forth already,

And only hitherward. I leave your honours.

If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet,

’Tis sworn between us we shall ever strike

Till one can do no more.

All

The gods assist you!

Aufidius

And keep your honours safe!

First Senator

Farewell.

Second Senator

Farewell.

All

Farewell.

Exeunt

SCENE III. ROME. A ROOM IN MARCIUS’ HOUSE.

Enter Volumnia and Virgilia they set them down on two low stools, and sew

Volumnia

I pray you, daughter, sing; or express yourself in a more comfortable sort: if my son were my husband, I should 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.

Virgilia

But had he died in the business, madam; how then?

Volumnia

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.

Enter a Gentlewoman

Gentlewoman

Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you.

Virgilia

Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself.

Volumnia

Indeed, you shall not.

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 harvest-man that’s task’d to mow

Or all or lose his hire.

Virgilia

His bloody brow! O Jupiter, no blood!

Volumnia

Away, you fool! it more becomes a man

Than gilt his trophy: the breasts of Hecuba,

When she did suckle Hector, look’d not lovelier

Than Hector’s forehead when it spit forth blood

At Grecian sword, contemning. Tell Valeria,

We are fit to bid her welcome.

Exit Gentlewoman

Virgilia

Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!

Volumnia

He’ll beat Aufidius’ head below his knee

And tread upon his neck.

Enter Valeria, with an Usher and Gentlewoman

Valeria

My ladies both, good day to you.

Volumnia

Sweet madam.

Virgilia

I am glad to see your ladyship.

Valeria

How do you both? you are manifest house-keepers. What are you sewing here? A fine spot, in good faith. How does your little son?

Virgilia

I thank your ladyship; well, good madam.

Volumnia

He had rather see the swords, and hear a drum, than look upon his school-master.

Valeria

O’ my word, the father’s son: I’ll swear,’tis a very pretty boy. O’ my troth, I looked upon him o’ Wednesday half an hour together: has such a confirmed countenance. I saw him run after a gilded butterfly: and when he caught it, he let it go again; and after it again; and over and over he comes, and again; catched it again; or whether his fall enraged him, or how ’twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it; O, I warrant it, how he mammocked it!

Volumnia

One on ’s father’s moods.

Valeria

Indeed, la, ’tis a noble child.

Virgilia

A crack, madam.

Valeria

Come, lay aside your stitchery; I must have you play the idle husewife with me this afternoon.

Virgilia

No, good madam; I will not out of doors.

Valeria

Not out of doors!

Volumnia

She shall, she shall.

Virgilia

Indeed, no, by your patience; I’ll not over the threshold till my lord return from the wars.

Valeria

Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably: come, you must go visit the good lady that lies in.

Virgilia

I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her with my prayers; but I cannot go thither.

Volumnia

Why, I pray you?

Virgilia

’Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love.

Valeria

You would be another Penelope: yet, they say, all the yarn she spun in Ulysses’ absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Come; I would your cambric were sensible as your finger, that you might leave pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us.

Virgilia

No, good madam, pardon me; indeed, I will not forth.

Valeria

In truth, la, go with me; and I’ll tell you excellent news of your husband.

Virgilia

O, good madam, there can be none yet.

Valeria

Verily, I do not jest with you; there came news from him last night.

Virgilia

Indeed, madam?

Valeria

In earnest, it’s true; I heard a senator speak it. Thus it is: the Volsces have an army forth; against whom Cominius the general is gone, with one part of our Roman power: your lord and Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioli; they nothing doubt prevailing and to make it brief wars. This is true, on mine honour; and so, I pray, go with us.

Virgilia

Give me excuse, good madam; I will obey you in every thing hereafter.

Volumnia

Let her alone, lady: as she is now, she will but disease our better mirth.

Valeria

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.

Virgilia

No, at a word, madam; indeed, I must not. I wish you much mirth.

Valeria

Well, then, farewell.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. BEFORE CORIOLI.

Enter, with drum and colours, Marcius, Titus Lartius, Captains and Soldiers. To them a Messenger

Marcius

Yonder comes news. A wager they have met.

Lartius

My horse to yours, no.

Marcius

’Tis done.

Lartius

Agreed.

Marcius

Say, has our general met the enemy?

Messenger

They lie in view; but have not spoke as yet.

Lartius

So, the good horse is mine.

Marcius

I’ll buy him of you.

Lartius

No, I’ll nor sell nor give him: lend you him I will

For half a hundred years. Summon the town.

Marcius

How far off lie these armies?

Messenger

Within this mile and half.

Marcius

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.

They sound a parley. Enter two Senators with others on the walls

Tutus Aufidius, is he within your walls?

First Senator

No, nor a man that fears you less than he,

That’s lesser than a little.

Drums afar off

Hark! our drums

Are bringing forth our youth. We’ll break our walls,

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.

Alarum afar off

Hark you. far off!

There is Aufidius; list, what work he makes

Amongst your cloven army.

Marcius

O, they are at it!

Lartius

Their noise be our instruction. Ladders, ho!

Enter the army of the Volsces

Marcius

They fear us not, but issue forth their city.

Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight

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,

And he shall feel mine edge.

Alarum. The Romans are beat back to their trenches. Re-enter Marcius cursing

Marcius

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

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!

All hurt behind; backs red, and faces pale

With flight and agued 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,

As they us to our trenches followed.

Another alarum. The Volsces fly, and Marcius follows them to the gates

So, now the gates are ope: now prove good seconds:

’Tis for the followers fortune widens them,

Not for the fliers: mark me, and do the like.

Enters the gates

First Soldier

Fool-hardiness; not I.

Second Soldier

Nor I.

Marcius is shut in

First Soldier

See, they have shut him in.

All

To the pot, I warrant him.

Alarum continues

Re-enter Titus Lartius

Lartius

What is become of Marcius?

All

Slain, sir, doubtless.

First Soldier

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.

Lartius

O noble fellow!

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

Only in strokes; but, with thy grim looks and

The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds,

Thou madst thine enemies shake, as if the world

Were feverous and did tremble.

Re-enter Marcius, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy

First Soldier

Look, sir.

Lartius

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 Roman

This will I carry to Rome.

Second Roman

And I this.

Third Roman

A murrain on’t! I took this for silver.

Alarum continues still afar off

Enter Marcius and Titus Lartius with a trumpet

Marcius

See here these movers that do prize their hours

At a crack’d drachm! 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!

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;

Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste

To help Cominius.

Lartius

Worthy sir, thou bleed’st;

Thy exercise hath been too violent for

A second course of fight.

Marcius

Sir, praise me not;

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.

Lartius

Now the fair goddess, Fortune,

Fall deep in love with thee; and her great charms

Misguide thy opposers’ swords! Bold gentleman,

Prosperity be thy page!

Marcius

Thy friend no less

Than those she placeth highest! So, farewell.

Lartius

Thou worthiest Marcius!

Exit Marcius

Go, sound thy trumpet in the market-place;

Call thither all the officers o’ the town,

Where they shall know our mind: away!

Exeunt

SCENE VI. NEAR THE CAMP OF COMINIUS.

Enter Cominius, as it were in retire, with soldiers

Cominius

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 charged again. Whiles we have struck,

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,

May give you thankful sacrifice.

Enter a Messenger

Thy news?

Messenger

The citizens of Corioli have issued,

And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle:

I saw our party to their trenches driven,

And then I came away.

Cominius

Though thou speak’st truth,

Methinks thou speak’st not well.

How long is’t since?

Messenger

Above an hour, my lord.

Cominius

’Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums:

How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour,

And bring thy news so late?

Messenger

Spies of the Volsces

Held me in chase, that I was forced to wheel

Three or four miles about, else had I, sir,

Half an hour since brought my report.

Cominius

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.

Marcius

[Within] Come I too late?

Cominius

The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabour

More than I know the sound of Marcius’ tongue

From every meaner man.

Enter Marcius

Marcius

Come I too late?

Cominius

Ay, if you come not in the blood of others,

But mantled in your own.

Marcius

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!

Cominius

Flower of warriors,

How is it with Titus Lartius?

Marcius

As with a man busied about decrees:

Condemning some to death, and some to exile;

Ransoming him, or pitying, threatening the other;

Holding Corioli in the name of Rome,

Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash,

To let him slip at will.

Cominius

Where is that slave

Which told me they had beat you to your trenches?

Where is he? call him hither.

Marcius

Let him alone;

He did inform the truth: but for our gentlemen,

The common file — a plague! tribunes for them!—

The mouse ne’er shunn’d the cat as they did budge

From rascals worse than they.

Cominius

But how prevail’d you?

Marcius

Will the time serve to tell? I do not think.

Where is the enemy? are you lords o’ the field?

If not, why cease you till you are so?

Cominius

Marcius,

We have at disadvantage fought and did

Retire to win our purpose.

Marcius

How lies their battle? know you on which side

They have placed their men of trust?

Cominius

As I guess, Marcius,

Their bands i’ the vaward are the Antiates,

Of their best trust; o’er them Aufidius,

Their very heart of hope.

Marcius

I do beseech you,

By all the battles wherein we have fought,

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,

Filling the air with swords advanced and darts,

We prove this very hour.

Cominius

Though I could wish

You were conducted to a gentle bath

And balms applied to, you, yet dare I never

Deny your asking: take your choice of those

That best can aid your action.

Marcius

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

Lesser his person than an ill report;

If any think brave death outweighs bad life

And that his country’s dearer than himself;

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?

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,

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 inclined.

Cominius

March on, my fellows:

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 toward Cominius and Caius Marcius, enters with Lieutenant, other Soldiers, and a Scout

Lartius

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,

We cannot keep the town.

Lieutenant

Fear not our care, sir.

Lartius

Hence, and shut your gates upon’s.

Our guider, come; to the Roman camp conduct us.

Exeunt

SCENE VIII. A FIELD OF BATTLE.

Alarum as in battle. Enter, from opposite sides, Marcius and Aufidius

Marcius

I’ll fight with none but thee; for I do hate thee

Worse than a promise-breaker.

Aufidius

We hate alike:

Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor

More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot.

Marcius

Let the first budger die the other’s slave,

And the gods doom him after!

Aufidius

If I fly, Marcius,

Holloa me like a hare.

Marcius

Within these three hours, Tullus,

Alone I fought in your Corioli walls,

And made what work I pleased: ’tis not my blood

Wherein thou seest me mask’d; for thy revenge

Wrench up thy power to the highest.

Aufidius

Wert thou the Hector

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. Marcius fights till they be driven in breathless

Officious, and not valiant, you have shamed me

In your condemned seconds.

Exeunt

SCENE IX. THE ROMAN CAMP.

Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Flourish. Enter, from one side, Cominius with the Romans; from the other side, Marcius, with his arm in a scarf

Cominius

If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s work,

Thou’ldst not believe thy deeds: but I’ll report it

Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles,

Where great patricians shall attend and shrug,

I’ the end admire, where ladies shall be frighted,

And, gladly quaked, hear more; where the dull tribunes,

That, with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours,

Shall say against their hearts ‘We thank the gods

Our Rome hath such a soldier.’

Yet camest thou to a morsel of this feast,

Having fully dined before.

Enter Titus Lartius, with his power, from the pursuit

Lartius

O general,

Here is the steed, we the caparison:

Hadst thou beheld —

Marcius

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; induced

As you have been; that’s for my country:

He that has but effected his good will

Hath overta’en mine act.

Cominius

You shall not be

The grave of your deserving; Rome must know

The value of her own: ’twere a concealment

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

In sign of what you are, not to reward

What you have done — before our army hear me.

Marcius

I have some wounds upon me, and they smart

To hear themselves remember’d.

Cominius

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

The treasure in this field achieved and city,

We render you the tenth, to be ta’en forth,

Before the common distribution, at

Your only choice.

Marcius

I thank you, general;

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.

A long flourish. They all cry ‘Marcius! Marcius!’ cast up their caps and lances: Cominius and Lartius stand bare

Marcius

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-faced soothing!

When steel grows soft as 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,—

You shout me forth

In acclamations hyperbolical;

As if I loved my little should be dieted

In praises sauced with lies.

Cominius

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 incensed, we’ll put you,

Like one that means his proper harm, in manacles,

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

The addition nobly ever!

Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums

All

Caius Marcius Coriolanus!

Coriolanus

I will go wash;

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

To the fairness of my power.

Cominius

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

The best, with whom we may articulate,

For their own good and ours.

Lartius

I shall, my lord.

Coriolanus

The gods begin to mock me. I, that now

Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg

Of my lord general.

Cominius

Take’t; ’tis yours. What is’t?

Coriolanus

I sometime lay here in Corioli

At a poor man’s house; he used me kindly:

He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;

But then Aufidius was with in my view,

And wrath o’erwhelm’d my pity: I request you

To give my poor host freedom.

Cominius

O, well begg’d!

Were he the butcher of my son, he should

Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.

Lartius

Marcius, his name?

Coriolanus

By Jupiter! forgot.

I am weary; yea, my memory is tired.

Have we no wine here?

Cominius

Go we to our tent:

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

Aufidius

The town is ta’en!

First Soldier

’Twill be deliver’d back on good condition.

Aufidius

Condition!

I would I were a Roman; for I cannot,

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,

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’s mine, or I am his: mine emulation

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 Soldier

He’s the devil.

Aufidius

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,

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

Be hostages for Rome.

First Soldier

Will not you go?

Aufidius

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

I may spur on my journey.

First Soldier

I shall, sir.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. ROME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter Menenius with the two Tribunes of the people, Sicinius and Brutus.

Menenius

The augurer tells me we shall have news to-night.

Brutus

Good or bad?

Menenius

Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius.

Sicinius

Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

Menenius

Pray you, who does the wolf love?

Sicinius

The lamb.

Menenius

Ay, to devour him; as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius.

Brutus

He’s a lamb indeed, that baes like a bear.

Menenius

He’s a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men: tell me one thing that I shall ask you.

Both

Well, sir.

Menenius

In what enormity is Marcius poor in, that you two have not in abundance?

Brutus

He’s poor in no one fault, but stored with all.

Sicinius

Especially in pride.

Brutus

And topping all others in boasting.

Menenius

This is strange now: do you two know how you are censured here in the city, I mean of us o’ the right-hand file? do you?

Both

Why, how are we censured?

Menenius

Because you talk of pride now,— will you not be angry?

Both

Well, well, sir, well.

Menenius

Why, ’tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience: give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures; at the least if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud?

Brutus

We do it not alone, sir.

Menenius

I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone. You talk of pride: O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O that you could!

Brutus

What then, sir?

Menenius

Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates, alias fools, as any in Rome.

Sicinius

Menenius, you are known well enough too.

Menenius

I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in’t; said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint; hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning: what I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are — I cannot call you Lycurguses — if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I can’t say your worships have delivered the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables: and though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too? what barm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough too?

Brutus

Come, sir, come, we know you well enough.

Menenius

You know neither me, yourselves nor any thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves’ caps and legs: you wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller; and then rejourn the controversy of three pence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinched with the colic, you make faces like mummers; set up the bloody flag against all patience; and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding the more entangled by your hearing: all the peace you make in their cause is, calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones.

Brutus

Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol.

Menenius

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 predecessors since Deucalion, though peradventure some of the best of ’em were hereditary hangmen. God-den to your worships: more of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians: I will be bold to take my leave of you.

Brutus and Sicinius go aside

Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria

How now, my as fair as noble ladies,— and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler,— whither do you follow your eyes so fast?

Volumnia

Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let’s go.

Menenius

Ha! Marcius coming home!

Volumnia

Ay, worthy Menenius; and with most prosperous approbation.

Menenius

Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Hoo!

Marcius coming home!

Volumnia

Virgilia

Nay,’tis true.

Volumnia

Look, here’s a letter from him: the state hath another, his wife another; and, I think, there’s one at home for you.

Menenius

I will make my very house reel tonight: a letter for me!

Virgilia

Yes, certain, there’s a letter for you; I saw’t.

Menenius

A letter for me! it gives me an estate of seven years’ health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician: the most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic, and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.

Virgilia

O, no, no, no.

Volumnia

O, he is wounded; I thank the gods for’t.

Menenius

So do I too, if it be not too much: brings a’ victory in his pocket? the wounds become him.

Volumnia

On’s brows: Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken garland.

Menenius

Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?

Volumnia

Titus Lartius writes, they fought together, but

Aufidius got off.

Menenius

And ’twas time for him too, I’ll warrant him that: an he had stayed by him, I would not have been so fidiused for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold that’s in them. Is the senate possessed of this?

Volumnia

Good ladies, let’s go. Yes, yes, yes; the senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war: he hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly

Valeria

In troth, there’s wondrous things spoke of him.

Menenius

Wondrous! ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.

Virgilia

The gods grant them true!

Volumnia

True! pow, wow.

Menenius

True! I’ll be sworn they are true.

Where is he wounded?

To the Tribunes

God save your good worships! Marcius is coming home: he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded?

Volumnia

I’ the shoulder and i’ the left arm there will be large cicatrices to show the people, when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i’ the body.

Menenius

One i’ the neck, and two i’ the thigh,— there’s nine that I know.

Volumnia

He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five wounds upon him.

Menenius

Now it’s twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy’s grave.

A shout and flourish

Hark! the trumpets.

Volumnia

These are the ushers of Marcius: before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears:

Death, that dark spirit, in ’s nervy arm doth lie;

Which, being advanced, declines, and then men die.

A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter Cominius the general, and Titus Lartius; between them, Coriolanus, crowned with an oaken garland; with Captains and Soldiers, and a Herald

Herald

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.

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

Flourish

All

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

Coriolanus

No more of this; it does offend my heart:

Pray now, no more.

Cominius

Look, sir, your mother!

Coriolanus

O,

You have, I know, petition’d all the gods

For my prosperity!

Kneels

Volumnia

Nay, my good soldier, up;

My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and

By deed-achieving honour newly named,—

What is it?— Coriolanus must I call thee?—

But O, thy wife!

Coriolanus

My gracious silence, hail!

Wouldst thou have laugh’d had I come coffin’d home,

That weep’st to see me triumph? Ay, my dear,

Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,

And mothers that lack sons.

Menenius

Now, the gods crown thee!

Coriolanus

And live you yet?

To Valeria

O my sweet lady, pardon.

Volumnia

I know not where to turn: O, welcome home:

And welcome, general: and ye’re welcome all.

Menenius

A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep

And I could laugh, I am light and heavy. Welcome.

A curse begin at very root on’s heart,

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:

We call a nettle but a nettle and

The faults of fools but folly.

Cominius

Ever right.

Coriolanus

Menenius ever, ever.

Herald

Give way there, and go on!

Coriolanus

[To Volumnia and Virgilia] Your hand, and yours:

Ere in our own house I do shade my head,

The good patricians must be visited;

From whom I have received not only greetings,

But with them change of honours.

Volumnia

I have lived

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.

Coriolanus

Know, good mother,

I had rather be their servant in my way,

Than sway with them in theirs.

Cominius

On, to the Capitol!

Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before. Brutus and Sicinius come forward

Brutus

All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights

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,

Clambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows,

Are smother’d up, leads fill’d, and ridges horsed

With variable complexions, all agreeing

In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens

Do press among the popular throngs and puff

To win a vulgar station: or veil’d dames

Commit the war of white and damask in

Their nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton spoil

Of Phoebus’ burning kisses: such a pother

As if that whatsoever god who leads him

Were slily crept into his human powers

And gave him graceful posture.

Sicinius

On the sudden,

I warrant him consul.

Brutus

Then our office may,

During his power, go sleep.

Sicinius

He cannot temperately transport his honours

From where he should begin and end, but will

Lose those he hath won.

Brutus

In that there’s comfort.

Sicinius

Doubt not

The commoners, for whom we stand, but they

Upon their ancient malice will forget

With the least cause these his new honours, which

That he will give them make I as little question

As he is proud to do’t.

Brutus

I heard him swear,

Were he to stand for consul, never would he

Appear i’ the market-place nor on him put

The napless vesture of humility;

Nor showing, as the manner is, his wounds

To the people, beg their stinking breaths.

Sicinius

’Tis right.

Brutus

It was his word: O, he would miss it rather

Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him,

And the desire of the nobles.

Sicinius

I wish no better

Than have him hold that purpose and to put it

In execution.

Brutus

’Tis most like he will.

Sicinius

It shall be to him then as our good wills,

A sure destruction.

Brutus

So it must fall out

To him or our authorities. For an end,

We must suggest the people in what hatred

He still hath held them; that to’s power he would

Have made them mules, silenced their pleaders and

Dispropertied their freedoms, holding them,

In human action and capacity,

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.

Sicinius

This, as you say, suggested

At some time when his soaring insolence

Shall touch 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

To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze

Shall darken him for ever.

Enter a Messenger

Brutus

What’s the matter?

Messenger

You are sent for to the Capitol. ’Tis thought

That Marcius shall be consul:

I have seen the dumb men throng to see him and

The blind to bear him speak: matrons flung gloves,

Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers,

Upon him as he pass’d: the nobles bended,

As to Jove’s statue, and the commons made

A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts:

I never saw the like.

Brutus

Let’s to the Capitol;

And carry with us ears and eyes for the time,

But hearts for the event.

Sicinius

Have with you.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME. THE CAPITOL.

Enter two Officers, to lay cushions

First Officer

Come, come, they are almost here. How many stand for consulships?

Second Officer

Three, they say: but ’tis thought of every one

Coriolanus will carry it.

First Officer

That’s a brave fellow; but he’s vengeance proud, and loves not the common people.

Second Officer

Faith, there had been many great men that have flattered the people, who ne’er loved them; and there be many that they have loved, they know not wherefore: so that, if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground: therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether they love or hate him manifests the true knowledge he has in their disposition; and out of his noble carelessness lets them plainly see’t.

First Officer

If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved indifferently ’twixt doing them neither good nor harm: but he seeks their hate with greater devotion than can render it him; and leaves nothing undone that may fully discover him their opposite. Now, to seem to affect the malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he dislikes, to flatter them for their love.

Second Officer

He hath deserved worthily of his country: and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those who, having been supple and courteous to the people, bonneted, without any further deed to have them at an into their estimation and report: but he hath so planted his honours in their eyes, and his actions in their hearts, that for their tongues to be silent, and not confess so much, were a kind of ingrateful injury; to report otherwise, were a malice, that, giving itself the lie, would pluck reproof and rebuke from every ear that heard it.

First Officer

No more of him; he is a worthy man: make way, they are coming.

A sennet. Enter, with actors before them, Cominius the consul, Menenius, Coriolanus, Senators, Sicinius and Brutus. The Senators take their places; the Tribunes take their Places by themselves. Coriolanus stands

Menenius

Having determined of the Volsces and

To send for Titus Lartius, it remains,

As the main point of this our after-meeting,

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

In our well-found successes, to report

A little of that worthy work perform’d

By Caius Marcius Coriolanus, whom

We met here both to thank and to remember

With honours like himself.

First Senator

Speak, good Cominius:

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,

We do request your kindest ears, and after,

Your loving motion toward the common body,

To yield what passes here.

Sicinius

We are convented

Upon a pleasing treaty, and have hearts

Inclinable to honour and advance

The theme of our assembly.

Brutus

Which the rather

We shall be blest to do, if he remember

A kinder value of the people than

He hath hereto prized them at.

Menenius

That’s off, that’s off;

I would you rather had been silent. Please you

To hear Cominius speak?

Brutus

Most willingly;

But yet my caution was more pertinent

Than the rebuke you give it.

Menenius

He loves your people

But tie him not to be their bedfellow.

Worthy Cominius, speak.

Coriolanus offers to go away

Nay, keep your place.

First Senator

Sit, Coriolanus; never shame to hear

What you have nobly done.

Coriolanus

Your horror’s pardon:

I had rather have my wounds to heal again

Than hear say how I got them.

Brutus

Sir, I hope

My words disbench’d you not.

Coriolanus

No, sir: yet oft,

When blows have made me stay, I fled from words.

You soothed not, therefore hurt not: but your people,

I love them as they weigh.

Menenius

Pray now, sit down.

Coriolanus

I had rather have one scratch my head i’ the sun

When the alarum were struck than idly sit

To hear my nothings monster’d.

Exit

Menenius

Masters of the people,

Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter —

That’s thousand to one good one — when you now see

He had rather venture all his limbs for honour

Than one on’s ears to hear it? Proceed, Cominius.

Cominius

I shall lack voice: the deeds of Coriolanus

Should not be utter’d feebly. It is held

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 counterpoised. At sixteen years,

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

The bristled lips before him: be 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,

When he might act the woman in the scene,

He proved 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,

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

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,

Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot

He was a thing of blood, whose every motion

Was timed with dying cries: alone he enter’d

The mortal gate of the city, which he painted

With shunless destiny; aidless came off,

And with a sudden reinforcement struck

Corioli like a planet: now all’s his:

When, by and by, the din of war gan pierce

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

’Twere a perpetual spoil: and till we call’d

Both field and city ours, he never stood

To ease his breast with panting.

Menenius

Worthy man!

First Senator

He cannot but with measure fit the honours

Which we devise him.

Cominius

Our spoils he kick’d at,

And look’d upon things precious as they were

The common muck of the world: he covets less

Than misery itself would give; rewards

His deeds with doing them, and is content

To spend the time to end it.

Menenius

He’s right noble:

Let him be call’d for.

First Senator

Call Coriolanus.

Officer

He doth appear.

Re-enter Coriolanus

Menenius

The senate, Coriolanus, are well pleased

To make thee consul.

Coriolanus

I do owe them still

My life and services.

Menenius

It then remains

That you do speak to the people.

Coriolanus

I do beseech you,

Let me o’erleap that custom, for I cannot

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.

Sicinius

Sir, the people

Must have their voices; neither will they bate

One jot of ceremony.

Menenius

Put them not to’t:

Pray you, go fit you to the custom and

Take to you, as your predecessors have,

Your honour with your form.

Coriolanus

It is apart

That I shall blush in acting, and might well

Be taken from the people.

Brutus

Mark you that?

Coriolanus

To brag unto them, thus I did, and thus;

Show them the unaching scars which I should hide,

As if I had received them for the hire

Of their breath only!

Menenius

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.

Senators

To Coriolanus come all joy and honour!

Flourish of cornets. Exeunt all but Sicinius and Brutus

Brutus

You see how he intends to use the people.

Sicinius

May they perceive’s intent! He will require them,

As if he did contemn what he requested

Should be in them to give.

Brutus

Come, we’ll inform them

Of our proceedings here: on the marketplace,

I know, they do attend us.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE SAME. THE FORUM.

Enter seven or eight Citizens

First Citizen

Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not to deny him.

Second Citizen

We may, sir, if we will.

Third Citizen

We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a power that we have no power to do; for if he show us his wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our tongues into those wounds and speak for them; so, if he tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell him our noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude is monstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful, were to make a monster of the multitude: of the which we being members, should bring ourselves to be monstrous members.

First Citizen

And to make us no better thought of, a little help will serve; for once we stood up about the corn, he himself stuck not to call us the many-headed multitude.

Third Citizen

We have been called so of many; not that our heads are some brown, some black, some auburn, some bald, but that our wits are so diversely coloured: and truly I think if all our wits were to issue out of one skull, they would fly east, west, north, south, and their consent of one direct way should be at once to all the points o’ the compass.

Second Citizen

Think you so? Which way do you judge my wit would fly?

Third Citizen

Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man’s will;’tis strongly wedged up in a block-head, but if it were at liberty, ’twould, sure, southward.

Second Citizen

Why that way?

Third Citizen

To lose itself in a fog, where being three parts melted away with rotten dews, the fourth would return for conscience sake, to help to get thee a wife.

Second Citizen

You are never without your tricks: you may, you may.

Third Citizen

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.

Enter Coriolanus in a gown of humility, with Menenius

Here he comes, and in the gown of humility: mark his behavior. 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 direct you how you shall go by him.

All

Content, content.

Exeunt Citizens

Menenius

O sir, you are not right: have you not known

The worthiest men have done’t?

Coriolanus

What must I say?

‘I Pray, sir’— Plague upon’t! I cannot bring

My tongue to such a pace:—‘Look, sir, my wounds!

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.’

Menenius

O me, the gods!

You must not speak of that: you must desire them

To think upon you.

Coriolanus

Think upon me! hang ’em!

I would they would forget me, like the virtues

Which our divines lose by ’em.

Menenius

You’ll mar all:

I’ll leave you: pray you, speak to ’em, I pray you,

In wholesome manner.

Exit

Coriolanus

Bid them wash their faces

And keep their teeth clean.

Re-enter two of the Citizens

So, here comes a brace.

Re-enter a third Citizen

You know the cause, air, of my standing here.

Third Citizen

We do, sir; tell us what hath brought you to’t.

Coriolanus

Mine own desert.

Second Citizen

Your own desert!

Coriolanus

Ay, but not mine own desire.

Third Citizen

How not your own desire?

Coriolanus

No, sir,’twas never my desire yet to trouble the poor with begging.

Third Citizen

You must think, if we give you any thing, we hope to gain by you.

Coriolanus

Well then, I pray, your price o’ the consulship?

First Citizen

The price is to ask it kindly.

Coriolanus

Kindly! Sir, I pray, let me ha’t: I have wounds to show you, which shall be yours in private. Your good voice, sir; what say you?

Second Citizen

You shall ha’ it, worthy sir.

Coriolanus

A match, sir. There’s in all two worthy voices begged. I have your alms: adieu.

Third Citizen

But this is something odd.

Second Citizen

An ’twere to give again,— but ’tis no matter.

Exeunt the three Citizens

Re-enter two other Citizens

Coriolanus

Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of your voices that I may be consul, I have here the customary gown.

Fourth Citizen

You have deserved nobly of your country, and you have not deserved nobly.

Coriolanus

Your enigma?

Fourth Citizen

You have been a scourge to her enemies, you have been a rod to her friends; you have not indeed loved the common people.

Coriolanus

You should account me the more virtuous that I have not been common in my love. I will, sir, flatter my sworn brother, the people, to earn a dearer estimation of them; ’tis a condition they account gentle: and since the wisdom of their choice is rather to have my hat than my heart, I will practise the insinuating nod and be off to them most counterfeitly; that is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of some popular man and give it bountiful to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you, I may be consul.

Fifth Citizen

We hope to find you our friend; and therefore give you our voices heartily.

Fourth Citizen

You have received many wounds for your country.

Coriolanus

I will not seal your knowledge with showing them. I will make much of your voices, and so trouble you no further.

Both Citizens

The gods give you joy, sir, heartily!

Exeunt

Coriolanus

Most sweet voices!

Better it is to die, better to starve,

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 heapt

For truth to o’er-peer. Rather than fool it so,

Let the high office and the honour go

To one that would do thus. I am half through;

The one part suffer’d, the other will I do.

Re-enter three Citizens more

Here come more voices.

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:

Indeed I would be consul.

Sixth Citizen

He has done nobly, and cannot go without any honest man’s voice.

Seventh Citizen

Therefore let him be consul: the gods give him joy, and make him good friend to the people!

All Citizens

Amen, amen. God save thee, noble consul!

Exeunt

Coriolanus

Worthy voices!

Re-enter Menenius, with Brutus and Sicinius

Menenius

You have stood your limitation; and the tribunes

Endue you with the people’s voice: remains

That, in the official marks invested, you

Anon do meet the senate.

Coriolanus

Is this done?

Sicinius

The custom of request you have discharged:

The people do admit you, and are summon’d

To meet anon, upon your approbation.

Coriolanus

Where? at the senate-house?

Sicinius

There, Coriolanus.

Coriolanus

May I change these garments?

Sicinius

You may, sir.

Coriolanus

That I’ll straight do; and, knowing myself again,

Repair to the senate-house.

Menenius

I’ll keep you company. Will you along?

Brutus

We stay here for the people.

Sicinius

Fare you well.

Exeunt Coriolanus and Menenius

He has it now, and by his looks methink

’Tis warm at ’s heart.

Brutus

With a proud heart he wore his humble weeds. will you dismiss the people?

Re-enter Citizens

Sicinius

How now, my masters! have you chose this man?

First Citizen

He has our voices, sir.

Brutus

We pray the gods he may deserve your loves.

Second Citizen

Amen, sir: to my poor unworthy notice,

He mock’d us when he begg’d our voices.

Third Citizen

Certainly

He flouted us downright.

First Citizen

No,’tis his kind of speech: he did not mock us.

Second Citizen

Not one amongst us, save yourself, but says

He used us scornfully: he should have show’d us

His marks of merit, wounds received for’s country.

Sicinius

Why, so he did, I am sure.

Citizens

No, no; no man saw ’em.

Third Citizen

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,

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,

I have no further with you.’ Was not this mockery?

Sicinius

Why either were you ignorant to see’t,

Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness

To yield your voices?

Brutus

Could you not have told him

As you were lesson’d, when he had no power,

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

A place of potency and sway o’ the state,

If he should still malignantly remain

Fast foe to the plebeii, your voices might

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

Translate his malice towards you into love,

Standing your friendly lord.

Sicinius

Thus to have said,

As you were fore-advised, had touch’d his spirit

And tried his inclination; from him pluck’d

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

Tying him to aught; so putting him to rage,

You should have ta’en the advantage of his choler

And pass’d him unelected.

Brutus

Did you perceive

He did solicit you in free contempt

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?

Sicinius

Have you

Ere now denied the asker? and now again

Of him that did not ask, but mock, bestow

Your sued-for tongues?

Third Citizen

He’s not confirm’d; we may deny him yet.

Second Citizen

And will deny him:

I’ll have five hundred voices of that sound.

First Citizen

I twice five hundred and their friends to piece ’em.

Brutus

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

As therefore kept to do so.

Sicinius

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

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,

Which most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion

After the inveterate hate he bears you.

Brutus

Lay

A fault on us, your tribunes; that we laboured,

No impediment between, but that you must

Cast your election on him.

Sicinius

Say, you chose him

More after our commandment than as guided

By your own true affections, and that your minds,

Preoccupied with what you rather must do

Than what you should, made you against the grain

To voice him consul: lay the fault on us.

Brutus

Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures to you.

How youngly he began to serve his country,

How long continued, 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;

Of the same house Publius and Quintus were,

That our beat water brought by conduits hither;

And [Censorinus,] nobly named so,

Twice being [by the people chosen] censor,

Was his great ancestor.

Sicinius

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,

That he’s your fixed enemy, and revoke

Your sudden approbation.

Brutus

Say, you ne’er had done’t —

Harp on that still — but by our putting on;

And presently, when you have drawn your number,

Repair to the Capitol.

All

We will so: almost all

Repent in their election.

Exeunt Citizens

Brutus

Let them go on;

This mutiny were better put in hazard,

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.

Sicinius

To the Capitol, come:

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, all the Gentry, Cominius, Titus Lartius, and other Senators

Coriolanus

Tullus Aufidius then had made new head?

Lartius

He had, my lord; and that it was which caused

Our swifter composition.

Coriolanus

So then the Volsces stand but as at first,

Ready, when time shall prompt them, to make road.

Upon’s again.

Cominius

They are worn, lord consul, so,

That we shall hardly in our ages see

Their banners wave again.

Coriolanus

Saw you Aufidius?

Lartius

On safe-guard he came to me; and did curse

Against the Volsces, for they had so vilely

Yielded the town: he is retired to Antium.

Coriolanus

Spoke he of me?

Lartius

He did, my lord.

Coriolanus

How? what?

Lartius

How often he had met you, sword to sword;

That of all things upon the earth he hated

Your person most, that he would pawn his fortunes

To hopeless restitution, so he might

Be call’d your vanquisher.

Coriolanus

At Antium lives he?

Lartius

At Antium.

Coriolanus

I wish I had a cause to seek him there,

To oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home.

Enter Sicinius and Brutus

Behold, these are the tribunes of the people,

The tongues o’ the common mouth: I do despise them;

For they do prank them in authority,

Against all noble sufferance.

Sicinius

Pass no further.

Coriolanus

Ha! what is that?

Brutus

It will be dangerous to go on: no further.

Coriolanus

What makes this change?

Menenius

The matter?

Cominius

Hath he not pass’d the noble and the common?

Brutus

Cominius, no.

Coriolanus

Have I had children’s voices?

First Senator

Tribunes, give way; he shall to the market-place.

Brutus

The people are incensed against him.

Sicinius

Stop,

Or all will fall in broil.

Coriolanus

Are these your herd?

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?

Menenius

Be calm, be calm.

Coriolanus

It is a purposed 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 ruled.

Brutus

Call’t not a plot:

The people cry you mock’d them, and of late,

When corn was given them gratis, you repined;

Scandal’d the suppliants for the people, call’d them

Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness.

Coriolanus

Why, this was known before.

Brutus

Not to them all.

Coriolanus

Have you inform’d them sithence?

Brutus

How! I inform them!

Coriolanus

You are like to do such business.

Brutus

Not unlike,

Each way, to better yours.

Coriolanus

Why then should I be consul? By yond clouds,

Let me deserve so ill as you, and make me

Your fellow tribune.

Sicinius

You show too much of that

For which the people stir: if you will pass

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.

Menenius

Let’s be calm.

Cominius

The people are abused; set on. This paltering

Becomes not Rome, nor has Coriolanus

Deserved this so dishonour’d rub, laid falsely

I’ the plain way of his merit.

Coriolanus

Tell me of corn!

This was my speech, and I will speak’t again —

Menenius

Not now, not now.

First Senator

Not in this heat, sir, now.

Coriolanus

Now, as I live, I will. My nobler friends,

I crave their pardons:

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,

Which we ourselves have plough’d for, sow’d, and scatter’d,

By mingling them with us, the honour’d number,

Who lack not virtue, no, nor power, but that

Which they have given to beggars.

Menenius

Well, no more.

First Senator

No more words, we beseech you.

Coriolanus

How! no more!

As for my country I have shed my blood,

Not fearing outward force, so shall my lungs

Coin words till their decay against those measles,

Which we disdain should tatter us, yet sought

The very way to catch them.

Brutus

You speak o’ the people,

As if you were a god to punish, not

A man of their infirmity.

Sicinius

’Twere well

We let the people know’t.

Menenius

What, what? his choler?

Coriolanus

Choler!

Were I as patient as the midnight sleep,

By Jove, ’twould be my mind!

Sicinius

It is a mind

That shall remain a poison where it is,

Not poison any further.

Coriolanus

Shall remain!

Hear you this Triton of the minnows? mark you

His absolute ‘shall’?

Cominius

’Twas from the canon.

Coriolanus

’shall’!

O good but most unwise patricians! why,

You grave but reckless senators, have you thus

Given Hydra here to choose an officer,

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

Your dangerous lenity. If you are learn’d,

Be not as common fools; if you are not,

Let them have cushions by you. You are plebeians,

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,’

His popular ‘shall’ against a graver bench

Than ever frown in Greece. By Jove himself!

It makes the consuls base: and my soul aches

To know, when two authorities are up,

Neither supreme, how soon confusion

May enter ’twixt the gap of both and take

The one by the other.

Cominius

Well, on to the market-place.

Coriolanus

Whoever gave that counsel, to give forth

The corn o’ the storehouse gratis, as ’twas used

Sometime in Greece,—

Menenius

Well, well, no more of that.

Coriolanus

Though there the people had more absolute power,

I say, they nourish’d disobedience, fed

The ruin of the state.

Brutus

Why, shall the people give

One that speaks thus their voice?

Coriolanus

I’ll give my reasons,

More worthier than their voices. They know the corn

Was not our recompense, resting well assured

That 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

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

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;

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 the locks o’ the senate and bring in

The crows to peck the eagles.

Menenius

Come, enough.

Brutus

Enough, with over-measure.

Coriolanus

No, take more:

What may be sworn by, both divine and human,

Seal what I end withal! This double worship,

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

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,—

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

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

Mangles true judgment and bereaves the state

Of that integrity which should become’t,

Not having the power to do the good it would,

For the in which doth control’t.

Brutus

Has said enough.

Sicinius

Has spoken like a traitor, and shall answer

As traitors do.

Coriolanus

Thou wretch, despite o’erwhelm thee!

What should the people do with these bald tribunes?

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,

Let what is meet be said it must be meet,

And throw their power i’ the dust.

Brutus

Manifest treason!

Sicinius

This a consul? no.

Brutus

The aediles, ho!

Enter an Aedile

Let him be apprehended.

Sicinius

Go, call the people:

Exit Aedile

in whose name myself

Attach thee as a traitorous innovator,

A foe to the public weal: obey, I charge thee,

And follow to thine answer.

Coriolanus

Hence, old goat!

Senators, & C We’ll surety him.

Cominius

Aged sir, hands off.

Coriolanus

Hence, rotten thing! or I shall shake thy bones

Out of thy garments.

Sicinius

Help, ye citizens!

Enter a rabble of Citizens (Plebeians), with the Aediles

Menenius

On both sides more respect.

Sicinius

Here’s he that would take from you all your power.

Brutus

Seize him, Aediles!

Citizens

Down with him! down with him!

Senators, & C Weapons, weapons, weapons!

They all bustle about Coriolanus, crying

‘Tribunes!’ ‘Patricians!’ ‘Citizens!’ ‘What, ho!’

‘Sicinius!’ ‘Brutus!’ ‘Coriolanus!’ ‘Citizens!’

‘Peace, peace, peace!’ ‘stay, hold, peace!’

Menenius

What is about to be? I am out of breath;

Confusion’s near; I cannot speak. You, tribunes

To the people! Coriolanus, patience!

Speak, good Sicinius.

Sicinius

Hear me, people; peace!

Citizens

Let’s hear our tribune: peace Speak, speak, speak.

Sicinius

You are at point to lose your liberties:

Marcius would have all from you; Marcius,

Whom late you have named for consul.

Menenius

Fie, fie, fie!

This is the way to kindle, not to quench.

First Senator

To unbuild the city and to lay all flat.

Sicinius

What is the city but the people?

Citizens

True,

The people are the city.

Brutus

By the consent of all, we were establish’d

The people’s magistrates.

Citizens

You so remain.

Menenius

And so are like to do.

Cominius

That is the way to lay the city flat;

To bring the roof to the foundation,

And bury all, which yet distinctly ranges,

In heaps and piles of ruin.

Sicinius

This deserves death.

Brutus

Or let us stand to our authority,

Or let us lose it. We do here pronounce,

Upon the part o’ the people, in whose power

We were elected theirs, Marcius is worthy

Of present death.

Sicinius

Therefore lay hold of him;

Bear him to the rock Tarpeian, and from thence

Into destruction cast him.

Brutus

Aediles, seize him!

Citizens

Yield, Marcius, yield!

Menenius

Hear me one word;

Beseech you, tribunes, hear me but a word.

Aedile

Peace, peace!

Menenius

[To Brutus] Be that you seem, truly your country’s friend,

And temperately proceed to what you would

Thus violently redress.

Brutus

Sir, those cold ways,

That seem like prudent helps, are very poisonous

Where the disease is violent. Lay hands upon him,

And bear him to the rock.

Coriolanus

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.

Menenius

Down with that sword! Tribunes, withdraw awhile.

Brutus

Lay hands upon him.

Cominius

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 Aediles, and the People, are beat in

Menenius

Go, get you to your house; be gone, away!

All will be naught else.

Second Senator

Get you gone.

Cominius

Stand fast;

We have as many friends as enemies.

Menenius

Sham it be put to that?

First Senator

The gods forbid!

I prithee, noble friend, home to thy house;

Leave us to cure this cause.

Menenius

For ’tis a sore upon us,

You cannot tent yourself: be gone, beseech you.

Cominius

Come, sir, along with us.

Coriolanus

I would they were barbarians — as they are,

Though in Rome litter’d — not Romans — as they are not,

Though calved i’ the porch o’ the Capitol —

Menenius

Be gone;

Put not your worthy rage into your tongue;

One time will owe another.

Coriolanus

On fair ground

I could beat forty of them.

Cominius

I could myself

Take up a brace o’ the best of them; yea, the two tribunes:

But now ’tis odds beyond arithmetic;

And manhood is call’d foolery, when it stands

Against a falling fabric. Will you hence,

Before the tag return? whose rage doth rend

Like interrupted waters and o’erbear

What they are used to bear.

Menenius

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.

Cominius

Nay, come away.

Exeunt Coriolanus, Cominius, and others

A Patrician

This man has marr’d his fortune.

Menenius

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:

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!

Second Patrician

I would they were abed!

Menenius

I would they were in Tiber! What the vengeance!

Could he not speak ’em fair?

Re-enter Brutus and Sicinius, with the rabble

Sicinius

Where is this viper

That would depopulate the city and

Be every man himself?

Menenius

You worthy tribunes,—

Sicinius

He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock

With rigorous hands: he hath resisted law,

And therefore law shall scorn him further trial

Than the severity of the public power

Which he so sets at nought.

First Citizen

He shall well know

The noble tribunes are the people’s mouths,

And we their hands.

Citizens

He shall, sure on’t.

Menenius

Sir, sir,—

Sicinius

Peace!

Menenius

Do not cry havoc, where you should but hunt

With modest warrant.

Sicinius

Sir, how comes’t that you

Have holp to make this rescue?

Menenius

Hear me speak:

As I do know the consul’s worthiness,

So can I name his faults,—

Sicinius

Consul! what consul?

Menenius

The consul Coriolanus.

Brutus

He consul!

Citizens

No, no, no, no, no.

Menenius

If, by the tribunes’ leave, and yours, good people,

I may be heard, I would crave a word or two;

The which shall turn you to no further harm

Than so much loss of time.

Sicinius

Speak briefly then;

For we are peremptory to dispatch

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.

Menenius

Now the good gods forbid

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!

Sicinius

He’s a disease that must be cut away.

Menenius

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?

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,

Were to us all, that do’t and suffer it,

A brand to the end o’ the world.

Sicinius

This is clean kam.

Brutus

Merely awry: when he did love his country,

It honour’d him.

Menenius

The service of the foot

Being once gangrened, is not then respected

For what before it was.

Brutus

We’ll hear no more.

Pursue him to his house, and pluck him thence:

Lest his infection, being of catching nature,

Spread further.

Menenius

One word more, one word.

This tiger-footed rage, when it shall find

The harm of unscann’d swiftness, will too late

Tie leaden pounds to’s heels. Proceed by process;

Lest parties, as he is beloved, break out,

And sack great Rome with Romans.

Brutus

If it were so,—

Sicinius

What do ye talk?

Have we not had a taste of his obedience?

Our aediles smote? ourselves resisted? Come.

Menenius

Consider this: he has been bred i’ the wars

Since he could draw a sword, and is ill school’d

In bolted language; meal and bran together

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 Senator

Noble tribunes,

It is the humane way: the other course

Will prove too bloody, and the end of it

Unknown to the beginning.

Sicinius

Noble Menenius,

Be you then as the people’s officer.

Masters, lay down your weapons.

Brutus

Go not home.

Sicinius

Meet on the market-place. We’ll attend you there:

Where, if you bring not Marcius, we’ll proceed

In our first way.

Menenius

I’ll bring him to you.

To the Senators

Let me desire your company: he must come,

Or what is worst will follow.

First Senator

Pray you, let’s to him.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A ROOM IN CORIOLANUS’S HOUSE.

Enter Coriolanus with Patricians

Coriolanus

Let them puff 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

Below the beam of sight, yet will I still

Be thus to them.

A Patrician

You do the nobler.

Coriolanus

I muse my mother

Does not approve me further, who was wont

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

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.

Volumnia

O, sir, sir, sir,

I would have had you put your power well on,

Before you had worn it out.

Coriolanus

Let go.

Volumnia

You might have been enough the man you are,

With striving less to be so; lesser had been

The thwartings of your dispositions, if

You had not show’d them how ye were disposed

Ere they lack’d power to cross you.

Coriolanus

Let them hang.

A Patrician

Ay, and burn too.

Enter Menenius and Senators

Menenius

Come, come, you have been too rough, something too rough; You must return and mend it.

First Senator

There’s no remedy;

Unless, by not so doing, our good city

Cleave in the midst, and perish.

Volumnia

Pray, be counsell’d:

I have a heart as little apt as yours,

But yet a brain that leads my use of anger

To better vantage.

Menenius

Well said, noble woman?

Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but that

The violent fit o’ the time craves it as physic

For the whole state, I would put mine armour on,

Which I can scarcely bear.

Coriolanus

What must I do?

Menenius

Return to the tribunes.

Coriolanus

Well, what then? what then?

Menenius

Repent what you have spoke.

Coriolanus

For them! I cannot do it to the gods;

Must I then do’t to them?

Volumnia

You are too absolute;

Though therein you can never be too noble,

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 the other lose,

That they combine not there.

Coriolanus

Tush, tush!

Menenius

A good demand.

Volumnia

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

With honour, as in war, since that to both

It stands in like request?

Coriolanus

Why force you this?

Volumnia

Because that now it lies you on to speak

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.

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.

I would dissemble with my nature where

My fortunes and my friends at stake required

I should do so in honour: I am in this,

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

Of what that want might ruin.

Menenius

Noble lady!

Come, go with us; speak fair: you may salve so,

Not what is dangerous present, but the loss

Of what is past.

Volumnia

I prithee now, my son,

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

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

As thou hast power and person.

Menenius

This but done,

Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours;

For they have pardons, being ask’d, as free

As words to little purpose.

Volumnia

Prithee now,

Go, and be ruled: although I know thou hadst rather

Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf

Than flatter him in a bower. Here is Cominius.

Enter Cominius

Cominius

I have been i’ the market-place; and, sir,’tis fit

You make strong party, or defend yourself

By calmness or by absence: all’s in anger.

Menenius

Only fair speech.

Cominius

I think ’twill serve, if he

Can thereto frame his spirit.

Volumnia

He must, and will

Prithee now, say you will, and go about it.

Coriolanus

Must I go show them my unbarbed sconce?

Must I with base tongue give my noble heart

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!

You have put me now to such a part which never

I shall discharge to the life.

Cominius

Come, come, we’ll prompt you.

Volumnia

I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said

My praises made thee first a soldier, so,

To have my praise for this, perform a part

Thou hast not done before.

Coriolanus

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

Small as an eunuch, or the virgin voice

That babies lulls asleep! the smiles of knaves

Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys’ tears take up

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 received an alms! I will not do’t,

Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth

And by my body’s action teach my mind

A most inherent baseness.

Volumnia

At thy choice, then:

To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour

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

Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck’dst it from me,

But owe thy pride thyself.

Coriolanus

Pray, be content:

Mother, I am going to the market-place;

Chide me no more. I’ll mountebank their loves,

Cog their hearts from them, and come home beloved

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

I’ the way of flattery further.

Volumnia

Do your will.

Exit

Cominius

Away! the tribunes do attend you: arm yourself

To answer mildly; for they are prepared

With accusations, as I hear, more strong

Than are upon you yet.

Coriolanus

The word is ‘mildly.’ Pray you, let us go:

Let them accuse me by invention, I

Will answer in mine honour.

Menenius

Ay, but mildly.

Coriolanus

Well, mildly be it then. Mildly!

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE SAME. THE FORUM.

Enter Sicinius and Brutus

Brutus

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

Was ne’er distributed.

Enter an Aedile

What, will he come?

Aedile

He’s coming.

Brutus

How accompanied?

Aedile

With old Menenius, and those senators

That always favour’d him.

Sicinius

Have you a catalogue

Of all the voices that we have procured

Set down by the poll?

Aedile

I have; ’tis ready.

Sicinius

Have you collected them by tribes?

Aedile

I have.

Sicinius

Assemble presently the people hither;

And when they bear 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.’

Insisting on the old prerogative

And power i’ the truth o’ the cause.

Aedile

I shall inform them.

Brutus

And when such time they have begun to cry,

Let them not cease, but with a din confused

Enforce the present execution

Of what we chance to sentence.

Aedile

Very well.

Sicinius

Make them be strong and ready for this hint,

When we shall hap to give ’t them.

Brutus

Go about it.

Exit Aedile

Put him to choler straight: he hath been used

Ever to conquer, and to have his worth

Of contradiction: being once chafed, he cannot

Be rein’d again to temperance; then he speaks

What’s in his heart; and that is there which looks

With us to break his neck.

Sicinius

Well, here he comes.

Enter Coriolanus, Menenius, and Cominius, with Senators and Patricians

Menenius

Calmly, I do beseech you.

Coriolanus

Ay, as an ostler, that for the poorest piece

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 ’s!

Throng our large temples with the shows of peace,

And not our streets with war!

First Senator

Amen, amen.

Menenius

A noble wish.

Re-enter Aedile, with Citizens

Sicinius

Draw near, ye people.

Aedile

List to your tribunes. Audience: peace, I say!

Coriolanus

First, hear me speak.

Both Tribunes

Well, say. Peace, ho!

Coriolanus

Shall I be charged no further than this present?

Must all determine here?

Sicinius

I do demand,

If you submit you to the people’s voices,

Allow their officers and are content

To suffer lawful censure for such faults

As shall be proved upon you?

Coriolanus

I am content.

Menenius

Lo, citizens, he says he is content:

The warlike service he has done, consider; think

Upon the wounds his body bears, which show

Like graves i’ the holy churchyard.

Coriolanus

Scratches with briers,

Scars to move laughter only.

Menenius

Consider further,

That when he speaks not like a citizen,

You find him like a soldier: do not take

His rougher accents for malicious sounds,

But, as I say, such as become a soldier,

Rather than envy you.

Cominius

Well, well, no more.

Coriolanus

What is the matter

That being pass’d for consul with full voice,

I am so dishonour’d that the very hour

You take it off again?

Sicinius

Answer to us.

Coriolanus

Say, then: ’tis true, I ought so.

Sicinius

We charge you, that you have contrived to take

From Rome all season’d office and to wind

Yourself into a power tyrannical;

For which you are a traitor to the people.

Coriolanus

How! traitor!

Menenius

Nay, temperately; your promise.

Coriolanus

The fires i’ the lowest hell fold-in the people!

Call me their traitor! Thou injurious tribune!

Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths,

In thy hand clutch’d as many millions, in

Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say

‘Thou liest’ unto thee with a voice as free

As I do pray the gods.

Sicinius

Mark you this, people?

Citizens

To the rock, to the rock with him!

Sicinius

Peace!

We need not put new matter to his charge:

What you have seen him do and heard him speak,

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,

Deserves the extremest death.

Brutus

But since he hath

Served well for Rome,—

Coriolanus

What do you prate of service?

Brutus

I talk of that, that know it.

Coriolanus

You?

Menenius

Is this the promise that you made your mother?

Cominius

Know, I pray you,—

Coriolanus

I know no further:

Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death,

Vagabond exile, raying, pent to linger

But with a grain a day, I would not buy

Their mercy at the price of one fair word;

Nor cheque my courage for what they can give,

To have’t with saying ‘Good morrow.’

Sicinius

For that he has,

As much as in him lies, from time to time

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

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

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:

He’s banish’d, and it shall be so.

Cominius

Hear me, my masters, and my common friends,—

Sicinius

He’s sentenced; no more hearing.

Cominius

Let me speak:

I have been consul, and can show for Rome

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

Speak that,—

Sicinius

We know your drift: speak what?

Brutus

There’s no more to be said, but he is banish’d,

As enemy to the people and his country:

It shall be so.

Citizens

It shall be so, it shall be so.

Coriolanus

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate

As reek o’ the rotten fens, whose loves I prize

As the dead carcasses of unburied men

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,

Fan you into despair! Have the power still

To banish your defenders; till at length

Your ignorance, which finds not till it feels,

Making not reservation of yourselves,

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:

There is a world elsewhere.

Exeunt Coriolanus, Cominius, Menenius, Senators, and Patricians

Aedile

The people’s enemy is gone, is gone!

Citizens

Our enemy is banish’d! he is gone! Hoo! hoo!

Shouting, and throwing up their caps

Sicinius

Go, see him out at gates, and follow him,

As he hath followed you, with all despite;

Give him deserved vexation. Let a guard

Attend us through the city.

Citizens

Come, come; let’s see him out at gates; come.

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, with the young Nobility of Rome

Coriolanus

Come, leave your tears: a brief farewell: the beast

With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother,

Where is your ancient courage? you were used

To say extremity was the trier of spirits;

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

A noble cunning: you were used to load me

With precepts that would make invincible

The heart that conn’d them.

Virgilia

O heavens! O heavens!

Coriolanus

Nay! prithee, woman,—

Volumnia

Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome,

And occupations perish!

Coriolanus

What, what, what!

I shall be loved when I am lack’d. Nay, mother.

Resume that spirit, when you were wont to say,

If you had been the wife of Hercules,

Six of his labours you’ld have done, and saved

Your husband so much sweat. Cominius,

Droop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my mother:

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 stem, and thou hast oft beheld

Heart-hardening spectacles; tell these sad women

’Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes,

As ’tis to laugh at ’em. My mother, you wot well

My hazards still have been your solace: and

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

With cautelous baits and practise.

Volumnia

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

That starts i’ the way before thee.

Coriolanus

O the gods!

Cominius

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

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.

Coriolanus

Fare ye well:

Thou hast years upon thee; and thou art too full

Of the wars’ surfeits, to go rove with one

That’s yet unbruised: bring me but out at gate.

Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and

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

But what is like me formerly.

Menenius

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’ld with thee every foot.

Coriolanus

Give me thy hand: Come.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME. A STREET NEAR THE GATE.

Enter Sicinius, Brutus, and an Aedile

Sicinius

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.

Brutus

Now we have shown our power,

Let us seem humbler after it is done

Than when it was a-doing.

Sicinius

Bid them home:

Say their great enemy is gone, and they

Stand in their ancient strength.

Brutus

Dismiss them home.

Exit Aedile

Here comes his mother.

Sicinius

Let’s not meet her.

Brutus

Why?

Sicinius

They say she’s mad.

Brutus

They have ta’en note of us: keep on your way.

Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Menenius

Volumnia

O, ye’re well met: the hoarded plague o’ the gods

Requite your love!

Menenius

Peace, peace; be not so loud.

Volumnia

If that I could for weeping, you should hear,—

Nay, and you shall hear some.

To Brutus

Will you be gone?

Virgilia

[To Sicinius] You shall stay too: I would I had the power

To say so to my husband.

Sicinius

Are you mankind?

Volumnia

Ay, fool; is that a shame? Note but this fool.

Was not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship

To banish him that struck more blows for Rome

Than thou hast spoken words?

Sicinius

O blessed heavens!

Volumnia

More noble blows than ever thou wise words;

And for Rome’s good. I’ll tell thee what; yet go:

Nay, but thou shalt stay too: I would my son

Were in Arabia, and thy tribe before him,

His good sword in his hand.

Sicinius

What then?

Virgilia

What then!

He’ld make an end of thy posterity.

Volumnia

Bastards and all.

Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome!

Menenius

Come, come, peace.

Sicinius

I would he had continued to his country

As he began, and not unknit himself

The noble knot he made.

Brutus

I would he had.

Volumnia

‘I would he had’! ’Twas you incensed the rabble:

Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth

As I can of those mysteries which heaven

Will not have earth to know.

Brutus

Pray, let us go.

Volumnia

Now, pray, sir, get you gone:

You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this:—

As far as doth the Capitol exceed

The meanest house in Rome, so far my son —

This lady’s husband here, this, do you see —

Whom you have banish’d, does exceed you all.

Brutus

Well, well, we’ll leave you.

Sicinius

Why stay we to be baited

With one that wants her wits?

Volumnia

Take my prayers with you.

Exeunt Tribunes

I would the gods had nothing else to do

But to confirm my curses! Could I meet ’em

But once a-day, it would unclog my heart

Of what lies heavy to’t.

Menenius

You have told them home;

And, by my troth, you have cause. You’ll sup with me?

Volumnia

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,

In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come.

Menenius

Fie, fie, fie!

Exeunt

SCENE III. A HIGHWAY BETWEEN ROME AND ANTIUM.

Enter a Roman and a Volsce, meeting

Roman

I know you well, sir, and you know me: your name, I think, is Adrian.

Volsce

It is so, sir: truly, I have forgot you.

Roman

I am a Roman; and my services are, as you are, against ’em: know you me yet?

Volsce

Nicanor? no.

Roman

The same, sir.

Volsce

You had more beard when I last saw you; but your favour is well approved by your tongue. What’s the news in Rome? I have a note from the Volscian state, to find you out there: you have well saved me a day’s journey.

Roman

There hath been in Rome strange insurrections; the people against the senators, patricians, and nobles.

Volsce

Hath been! is it ended, then? Our state thinks not so: they are in a most warlike preparation, and hope to come upon them in the heat of their division.

Roman

The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing would make it flame again: for the nobles receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy Coriolanus, that they are in a ripe aptness to take all power from the people and to pluck from them their tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can tell you, and is almost mature for the violent breaking out.

Volsce

Coriolanus banished!

Roman

Banished, sir.

Volsce

You will be welcome with this intelligence, Nicanor.

Roman

The day serves well for them now. I have heard it said, the fittest time to corrupt a man’s wife is when she’s fallen out with her husband. Your noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his great opposer, Coriolanus, being now in no request of his country.

Volsce

He cannot choose. I am most fortunate, thus accidentally to encounter you: you have ended my business, and I will merrily accompany you home.

Roman

I shall, between this and supper, tell you most strange things from Rome; all tending to the good of their adversaries. Have you an army ready, say you?

Volsce

A most royal one; the centurions and their charges, distinctly billeted, already in the entertainment, and to be on foot at an hour’s warning.

Roman

I am joyful to hear of their readiness, and am the man, I think, that shall set them in present action. So, sir, heartily well met, and most glad of your company.

Volsce

You take my part from me, sir; I have the most cause to be glad of yours.

Roman

Well, let us go together.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. ANTIUM. BEFORE AUFIDIUS’S HOUSE.

Enter Coriolanus in mean apparel, disguised and muffled

Coriolanus

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,

Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones

In puny battle slay me.

Enter a Citizen

Save you, sir.

Citizen

And you.

Coriolanus

Direct me, if it be your will,

Where great Aufidius lies: is he in Antium?

Citizen

He is, and feasts the nobles of the state

At his house this night.

Coriolanus

Which is his house, beseech you?

Citizen

This, here before you.

Coriolanus

Thank you, sir: farewell.

Exit Citizen

O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn,

Whose double bosoms seem to wear one heart,

Whose house, whose bed, whose meal, and exercise,

Are still together, who twin, as ’twere, in love

Unseparable, shall within this hour,

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,

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,

He does fair justice; if he give me way,

I’ll do his country service.

Exit

SCENE V. THE SAME. A HALL IN AUFIDIUS’S HOUSE.

Music within. Enter a Servingman

First Servingman

Wine, wine, wine! What service is here! I think our fellows are asleep.

Exit

Enter a second Servingman

Second Servingman

Where’s Cotus? my master calls for him. Cotus!

Exit

Enter Coriolanus

Coriolanus

A goodly house: the feast smells well; but I

Appear not like a guest.

Re-enter the first Servingman

First Servingman

What would you have, friend? whence are you?

Here’s no place for you: pray, go to the door.

Exit

Coriolanus

I have deserved no better entertainment,

In being Coriolanus.

Re-enter second Servingman

Second Servingman

Whence are you, sir? Has the porter his eyes in his head; that he gives entrance to such companions? Pray, get you out.

Coriolanus

Away!

Second Servingman

Away! get you away.

Coriolanus

Now thou’rt troublesome.

Second Servingman

Are you so brave? I’ll have you talked with anon.

Enter a third Servingman. The first meets him

Third Servingman

What fellow’s this?

First Servingman

A strange one as ever I looked on: I cannot get him out of the house: prithee, call my master to him.

Retires

Third Servingman

What have you to do here, fellow? Pray you, avoid the house.

Coriolanus

Let me but stand; I will not hurt your hearth.

Third Servingman

What are you?

Coriolanus

A gentleman.

Third Servingman

A marvellous poor one.

Coriolanus

True, so I am.

Third Servingman

Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some other station; here’s no place for you; pray you, avoid: come.

Coriolanus

Follow your function, go, and batten on cold bits.

Pushes him away

Third Servingman

What, you will not? Prithee, tell my master what a strange guest he has here.

Second Servingman

And I shall.

Exit

Third Servingman

Where dwellest thou?

Coriolanus

Under the canopy.

Third Servingman

Under the canopy!

Coriolanus

Ay.

Third Servingman

Where’s that?

Coriolanus

I’ the city of kites and crows.

Third Servingman

I’ the city of kites and crows! What an ass it is!

Then thou dwellest with daws too?

Coriolanus

No, I serve not thy master.

Third Servingman

How, sir! do you meddle with my master?

Coriolanus

Ay; ’tis an honester service than to meddle with thy mistress. Thou pratest, and pratest; serve with thy trencher, hence!

Beats him away. Exit third Servingman

Enter Aufidius with the second Servingman

Aufidius

Where is this fellow?

Second Servingman

Here, sir: I’ld have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the lords within.

Retires

Aufidius

Whence comest thou? what wouldst thou? thy name?

Why speak’st not? speak, man: what’s thy name?

Coriolanus

If, Tullus,

Unmuffling

Not yet thou knowest me, and, seeing me, dost not

Think me for the man I am, necessity

Commands me name myself.

Aufidius

What is thy name?

Coriolanus

A name unmusical to the Volscians’ ears,

And harsh in sound to thine.

Aufidius

Say, what’s thy name?

Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face

Bears a command in’t; though thy tackle’s torn.

Thou show’st a noble vessel: what’s thy name?

Coriolanus

Prepare thy brow to frown: know’st thou me yet?

Aufidius

I know thee not: thy name?

Coriolanus

My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done

To thee particularly and to all the Volsces

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

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,

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

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,

Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast

A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge

Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims

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

Against my canker’d country with the spleen

Of all the under fiends. But if so be

Thou darest not this and that to prove more fortunes

Thou’rt tired, then, in a word, I also am

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,

Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country’s breast,

And cannot live but to thy shame, unless

It be to do thee service.

Aufidius

O Marcius, Marcius!

Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart

A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter

Should from yond cloud speak divine things,

And say ’Tis true,’ I’ld not believe them more

Than thee, all noble Marcius. Let me twine

Mine arms about that body, where against

My grained ash an hundred times hath broke

And scarr’d the moon with splinters: here I clip

The anvil of my sword, and do contest

As hotly and as nobly with thy love

As ever in ambitious strength I did

Contend against thy valour. Know thou first,

I loved the maid I married; never man

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,

We have a power on foot; and I had purpose

Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn,

Or lose mine arm fort: thou hast beat me out

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 waked half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius,

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,

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 prepared against your territories,

Though not for Rome itself.

Coriolanus

You bless me, gods!

Aufidius

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 experienced, 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,

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;

Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand: most welcome!

Exeunt Coriolanus and Aufidius. The two Servingmen come forward

First Servingman

Here’s a strange alteration!

Second Servingman

By my hand, I had thought to have strucken him with a cudgel; and yet my mind gave me his clothes made a false report of him.

First Servingman

What an arm he has! he turned me about with his finger and his thumb, as one would set up a top.

Second Servingman

Nay, I knew by his face that there was something in him: he had, sir, a kind of face, methought,— I cannot tell how to term it.

First Servingman

He had so; looking as it were — would I were hanged, but I thought there was more in him than I could think.

Second Servingman

So did I, I’ll be sworn: he is simply the rarest man i’ the world.

First Servingman

I think he is: but a greater soldier than he you wot on.

Second Servingman

Who, my master?

First Servingman

Nay, it’s no matter for that.

Second Servingman

Worth six on him.

First Servingman

Nay, not so neither: but I take him to be the greater soldier.

Second Servingman

Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that: for the defence of a town, our general is excellent.

First Servingman

Ay, and for an assault too.

Re-enter third Servingman

Third Servingman

O slaves, I can tell you news,— news, you rascals!

First Servingman

Second Servingman

What, what, what? let’s partake.

Third Servingman

I would not be a Roman, of all nations; I had as lieve be a condemned man.

First Servingman

Second Servingman

Wherefore? wherefore?

Third Servingman

Why, here’s he that was wont to thwack our general,

Caius Marcius.

First Servingman

Why do you say ’thwack our general ’?

Third Servingman

I do not say ’thwack our general;’ but he was always good enough for him.

Second Servingman

Come, we are fellows and friends: he was ever too hard for him; I have heard him say so himself.

First Servingman

He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth on’t: before Corioli he scotched him and notched him like a carbon ado.

Second Servingman

An he had been cannibally given, he might have broiled and eaten him too.

First Servingman

But, more of thy news?

Third Servingman

Why, he is so made on here within, as if he were son and heir to Mars; set at upper end o’ the table; no question asked him by any of the senators, but they stand bald before him: our general himself makes a mistress of him: sanctifies himself with’s hand and turns up the white o’ the eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news is that our general is cut i’ the middle and but one half of what he was yesterday; for the other has half, by the entreaty and grant of the whole table. He’ll go, he says, and sowl the porter of Rome gates by the ears: he will mow all down before him, and leave his passage polled.

Second Servingman

And he’s as like to do’t as any man I can imagine.

Third Servingman

Do’t! he will do’t; for, look you, sir, he has as many friends as enemies; which friends, sir, as it were, durst not, look you, sir, show themselves, as we term it, his friends whilst he’s in directitude.

First Servingman

Directitude! what’s that?

Third Servingman

But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again, and the man in blood, they will out of their burrows, like conies after rain, and revel all with him.

First Servingman

But when goes this forward?

Third Servingman

To-morrow; to-day; presently; you shall have the drum struck up this afternoon: ’tis, as it were, a parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips.

Second Servingman

Why, then we shall have a stirring world again. This peace is nothing, but to rust iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-makers.

First Servingman

Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it’s spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war’s a destroyer of men.

Second Servingman

’Tis so: and as war, in some sort, may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds.

First Servingman

Ay, and it makes men hate one another.

Third Servingman

Reason; because they then less need one another. The wars for my money. I hope to see Romans as cheap as Volscians. They are rising, they are rising.

All

In, in, in, in!

Exeunt

SCENE VI. ROME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter Sicinius and Brutus

Sicinius

We hear not of him, neither need we fear him;

His remedies are tame i’ the present peace

And quietness of the people, which before

Were in wild hurry. Here do we make his friends

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 with in their shops and going

About their functions friendly.

Brutus

We stood to’t in good time.

Enter Menenius

Is this Menenius?

Sicinius

’Tis he,’tis he: O, he is grown most kind of late.

Both Tribunes

Hail sir!

Menenius

Hail to you both!

Sicinius

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.

Menenius

All’s well; and might have been much better, if

He could have temporized.

Sicinius

Where is he, hear you?

Menenius

Nay, I hear nothing: his mother and his wife

Hear nothing from him.

Enter three or four Citizens

Citizens

The gods preserve you both!

Sicinius

God-den, our neighbours.

Brutus

God-den to you all, god-den to you all.

First Citizen

Ourselves, our wives, and children, on our knees,

Are bound to pray for you both.

Sicinius

Live, and thrive!

Brutus

Farewell, kind neighbours: we wish’d Coriolanus

Had loved you as we did.

Citizens

Now the gods keep you!

Both Tribunes

Farewell, farewell.

Exeunt Citizens

Sicinius

This is a happier and more comely time

Than when these fellows ran about the streets,

Crying confusion.

Brutus

Caius Marcius was

A worthy officer i’ the war; but insolent,

O’ercome with pride, ambitious past all thinking,

Self-loving,—

Sicinius

And affecting one sole throne,

Without assistance.

Menenius

I think not so.

Sicinius

We should by this, to all our lamentation,

If he had gone forth consul, found it so.

Brutus

The gods have well prevented it, and Rome

Sits safe and still without him.

Enter an Aedile

Aedile

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,

And with the deepest malice of the war

Destroy what lies before ’em.

Menenius

’Tis Aufidius,

Who, hearing of our Marcius’ banishment,

Thrusts forth his horns again into the world;

Which were inshell’d when Marcius stood for Rome,

And durst not once peep out.

Sicinius

Come, what talk you

Of Marcius?

Brutus

Go see this rumourer whipp’d. It cannot be

The Volsces dare break with us.

Menenius

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,

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.

Sicinius

Tell not me:

I know this cannot be.

Brutus

Not possible.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

The nobles in great earnestness are going

All to the senate-house: some news is come

That turns their countenances.

Sicinius

’Tis this slave;—

Go whip him, ’fore the people’s eyes:— his raising;

Nothing but his report.

Messenger

Yes, worthy sir,

The slave’s report is seconded; and more,

More fearful, is deliver’d.

Sicinius

What more fearful?

Messenger

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

The young’st and oldest thing.

Sicinius

This is most likely!

Brutus

Raised only, that the weaker sort may wish

Good Marcius home again.

Sicinius

The very trick on’t.

Menenius

This is unlikely:

He and Aufidius can no more atone

Than violentest contrariety.

Enter a second Messenger

Second Messenger

You are sent for to the senate:

A fearful army, led by Caius Marcius

Associated with Aufidius, rages

Upon our territories; and have already

O’erborne their way, consumed with fire, and took

What lay before them.

Enter Cominius

Cominius

O, you have made good work!

Menenius

What news? what news?

Cominius

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,—

Menenius

What’s the news? what’s the news?

Cominius

Your temples burned in their cement, and

Your franchises, whereon you stood, confined

Into an auger’s bore.

Menenius

Pray now, your news?

You have made fair work, I fear me.— Pray, your news?—

If Marcius should be join’d with Volscians,—

Cominius

If!

He is their god: he leads them like a thing

Made by some other deity than nature,

That shapes man better; and they follow him,

Against us brats, with no less confidence

Than boys pursuing summer butterflies,

Or butchers killing flies.

Menenius

You have made good work,

You and your apron-men; you that stood so up much on the voice of occupation and

The breath of garlic-eaters!

Cominius

He will shake

Your Rome about your ears.

Menenius

As Hercules

Did shake down mellow fruit.

You have made fair work!

Brutus

But is this true, sir?

Cominius

Ay; and you’ll look pale

Before you find it other. All the regions

Do smilingly revolt; and who resist

Are mock’d for valiant ignorance,

And perish constant fools. Who is’t can blame him?

Your enemies and his find something in him.

Menenius

We are all undone, unless

The noble man have mercy.

Cominius

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

Should say ‘Be good to Rome,’ they charged him even

As those should do that had deserved his hate,

And therein show’d like enemies.

Menenius

’Tis true:

If he were putting to my house the brand

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!

Cominius

You have brought

A trembling upon Rome, such as was never

So incapable of help.

Both Tribunes

Say not we brought it.

Menenius

How! Was it we? we loved him but, like beasts

And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters,

Who did hoot him out o’ the city.

Cominius

But I fear

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,

That Rome can make against them.

Enter a troop of Citizens

Menenius

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

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,

And pay you for your voices. ’Tis no matter;

If he could burn us all into one coal,

We have deserved it.

Citizens

Faith, we hear fearful news.

First Citizen

For mine own part,

When I said, banish him, I said ’twas pity.

Second Citizen

And so did I.

Third Citizen

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.

Cominius

Ye re goodly things, you voices!

Menenius

You have made

Good work, you and your cry! Shall’s to the Capitol?

Cominius

O, ay, what else?

Exeunt Cominius and Menenius

Sicinius

Go, masters, get you home; be not dismay’d:

These are a side that would be glad to have

This true which they so seem to fear. Go home,

And show no sign of fear.

First Citizen

The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let’s home.

I ever said we were i’ the wrong when we banished him.

Second Citizen

So did we all. But, come, let’s home.

Exeunt Citizens

Brutus

I do not like this news.

Sicinius

Nor I.

Brutus

Let’s to the Capitol. Would half my wealth

Would buy this for a lie!

Sicinius

Pray, let us go.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. A CAMP, AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM ROME.

Enter Aufidius and his Lieutenant

Aufidius

Do they still fly to the Roman?

Lieutenant

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;

And you are darken’d in this action, sir,

Even by your own.

Aufidius

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

When first I did embrace him: yet his nature

In that’s no changeling; and I must excuse

What cannot be amended.

Lieutenant

Yet I wish, sir,—

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.

Aufidius

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

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

That which shall break his neck or hazard mine,

Whene’er we come to our account.

Lieutenant

Sir, I beseech you, think you he’ll carry Rome?

Aufidius

All places yield to him ere he sits down;

And the nobility of Rome are his:

The senators and patricians love him too:

The tribunes are no soldiers; and their people

Will be as rash in the repeal, as hasty

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

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

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

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,

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

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

Menenius

No, I’ll not go: you hear what he hath said

Which was sometime his general; who loved him

In a most dear particular. He call’d me father:

But what o’ that? Go, you that banish’d him;

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.

Cominius

He would not seem to know me.

Menenius

Do you hear?

Cominius

Yet one time he did call me by my name:

I urged our old acquaintance, and the drops

That we have bled together. Coriolanus

He would not answer to: forbad all names;

He was a kind of nothing, titleless,

Till he had forged himself a name o’ the fire

Of burning Rome.

Menenius

Why, so: you have made good work!

A pair of tribunes that have rack’d for Rome,

To make coals cheap,— a noble memory!

Cominius

I minded him how royal ’twas to pardon

When it was less expected: he replied,

It was a bare petition of a state

To one whom they had punish’d.

Menenius

Very well:

Could he say less?

Cominius

I offer’d to awaken his regard

For’s private friends: his answer to me was,

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.

Menenius

For one poor grain or two!

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.

Sicinius

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,

More than the instant army we can make,

Might stop our countryman.

Menenius

No, I’ll not meddle.

Sicinius

Pray you, go to him.

Menenius

What should I do?

Brutus

Only make trial what your love can do

For Rome, towards Marcius.

Menenius

Well, and say that Marcius

Return me, as Cominius is return’d,

Unheard; what then?

But as a discontented friend, grief-shot

With his unkindness? say’t be so?

Sicinius

Yet your good will must have that thanks from Rome, after the measure As you intended well.

Menenius

I’ll undertake ’t:

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 dined:

The veins unfill’d, our blood is cold, and then

We pout upon the morning, are unapt

To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff’d

These and these conveyances of our blood

With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls

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.

Brutus

You know the very road into his kindness,

And cannot lose your way.

Menenius

Good faith, I’ll prove him,

Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge

Of my success.

Exit

Cominius

He’ll never hear him.

Sicinius

Not?

Cominius

I tell you, he does sit in gold, his eye

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,

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;

Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him

For mercy to his country. Therefore, let’s hence,

And with our fair entreaties haste them on.

Exeunt

SCENE II. ENTRANCE OF THE VOLSCIAN CAMP BEFORE ROME.

Two Sentinels on guard.

Enter to them, Menenius

First Senator

Stay: whence are you?

Second Senator

Stand, and go back.

Menenius

You guard like men; ’tis well: but, by your leave,

I am an officer of state, and come

To speak with Coriolanus.

First Senator

From whence?

Menenius

From Rome.

First Senator

You may not pass, you must return: our general

Will no more hear from thence.

Second Senator

You’ll see your Rome embraced with fire before

You’ll speak with Coriolanus.

Menenius

Good my friends,

If you have heard your general talk of Rome,

And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks,

My name hath touch’d your ears it is Menenius.

First Senator

Be it so; go back: the virtue of your name

Is not here passable.

Menenius

I tell thee, fellow,

The general is my lover: I have been

The book of his good acts, whence men have read

His name unparallel’d, haply amplified;

For I have ever verified 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,

I have tumbled past the throw; and in his praise

Have almost stamp’d the leasing: therefore, fellow,

I must have leave to pass.

First Senator

Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, you should not pass here; no, though it were as virtuous to lie as to live chastely. Therefore, go back.

Menenius

Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Menenius, always factionary on the party of your general.

Second Senator

Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you have, I am one that, telling true under him, must say, you cannot pass. Therefore, go back.

Menenius

Has he dined, canst thou tell? for I would not speak with him till after dinner.

First Senator

You are a Roman, are you?

Menenius

I am, as thy general is.

First Senator

Then you should hate Rome, as he does. Can you, when you have pushed out your gates the very defender of them, and, in a violent popular ignorance, given your enemy your shield, think to front his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied intercession of such a decayed dotant as you seem to be? Can you think to blow out the intended fire your city is ready to flame in, with such weak breath as this? No, you are deceived; therefore, back to Rome, and prepare for your execution: you are condemned, our general has sworn you out of reprieve and pardon.

Menenius

Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he would use me with estimation.

Second Senator

Come, my captain knows you not.

Menenius

I mean, thy general.

First Senator

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.

Menenius

Nay, but, fellow, fellow,—

Enter Coriolanus and Aufidius

Coriolanus

What’s the matter?

Menenius

Now, you companion, I’ll say an errand for you: You shall know now that I am in estimation; you shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus: guess, but by my entertainment with him, if thou standest not i’ the state of hanging, or of some death more long in spectatorship, and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, and swoon for what’s to come upon thee.

To Coriolanus

The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular prosperity, and love thee no worse than thy old father Menenius does! O my son, my son! thou art preparing fire for us; look thee, here’s water to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to thee; but being assured none but myself could move thee, I have been blown out of your gates with sighs; and conjure thee to pardon Rome, and thy petitionary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet here,— this, who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee.

Coriolanus

Away!

Menenius

How! away!

Coriolanus

Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs

Are servanted to others: though I owe

My revenge properly, my remission lies

In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar,

Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison, rather

Than pity note how much. Therefore, be gone.

Mine ears against your suits are stronger than

Your gates against my force. Yet, for I loved thee,

Take this along; I writ it for thy sake

Gives a letter

And would have rent it. Another word, Menenius,

I will not hear thee speak. This man, Aufidius,

Was my beloved in Rome: yet thou behold’st!

Aufidius

You keep a constant temper.

Exeunt Coriolanus and Aufidius

First Senator

Now, sir, is your name Menenius?

Second Senator

’Tis a spell, you see, of much power: you know the way home again.

First Senator

Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your greatness back?

Second Senator

What cause, do you think, I have to swoon?

Menenius

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 Senator

A noble fellow, I warrant him.

Second Senator

The worthy fellow is our general: he’s the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE TENT OF CORIOLANUS.

Enter Coriolanus, Aufidius, and others

Coriolanus

We will before the walls of Rome tomorrow

Set down our host. My partner in this action,

You must report to the Volscian lords, how plainly

I have borne this business.

Aufidius

Only their ends

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.

Coriolanus

This last old man,

Whom with a crack’d heart I have sent to Rome,

Loved me above the measure of a father;

Nay, godded me, indeed. Their latest refuge

Was to send him; for whose old love I have,

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

I have yielded to: fresh embassies and suits,

Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter

Will I lend ear to. Ha! what shout is this?

Shout within

Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow

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 framed, and in her hand

The grandchild to her blood. But, out, affection!

All bond and privilege of nature, break!

Let it be virtuous to be obstinate.

What is that curt’sy worth? or those doves’ eyes,

Which can make gods forsworn? I melt, and am not

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

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

And knew no other kin.

Virgilia

My lord and husband!

Coriolanus

These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome.

Virgilia

The sorrow that delivers us thus changed

Makes you think so.

Coriolanus

Like a dull actor now,

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

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

Leave unsaluted: sink, my knee, i’ the earth;

Kneels

Of thy deep duty more impression show

Than that of common sons.

Volumnia

O, stand up blest!

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

Coriolanus

What is this?

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;

Murdering impossibility, to make

What cannot be, slight work.

Volumnia

Thou art my warrior;

I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady?

Coriolanus

The noble sister of Publicola,

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle

That’s curdied by the frost from purest snow

And hangs on Dian’s temple: dear Valeria!

Volumnia

This is a poor epitome of yours,

Which by the interpretation of full time

May show like all yourself.

Coriolanus

The god of soldiers,

With the consent of supreme Jove, inform

Thy thoughts with nobleness; that thou mayst prove

To shame unvulnerable, and stick i’ the wars

Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw,

And saving those that eye thee!

Volumnia

Your knee, sirrah.

Coriolanus

That’s my brave boy!

Volumnia

Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself,

Are suitors to you.

Coriolanus

I beseech you, peace:

Or, if you’ld ask, remember this before:

The thing I have forsworn to grant may never

Be held by you denials. Do not bid me

Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate

Again with Rome’s mechanics: tell me not

Wherein I seem unnatural: desire not

To ally my rages and revenges with

Your colder reasons.

Volumnia

O, no more, no more!

You have said you will not grant us any thing;

For we have nothing else to ask, but that

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.

Coriolanus

Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for we’ll

Hear nought from Rome in private. Your request?

Volumnia

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

Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts,

Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow;

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

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,

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

Our wish, which side should win: for either thou

Must, as a foreign recreant, be led

With manacles thorough our streets, or else

triumphantly tread on thy country’s ruin,

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

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,

That brought thee to this world.

Virgilia

Ay, and mine,

That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name

Living to time.

Young Marcius

A’ shall not tread on me;

I’ll run away till I am bigger, but then I’ll fight.

Coriolanus

Not of a woman’s tenderness to be,

Requires nor child nor woman’s face to see.

I have sat too long.

Rising

Volumnia

Nay, go not from us thus.

If it were so that our request did tend

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,

‘This we received;’ and each in either side

Give the all-hail to thee and cry ‘Be blest

For making up this peace!’ Thou know’st, great son,

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;

Whose chronicle thus writ: ‘The man was noble,

But with his last attempt he wiped it out;

Destroy’d his country, and his name remains

To the ensuing age abhorr’d.’ Speak to me, son:

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

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:

Perhaps thy childishness will move him more

Than can our reasons. There’s 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

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,

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,

And die among our neighbours. Nay, behold ’s:

This boy, that cannot tell what he would have

But kneels and holds up bands for fellowship,

Does reason our petition with more strength

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,

And then I’ll speak a little.

He holds her by the hand, silent

Coriolanus

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!

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,

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?

Aufidius

I was moved withal.

Coriolanus

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,

I’ll not to Rome, I’ll back with you; and pray you,

Stand to me in this cause. O mother! wife!

Aufidius

[Aside] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour

At difference in thee: out of that I’ll work

Myself a former fortune.

The Ladies make signs to Coriolanus

Coriolanus

Ay, by and by;

To Volumnia, Virgilia, & c

But we will drink together; and you shall bear

A better witness back than words, which we,

On like conditions, will 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,

Could not have made this peace.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. ROME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter Menenius and Sicinius

Menenius

See you yond coign o’ the Capitol, yond corner-stone?

Sicinius

Why, what of that?

Menenius

If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him. But I say there is no hope in’t: our throats are sentenced and stay upon execution.

Sicinius

Is’t possible that so short a time can alter the condition of a man!

Menenius

There is differency between a grub and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub. This Marcius is grown from man to dragon: he has wings; he’s more than a creeping thing.

Sicinius

He loved his mother dearly.

Menenius

So did he me: and he no more remembers his mother now than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes: when he walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before his treading: he is able to pierce a corslet with his eye; talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state, as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done is finished with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity and a heaven to throne in.

Sicinius

Yes, mercy, if you report him truly.

Menenius

I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him: there is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger; that shall our poor city find: and all this is long of you.

Sicinius

The gods be good unto us!

Menenius

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

Messenger

Sir, if you’ld save your life, fly to your house:

The plebeians have got your fellow-tribune

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

Sicinius

What’s the news?

Second Messenger

Good news, good news; the ladies have prevail’d,

The Volscians are dislodged, and Marcius gone:

A merrier day did never yet greet Rome,

No, not the expulsion of the Tarquins.

Sicinius

Friend,

Art thou certain this is true? is it most certain?

Second Messenger

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!

Trumpets; hautboys; drums beat; all together

The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries and fifes,

Tabours and cymbals and the shouting Romans,

Make the sun dance. Hark you!

A shout within

Menenius

This is good news:

I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia

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:

This morning for ten thousand of your throats

I’d not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy!

Music still, with shouts

Sicinius

First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next,

Accept my thankfulness.

Second Messenger

Sir, we have all

Great cause to give great thanks.

Sicinius

They are near the city?

Second Messenger

Almost at point to enter.

Sicinius

We will meet them,

And help the joy.

Exeunt

SCENE V. THE SAME. A STREET NEAR THE GATE.

Enter two Senators with Volumnia, Virgilia, Valeria, & c. passing over the stage, followed by Patricians and others

First Senator

Behold our patroness, the life of Rome!

Call all your tribes together, praise the gods,

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, Welcome!

A flourish with drums and trumpets. Exeunt

SCENE VI. ANTIUM. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter Tullus Aufidius, with Attendants

Aufidius

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,

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 herself with words: dispatch.

Exeunt Attendants

Enter three or four Conspirators of Aufidius’ faction

Most welcome!

First Conspirator

How is it with our general?

Aufidius

Even so

As with a man by his own alms empoison’d,

And with his charity slain.

Second Conspirator

Most noble sir,

If you do hold the same intent wherein

You wish’d us parties, we’ll deliver you

Of your great danger.

Aufidius

Sir, I cannot tell:

We must proceed as we do find the people.

Third Conspirator

The people will remain uncertain whilst

’Twixt you there’s difference; but the fall of either

Makes the survivor heir of all.

Aufidius

I know it;

And my pretext to strike at him admits

A good construction. I raised 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,

He bow’d his nature, never known before

But to be rough, unswayable and free.

Third Conspirator

Sir, his stoutness

When he did stand for consul, which he lost

By lack of stooping,—

Aufidius

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

Out of my files, his projects to accomplish,

My best and freshest men; served his designments

In mine own person; holp to reap the fame

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 waged me with his countenance, as if

I had been mercenary.

First Conspirator

So he did, my lord:

The army marvell’d at it, and, in the last,

When he had carried Rome and that we look’d

For no less spoil than glory,—

Aufidius

There was it:

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,

And I’ll renew me in his fall. But, hark!

Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts of the People

First Conspirator

Your native town you enter’d like a post,

And had no welcomes home: but he returns,

Splitting the air with noise.

Second Conspirator

And patient fools,

Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear

With giving him glory.

Third Conspirator

Therefore, at your vantage,

Ere he express himself, or move the people

With what he would say, let him feel your sword,

Which we will second. When he lies along,

After your way his tale pronounced shall bury

His reasons with his body.

Aufidius

Say no more:

Here come the lords.

Enter the Lords of the city

All The Lords

You are most welcome home.

Aufidius

I have not deserved it.

But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused

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

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

There was a yielding,— this admits no excuse.

Aufidius

He approaches: you shall hear him.

Enter Coriolanus, marching with drum and colours; commoners being with him

Coriolanus

Hail, lords! I am return’d your soldier,

No more infected with my country’s love

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

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

Than shame to the Romans: and we here deliver,

Subscribed by the consuls and patricians,

Together with the seal o’ the senate, what

We have compounded on.

Aufidius

Read it not, noble lords;

But tell the traitor, in the high’st degree

He hath abused your powers.

Coriolanus

Traitor! how now!

Aufidius

Ay, traitor, Marcius!

Coriolanus

Marcius!

Aufidius

Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius: dost thou think

I’ll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol’n name

Coriolanus in Corioli?

You lords and heads o’ the state, perfidiously

He has betray’d your business, and given up,

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

Counsel o’ the war, but at his nurse’s tears

He whined and roar’d away your victory,

That pages blush’d at him and men of heart

Look’d wondering each at other.

Coriolanus

Hear’st thou, Mars?

Aufidius

Name not the god, thou boy of tears!

Coriolanus

Ha!

Aufidius

No more.

Coriolanus

Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart

Too great for what contains it. Boy! O slave!

Pardon me, lords, ’tis the first time that ever

I was forced 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

Must bear my beating to his grave — shall join

To thrust the lie unto him.

First Lord

Peace, both, and hear me speak.

Coriolanus

Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads,

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:

Alone I did it. Boy!

Aufidius

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?

All Conspirators

Let him die for’t.

All The People

‘Tear him to pieces.’ ‘Do it presently.’ ‘He kill’d my son.’ ‘My daughter.’ ‘He killed my cousin Marcus.’ ‘He killed my father.’

Second 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.

Coriolanus

O that I had him,

With six Aufidiuses, or more, his tribe,

To use my lawful sword!

Aufidius

Insolent villain!

All Conspirators

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him!

The Conspirators draw, and kill Coriolanus: Aufidius stands on his body

Lords

Hold, hold, hold, hold!

Aufidius

My noble masters, hear me speak.

First Lord

O Tullus,—

Second Lord

Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will weep.

Third Lord

Tread not upon him. Masters all, be quiet;

Put up your swords.

Aufidius

My lords, when you shall know — as in this rage,

Provoked 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

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

Did follow to his urn.

Second Lord

His own impatience

Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame.

Let’s make the best of it.

Aufidius

My rage is gone;

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,

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

The Complete Histories

By

William Shakespeare

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING JOHN

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF RICHARD THE SECOND

THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH

THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH

THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH

THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH

THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE EIGHTH

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF RICHARD THE THIRD

The Life and Death of King John

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. KING JOHN’S PALACE.

ACT II

SCENE I. FRANCE. BEFORE ANGIERS.

ACT III

SCENE I. THE FRENCH KING’S PAVILION.

SCENE II. THE SAME. PLAINS NEAR ANGIERS.

SCENE III. THE SAME.

SCENE IV. THE SAME. KING PHILIP’S TENT.

ACT IV

SCENE I. A ROOM IN A CASTLE.

SCENE II. KING JOHN’S PALACE.

SCENE III. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

ACT V

SCENE I. KING JOHN’S PALACE.

SCENE II. LEWIS’S CAMP AT ST. EDMUNDSBURY.

SCENE III. THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE V. THE FRENCH CAMP.

SCENE VI. AN OPEN PLACE IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF SWINSTEAD ABBEY.

SCENE VII. THE ORCHARD IN SWINSTEAD ABBEY.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Arthur,

Austria,

Bastard,

Bigot,

Blanch,

Cardinal Pandulph,

Chatillon,

Constance,

Elinor,

English Herald,

Essex,

First Citizen,

First Executioner,

French Herald,

Gurney,

Hubert,

King John,

King Philip,

Lady Faulconbridge,

Lewis,

Melun,

Messenger,

Pembroke,

Peter,

Prince Henry,

Queen Elinor,

Robert,

Salisbury,

ACT I

SCENE I. KING JOHN’S PALACE.

Enter King John, Queen Elinor, Pembroke, Essex, Salisbury, and others, with Chatillon

King John

Now, say, Chatillon, what would France with us?

Chatillon

Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France

In my behavior to the majesty,

The borrow’d majesty, of England here.

Queen Elinor

A strange beginning: ‘borrow’d majesty!’

King John

Silence, good mother; hear the embassy.

Chatillon

Philip of France, in right and true behalf

Of thy deceased brother Geffrey’s son,

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

Which sways usurpingly these several titles,

And put these same into young Arthur’s hand,

Thy nephew and right royal sovereign.

King John

What follows if we disallow of this?

Chatillon

The proud control of fierce and bloody war,

To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld.

King John

Here have we war for war and blood for blood,

Controlment for controlment: so answer France.

Chatillon

Then take my king’s defiance from my mouth,

The farthest limit of my embassy.

King John

Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace:

Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France;

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.

An honourable conduct let him have:

Pembroke, look to ’t. Farewell, Chatillon.

Exeunt Chatillon and Pembroke

Queen Elinor

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,

Upon the right and party of her son?

This might have been prevented and made whole

With very easy arguments of love,

Which now the manage of two kingdoms must

With fearful bloody issue arbitrate.

King John

Our strong possession and our right for us.

Queen Elinor

Your strong possession much more than your right,

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

Essex

My liege, here is the strangest controversy

Come from country to be judged by you,

That e’er I heard: shall I produce the men?

King John

Let them approach.

Our abbeys and our priories shall pay

This expedition’s charge.

Enter Robert and the Bastard

What men are you?

Bastard

Your faithful subject I, a gentleman

Born in Northamptonshire and eldest son,

As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge,

A soldier, by the honour-giving hand

Of Coeur-de-lion knighted in the field.

King John

What art thou?

Robert

The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge.

King John

Is that the elder, and art thou the heir?

You came not of one mother then, it seems.

Bastard

Most certain of one mother, mighty king;

That is well known; and, as I think, one father:

But for the certain knowledge of that truth

I put you o’er to heaven and to my mother:

Of that I doubt, as all men’s children may.

Queen Elinor

Out on thee, rude man! thou dost shame thy mother

And wound her honour with this diffidence.

Bastard

I, madam? no, I have no reason for it;

That is my brother’s plea and none of mine;

The which if he can prove, a’ pops me out

At least from fair five hundred pound a year:

Heaven guard my mother’s honour and my land!

King John

A good blunt fellow. Why, being younger born,

Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance?

Bastard

I know not why, except to get the land.

But once he slander’d me with bastardy:

But whether I be as true begot or no,

That still I lay upon my mother’s head,

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

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!

King John

Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here!

Queen Elinor

He hath a trick of Coeur-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?

King 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?

Bastard

Because he hath a half-face, like my father.

With half that face would he have all my land:

A half-faced groat five hundred pound a year!

Robert

My gracious liege, when that my father lived,

Your brother did employ my father much,—

Bastard

Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land:

Your tale must be how he employ’d my mother.

Robert

And once dispatch’d him in an embassy

To Germany, there with the emperor

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,

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.

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;

And if he were, he came into the world

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.

King 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,

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;

Your father’s heir must have your father’s land.

Robert

Shall then my father’s will be of no force

To dispossess that child which is not his?

Bastard

Of no more force to dispossess me, sir,

Than was his will to get me, as I think.

Queen Elinor

Whether hadst thou rather be a Faulconbridge

And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land,

Or the reputed son of Coeur-de-lion,

Lord of thy presence and no land beside?

Bastard

Madam, an if my brother had my shape,

And I had his, sir Robert’s his, like him;

And if my legs were two such riding-rods,

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-farthings goes!’

And, to his shape, were heir to all this land,

Would I might never stir from off this place,

I would give it every foot to have this face;

I would not be sir Nob in any case.

Queen Elinor

I like thee well: wilt thou forsake thy fortune,

Bequeath thy land to him and follow me?

I am a soldier and now bound to France.

Bastard

Brother, take you my land, I’ll take my chance.

Your face hath got five hundred pound a year,

Yet sell your face for five pence and ’tis dear.

Madam, I’ll follow you unto the death.

Queen Elinor

Nay, I would have you go before me thither.

Bastard

Our country manners give our betters way.

King John

What is thy name?

Bastard

Philip, my liege, so is my name begun,

Philip, good old sir Robert’s wife’s eldest son.

King John

From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bear’st:

Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more great,

Arise sir Richard and Plantagenet.

Bastard

Brother by the mother’s side, give me your hand:

My father gave me honour, yours gave land.

Now blessed by the hour, by night or day,

When I was got, sir Robert was away!

Queen Elinor

The very spirit of Plantagenet!

I am thy grandam, Richard; call me so.

Bastard

Madam, by chance but not by truth; what though?

Something about, a little from the right,

In at the window, or else o’er the hatch:

Who dares not stir by day must walk by night,

And have is have, however men do catch:

Near or far off, well won is still well shot,

And I am I, howe’er I was begot.

King John

Go, Faulconbridge: now hast thou thy desire;

A landless knight makes thee a landed squire.

Come, madam, and come, Richard, we must speed

For France, for France, for it is more than need.

Bastard

Brother, adieu: good fortune come to thee!

For thou wast got i’ the way of honesty.

Exeunt all but 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.

‘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

For your conversion. Now your traveller,

He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess,

And when my knightly stomach is sufficed,

Why then I suck my teeth and catechise

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:

‘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,

And talking of the Alps and Apennines,

The Pyrenean and the river Po,

It draws toward supper in conclusion so.

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;

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

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.

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 Gurney

O me! it is my mother. How now, good lady!

What brings you here to court so hastily?

Lady Faulconbridge

Where is that slave, thy brother? where is he,

That holds in chase mine honour up and down?

Bastard

My brother Robert? old sir Robert’s son?

Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man?

Is it sir Robert’s son that you seek so?

Lady Faulconbridge

Sir Robert’s son! Ay, thou unreverend boy,

Sir Robert’s son: why scorn’st thou at sir Robert?

He is sir Robert’s son, and so art thou.

Bastard

James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave awhile?

Gurney

Good leave, good Philip.

Bastard

Philip! sparrow: James,

There’s toys abroad: anon I’ll tell thee more.

Exit Gurney

Madam, I was not old sir Robert’s son:

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,

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.

Lady Faulconbridge

Hast thou conspired with thy brother too,

That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour?

What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?

Bastard

Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like.

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:

Then, good my mother, let me know my father;

Some proper man, I hope: who was it, mother?

Lady Faulconbridge

Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge?

Bastard

As faithfully as I deny the devil.

Lady Faulconbridge

King Richard Coeur-de-lion was thy father:

By long and vehement suit I was seduced

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,

Which was so strongly urged past my defence.

Bastard

Now, by this light, were I to get again,

Madam, I would not wish a better father.

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,

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

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.

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.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. FRANCE. BEFORE ANGIERS.

Enter Austria and forces, drums, etc. on one side: on the other King Philip and his power; Lewis, Arthur, Constance and attendants

Lewis

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,

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,

And to rebuke the usurpation

Of thy unnatural uncle, English John:

Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.

Arthur

God shall forgive you Coeur-de-lion’s death

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:

Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke.

Lewis

A noble boy! Who would not do thee right?

Austria

Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss,

As seal to this indenture of my love,

That to my home I will no more return,

Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France,

Together with that pale, that white-faced shore,

Whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring tides

And coops from other lands her islanders,

Even till that England, hedged in with the main,

That water-walled bulwark, still secure

And confident from foreign purposes,

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.

Constance

O, take his mother’s thanks, a widow’s thanks,

Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength

To make a more requital to your love!

Austria

The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords

In such a just and charitable war.

King Philip

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:

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.

Constance

Stay for an answer to your embassy,

Lest unadvised 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

That hot rash haste so indirectly shed.

Enter Chatillon

King Philip

A wonder, lady! lo, upon thy wish,

Our messenger Chatillon is arrived!

What England says, say briefly, gentle lord;

We coldly pause for thee; Chatillon, speak.

Chatillon

Then turn your forces from this paltry siege

And stir them up against a mightier task.

England, impatient of your just demands,

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,

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 deceased,

And all the unsettled humours of the land,

Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries,

With ladies’ faces and fierce dragons’ spleens,

Have sold their fortunes at their native homes,

Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs,

To make hazard of new fortunes here:

In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits

Than now the English bottoms have waft o’er

Did nearer float upon the swelling tide,

To do offence and scath in Christendom.

Drum beats

The interruption of their churlish drums

Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand,

To parley or to fight; therefore prepare.

King Philip

How much unlook’d for is this expedition!

Austria

By how much unexpected, by so much

We must awake endavour for defence;

For courage mounteth with occasion:

Let them be welcome then: we are prepared.

Enter King John, Queen Elinor, Blanch, the Bastard, Lords, and forces

King John

Peace be to France, if France in peace permit

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.

King Philip

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.

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,

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:

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,

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?

King John

From whom hast thou this great commission, France,

To draw my answer from thy articles?

King Philip

From that supernal judge, that stirs good thoughts

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

And by whose help I mean to chastise it.

King John

Alack, thou dost usurp authority.

King Philip

Excuse; it is to beat usurping down.

Queen Elinor

Who is it thou dost call usurper, France?

Constance

Let me make answer; thy usurping son.

Queen Elinor

Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king,

That thou mayst be a queen, and cheque the world!

Constance

My bed was ever to thy son as true

As thine was to thy husband; and this boy

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.

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.

Queen Elinor

There’s a good mother, boy, that blots thy father.

Constance

There’s a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.

Austria

Peace!

Bastard

Hear the crier.

Austria

What the devil art thou?

Bastard

One that will play the devil, sir, with you,

An a’ may catch your hide and you alone:

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.

Blanch

O, well did he become that lion’s robe

That did disrobe the lion of that robe!

Bastard

It lies as sightly on the back of him

As great Alcides’ shows upon an ass:

But, ass, I’ll take that burthen from your back,

Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.

Austria

What craker is this same that deafs our ears

With this abundance of superfluous breath?

King Philip

Lewis, determine what we shall do straight.

Lewis

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:

Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms?

King John

My life as soon: I do defy thee, France.

Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand;

And out of my dear love I’ll give thee more

Than e’er the coward hand of France can win:

Submit thee, boy.

Queen Elinor

Come to thy grandam, child.

Constance

Do, child, go to it grandam, child:

Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will

Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig:

There’s a good grandam.

Arthur

Good my mother, peace!

I would that I were low laid in my grave:

I am not worth this coil that’s made for me.

Queen Elinor

His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.

Constance

Now shame upon you, whether she does or no!

His grandam’s wrongs, and not his mother’s shames,

Draws 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 bribed

To do him justice and revenge on you.

Queen Elinor

Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth!

Constance

Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth!

Call not me slanderer; thou and thine usurp

The dominations, royalties and rights

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,

Being but the second generation

Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb.

King John

Bedlam, have done.

Constance

I have but this to say,

That he is not only plagued for her sin,

But God hath made her sin and her the plague

On this removed issue, plague for her

And with her plague; her sin his injury,

Her injury the beadle to her sin,

All punish’d in the person of this child,

And all for her; a plague upon her!

Queen Elinor

Thou unadvised scold, I can produce

A will that bars the title of thy son.

Constance

Ay, who doubts that? a will! a wicked will:

A woman’s will; a canker’d grandam’s will!

King Philip

Peace, lady! pause, or be more temperate:

It ill beseems this presence to cry aim

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.

Trumpet sounds. Enter certain Citizens upon the walls

First Citizen

Who is it that hath warn’d us to the walls?

King Philip

’Tis France, for England.

King John

England, for itself.

You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects —

King Philip

You loving men of Angiers, Arthur’s subjects,

Our trumpet call’d you to this gentle parle —

King John

For our advantage; therefore hear us first.

These flags of France, that are advanced here

Before the eye and prospect of your town,

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:

All preparation for a bloody siege

All 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 doth girdle you about,

By the compulsion of their ordinance

By this time from their fixed beds of lime

Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made

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 countercheque before your gates,

To save unscratch’d your city’s threatened cheeks,

Behold, the French amazed vouchsafe a parle;

And now, instead of bullets wrapp’d in fire,

To make a shaking fever in your walls,

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,

Crave harbourage within your city walls.

King Philip

When I have said, make answer to us both.

Lo, in this right hand, whose protection

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:

For this down-trodden equity, we tread

In warlike march these greens before your town,

Being no further enemy to you

Than the constraint of hospitable zeal

In the relief of this oppressed child

Religiously provokes. Be pleased then

To pay that duty which you truly owe

To that owes it, namely this young prince:

And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear,

Save in aspect, hath all offence seal’d up;

Our cannons’ malice vainly shall be spent

Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven;

And with a blessed and unvex’d retire,

With unhack’d swords and helmets all unbruised,

We will bear home that lusty blood again

Which here we came to spout against your town,

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-faced walls

Can hide you from our messengers of war,

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 challenged it?

Or shall we give the signal to our rage

And stalk in blood to our possession?

First Citizen

In brief, we are the king of England’s subjects:

For him, and in his right, we hold this town.

King John

Acknowledge then the king, and let me in.

First Citizen

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.

King John

Doth not the crown of England prove the king?

And if not that, I bring you witnesses,

Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England’s breed,—

Bastard

Bastards, and else.

King John

To verify our title with their lives.

King Philip

As many and as well-born bloods as those,—

Bastard

Some bastards too.

King Philip

Stand in his face to contradict his claim.

First Citizen

Till you compound whose right is worthiest,

We for the worthiest hold the right from both.

King John

Then God forgive the sin of all those souls

That to their everlasting residence,

Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,

In dreadful trial of our kingdom’s king!

King Philip

Amen, amen! Mount, chevaliers! to arms!

Bastard

Saint George, that swinged the dragon, and e’er since

Sits on his horseback 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,

And make a monster of you.

Austria

Peace! no more.

Bastard

O tremble, for you hear the lion roar.

King John

Up higher to the plain; where we’ll set forth

In best appointment all our regiments.

Bastard

Speed then, to take advantage of the field.

King Philip

It shall be so; and at the other hill

Command the rest to stand. God and our right!

Exeunt

Here after excursions, enter the Herald of France, with trumpets, to the gates

French Herald

You men of Angiers, open wide your gates,

And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in,

Who by the hand of France this day hath made

Much work for tears in many an English mother,

Whose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground;

Many a widow’s husband grovelling lies,

Coldly embracing the discolour’d earth;

And victory, with little loss, doth play

Upon the dancing banners of the French,

Who are at hand, triumphantly display’d,

To enter conquerors and to proclaim

Arthur of Bretagne England’s king and yours.

Enter English Herald, with trumpet

English Herald

Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells:

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

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;

And, like a troop of jolly huntsmen, come

Our lusty English, all with purpled hands,

Dyed in the dying slaughter of their foes:

Open your gates and gives the victors way.

First Citizen

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:

Blood hath bought blood and blows have answered 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,

We hold our town for neither, yet for both.

Re-enter King John and King Philip, with their powers, severally

King 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,

Shall leave his native channel and o’erswell

With course disturb’d even thy confining shores,

Unless thou let his silver water keep

A peaceful progress to the ocean.

King Philip

England, thou hast not saved 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,

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

With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.

Bastard

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;

The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs;

And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men,

In undetermined differences of kings.

Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus?

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!

King John

Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?

King Philip

Speak, citizens, for England; who’s your king?

First Citizen

The king of England; when we know the king.

King Philip

Know him in us, that here hold up his right.

King 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 Citizen

A greater power then we denies all this;

And till it be undoubted, we do lock

Our former scruple in our strong-barr’d gates;

King’d of our fears, until our fears, resolved,

Be by some certain king purged and deposed.

Bastard

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.

Your royal presences be ruled by me:

Do like the mutines of Jerusalem,

Be friends awhile and both conjointly bend

Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town:

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:

I’ld play incessantly upon these jades,

Even till unfenced desolation

Leave them as naked as the vulgar air.

That done, dissever your united strengths,

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,

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?

King 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 to the ground;

Then after fight who shall be king of it?

Bastard

An if thou hast the mettle of a king,

Being wronged as we are by this peevish town,

Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery,

As we will ours, against these saucy walls;

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.

King Philip

Let it be so. Say, where will you assault?

King John

We from the west will send destruction

Into this city’s bosom.

Austria

I from the north.

King Philip

Our thunder from the south

Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town.

Bastard

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 Citizen

Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay,

And I shall show you peace and fair-faced league;

Win you this city without stroke or wound;

Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds,

That here come sacrifices for the field:

Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings.

King John

Speak on with favour; we are bent to hear.

First Citizen

That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch,

Is niece to England: look upon the years

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,

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,

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:

He is the half part of a blessed man,

Left to be finished by such as she;

And she a fair divided excellence,

Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.

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,

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,

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

More free from motion, no, not Death himself

In moral fury half so peremptory,

As we to keep this city.

Bastard

Here’s a stay

That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death

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!

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

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.

Queen Elinor

Son, list to this conjunction, make this match;

Give with our niece a dowry large enough:

For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie

Thy now unsured assurance to the crown,

That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe

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,

Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath

Of soft petitions, pity and remorse,

Cool and congeal again to what it was.

First Citizen

Why answer not the double majesties

This friendly treaty of our threaten’d town?

King Philip

Speak England first, that hath been forward first

To speak unto this city: what say you?

King John

If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son,

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,

Except this city now by us besieged,

Find liable to our crown and dignity,

Shall gild her bridal bed and make her rich

In titles, honours and promotions,

As she in beauty, education, blood,

Holds hand with any princess of the world.

King Philip

What say’st thou, boy? look in the lady’s face.

Lewis

I do, my lord; and in her eye I find

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 loved myself

Till now infixed I beheld myself

Drawn in the flattering table of her eye.

Whispers with Blanch

Bastard

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 quartered, there should be

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 any thing he sees, which moves his liking,

I can with ease translate it to my will;

Or if you will, to speak more properly,

I will enforce it easily to my love.

Further I will not flatter you, my lord,

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.

King 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.

King John

Speak then, prince Dauphin; can you love this lady?

Lewis

Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love;

For I do love her most unfeignedly.

King John

Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine,

Poictiers and Anjou, these five provinces,

With her to thee; and this addition more,

Full thirty thousand marks of English coin.

Philip of France, if thou be pleased withal,

Command thy son and daughter to join hands.

King Philip

It likes us well; young princes, close your hands.

Austria

And your lips too; for I am well assured

That I did so when I was first assured.

King Philip

Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates,

Let in that amity which you have made;

For at Saint Mary’s chapel presently

The rites of marriage shall be solemnized.

Is not the Lady Constance in this troop?

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.

Lewis

She is sad and passionate at your highness’ tent.

King Philip

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;

Which we, God knows, have turn’d another way,

To our own vantage.

King John

We will heal up all;

For we’ll create young Arthur Duke of Bretagne

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,

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.

Exeunt all but the Bastard

Bastard

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,

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,

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,

That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling Commodity,

Commodity, the bias of the world,

The world, who of itself is peised well,

Made to run even upon even ground,

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:

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 determined aid,

From a resolved and honourable war,

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:

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.

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.

Since kings break faith upon commodity,

Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee.

Exit

ACT III

SCENE I. THE FRENCH KING’S PAVILION.

Enter Constance, Arthur, and Salisbury

Constance

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:

Be well advised, 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:

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,

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,

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?

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?

Then speak again; not all thy former tale,

But this one word, whether thy tale be true.

Salisbury

As true as I believe you think them false

That give you cause to prove my saying true.

Constance

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

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:

This news hath made thee a most ugly man.

Salisbury

What other harm have I, good lady, done,

But spoke the harm that is by others done?

Constance

Which harm within itself so heinous is

As it makes harmful all that speak of it.

Arthur

I do beseech you, madam, be content.

Constance

If thou, that bid’st me be content, wert grim,

Ugly and slanderous to thy mother’s womb,

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,

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,

And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O,

She is corrupted, changed and won from thee;

She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John,

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,

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

Am bound to under-bear.

Salisbury

Pardon me, madam,

I may not go without you to the kings.

Constance

Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee:

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;

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

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 Phillip, Lewis, Blanch, Queen Elinor, the Bastard, Austria, and Attendants

King Philip

’Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day

Ever in France shall be kept festival:

To solemnize this day the glorious sun

Stays in his course and plays the alchemist,

Turning with splendor of his precious eye

The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold:

The yearly course that brings this day about

Shall never see it but a holiday.

Constance

A wicked day, and not a holy day!

Rising

What hath this day deserved? what hath it done,

That it in golden letters should be set

Among the high tides in the calendar?

Nay, rather turn this day out of the week,

This day of shame, oppression, perjury.

Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child

Pray that their burthens may not fall this day,

Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross’d:

But on this day let seamen fear no wreck;

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!

King Philip

By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause

To curse the fair proceedings of this day:

Have I not pawn’d to you my majesty?

Constance

You have beguiled me with a counterfeit

Resembling majesty, which, being touch’d and tried,

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,

And our oppression hath made up this league.

Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjured kings!

A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens!

Let not the hours of this ungodly day

Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset,

Set armed discord ’twixt these perjured kings!

Hear me, O, hear me!

Austria

Lady Constance, peace!

Constance

War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war

O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame

That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward!

Thou little valiant, great in villany!

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 perjured too,

And soothest 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

Upon thy stars, thy fortune and thy strength,

And dost thou now fall over to my fores?

Thou wear a lion’s hide! doff it for shame,

And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

Austria

O, that a man should speak those words to me!

Bastard

And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

Austria

Thou darest not say so, villain, for thy life.

Bastard

And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

King John

We like not this; thou dost forget thyself.

Enter Cardinal Pandulph

King Philip

Here comes the holy legate of the pope.

Cardinal Pandulph

Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven!

To thee, King John, my holy errand is.

I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal,

And from Pope Innocent the legate here,

Do in his name religiously demand

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?

This, in our foresaid holy father’s name,

Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.

King John

What earthy name to interrogatories

Can task the free breath of a sacred king?

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

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,

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.

King Philip

Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.

King 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,

Purchase corrupted pardon of a man,

Who in that sale sells pardon from himself,

Though you and all the rest so grossly led

This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish,

Yet I alone, alone do me oppose

Against the pope and count his friends my foes.

Cardinal Pandulph

Then, by the lawful power that I have,

Thou shalt stand cursed and excommunicate.

And blessed shall he be that doth revolt

From his allegiance to an heretic;

And meritorious shall that hand be call’d,

Canonized and worshipped as a saint,

That takes away by any secret course

Thy hateful life.

Constance

O, lawful let it be

That I have room with Rome to curse awhile!

Good father cardinal, cry thou amen

To my keen curses; for without my wrong

There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.

Cardinal Pandulph

There’s law and warrant, lady, for my curse.

Constance

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,

How can the law forbid my tongue to curse?

Cardinal Pandulph

Philip of France, on peril of a curse,

Let go the hand of that arch-heretic;

And raise the power of France upon his head,

Unless he do submit himself to Rome.

Queen Elinor

Look’st thou pale, France? do not let go thy hand.

Constance

Look to that, devil; lest that France repent,

And by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul.

Austria

King Philip, listen to the cardinal.

Bastard

And hang a calf’s-skin on his recreant limbs.

Austria

Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, Because —

Bastard

Your breeches best may carry them.

King John

Philip, what say’st thou to the cardinal?

Constance

What should he say, but as the cardinal?

Lewis

Bethink you, father; for the difference

Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome,

Or the light loss of England for a friend:

Forego the easier.

Blanch

That’s the curse of Rome.

Constance

O Lewis, stand fast! the devil tempts thee here

In likeness of a new untrimmed bride.

Blanch

The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith,

But from her need.

Constance

O, if thou grant my need,

Which only lives but by the death of faith,

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!

King John

The king is moved, and answers not to this.

Constance

O, be removed from him, and answer well!

Austria

Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt.

Bastard

Hang nothing but a calf’s-skin, most sweet lout.

King Philip

I am perplex’d, and know not what to say.

Cardinal Pandulph

What canst thou say but will perplex thee more,

If thou stand excommunicate and cursed?

King Philip

Good reverend father, make my person yours,

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 linked together

With all religious strength of sacred vows;

The latest breath that gave the sound of words

Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love

Between our kingdoms and our royal selves,

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 over-stain’d

With slaughter’s pencil, where revenge did paint

The fearful difference of incensed kings:

And shall these hands, so lately purged of blood,

So newly join’d in love, so strong in both,

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,

My reverend father, let it not be so!

Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose

Some gentle order; and then we shall be blest

To do your pleasure and continue friends.

Cardinal Pandulph

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.

France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue,

A chafed lion by the mortal paw,

A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,

Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.

King Philip

I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.

Cardinal Pandulph

So makest thou faith an enemy to faith;

And like a civil war set’st oath to oath,

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 sworest is sworn against thyself

And may not be performed by thyself,

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:

The better act of purposes mistook

Is to mistake again; though indirect,

Yet indirection thereby grows direct,

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,

By what thou swear’st against the thing thou swear’st,

And makest an oath the surety for thy truth

Against an oath: the truth thou art unsure

To swear, swears only not to be forsworn;

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

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:

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,

But in despair die under their black weight.

Austria

Rebellion, flat rebellion!

Bastard

Will’t not be?

Will not a calfs-skin stop that mouth of thine?

Lewis

Father, to arms!

Blanch

Upon thy wedding-day?

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?

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

Against mine uncle.

Constance

O, upon my knee,

Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,

Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom

Forethought by heaven!

Blanch

Now shall I see thy love: what motive may

Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?

Constance

That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,

His honour: O, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour!

Lewis

I muse your majesty doth seem so cold,

When such profound respects do pull you on.

Cardinal Pandulph

I will denounce a curse upon his head.

King Philip

Thou shalt not need. England, I will fall from thee.

Constance

O fair return of banish’d majesty!

Queen Elinor

O foul revolt of French inconstancy!

King John

France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.

Bastard

Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time,

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;

And in their rage, I having hold of both,

They swirl 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;

Grandam, I will not wish thy fortunes thrive:

Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose

Assured loss before the match be play’d.

Lewis

Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.

Blanch

There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.

King 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,

That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,

The blood, and dearest-valued blood, of France.

King Philip

Thy rage sham burn thee up, and thou shalt turn

To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire:

Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.

King 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 Austria’s head

Bastard

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.

Enter King John, Arthur, and Hubert

King John

Hubert, keep this boy. Philip, make up:

My mother is assailed in our tent,

And ta’en, I fear.

Bastard

My lord, I rescued her;

Her highness is in safety, fear you not:

But on, my liege; for very little pains

Will bring this labour to an happy end.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE SAME.

Alarums, excursions, retreat. Enter King John, Queen Elinor, Arthur, the Bastard, Hubert, and Lords

King John

[To Queen 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.

Arthur

O, this will make my mother die with grief!

King John

[To the Bastard] Cousin, away for England! haste before:

And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags

Of hoarding abbots; imprisoned angels

Set at liberty: the fat ribs of peace

Must by the hungry now be fed upon:

Use our commission in his utmost force.

Bastard

Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back,

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.

Elinor

Farewell, gentle cousin.

King John

Coz, farewell.

Exit the Bastard

Queen Elinor

Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.

King John

Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,

We owe thee much! within this wall of flesh

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.

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 ashamed

To say what good respect I have of thee.

Hubert

I am much bounden to your majesty.

King 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 from me to do thee good.

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

To give me audience: if the midnight bell

Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,

Sound on into the drowsy race of night;

If this same were a churchyard where we stand,

And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs,

Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,

Had baked thy blood and made it heavy-thick,

Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,

Making that idiot, laughter, keep men’s eyes

And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,

A passion hateful to my purposes,

Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,

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,

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 lovest me well.

Hubert

So well, that what you bid me undertake,

Though that my death were adjunct to my act,

By heaven, I would do it.

King 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,

He is a very serpent in my way;

And whereso’er this foot of mine doth tread,

He lies before me: dost thou understand me?

Thou art his keeper.

Hubert

And I’ll keep him so,

That he shall not offend your majesty.

King John

Death.

Hubert

My lord?

King John

A grave.

Hubert

He shall not live.

King John

Enough.

I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee;

Well, I’ll not say what I intend for thee:

Remember. Madam, fare you well:

I’ll send those powers o’er to your majesty.

Elinor

My blessing go with thee!

King John

For England, cousin, go:

Hubert shall be your man, attend on you

With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho!

Exeunt

SCENE IV. THE SAME. KING PHILIP’S TENT.

Enter King Philip, Lewis, Cardinal Pandulph, and Attendants

King Philip

So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,

A whole armado of convicted sail

Is scatter’d and disjoin’d from fellowship.

Cardinal Pandulph

Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well.

King Philip

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,

O’erbearing interruption, spite of France?

Lewis

What he hath won, that hath he fortified:

So hot a speed with such advice disposed,

Such temperate order in so fierce a cause,

Doth want example: who hath read or heard

Of any kindred action like to this?

King Philip

Well could I bear that England had this praise,

So we could find some pattern of our shame.

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.

Constance

Lo, now I now see the issue of your peace.

King Philip

Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!

Constance

No, I defy all counsel, all redress,

But that which ends all counsel, true redress,

Death, death; O amiable lovely death!

Thou odouriferous stench! sound rottenness!

Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,

Thou hate and terror to prosperity,

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:

Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smilest

And buss thee as thy wife. Misery’s love,

O, come to me!

King Philip

O fair affliction, peace!

Constance

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

Which cannot hear a lady’s feeble voice,

Which scorns a modern invocation.

Cardinal Pandulph

Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

Constance

Thou art not holy to belie me so;

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!

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 canonized, cardinal;

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:

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.

King Philip

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

Do glue themselves in sociable grief,

Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,

Sticking together in calamity.

Constance

To England, if you will.

King Philip

Bind up your hairs.

Constance

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!’

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

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,

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,

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

Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.

Cardinal Pandulph

You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

Constance

He talks to me that never had a son.

King Philip

You are as fond of grief as of your child.

Constance

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,

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.

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!

My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure!

Exit

King Philip

I fear some outrage, and I’ll follow her.

Exit

Lewis

There’s nothing in this world can make me joy:

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale

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.

Cardinal Pandulph

Before the curing of a strong disease,

Even in the instant of repair and health,

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?

Lewis

All days of glory, joy and happiness.

Cardinal Pandulph

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.

’Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost

In this which he accounts so clearly won:

Are not you grieved that Arthur is his prisoner?

Lewis

As heartily as he is glad he hath him.

Cardinal Pandulph

Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.

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

Thy foot to England’s throne; and therefore mark.

John hath seized Arthur; and it cannot be

That, whiles warm life plays in that infant’s veins,

The misplaced 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

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.

Lewis

But what shall I gain by young Arthur’s fall?

Cardinal Pandulph

You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife,

May then make all the claim that Arthur did.

Lewis

And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.

Cardinal Pandulph

How green you are and fresh in this old world!

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.

This act so evilly born shall cool the hearts

Of all his people and freeze up their zeal,

That none so small advantage shall step forth

To cheque his reign, but they will cherish it;

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

And call them meteors, prodigies and signs,

Abortives, presages and tongues of heaven,

Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.

Lewis

May be he will not touch young Arthur’s life,

But hold himself safe in his prisonment.

Cardinal Pandulph

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

And kiss the lips of unacquainted change

And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath

Out of the bloody fingers’ ends of John.

Methinks I see this hurly all on foot:

And, O, what better matter breeds for you

Than I have named! The bastard Faulconbridge

Is now in England, ransacking the church,

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,

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.

For England go: I will whet on the king.

Lewis

Strong reasons make strong actions: let us go:

If you say ay, the king will not say no.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. A ROOM IN A CASTLE.

Enter Hubert and Executioners

Hubert

Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand

Within the arras: when I strike my foot

Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth,

And bind the boy which you shall find with me

Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.

First Executioner

I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

Hubert

Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to’t.

Exeunt Executioners

Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

Enter Arthur

Arthur

Good morrow, Hubert.

Hubert

Good morrow, little prince.

Arthur

As little prince, having so great a title

To be more prince, as may be. You are sad.

Hubert

Indeed, I have been merrier.

Arthur

Mercy on me!

Methinks no body 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,

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:

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.

Hubert

[Aside] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate

He will awake my mercy which lies dead:

Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.

Arthur

Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:

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.

Hubert

[Aside] His words do take possession of my bosom.

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.

Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?

Arthur

Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect:

Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?

Hubert

Young boy, I must.

Arthur

And will you?

Hubert

And I will.

Arthur

Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,

I knit my handercher about your brows,

The best I had, a princess wrought it me,

And I did never ask it you again;

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?’

Or ‘What good love may I perform for you?’

Many a poor man’s son would have lien still

And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you;

But you at your sick service had a prince.

Nay, you may think my love was crafty love

And call it cunning: do, an if you will:

If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill,

Why then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?

These eyes that never did nor never shall

So much as frown on you.

Hubert

I have sworn to do it;

And with hot irons must I burn them out.

Arthur

Ah, none but in this iron age would do it!

The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,

Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears

And quench his fiery indignation

Even in the matter of mine innocence;

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

And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,

I would not have believed him,— no tongue but Hubert’s.

Hubert

Come forth.

Stamps

Re-enter Executioners, with a cord, irons, & c

Do as I bid you do.

Arthur

O, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

Hubert

Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

Arthur

Alas, what need you be so boisterous-rough?

I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.

For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!

Nay, hear me, Hubert, drive these men away,

And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;

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.

Hubert

Go, stand within; let me alone with him.

First Executioner

I am best pleased to be from such a deed.

Exeunt Executioners

Arthur

Alas, I then have chid away my friend!

He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart:

Let him come back, that his compassion may

Give life to yours.

Hubert

Come, boy, prepare yourself.

Arthur

Is there no remedy?

Hubert

None, but to lose your eyes.

Arthur

O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours,

A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,

Any annoyance in that precious sense!

Then feeling what small things are boisterous there,

Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

Hubert

Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.

Arthur

Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues

Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes:

Let me not hold my tongue, let me not, Hubert;

Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,

So I may keep mine eyes: O, spare mine eyes.

Though to no use but still to look on you!

Lo, by my truth, the instrument is cold

And would not harm me.

Hubert

I can heat it, boy.

Arthur

No, in good sooth: the fire is dead with grief,

Being create for comfort, to be used

In undeserved extremes: see else yourself;

There is no malice in this burning coal;

The breath of heaven has blown his spirit out

And strew’d repentent ashes on his head.

Hubert

But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

Arthur

An if you do, you will but make it blush

And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:

Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes;

And like a dog that is compell’d to fight,

Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.

All things that you should use to do me wrong

Deny their office: only you do lack

That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,

Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

Hubert

Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye

For all the treasure that thine uncle owes:

Yet am I sworn and I did purpose, boy,

With this same very iron to burn them out.

Arthur

O, now you look like Hubert! all this while

You were disguised.

Hubert

Peace; no more. Adieu.

Your uncle must not know but you are dead;

I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports:

And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,

That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,

Will not offend thee.

Arthur

O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.

Hubert

Silence; no more: go closely in with me:

Much danger do I undergo for thee.

Exeunt

SCENE II. KING JOHN’S PALACE.

Enter King John, Pembroke, Salisbury, and other Lords

King John

Here once again we sit, once again crown’d,

And looked upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.

Pembroke

This ‘once again,’ but that your highness pleased,

Was once superfluous: you were crown’d before,

And that high royalty was ne’er pluck’d off,

The faiths of men ne’er stained with revolt;

Fresh expectation troubled not the land

With any long’d-for change or better state.

Salisbury

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,

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.

Pembroke

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.

Salisbury

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,

Makes sound opinion sick and truth suspected,

For putting on so new a fashion’d robe.

Pembroke

When workmen strive to do better than well,

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

Discredit more in hiding of the fault

Than did the fault before it was so patch’d.

Salisbury

To this effect, before you were new crown’d,

We breathed our counsel: but it pleased your highness

To overbear it, and we are all well pleased,

Since all and every part of what we would

Doth make a stand at what your highness will.

King John

Some reasons of this double coronation

I have possess’d you with and think them strong;

And more, more strong, then 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

I will both hear and grant you your requests.

Pembroke

Then I, as one that am the tongue of these,

To sound the purpose of all their hearts,

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

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?

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

Than whereupon our weal, on you depending,

Counts it your weal he have his liberty.

Enter Hubert

King John

Let it be so: I do commit his youth

To your direction. Hubert, what news with you?

Taking him apart

Pembroke

This is the man should do the bloody deed;

He show’d his warrant to a friend of mine:

The image of a wicked heinous fault

Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his

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.

Salisbury

The colour of the king doth come and go

Between his purpose and his conscience,

Like heralds ’twixt two dreadful battles set:

His passion is so ripe, it needs must break.

Pembroke

And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence

The foul corruption of a sweet child’s death.

King 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 deceased to-night.

Salisbury

Indeed we fear’d his sickness was past cure.

Pembroke

Indeed we heard how near his death he was

Before the child himself felt he was sick:

This must be answer’d either here or hence.

King 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?

Salisbury

It is apparent foul play; and ’tis shame

That greatness should so grossly offer it:

So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell.

Pembroke

Stay yet, Lord Salisbury; I’ll go with thee,

And find the inheritance of this poor child,

His little kingdom of a forced grave.

That blood which owed the breadth of all this isle,

Three foot of it doth hold: bad world the while!

This must not be thus borne: this will break out

To all our sorrows, and ere long I doubt.

Exeunt Lords

King John

They burn in indignation. I repent:

There is no sure foundation set on blood,

No certain life achieved 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:

Pour down thy weather: how goes all in France?

Messenger

From France to England. Never such a power

For any foreign preparation

Was levied in the body of a land.

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 arrived.

King John

O, where hath our intelligence been drunk?

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?

Messenger

My liege, her ear

Is stopp’d with dust; the first of April died

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.

King John

Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion!

O, make a league with me, till I have pleased

My discontented peers! What! mother dead!

How wildly then walks my estate in France!

Under whose conduct came those powers of France

That thou for truth givest out are landed here?

Messenger

Under the Dauphin.

King John

Thou hast made me giddy

With these ill tidings.

Enter the Bastard and Peter of Pomfret

Now, what says the world

To your proceedings? do not seek to stuff

My head with more ill news, for it is full.

Bastard

But if you be afeard to hear the worst,

Then let the worst unheard fall on your bead.

King John

Bear with me cousin, for I was amazed

Under the tide: but now I breathe again

Aloft the flood, and can give audience

To any tongue, speak it of what it will.

Bastard

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;

Possess’d with rumours, full of idle dreams,

Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear:

And here a prophet, that I brought with me

From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found

With many hundreds treading on his heels;

To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes,

That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon,

Your highness should deliver up your crown.

King John

Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou so?

Peter

Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so.

King John

Hubert, away with him; imprison him;

And on that day at noon whereon he says

I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang’d.

Deliver him to safety; and return,

For I must use thee.

Exeunt Hubert with Peter

O my gentle cousin,

Hear’st thou the news abroad, who are arrived?

Bastard

The French, my lord; men’s mouths are full of it:

Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury,

With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire,

And others more, going to seek the grave

Of Arthur, who they say is kill’d to-night

On your suggestion.

King John

Gentle kinsman, go,

And thrust thyself into their companies:

I have a way to win their loves again;

Bring them before me.

Bastard

I will seek them out.

King John

Nay, but make haste; the better foot before.

O, let me have no subject enemies,

When adverse foreigners affright my towns

With dreadful pomp of stout invasion!

Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels,

And fly like thought from them to me again.

Bastard

The spirit of the time shall teach me speed.

Exit

King John

Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman.

Go after him; for he perhaps shall need

Some messenger betwixt me and the peers;

And be thou he.

Messenger

With all my heart, my liege.

Exit

King John

My mother dead!

Re-enter Hubert

Hubert

My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night;

Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about

The other four in wondrous motion.

King John

Five moons!

Hubert

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

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.

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:

Another lean unwash’d artificer

Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur’s death.

King 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

To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him.

Hubert

No had, my lord! why, did you not provoke me?

King John

It is the curse of kings to be attended

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

Of dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns

More upon humour than advised respect.

Hubert

Here is your hand and seal for what I did.

King John

O, when the last account ’twixt heaven and earth

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

Make deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by,

A fellow by the hand of nature mark’d,

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,

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,

Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.

Hubert

My lord —

King John

Hadst thou but shook thy head or made a pause

When I spake darkly what I purposed,

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:

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

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 braved,

Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers:

Nay, in the body of this fleshly land,

This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,

Hostility and civil tumult reigns

Between my conscience and my cousin’s death.

Hubert

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,

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,

Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,

Is yet the cover of a fairer mind

Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

King John

Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the peers,

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,

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.

I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast.

Exeunt

SCENE III. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

Enter Arthur, on the walls

Arthur

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 disguised me quite.

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.

Leaps down

O me! my uncle’s spirit is in these stones:

Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!

Dies

Enter Pembroke, Salisbury, and Bigot

Salisbury

Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmundsbury:

It is our safety, and we must embrace

This gentle offer of the perilous time.

Pembroke

Who brought that letter from the cardinal?

Salisbury

The Count Melun, a noble lord of France,

Whose private with me of the Dauphin’s love

Is much more general than these lines import.

Bigot

To-morrow morning let us meet him then.

Salisbury

Or rather then set forward; for ’twill be

Two long days’ journey, lords, or ere we meet.

Enter the Bastard

Bastard

Once more to-day well met, distemper’d lords!

The king by me requests your presence straight.

Salisbury

The king hath dispossess’d himself of us:

We will not line his thin bestained cloak

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.

Bastard

Whate’er you think, good words, I think, were best.

Salisbury

Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.

Bastard

But there is little reason in your grief;

Therefore ’twere reason you had manners now.

Pembroke

Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.

Bastard

’Tis true, to hurt his master, no man else.

Salisbury

This is the prison. What is he lies here?

Seeing Arthur

Pembroke

O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.

Salisbury

Murder, as hating what himself hath done,

Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

Bigot

Or, when he doom’d this beauty to a grave,

Found it too precious-princely for a grave.

Salisbury

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,

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,

That ever wall-eyed wrath or staring rage

Presented to the tears of soft remorse.

Pembroke

All murders past do stand excused in this:

And this, so sole and so unmatchable,

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.

Bastard

It is a damned and a bloody work;

The graceless action of a heavy hand,

If that it be the work of any hand.

Salisbury

If that it be the work of any hand!

We had a kind of light what would ensue:

It is the shameful work of Hubert’s hand;

The practise and the purpose of the king:

From whose obedience I forbid my soul,

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,

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.

Pembroke

Bigot

Our souls religiously confirm thy words.

Enter Hubert

Hubert

Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you:

Arthur doth live; the king hath sent for you.

Salisbury

O, he is old and blushes not at death.

Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!

Hubert

I am no villain.

Salisbury

Must I rob the law?

Drawing his sword

Bastard

Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again.

Salisbury

Not till I sheathe it in a murderer’s skin.

Hubert

Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say;

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;

Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget

Your worth, your greatness and nobility.

Bigot

Out, dunghill! darest thou brave a nobleman?

Hubert

Not for my life: but yet I dare defend

My innocent life against an emperor.

Salisbury

Thou art a murderer.

Hubert

Do not prove me so;

Yet I am none: whose tongue soe’er speaks false,

Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies.

Pembroke

Cut him to pieces.

Bastard

Keep the peace, I say.

Salisbury

Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge.

Bastard

Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury:

If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,

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.

Bigot

What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge?

Second a villain and a murderer?

Hubert

Lord Bigot, I am none.

Bigot

Who kill’d this prince?

Hubert

’Tis not an hour since I left him well:

I honour’d him, I loved him, and will weep

My date of life out for his sweet life’s loss.

Salisbury

Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,

For villany is not without such rheum;

And he, long traded in it, makes it seem

Like rivers of remorse and innocency.

Away with me, all you whose souls abhor

The uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house;

For I am stifled with this smell of sin.

Bigot

Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there!

Pembroke

There tell the king he may inquire us out.

Exeunt Lords

Bastard

Here’s a good world! Knew you of this fair work?

Beyond the infinite and boundless reach

Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death,

Art thou damn’d, Hubert.

Hubert

Do but hear me, sir.

Bastard

Ha! I’ll tell thee what;

Thou’rt damn’d as black — nay, nothing is so black;

Thou art more deep damn’d than Prince Lucifer:

There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell

As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.

Hubert

Upon my soul —

Bastard

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

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,

Enough to stifle such a villain up.

I do suspect thee very grievously.

Hubert

If I in act, consent, or sin of thought,

Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath

Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,

Let hell want pains enough to torture me.

I left him well.

Bastard

Go, bear him in thine arms.

I am amazed, methinks, and lose my way

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

Is fled to heaven; and England now is left

To tug and scamble and to part by the teeth

The unowed interest of proud-swelling state.

Now for the bare-pick’d bone of majesty

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,

As doth a raven on a sick-fall’n beast,

The imminent decay of wrested pomp.

Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can

Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child

And follow me with speed: I’ll to the king:

A thousand businesses are brief in hand,

And heaven itself doth frown upon the land.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. KING JOHN’S PALACE.

Enter King John, Cardinal Pandulph, and Attendants

King John

Thus have I yielded up into your hand

The circle of my glory.

Giving the crown

Cardinal Pandulph

Take again

From this my hand, as holding of the pope

Your sovereign greatness and authority.

King 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 inflamed.

Our discontented counties do revolt;

Our people quarrel with obedience,

Swearing allegiance and the love of soul

To stranger blood, to foreign royalty.

This inundation of mistemper’d humour

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.

Cardinal Pandulph

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

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

King John

Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet

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:

But, heaven be thank’d, it is but voluntary.

Enter the Bastard

Bastard

All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds out

But Dover castle: London hath received,

Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers:

Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone

To offer service to your enemy,

And wild amazement hurries up and down

The little number of your doubtful friends.

King John

Would not my lords return to me again,

After they heard young Arthur was alive?

Bastard

They found him dead and cast into the streets,

An empty casket, where the jewel of life

By some damn’d hand was robb’d and ta’en away.

King John

That villain Hubert told me he did live.

Bastard

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;

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;

Threaten the threatener and outface the brow

Of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes,

That borrow their behaviors from the great,

Grow great by your example and put on

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.

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 farther from the doors,

And grapple with him ere he comes so nigh.

King John

The legate of the pope hath been with me,

And I have made a happy peace with him;

And he hath promised to dismiss the powers

Led by the Dauphin.

Bastard

O inglorious league!

Shall we, upon the footing of our land,

Send fair-play orders and make compromise,

Insinuation, parley and base truce

To arms invasive? shall a beardless boy,

A cocker’d silken wanton, brave our fields,

And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,

Mocking the air with colours idly spread,

And find no cheque? 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.

King John

Have thou the ordering of this present time.

Bastard

Away, then, with good courage! yet, I know,

Our party may well meet a prouder foe.

Exeunt

SCENE II. LEWIS’S CAMP AT ST. EDMUNDSBURY.

Enter, in arms, Lewis, Salisbury, Melun, Pembroke, Bigot, and Soldiers

Lewis

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,

Both they and we, perusing o’er these notes,

May know wherefore we took the sacrament

And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.

Salisbury

Upon our sides it never shall be broken.

And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear

A voluntary zeal and an unurged faith

To your proceedings; yet believe me, prince,

I am not glad that such a sore of time

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

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,

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,

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

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?

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 grapple thee unto a pagan shore;

Where these two Christian armies might combine

The blood of malice in a vein of league,

And not to spend it so unneighbourly!

Lewis

A noble temper dost thou show in this;

And great affections wrestling in thy bosom

Doth make an earthquake of nobility.

O, what a noble combat hast thou fought

Between compulsion and a brave respect!

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;

But this effusion of such manly drops,

This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul,

Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amazed

Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven

Figured quite o’er with burning meteors.

Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,

And with a great heart heave away the storm:

Commend these waters to those baby eyes

That never saw the giant world enraged;

Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,

Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping.

Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep

Into the purse of rich prosperity

As Lewis himself: so, nobles, shall you all,

That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.

And even there, methinks, an angel spake:

Enter Cardinal Pandulph

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.

Cardinal Pandulph

Hail, noble prince of France!

The next is this, King John hath reconciled

Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in,

That so stood out against the holy church,

The great metropolis and see of Rome:

Therefore thy threatening 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,

And be no further harmful than in show.

Lewis

Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back:

I am too high-born to be propertied,

To be a secondary at control,

Or useful serving-man and instrument,

To any sovereign state throughout the world.

Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars

Between this chastised kingdom and myself,

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,

Acquainted me with interest to this land,

Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart;

And come ye now to tell me John hath made

His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me?

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?

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,

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 roi!’ as I have bank’d their towns?

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.

Cardinal Pandulph

You look but on the outside of this work.

Lewis

Outside or inside, I will not return

Till my attempt so much be glorified

As to my ample hope was promised

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.

Trumpet sounds

What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?

Enter the Bastard, attended

Bastard

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

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.

Cardinal Pandulph

The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,

And will not temporize with my entreaties;

He flatly says he’ll not lay down his arms.

Bastard

By all the blood that ever fury breathed,

The youth says well. Now hear our English king;

For thus his royalty doth speak in me.

He is prepared, and reason too he should:

This apish and unmannerly approach,

This harness’d masque and unadvised revel,

This unhair’d sauciness and boyish troops,

The king doth smile at; and is well prepared

To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,

From out the circle of his territories.

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,

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,

Thinking his 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

And like an eagle o’er his aery towers,

To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.

And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,

You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb

Of your dear mother England, blush for shame;

For your own ladies and pale-visaged maids

Like Amazons come tripping after drums,

Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change,

Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts

To fierce and bloody inclination.

Lewis

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

With such a brabbler.

Cardinal Pandulph

Give me leave to speak.

Bastard

No, I will speak.

Lewis

We will attend to neither.

Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war

Plead for our interest and our being here.

Bastard

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,

And even at hand a drum is ready braced

That shall reverberate all as loud as thine;

Sound but another, and another shall

As loud as thine rattle the welkin’s ear

And mock the deep-mouth’d thunder: for at hand,

Not trusting to this halting legate here,

Whom he hath used rather for sport than need

Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits

A bare-ribb’d death, whose office is this day

To feast upon whole thousands of the French.

Lewis

Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.

Bastard

And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

Alarums. Enter King John and Hubert

King John

How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert.

Hubert

Badly, I fear. How fares your majesty?

King John

This fever, that hath troubled me so long,

Lies heavy on me; O, my heart is sick!

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge,

Desires your majesty to leave the field

And send him word by me which way you go.

King John

Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there.

Messenger

Be of good comfort; for the great supply

That was expected by the Dauphin here,

Are wreck’d three nights ago on Goodwin Sands.

This news was brought to Richard but even now:

The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.

King 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.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Enter Salisbury, Pembroke, and Bigot

Salisbury

I did not think the king so stored with friends.

Pembroke

Up once again; put spirit in the French:

If they miscarry, we miscarry too.

Salisbury

That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge,

In spite of spite, alone upholds the day.

Pembroke

They say King John sore sick hath left the field.

Enter Melun, wounded

Melun

Lead me to the revolts of England here.

Salisbury

When we were happy we had other names.

Pembroke

It is the Count Melun.

Salisbury

Wounded to death.

Melun

Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold;

Unthread the rude eye of rebellion

And welcome home again discarded faith.

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,

Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury;

Even on that altar where we swore to you

Dear amity and everlasting love.

Salisbury

May this be possible? may this be true?

Melun

Have I not hideous death within my view,

Retaining but a quantity of life,

Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax

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

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:

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

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:

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

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.

Salisbury

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,

And like a bated and retired flood,

Leaving our rankness and irregular course,

Stoop low within those bounds we have o’erlook’d

And cabby run on in obedience

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.

Exeunt, leading off Melun

SCENE V. THE FRENCH CAMP.

Enter Lewis and his train

Lewis

The sun of heaven methought was loath to set,

But stay’d and made the western welkin blush,

When English measure backward their own ground

In faint retire. O, bravely came we off,

When with a volley of our needless shot,

After such bloody toil, we bid good night;

And wound our tattering colours clearly up,

Last in the field, and almost lords of it!

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

Where is my prince, the Dauphin?

Lewis

Here: what news?

Messenger

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.

Lewis

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

King John did fly an hour or two before

The stumbling night did part our weary powers?

Messenger

Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.

Lewis

Well; keep good quarter and good care to-night:

The day shall not be up so soon as I,

To try the fair adventure of to-morrow.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. AN OPEN PLACE IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF SWINSTEAD ABBEY.

Enter the Bastard and Hubert, severally

Hubert

Who’s there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot.

Bastard

A friend. What art thou?

Hubert

Of the part of England.

Bastard

Whither dost thou go?

Hubert

What’s that to thee? why may not I demand

Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine?

Bastard

Hubert, I think?

Hubert

Thou hast a perfect thought:

I will upon all hazards well believe

Thou art my friend, that know’st my tongue so well.

Who art thou?

Bastard

Who thou wilt: and if thou please,

Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think

I come one way of the Plantagenets.

Hubert

Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless night

Have done me shame: brave soldier, pardon me,

That any accent breaking from thy tongue

Should ’scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.

Bastard

Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad?

Hubert

Why, here walk I in the black brow of night,

To find you out.

Bastard

Brief, then; and what’s the news?

Hubert

O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night,

Black, fearful, comfortless and horrible.

Bastard

Show me the very wound of this ill news:

I am no woman, I’ll not swoon at it.

Hubert

The king, I fear, is poison’d by a monk:

I left him almost speechless; and broke out

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.

Bastard

How did he take it? who did taste to him?

Hubert

A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain,

Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king

Yet speaks and peradventure may recover.

Bastard

Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty?

Hubert

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.

Bastard

Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven,

And tempt us not to bear above our power!

I’ll tell tree, Hubert, half my power this night,

Passing these flats, are taken by the tide;

These Lincoln Washes have devoured them;

Myself, well mounted, hardly have escaped.

Away before: conduct me to the king;

I doubt he will be dead or ere I come.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. THE ORCHARD IN SWINSTEAD ABBEY.

Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot

Prince Henry

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

Foretell the ending of mortality.

Enter Pembroke

Pembroke

His highness yet doth speak, and holds belief

That, being brought into the open air,

It would allay the burning quality

Of that fell poison which assaileth him.

Prince Henry

Let him be brought into the orchard here.

Doth he still rage?

Exit Bigot

Pembroke

He is more patient

Than when you left him; even now he sung.

Prince Henry

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

Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds

With many legions of strange fantasies,

Whi ch, in their throng and press to that last hold,

Confound themselves. ’Tis strange that death should sing.

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.

Salisbury

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.

Enter Attendants, and Bigot, carrying King John in a chair

King John

Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;

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

Upon a parchment, and against this fire

Do I shrink up.

Prince Henry

How fares your majesty?

King John

Poison’d,— ill fare — dead, forsook, cast off:

And none of you will bid the winter come

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

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.

Prince Henry

O that there were some virtue in my tears,

That might relieve you!

King John

The salt in them is hot.

Within me is a hell; and there the poison

Is as a fiend confined to tyrannize

On unreprievable condemned blood.

Enter the Bastard

Bastard

O, I am scalded with my violent motion,

And spleen of speed to see your majesty!

King John

O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:

The tackle of my heart is crack’d and burn’d,

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;

And then all this thou seest is but a clod

And module of confounded royalty.

Bastard

The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,

Where heaven He knows how we shall answer him;

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.

King John dies

Salisbury

You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.

My liege! my lord! but now a king, now thus.

Prince Henry

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?

Bastard

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.

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,

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.

Salisbury

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

As we with honour and respect may take,

With purpose presently to leave this war.

Bastard

He will the rather do it when he sees

Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.

Salisbury

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:

With whom yourself, myself and other lords,

If you think meet, this afternoon will post

To consummate this business happily.

Bastard

Let it be so: and you, my noble prince,

With other princes that may best be spared,

Shall wait upon your father’s funeral.

Prince Henry

At Worcester must his body be interr’d;

For so he will’d it.

Bastard

Thither shall it then:

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

And true subjection everlastingly.

Salisbury

And the like tender of our love we make,

To rest without a spot for evermore.

Prince Henry

I have a kind soul that would give you thanks

And knows not how to do it but with tears.

Bastard

O, let us pay the time but needful woe,

Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs.

This England never did, nor never shall,

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,

And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,

If England to itself do rest but true.

Exeunt

The Life and Death of Richard the Second

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. LONDON. KING RICHARD II’S PALACE.

SCENE II. THE DUKE OF LANCASTER’S PALACE.

SCENE III. THE LISTS AT COVENTRY.

SCENE IV. THE COURT.

ACT II

SCENE I. ELY HOUSE.

SCENE II. THE PALACE.

SCENE III. WILDS IN GLOUCESTERSHIRE.

SCENE IV. A CAMP IN WALES.

ACT III

SCENE I. BRISTOL. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

SCENE II. THE COAST OF WALES. A CASTLE IN VIEW.

SCENE III. WALES. BEFORE FLINT CASTLE.

SCENE IV. LANGLEY. THE DUKE OF YORK’S GARDEN.

ACT IV

SCENE I. WESTMINSTER HALL.

ACT V

SCENE I. LONDON. A STREET LEADING TO THE TOWER.

SCENE II. THE DUKE OF YORK’S PALACE.

SCENE III. A ROYAL PALACE.

SCENE IV. THE SAME.

SCENE V. POMFRET CASTLE.

SCENE VI. WINDSOR CASTLE.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

King Richard The Second.

John Of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster - uncle to the King.

Edmund Langley, Duke of York - uncle to the King.

Henry, surnamed Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford, son of John of Gaunt, afterwards King Henry IV.

Duke Of Aumerle, son of the Duke of York.

Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.

Duke Of Surrey.

Earl Of Salisbury.

Earl Berkeley.

Bushy, Bagot and Green, favourites of King Richard.

Earl Of Northumberland.

Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his son.

Lord Ross.

Lord Willoughby.

Lord Fitzwater.

Bishop Of Carlisle.

Abbot Of Westminster.

Lord Marshal.

Sir Stephen Scroop.

Sir Pierce Of Exton.

Captain of a band of Welshmen.

Two Gardeners

Queen to King Richard.

Duchess Of York.

Duchess Of Gloucester, widow of Thomas of Woodstock.

Duke of Gloucester.

Lady attending on the Queen

Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants

Scene: England and Wales

ACT I

SCENE I. LONDON. KING RICHARD II’S PALACE.

Enter King Richard II, John Of Gaunt, with other Nobles and Attendants

King Richard II

Old John of Gaunt, time-honour’d Lancaster,

Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,

Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son,

Here to make good the boisterous late appeal,

Which then our leisure would not let us hear,

Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

John Of Gaunt

I have, my liege.

King Richard II

Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him,

If he appeal the duke on ancient malice;

Or worthily, as a good subject should,

On some known ground of treachery in him?

John Of Gaunt

As near as I could sift him on that argument,

On some apparent danger seen in him

Aim’d at your highness, no inveterate malice.

King Richard II

Then call them to our presence; face to face,

And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear

The accuser and the accused freely speak:

High-stomach’d are they both, and full of ire,

In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.

Enter Henry Bolingbroke and Thomas Mowbray

Henry Bolingbroke

Many years of happy days befal

My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!

Thomas Mowbray

Each day still better other’s happiness;

Until the heavens, envying earth’s good hap,

Add an immortal title to your crown!

King Richard II

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

Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Henry Bolingbroke

First, heaven be the record to my speech!

In the devotion of a subject’s love,

Tendering the precious safety of my prince,

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

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,

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;

And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move,

What my tongue speaks my right drawn sword may prove.

Thomas Mowbray

Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal:

’Tis not the trial of a woman’s war,

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

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

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;

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,

Or any other ground inhabitable,

Where ever Englishman durst set his foot.

Mean time let this defend my loyalty,

By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.

Henry Bolingbroke

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.

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,

What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise.

Thomas Mowbray

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,

Or chivalrous design of knightly trial:

And when I mount, alive may I not light,

If I be traitor or unjustly fight!

King Richard II

What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray’s charge?

It must be great that can inherit us

So much as of a thought of ill in him.

Henry Bolingbroke

Look, what I speak, my life shall prove it true;

That Mowbray hath received eight thousand nobles

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,

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

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,

And consequently, like a traitor coward,

Sluiced out his innocent soul through streams of blood:

Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, cries,

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.

King Richard II

How high a pitch his resolution soars!

Thomas of Norfolk, what say’st thou to this?

Thomas Mowbray

O, let my sovereign turn away his face

And bid his ears a little while be deaf,

Till I have told this slander of his blood,

How God and good men hate so foul a liar.

King Richard II

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,

Now, by my sceptre’s awe, I make a vow,

Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood

Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize

The unstooping firmness of my upright soul:

He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou:

Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.

Thomas Mowbray

Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,

Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest.

Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais

Disbursed I duly to his highness’ soldiers;

The other part reserved I by consent,

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,

I slew him not; but to my own disgrace

Neglected my sworn duty in that case.

For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,

The honourable father to my foe

Once did I lay an ambush for your life,

A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul

But ere I last received the sacrament

I did confess it, and exactly begg’d

Your grace’s pardon, and I hope I had it.

This is my fault: as for the rest appeall’d,

It issues from the rancour of a villain,

A recreant and most degenerate traitor

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

Even in the best blood chamber’d in his bosom.

In haste whereof, most heartily I pray

Your highness to assign our trial day.

King Richard II

Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled by me;

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;

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.

John Of Gaunt

To be a make-peace shall become my age:

Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s gage.

King Richard II

And, Norfolk, throw down his.

John Of Gaunt

When, Harry, when?

Obedience bids I should not bid again.

King Richard II

Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot.

Thomas Mowbray

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,

To dark dishonour’s use thou shalt not have.

I am disgraced, impeach’d and baffled here,

Pierced to the soul with slander’s venom’d spear,

The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood

Which breathed this poison.

King Richard II

Rage must be withstood:

Give me his gage: lions make leopards tame.

Thomas Mowbray

Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame.

And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord,

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

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.

King Richard II

Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin.

Henry Bolingbroke

O, God defend my soul from such deep sin!

Shall I seem crest-fall’n in my father’s sight?

Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height

Before this out-dared dastard? Ere my tongue

Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong,

Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear

The slavish motive of recanting fear,

And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,

Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray’s face.

Exit John Of Gaunt

King Richard II

We were not born to sue, but to command;

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

The swelling difference of your settled hate:

Since we can not atone you, we shall see

Justice design the victor’s chivalry.

Lord marshal, command our officers at arms

Be ready to direct these home alarms.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE DUKE OF LANCASTER’S PALACE.

Enter John Of Gaunt with Duchess

John Of 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

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.

Duchess

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,

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,

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 faded,

By envy’s hand and murder’s bloody axe.

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 livest and breathest,

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.

Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair:

In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter’d,

Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life,

Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee:

That which in mean men we intitle 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.

John Of Gaunt

God’s is the quarrel; for God’s substitute,

His deputy anointed in His sight,

Hath caused his death: the which if wrongfully,

Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift

An angry arm against His minister.

Duchess

Where then, alas, may I complain myself?

John Of Gaunt

To God, the widow’s champion and defence.

Duchess

Why, then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.

Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold

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!

Or, if misfortune miss the first career,

Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom,

They may break his foaming courser’s back,

And throw the rider headlong in the lists,

A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!

Farewell, old Gaunt: thy sometimes brother’s wife

With her companion grief must end her life.

John Of Gaunt

Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry:

As much good stay with thee as go with me!

Duchess

Yet one word more: grief boundeth where it falls,

Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:

I take my leave before I have begun,

For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.

Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York.

Lo, this is all:— nay, yet depart not so;

Though this be all, do not so quickly go;

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,

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.

Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die:

The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE LISTS AT COVENTRY.

Enter the Lord Marshal and the Duke Of Aumerle

Lord Marshal

My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm’d?

Duke Of Aumerle

Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in.

Lord Marshal

The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,

Stays but the summons of the appellant’s trumpet.

Duke Of Aumerle

Why, then, the champions are prepared, and stay

For nothing but his majesty’s approach.

The trumpets sound, and King Richard enters with his nobles, John Of Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green, and others. When they are set, enter Thomas Mowbray in arms, defendant, with a Herald

King Richard II

Marshal, demand of yonder champion

The cause of his arrival here in arms:

Ask him his name and orderly proceed

To swear him in the justice of his cause.

Lord Marshal

In God’s name and the king’s, say who thou art

And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms,

Against what man thou comest, and what thy quarrel:

Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thy oath;

As so defend thee heaven and thy valour!

Thomas Mowbray

My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk;

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 my succeeding issue,

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:

And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

The trumpets sound. Enter Henry Bolingbroke, appellant, in armour, with a Herald

King Richard II

Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms,

Both who he is and why he cometh hither

Thus plated in habiliments of war,

And formally, according to our law,

Depose him in the justice of his cause.

Lord Marshal

What is thy name? and wherefore comest thou hither,

Before King Richard in his royal lists?

Against whom comest thou? and what’s thy quarrel?

Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!

Henry Bolingbroke

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby

Am I; who ready here do stand in arms,

To prove, by God’s grace and my body’s valour,

In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,

That he is a traitor, foul and dangerous,

To God of heaven, King Richard and to me;

And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!

Lord Marshal

On pain of death, no person be so bold

Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists,

Except the marshal and such officers

Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Henry Bolingbroke

Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign’s hand,

And bow my knee before his majesty:

For Mowbray and myself are like two men

That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;

Then let us take a ceremonious leave

And loving farewell of our several friends.

Lord Marshal

The appellant in all duty greets your highness,

And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.

King Richard II

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!

Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,

Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Henry Bolingbroke

O let no noble eye profane a tear

For me, if I be gored with Mowbray’s spear:

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;

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,

Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,

Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up

To reach at victory above my head,

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,

Even in the lusty havior of his son.

John Of Gaunt

God in thy good cause make thee prosperous!

Be swift like lightning in the execution;

And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,

Fall like amazing thunder on the casque

Of thy adverse pernicious enemy:

Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live.

Henry Bolingbroke

Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive!

Thomas Mowbray

However God or fortune cast my lot,

There lives or dies, true to King Richard’s throne,

A loyal, just and upright gentleman:

Never did captive with a freer heart

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.

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 hath a quiet breast.

King Richard II

Farewell, my lord: securely I espy

Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.

Order the trial, marshal, and begin.

Lord Marshal

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,

Receive thy lance; and God defend the right!

Henry Bolingbroke

Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen.

Lord Marshal

Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.

First Herald

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster and Derby,

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;

And dares him to set forward to the fight.

Second Herald

Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,

On pain to be found false and recreant,

Both to defend himself and to approve

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.

Lord Marshal

Sound, trumpets; and set forward, combatants.

A charge sounded

Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down.

King Richard II

Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,

And both return back to their chairs again:

Withdraw with us: and let the trumpets sound

While we return these dukes what we decree.

A long flourish

Draw near,

And list what with our council we have done.

For that our kingdom’s earth should not be soil’d

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’ sword;

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

Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;

Which so roused up with boisterous untuned drums,

With harsh resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray,

And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,

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,

Till twice five summers have enrich’d our fields

Shall not regreet our fair dominions,

But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

Henry Bolingbroke

Your will be done: this must my comfort be,

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.

King Richard II

Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,

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’

Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Thomas Mowbray

A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,

And all unlook’d for from your highness’ mouth:

A dearer merit, not so deep a maim

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:

And now my tongue’s use is to me no more

Than an unstringed viol or a harp,

Or like a cunning instrument cased up,

Or, being open, put into his hands

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

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?

King Richard II

It boots thee not to be compassionate:

After our sentence plaining comes too late.

Thomas Mowbray

Then thus I turn me from my country’s light,

To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

King Richard II

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 —

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;

Nor never look upon each other’s face;

Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile

This louring tempest of your home-bred hate;

Nor never by advised purpose meet

To plot, contrive, or complot any ill

’Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

Henry Bolingbroke

I swear.

Thomas Mowbray

And I, to keep all this.

Henry Bolingbroke

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,

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 burthen of a guilty soul.

Thomas Mowbray

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;

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

King Richard II

Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes

I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect

Hath from the number of his banish’d years

Pluck’d four away.

To Henry Bolingbroke

Six frozen winter spent,

Return with welcome home from banishment.

Henry Bolingbroke

How long a time lies in one little word!

Four lagging winters and four wanton springs

End in a word: such is the breath of kings.

John Of Gaunt

I thank my liege, that in regard of me

He shortens four years of my son’s exile:

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

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.

King Richard II

Why uncle, thou hast many years to live.

John Of 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,

But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;

Thy word is current with him for my death,

But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

King Richard II

Thy son is banish’d upon good advice,

Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave:

Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lour?

John Of Gaunt

Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.

You urged 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:

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;

But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue

Against my will to do myself this wrong.

King Richard II

Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so:

Six years we banish him, and he shall go.

Flourish. Exeunt King Richard II and train

Duke Of Aumerle

Cousin, farewell: what presence must not know,

From where you do remain let paper show.

Lord Marshal

My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride,

As far as land will let me, by your side.

John Of Gaunt

O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,

That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends?

Henry Bolingbroke

I have too few to take my leave of you,

When the tongue’s office should be prodigal

To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.

John Of Gaunt

Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

Henry Bolingbroke

Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

John Of Gaunt

What is six winters? they are quickly gone.

Henry Bolingbroke

To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.

John Of Gaunt

Call it a travel that thou takest for pleasure.

Henry Bolingbroke

My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,

Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.

John Of Gaunt

The sullen passage of thy weary steps

Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set

The precious jewel of thy home return.

Henry Bolingbroke

Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make

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,

Having my freedom, boast of nothing else

But that I was a journeyman to grief?

John Of Gaunt

All places that the eye of heaven visits

Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.

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.

Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour

And not the king exiled thee; or suppose

Devouring pestilence hangs in our air

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 comest:

Suppose the singing birds musicians,

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

The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

Henry Bolingbroke

O, who can hold a fire in his hand

By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite

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

Gives but the greater feeling to the worse:

Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more

Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore.

John Of Gaunt

Come, come, my son, I’ll bring thee on thy way:

Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay.

Henry Bolingbroke

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,

Though banish’d, yet a trueborn Englishman.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. THE COURT.

Enter King Richard II, with Bagot and Green at one door; and the Duke Of Aumerle at another

King Richard II

We did observe. Cousin Aumerle,

How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

Duke Of Aumerle

I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,

But to the next highway, and there I left him.

King Richard II

And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

Duke Of Aumerle

Faith, none for me; except the north-east wind,

Which then blew bitterly against our faces,

Awaked the sleeping rheum, and so by chance

Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

King Richard II

What said our cousin when you parted with him?

Duke Of Aumerle

‘Farewell:’

And, for my heart disdained that my tongue

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

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.

King Richard II

He is our cousin, cousin; but ’tis doubt,

When time shall call him home from banishment,

Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.

Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here and Green

Observed his courtship to the common people;

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,

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

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.

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

For their advantage and your highness’ loss.

King Richard II

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 inforced to farm our royal realm;

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,

They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold

And send them after to supply our wants;

For we will make for Ireland presently.

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.

King Richard II

Where lies he?

Bushy

At Ely House.

King Richard II

Now put it, God, in the physician’s mind

To help him to his grave immediately!

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. ELY HOUSE.

Enter John Of Gaunt sick, with the Duke Of York, & c

John Of Gaunt

Will the king come, that I may breathe my last

In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?

Duke Of York

Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;

For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

John Of 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.

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,

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.

Duke Of York

No; it is stopp’d with other flattering sounds,

As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond,

Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound

The open ear of youth doth always listen;

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 —

So it be new, there’s no respect how vile —

That is not quickly buzzed into his ears?

Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,

Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard.

Direct not him whose way himself will choose:

’Tis breath thou lack’st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

John Of Gaunt

Methinks I am a prophet new inspired

And thus expiring do foretell of him:

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;

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,

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,

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,

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,

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,

This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,

Dear for her reputation through the world,

Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,

Like to a tenement or pelting farm:

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:

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!

Enter King Richard II and Queen, Duke Of Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Lord Ross, and Lord Willoughby

Duke Of York

The king is come: deal mildly with his youth;

For young hot colts being raged do rage the more.

Queen

How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?

King Richard II

What comfort, man? how is’t with aged Gaunt?

John Of Gaunt

O how that name befits my composition!

Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old:

Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;

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;

And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt:

Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,

Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.

King Richard II

Can sick men play so nicely with their names?

John Of Gaunt

No, misery makes sport to mock itself:

Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,

I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.

King Richard II

Should dying men flatter with those that live?

John Of Gaunt

No, no, men living flatter those that die.

King Richard II

Thou, now a-dying, say’st thou flatterest me.

John Of Gaunt

O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be.

King Richard II

I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.

John Of 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;

And thou, too careless patient as thou art,

Commit’st thy anointed body to the cure

Of those physicians that first wounded thee:

A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,

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

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.

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?

Landlord of England art thou now, not king:

Thy state of law is bondslave to the law; And thou —

King Richard II

A lunatic lean-witted fool,

Presuming on an ague’s privilege,

Darest 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,

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.

John Of Gaunt

O, spare me not, my brother Edward’s son,

For that I was his father Edward’s son;

That blood already, like the pelican,

Hast thou tapp’d out and drunkenly caroused:

My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul,

Whom fair befal in heaven ’mongst happy souls!

May be a precedent and witness good

That thou respect’st not spilling Edward’s blood:

Join with the present sickness that I have;

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!

Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:

Love they to live that love and honour have.

Exit, borne off by his Attendants

King Richard II

And let them die that age and sullens have;

For both hast thou, and both become the grave.

Duke Of York

I do beseech your majesty, impute his words

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.

King Richard II

Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love, so his;

As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.

Enter Northumberland

Northumberland

My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty.

King Richard II

What says he?

Northumberland

Nay, nothing; all is said

His tongue is now a stringless instrument;

Words, life and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

Duke Of York

Be York the next that must be bankrupt so!

Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

King Richard II

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:

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

The plate, corn, revenues and moveables,

Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess’d.

Duke Of York

How long shall I be patient? ah, how long

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

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,

Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first:

In war was never lion raged 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,

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

Did will what he did spend and spent not that

Which his triumphant father’s hand had won;

His hands were guilty of no kindred blood,

But bloody with the enemies of his kin.

O Richard! York is too far gone with grief,

Or else he never would compare between.

King Richard II

Why, uncle, what’s the matter?

Duke Of York

O my liege,

Pardon me, if you please; if n ot, I, pleased

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?

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;

Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day;

Be not thyself; for how art thou a king

But by fair sequence and succession?

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

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.

King Richard II

Think what you will, we seize into our hands

His plate, his goods, his money and his lands.

Duke Of York

I’ll not be by the while: my liege, farewell:

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

King Richard II

Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight:

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,

Our uncle York lord governor of England;

For he is just and always loved us well.

Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part;

Be merry, for our time of stay is short

Flourish. Exeunt King Richard II, Queen, Duke Of Aumerle, Bushy, Green, and Bagot

Northumberland

Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

Lord Ross

And living too; for now his son is duke.

Lord Willoughby

Barely in title, not in revenue.

Northumberland

Richly in both, if justice had her right.

Lord Ross

My heart is great; but it must break with silence,

Ere’t be disburden’d with a liberal tongue.

Northumberland

Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne’er speak more

That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!

Lord Willoughby

Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford?

If it be so, out with it boldly, man;

Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.

Lord Ross

No good at all that I can do for him;

Unless you call it good to pity him,

Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

Northumberland

Now, afore God, ’tis shame such wrongs are borne

In him, a royal prince, and many moe

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,

That will the king severely prosecute

’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.

Lord Ross

The commons hath he pill’d with grievous taxes,

And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fined

For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.

Lord Willoughby

And daily new exactions are devised,

As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what:

But what, o’ God’s name, doth become of this?

Northumberland

Wars have not wasted it, for warr’d he hath not,

But basely yielded upon compromise

That which his noble ancestors achieved with blows:

More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.

Lord Ross

The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.

Lord Willoughby

The king’s grown bankrupt, like a broken man.

Northumberland

Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.

Lord Ross

He hath not money for these Irish wars,

His burthenous taxations notwithstanding,

But by the robbing of the banish’d duke.

Northumberland

His noble kinsman: most degenerate king!

But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,

Yet see no shelter to avoid the storm;

We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,

And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Lord Ross

We see the very wreck that we must suffer;

And unavoided is the danger now,

For suffering so the causes of our wreck.

Northumberland

Not so; even through the hollow eyes of death

I spy life peering; but I dare not say

How near the tidings of our comfort is.

Lord Willoughby

Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours.

Lord Ross

Be confident to speak, Northumberland:

We three are but thyself; and, speaking so,

Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore, be bold.

Northumberland

Then thus: I have from Port le Blanc, a bay

In Brittany, received intelligence

That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham,

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,

All these well furnish’d by the Duke of Bretagne

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

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;

But if you faint, as fearing to do so,

Stay and be secret, and myself will go.

Lord Ross

To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that fear.

Lord Willoughby

Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE PALACE.

Enter Queen, Bushy, and Bagot

Bushy

Madam, your majesty is too much sad:

You promised, when you parted with the king,

To lay aside life-harming heaviness

And entertain a cheerful disposition.

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

As my sweet Richard: yet again, methinks,

Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune’s womb,

Is coming towards me, and my inward soul

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 shows like grief itself, but is not so;

For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears,

Divides one thing entire to many objects;

Like perspectives, which rightly gazed upon

Show nothing but confusion, eyed awry

Distinguish form: so your sweet majesty,

Looking awry upon your lord’s departure,

Find 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;

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,

I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad

As, though on thinking on no thought I think,

Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

Bushy

’Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

Queen

’Tis nothing less: conceit is still derived

From some forefather grief; mine is not so,

For nothing had begot my something grief;

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.

Enter Green

Green

God save your majesty! and well met, gentlemen:

I hope the king is not yet shipp’d for Ireland.

Queen

Why hopest thou so? ’tis better hope he is;

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 retired his power,

And driven into despair an enemy’s hope,

Who strongly hath set footing in this land:

The banish’d Bolingbroke repeals himself,

And with uplifted arms is safe arrived

At Ravenspurgh.

Queen

Now God in heaven forbid!

Green

Ah, madam, ’tis too true: and that is worse,

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

And all the rest 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

To Bolingbroke.

Queen

So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,

And Bolingbroke my sorrow’s dismal heir:

Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy,

And I, a gasping new-deliver’d mother,

Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join’d.

Bushy

Despair not, madam.

Queen

Who shall hinder me?

I will despair, and be at enmity

With cozening hope: he is a flatterer,

A parasite, a keeper back of death,

Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,

Which false hope lingers in extremity.

Enter Duke Of York

Green

Here comes the Duke of York.

Queen

With signs of war about his aged neck:

O, full of careful business are his looks!

Uncle, for God’s sake, speak comfortable words.

Duke Of York

Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts:

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,

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

Servant

My lord, your son was gone before I came.

Duke Of York

He was? Why, so! go all which way it will!

The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold,

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.

Servant

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.

Duke Of York

What is’t, knave?

Servant

An hour before I came, the duchess died.

Duke Of 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,

So my untruth had not provoked 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?

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

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

Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong’d,

Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.

Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin, I’ll

Dispose of you.

Gentlemen, go, muster up your men,

And meet me presently at Berkeley.

I should to Plashy too;

But time will not permit: all is uneven,

And every thing is left at six and seven.

Exeunt Duke Of 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

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

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 judgement lie in them, then so do we,

Because we ever have been near the king.

Green

Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristol castle:

The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy

Thither will I with you; for little office

The hateful commons will 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,

We three here art that ne’er shall meet again.

Bushy

That’s as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.

Green

Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes

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.

Exeunt

SCENE III. WILDS IN GLOUCESTERSHIRE.

Enter Henry Bolingbroke and Northumberland, with Forces

Henry Bolingbroke

How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now?

Northumberland

Believe me, noble lord,

I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire:

These high wild hills and rough uneven ways

Draws out our miles, and makes them wearisome,

And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,

Making the hard way sweet and delectable.

But I bethink me what a weary way

From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold will be found

In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,

Which, I protest, hath very much beguiled

The tediousness and process of my travel:

But theirs is sweetened 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

Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done

By sight of what I have, your noble company.

Henry Bolingbroke

Of much less value is my company

Than your good words. But who comes here?

Enter Henry Percy

Northumberland

It is my son, young Harry Percy,

Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.

Harry, how fares your uncle?

Henry Percy

I had thought, my lord, to have learn’d his health of you.

Northumberland

Why, is he not with the queen?

Henry Percy

No, my good Lord; he hath forsook the court,

Broken his staff of office and dispersed

The household of the king.

Northumberland

What was his reason?

He was not so resolved when last we spake together.

Henry Percy

Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.

But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh,

To offer service to the Duke of Hereford,

And sent me over by Berkeley, to discover

What power the Duke of York had levied there;

Then with directions to repair to Ravenspurgh.

Northumberland

Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy?

Henry 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.

Northumberland

Then learn to know him now; this is the duke.

Henry 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.

Henry Bolingbroke

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,

It shall be still thy true love’s recompense:

My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.

Northumberland

How far is it to Berkeley? and what stir

Keeps good old York there with his men of war?

Henry Percy

There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees,

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.

Enter Lord Ross and Lord Willoughby

Northumberland

Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,

Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.

Henry Bolingbroke

Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursues

A banish’d traitor: all my treasury

Is yet but unfelt thanks, which more enrich’d

Shall be your love and labour’s recompense.

Lord Ross

Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.

Lord Willoughby

And far surmounts our labour to attain it.

Henry Bolingbroke

Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor;

Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,

Stands for my bounty. But who comes here?

Enter Lord Berkeley

Northumberland

It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess.

Lord Berkeley

My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you.

Henry Bolingbroke

My lord, my answer is — to Lancaster;

And I am come to seek that name in England;

And I must find that title in your tongue,

Before I make reply to aught you say.

Lord Berkeley

Mistake me not, my lord; ’tis not my meaning

To raze one title of your honour out:

To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will,

From the most gracious regent of this land,

The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on

To take advantage of the absent time

And fright our native peace with self-born arms.

Enter Duke Of York attended

Henry Bolingbroke

I shall not need transport my words by you;

Here comes his grace in person. My noble uncle!

Kneels

Duke Of York

Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,

Whose duty is deceiveable and false.

Henry Bolingbroke

My gracious uncle —

Duke Of 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.

Why have those banish’d and forbidden legs

Dared once to touch a dust of England’s ground?

But then more ‘why?’ why have they dared to march

So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,

Frighting her pale-faced villages with war

And ostentation of despised arms?

Comest thou because the anointed king is hence?

Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind,

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

Rescued 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

And minister correction to thy fault!

Henry Bolingbroke

My gracious uncle, let me know my fault:

On what condition stands it and wherein?

Duke Of York

Even in condition of the worst degree,

In gross rebellion and detested treason:

Thou art a banish’d man, and here art come

Before the expiration of thy time,

In braving arms against thy sovereign.

Henry Bolingbroke

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:

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.

You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin;

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,

And yet my letters-patents give me leave:

My father’s goods are all distrain’d and sold,

And these and all are all amiss employ’d.

What would you have me do? I am a subject,

And I challenge law: attorneys are denied me;

And therefore, personally I lay my claim

To my inheritance of free descent.

Northumberland

The noble duke hath been too much abused.

Lord Ross

It stands your grace upon to do him right.

Lord Willoughby

Base men by his endowments are made great.

Duke Of York

My lords of England, let me tell you this:

I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongs

And laboured 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,

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.

Northumberland

The noble duke hath sworn his coming is

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!

Duke Of York

Well, well, I see the issue of these arms:

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

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

And there repose you for this night.

Henry Bolingbroke

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

By Bushy, Bagot and their complices,

The caterpillars of the commonwealth,

Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.

Duke Of York

It may be I will go with you: but yet I’ll pause;

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 Earl Of Salisbury and a Welsh Captain

Captain

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.

Earl Of Salisbury

Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman:

The king reposeth all his confidence in thee.

Captain

’Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay.

The bay-trees in our country are all wither’d

And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;

The pale-faced 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,

The other to enjoy by rage and war:

These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.

Farewell: our countrymen are gone and fled,

As well assured Richard their king is dead.

Exit

Earl Of Salisbury

Ah, Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind

I see thy glory like a shooting star

Fall to the base earth from the firmament.

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. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

Enter Henry Bolingbroke, Duke Of York, Northumberland, Lord Ross, Henry Percy, Lord Willoughby, with Bushy and Green, prisoners

Henry Bolingbroke

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,

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,

A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,

By you unhappied and disfigured clean:

You have in manner with your sinful hours

Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him,

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,

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;

Whilst you have fed upon my signories,

Dispark’d my parks and fell’d my forest woods,

From my own windows torn my household coat,

Razed out my imprese, 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,

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

And plague injustice with the pains of hell.

Henry Bolingbroke

My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatch’d.

Exeunt Northumberland and others, with the prisoners

Uncle, you say the queen is at your house;

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.

Duke Of York

A gentleman of mine I have dispatch’d

With letters of your love to her at large.

Henry Bolingbroke

Thank, 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.

Drums; flourish and colours. Enter King Richard II, the Bishop Of Carlisle, Duke Of Aumerle, and Soldiers

King Richard II

Barkloughly castle call they this at hand?

Duke Of Aumerle

Yea, my lord. How brooks your grace the air,

After your late tossing on the breaking seas?

King Richard II

Needs must I like it well: I weep for joy

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

Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting,

So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,

And do thee favours with my royal hands.

Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle earth,

Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense;

But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,

And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way,

Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet

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

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

Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms.

Bishop Of Carlisle

Fear not, my lord: that Power that made you king

Hath power to keep you king in spite of all.

The means that heaven yields must be embraced,

And not neglected; else, if heaven would,

And we will not, heaven’s offer we refuse,

The proffer’d means of succor and redress.

Duke Of Aumerle

He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;

Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,

Grows strong and great in substance and in power.

King Richard II

Discomfortable cousin! know’st thou not

That when the searching eye of heaven is hid,

Behind the globe, that lights the lower world,

Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen

In murders and in outrage, boldly here;

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,

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

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,

But self-affrighted tremble at his sin.

Not all the water in the rough rude sea

Can wash the balm off from an anointed king;

The breath of worldly men cannot depose

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

A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,

Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.

Enter Earl Of Salisbury

Welcome, my lord how far off lies your power?

Earl Of Salisbury

Nor near nor farther off, my gracious lord,

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:

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:

For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead.

Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed and fled.

Duke Of Aumerle

Comfort, my liege; why looks your grace so pale?

King Richard II

But now the blood of twenty thousand men

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,

For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

Duke Of Aumerle

Comfort, my liege; remember who you are.

King Richard II

I had forgot myself; am I not king?

Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleepest.

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?

High be our thoughts: I know my uncle York

Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here?

Enter Sir Stephen Scroop

Sir Stephen Scroop

More health and happiness betide my liege

Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him!

King Richard II

Mine ear is open and my heart prepared;

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?

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;

They break their faith to God as well as us:

Cry woe, destruction, ruin and decay:

The worst is death, and death will have his day.

Sir Stephen Scroop

Glad am I that your highness is so arm’d

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 dissolved to tears,

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

Against thy majesty; boys, with women’s voices,

Strive to speak big and clap their female joints

In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown:

The very beadsmen learn to bend their bows

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.

King Richard II

Too well, too well thou tell’st a tale so ill.

Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?

What is become of Bushy? where is Green?

That they have let the dangerous enemy

Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?

If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it:

I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke.

Sir Stephen Scroop

Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord.

King Richard II

O villains, vipers, damn’d without redemption!

Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!

Snakes, in my heart-blood warm’d, that sting my heart!

Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!

Would they make peace? terrible hell make war

Upon their spotted souls for this offence!

Sir Stephen Scroop

Sweet love, I see, changing his property,

Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate:

Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made

With heads, and not with hands; those whom you curse

Have felt the worst of death’s destroying wound

And lie full low, graved in the hollow ground.

Duke Of Aumerle

Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?

Sir Stephen Scroop

Ay, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.

Duke Of Aumerle

Where is the duke my father with his power?

King Richard II

No matter where; of comfort no man speak:

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:

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

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;

How some have been deposed; some slain in war,

Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;

Some poison’d by their wives: some sleeping kill’d;

All murder’d: for within the hollow crown

That rounds the mortal temples of a king

Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,

Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,

Allowing him a breath, a little scene,

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

Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood

With solemn reverence: throw away respect,

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,

How can you say to me, I am a king?

Bishop Of Carlisle

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;

Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.

Duke Of Aumerle

My father hath a power; inquire of him

And learn to make a body of a limb.

King Richard II

Thou chidest me well: proud Bolingbroke, I come

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.

Sir Stephen 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,

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,

And all your northern castles yielded up,

And all your southern gentlemen in arms

Upon his party.

King Richard II

Thou hast said enough.

Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth

To Duke Of Aumerle

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.

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

To alter this, for counsel is but vain.

Duke Of Aumerle

My liege, one word.

King Richard II

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, Henry Bolingbroke, Duke Of York, Northumberland, Attendants, and forces

Henry Bolingbroke

So that by this intelligence we learn

The Welshmen are dispersed, and Salisbury

Is gone to meet the king, who lately landed

With some few private friends upon this coast.

Northumberland

The news is very fair and good, my lord:

Richard not far from hence hath hid his head.

Duke Of York

It would beseem the Lord Northumberland

To say ‘King Richard:’ alack the heavy day

When such a sacred king should hide his head.

Northumberland

Your grace mistakes; only to be brief

Left I his title out.

Duke Of York

The time hath been,

Would you have been so brief with him, he would

Have been so brief with you, to shorten you,

For taking so the head, your whole head’s length.

Henry Bolingbroke

Mistake not, uncle, further than you should.

Duke Of York

Take not, good cousin, further than you should.

Lest you mistake the heavens are o’er our heads.

Henry Bolingbroke

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?

Henry Percy

The castle royally is mann’d, my lord,

Against thy entrance.

Henry Bolingbroke

Royally!

Why, it contains no king?

Henry Percy

Yes, my good lord,

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

Of holy reverence; who, I cannot learn.

Northumberland

O, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle.

Henry Bolingbroke

Noble lords,

Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle;

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

To his most royal person, hither come

Even at his feet to lay my arms and power,

Provided that my banishment repeal’d

And lands restored 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:

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.

Go, signify as much, while here we march

Upon the grassy carpet of this plain.

Let’s march without the noise of threatening drum,

That from this castle’s tatter’d battlements

Our fair appointments may be well perused.

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, whilst on the earth I rain

My waters; on the earth, and not on him.

March on, and mark King Richard how he looks.

Parle without, and answer within. Then a flourish. Enter on the walls, King Richard II, the Bishop Of Carlisle, Duke Of Aumerle, Sir Stephen Scroop, and Earl Of Salisbury

See, see, King Richard doth himself appear,

As doth the blushing discontented sun

From out the fiery portal of the east,

When he perceives the envious clouds are bent

To dim his glory and to stain the track

Of his bright passage to the occident.

Duke Of York

Yet looks he like a king: behold, his eye,

As bright as is the eagle’s, lightens forth

Controlling majesty: alack, alack, for woe,

That any harm should stain so fair a show!

King Richard II

We are amazed; and thus long have we stood

To watch the fearful bending of thy knee,

To Northumberland

Because we thought ourself thy lawful king:

And if we be, how dare thy joints forget

To pay their awful duty to our presence?

If we be not, show us the hand of God

That hath dismissed us from our stewardship;

For well we know, no hand of blood and bone

Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre,

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;

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,

That lift your vassal hands against my head

And threat the glory of my precious crown.

Tell Bolingbroke — for yond methinks he stands —

That every stride he makes upon my land

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

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.

Northumberland

The king of heaven forbid our lord the king

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,

That stands upon your royal grandsire’s bones,

And by the royalties of both your bloods,

Currents that spring from one most gracious head,

And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt,

And by the worth and honour of himself,

Comprising all that may be sworn or said,

His coming hither hath no further scope

Than for his lineal royalties and to beg

Enfranchisement immediate on his kn ees:

Which on thy royal party granted once,

His glittering arms he will commend to rust,

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.

King Richard II

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:

With all the gracious utterance thou hast

Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.

We do debase ourselves, cousin, do we not,

To Duke Of Aumerle

To look so poorly and to speak so fair?

Shall we call back Northumberland, and send

Defiance to the traitor, and so die?

Duke Of Aumerle

No, good my lord; let’s fight with gentle words

Till time lend friends and friends their helpful swords.

King Richard II

O God, O God! that e’er this tongue of mine,

That laid the sentence of dread banishment

On yon 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!

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,

Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me.

Duke Of Aumerle

Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke.

King Richard II

What must the king do now? must he submit?

The king shall do it: must he be deposed?

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,

My gay apparel for an almsman’s gown,

My figured goblets for a dish of wood,

My sceptre for a palmer’s walking staff,

My subjects for a pair of carved saints

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?

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,

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, therein laid,— there lies

Two kinsmen digg’d their graves with weeping eyes.

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.

Northumberland

My lord, in the base court he doth attend

To speak with you; may it please you to come down.

King Richard II

Down, down I come; like glistering Phaethon,

Wanting the manage of unruly jades.

In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base,

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

Henry Bolingbroke

What says his majesty?

Northumberland

Sorrow and grief of heart

Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man

Yet he is come.

Enter King Richard and his attendants below

Henry Bolingbroke

Stand all apart,

And show fair duty to his majesty.

He kneels down

My gracious lord,—

King Richard II

Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee

To make the base earth proud with kissing it:

Me rather had my heart might feel your love

Than my unpleased eye see your courtesy.

Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know,

Thus high at least, although your knee be low.

Henry Bolingbroke

My gracious lord, I come but for mine own.

King Richard II

Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all.

Henry Bolingbroke

So far be mine, my most redoubted lord,

As my true service shall deserve your love.

King Richard II

Well you deserve: they well deserve to have,

That know the strong’st and surest way to get.

Uncle, give me your hands: nay, dry your eyes;

Tears show their love, but want their remedies.

Cousin, I am too young to be your father,

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?

Henry Bolingbroke

Yea, my good lord.

King Richard II

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?

Lady

Madam, we’ll play at bowls.

Queen

’Twill make me think the world is full of rubs,

And that my fortune rubs against the bias.

Lady

Madam, we’ll dance.

Queen

My legs can keep no measure in delight,

When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief:

Therefore, no dancing, girl; some other sport.

Lady

Madam, we’ll tell tales.

Queen

Of sorrow or of joy?

Lady

Of either, madam.

Queen

Of neither, girl:

For of joy, being altogether wanting,

It doth remember me the more of sorrow;

Or if of grief, being altogether had,

It adds more sorrow to my want of joy:

For what I have I need not to repeat;

And what I want it boots not to complain.

Lady

Madam, I’ll sing.

Queen

’Tis well that thou hast cause

But thou shouldst please me better, wouldst thou weep.

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.

Enter a Gardener, and two Servants

But stay, here come the gardeners:

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.

Queen and Ladies retire

Gardener

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.

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.

You thus employ’d, I will go root away

The noisome weeds, which without profit suck

The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers.

Servant

Why should we in the compass of a pale

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 choked up,

Her fruit-trees all upturned, her hedges ruin’d,

Her knots disorder’d and her wholesome herbs

Swarming with caterpillars?

Gardener

Hold thy peace:

He that hath suffer’d this disorder’d spring

Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf:

The weeds which 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,

I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

Servant

What, are they dead?

Gardener

They are; and Bolingbroke

Hath seized the wasteful king. O, what pity is it

That he had not so trimm’d and dress’d his land

As we this garden! We at time of year

Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees,

Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood,

With too much riches it confound itself:

Had he done so to great and growing men,

They might have lived to bear and he to taste

Their fruits of duty: superfluous branches

We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:

Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,

Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.

Servant

What, think you then the king shall be deposed?

Gardener

Depress’d he is already, and deposed

’Tis doubt he will be: letters came last night

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,

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?

Why dost thou say King Richard is deposed?

Darest thou, thou little better thing than earth,

Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how,

Camest thou by this ill tidings? speak, thou wretch.

Gardener

Pardon me, madam: little joy have I

To breathe this 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,

And some few vanities that make him light;

But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,

Besides himself, are all the English peers,

And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.

Post you to London, and you will find it so;

I speak no more than every one doth know.

Queen

Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot,

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,

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,

Pray God the plants thou graft’st may never grow.

Exeunt Queen and Ladies

Gardener

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

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. WESTMINSTER HALL.

Enter, as to the Parliament, Henry Bolingbroke, Duke Of Aumerle, Northumberland, Henry Percy, Lord Fitzwater, Duke Of Surrey, the Bishop Of Carlisle, the Abbot Of Westminster, and another Lord, Herald, Officers, and Bagot

Henry Bolingbroke

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

The bloody office of his timeless end.

Bagot

Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.

Henry Bolingbroke

Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man.

Bagot

My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue

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

As far as Calais, to mine uncle’s head?’

Amongst much other talk, that very time,

I heard you say that you had rather refuse

The offer of an hundred thousand crowns

Than Bolingbroke’s return to England;

Adding withal how blest this land would be

In this your cousin’s death.

Duke Of Aumerle

Princes and noble lords,

What answer shall I make to this base man?

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.

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

To stain the temper of my knightly sword.

Henry Bolingbroke

Bagot, forbear; thou shalt not take it up.

Duke Of Aumerle

Excepting one, I would he were the best

In all this presence that hath moved me so.

Lord Fitzwater

If that thy valour stand on sympathy,

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 spakest it

That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester’s death.

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.

Duke Of Aumerle

Thou darest not, coward, live to see that day.

Lord Fitzwater

Now by my soul, I would it were this hour.

Duke Of Aumerle

Fitzwater, thou art damn’d to hell for this.

Henry Percy

Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true

In this appeal as thou art all unjust;

And that thou art so, there I throw my gage,

To prove it on thee to the extremest point

Of mortal breathing: seize it, if thou darest.

Duke Of Aumerle

An if I do not, may my hands rot off

And never brandish more revengeful steel

Over the glittering helmet of my foe!

Lord

I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle;

And spur thee on with full as many lies

As may be holloa’d in thy treacherous ear

From sun to sun: there is my honour’s pawn;

Engage it to the trial, if thou darest.

Duke Of Aumerle

Who sets me else? by heaven, I’ll throw at all:

I have a thousand spirits in one breast,

To answer twenty thousand such as you.

Duke Of Surrey

My Lord Fitzwater, I do remember well

The very time Aumerle and you did talk.

Lord Fitzwater

’Tis very true: you were in presence then;

And you can witness with me this is true.

Duke Of Surrey

As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true.

Lord Fitzwater

Surrey, thou liest.

Duke Of Surrey

Dishonourable boy!

That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword,

That it shall render vengeance and revenge

Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do lie

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 darest.

Lord Fitzwater

How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse!

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,

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

That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men

To execute the noble duke at Calais.

Duke Of Aumerle

Some honest Christian trust me with a gage

That Norfolk lies: here do I throw down this,

If he may be repeal’d, to try his honour.

Henry Bolingbroke

These differences shall all rest under gage

Till Norfolk be repeal’d: repeal’d he shall be,

And, though mine enemy, restored again

To all his lands and signories: when he’s return’d,

Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.

Bishop Of Carlisle

That honourable day shall ne’er be seen.

Many a time hath banish’d Norfolk fought

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, retired himself

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.

Henry Bolingbroke

Why, bishop, is Norfolk dead?

Bishop Of Carlisle

As surely as I live, my lord.

Henry Bolingbroke

Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom

Of good old Abraham! Lords appellants,

Your differences shall all rest under gage

Till we assign you to your days of trial.

Enter Duke Of York, attended

Duke Of York

Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee

From plume-pluck’d Richard; who with willing soul

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, fourth of that name!

Henry Bolingbroke

In God’s name, I’ll ascend the regal throne.

Bishop Of Carlisle

Marry. God forbid!

Worst in this royal presence may I speak,

Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth.

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.

What subject can give sentence on his king?

And who sits here that is not Richard’s subject?

Thieves are not judged but they are by to hear,

Although apparent guilt be seen in them;

And shall the figure of God’s majesty,

His captain, steward, deputy-elect,

Anointed, crowned, planted many years,

Be judged by subject and inferior breath,

And he himself not present? O, forfend it, God,

That in a Christian climate souls refined

Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed!

I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,

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:

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

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.

O, if you raise 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,

Lest child, child’s children, cry against you woe!

Northumberland

Well have you argued, sir; and, for your pains,

Of capital treason we arrest you here.

My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge

To keep him safely till his day of trial.

May it please you, lords, to grant the commons’ suit.

Henry Bolingbroke

Fetch hither Richard, that in common view

He may surrender; so we shall proceed

Without suspicion.

Duke Of York

I will be his conduct.

Exit

Henry Bolingbroke

Lords, you that here are under our arrest,

Procure your sureties for your days of answer.

Little are we beholding to your love,

And little look’d for at your helping hands.

Re-enter Duke Of York, with King Richard II, and Officers bearing the regalia

King Richard II

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?

Did they not sometime cry, ‘all hail!’ 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?

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?

Duke Of 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.

King Richard II

Give me the crown. Here, cousin, seize the crown;

Here cousin:

On this side my hand, and on that side yours.

Now is this golden crown like a deep well

That owes two buckets, filling one another,

The emptier ever dancing in the air,

The other down, unseen and full of water:

That bucket down and full of tears am I,

Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

Henry Bolingbroke

I thought you had been willing to resign.

King Richard II

My crown I am; but still my griefs are mine:

You may my glories and my state depose,

But not my griefs; still am I king of those.

Henry Bolingbroke

Part of your cares you give me with your crown.

King Richard II

Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down.

My care is loss of care, by old care done;

Your care is gain of care, by new care won:

The cares I give I have, though given away;

They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.

Henry Bolingbroke

Are you contented to resign the crown?

King Richard II

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

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,

With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,

With mine own breath release all duty’s rites:

All pomp and majesty I do forswear;

My manors, rents, revenues I forego;

My acts, decrees, and statutes I deny:

God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!

God keep all vows unbroke that swear to thee!

Make me, that nothing have, with nothing grieved,

And thou with all pleased, that hast all achieved!

Long mayst thou live in Richard’s seat to sit,

And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit!

God save King Harry, unking’d Richard says,

And send him many years of sunshine days!

What more remains?

Northumberland

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;

That, by confessing them, the souls of men

May deem that you are worthily deposed.

King Richard II

Must I do so? and must I ravel out

My weaved-up folly? 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,

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,

Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,

Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands

Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates

Have here deliver’d me to my sour cross,

And water cannot wash away your sin.

Northumberland

My lord, dispatch; read o’er these articles.

King Richard II

Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see:

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;

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.

Northumberland

My lord,—

King Richard II

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,

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,

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,

Let it command a mirror hither straight,

That it may show me what a face I have,

Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.

Henry Bolingbroke

Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass.

Exit an attendant

Northumberland

Read o’er this paper while the glass doth come.

King Richard II

Fiend, thou torment’st me ere I come to hell!

Henry Bolingbroke

Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

Northumberland

The commons will not then be satisfied.

King Richard II

They shall be satisfied: I’ll read enough,

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.

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,

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?

Was this the face that faced so many follies,

And was at last out-faced by Bolingbroke?

A brittle glory shineth in this face:

As brittle as the glory is the face;

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.

Henry Bolingbroke

The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy’d

The shadow or your face.

King Richard II

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

Are merely shadows to the unseen grief

That swells with silence in the tortured soul;

There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,

For thy great bounty, that not only givest

Me cause to wail but teachest me the way

How to lament the cause. I’ll beg one boon,

And then be gone and trouble you no more.

Shall I obtain it?

Henry Bolingbroke

Name it, fair cousin.

King Richard II

‘Fair cousin’? I am greater than a king:

For when I was a king, my flatterers

Were then but subjects; being now a subject,

I have a king here to my flatterer.

Being so great, I have no need to beg.

Henry Bolingbroke

Yet ask.

King Richard II

And shall I have?

Henry Bolingbroke

You shall.

King Richard II

Then give me leave to go.

Henry Bolingbroke

Whither?

King Richard II

Whither you will, so I were from your sights.

Henry Bolingbroke

Go, some of you convey him to the Tower.

King Richard II

O, good! convey? conveyers are you all,

That rise thus nimbly by a true king’s fall.

Exeunt King Richard II, some Lords, and a Guard

Henry Bolingbroke

On Wednesday next we solemnly set down

Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves.

Exeunt all except the Bishop Of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster, and Duke Of Aumerle

Abbot

A woeful pageant have we here beheld.

Bishop Of Carlisle

The woe’s to come; the children yet unborn.

Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

Duke Of Aumerle

You holy clergymen, is there no plot

To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?

Abbot

My lord,

Before I freely speak my mind herein,

You shall not only take the sacrament

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; and I’ll lay

A plot shall show us all a merry day.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. LONDON. A STREET LEADING TO THE TOWER.

Enter Queen and Ladies

Queen

This way the king will come; this is the way

To Julius Caesar’s ill-erected tower,

To whose flint bosom my condemned lord

Is doom’d a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke:

Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth

Have any resting for her true king’s queen.

Enter King Richard II and Guard

But soft, but see, or rather do not see,

My fair rose wither: yet look up, behold,

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,

Why should hard-favour’d grief be lodged in thee,

When triumph is become an alehouse guest?

King Richard II

Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,

To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul,

To think our former state a happy dream;

From which awaked, the truth of what we are

Shows us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet,

To grim Necessity, and he and I

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,

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 deposed

Thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart?

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,

And fawn on rage with base humility,

Which art a lion and a king of beasts?

King Richard II

A king of beasts, indeed; if aught but beasts,

I had been still a happy king of men.

Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France:

Think I am dead and that even here thou takest,

As from my death-bed, thy last living leave.

In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire

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 griefs,

Tell thou the lamentable tale of me

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;

And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,

For the deposing of a rightful king.

Enter Northumberland and others

Northumberland

My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is changed:

You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.

And, madam, there is order ta’en for you;

With all swift speed you must away to France.

King Richard II

Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal

The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,

The time shall not be many hours of age

More than it is ere foul sin gathering head

Shalt break into corruption: thou shalt think,

Though he divide the realm and give thee half,

It is too little, helping him to all;

And he shall think that thou, which know’st the way

To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,

Being ne’er so little urged, another way

To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.

The love of wicked men converts to fear;

That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both

To worthy danger and deserved death.

Northumberland

My guilt be on my head, and there an end.

Take leave and part; for you must part forthwith.

King Richard II

Doubly divorced! Bad men, you violate

A twofold marriage, ’twixt my crown and me,

And then betwixt me and my married wife.

Let me unkiss the oath ’twixt thee and me;

And yet not so, for with a kiss ’twas made.

Part us, Northumberland; I toward the north,

Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime;

My wife to France: from whence, set forth in pomp,

She came adorned hither like sweet May,

Sent back like Hallowmas or short’st of day.

Queen

And must we be divided? must we part?

King Richard II

Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.

Queen

Banish us both and send the king with me.

Northumberland

That were some love but little policy.

Queen

Then whither he goes, thither let me go.

King Richard II

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.

Go, count thy way with sighs; I mine with groans.

Queen

So longest way shall have the longest moans.

King Richard II

Twice for one step I’ll groan, the way being short,

And piece the way out with a heavy heart.

Come, come, in wooing sorrow let’s be brief,

Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief;

One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part;

Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart.

Queen

Give me mine own again; ’twere no good part

To take on me to keep and kill thy heart.

So, now I have mine own again, be gone,

That I might strive to kill it with a groan.

King Richard II

We make woe wanton with this fond delay:

Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE DUKE OF YORK’S PALACE.

Enter Duke Of York and Duchess Of York

Duchess Of York

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.

Duke Of York

Where did I leave?

Duchess Of York

At that sad stop, my lord,

Where rude misgovern’d hands from windows’ tops

Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard’s head.

Duke Of York

Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,

Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed

Which his aspiring rider seem’d to know,

With slow but stately pace kept on his course,

Whilst all tongues cried ‘God save thee,

Bolingbroke!’

You would have thought the very windows spake,

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

‘Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!’

Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning,

Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed’s neck,

Bespake them thus: ‘I thank you, countrymen:’

And thus still doing, thus he pass’d along.

Duchess Of York

Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst?

Duke Of York

As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,

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 gentle Richard; no man cried ‘God save him!’

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,

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.

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.

Duchess Of York

Here comes my son Aumerle.

Duke Of 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

And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

Enter Duke Of Aumerle

Duchess Of York

Welcome, my son: who are the violets now

That strew the green lap of the new come spring?

Duke Of Aumerle

Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not:

God knows I had as lief be none as one.

Duke Of 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?

Duke Of Aumerle

For aught I know, my lord, they do.

Duke Of York

You will be there, I know.

Duke Of Aumerle

If God prevent not, I purpose so.

Duke Of York

What seal is that, that hangs without thy bosom?

Yea, look’st thou pale? let me see the writing.

Duke Of Aumerle

My lord, ’tis nothing.

Duke Of York

No matter, then, who see it;

I will be satisfied; let me see the writing.

Duke Of Aumerle

I do beseech your grace to pardon me:

It is a matter of small consequence,

Which for some reasons I would not have seen.

Duke Of York

Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.

I fear, I fear,—

Duchess Of York

What should you fear?

’Tis nothing but some bond, that he is enter’d into

For gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day.

Duke Of York

Bound to himself! what doth he with a bond

That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.

Boy, let me see the writing.

Duke Of Aumerle

I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not show it.

Duke Of York

I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say.

He plucks it out of his bosom and reads it

Treason! foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave!

Duchess Of York

What is the matter, my lord?

Duke Of York

Ho! who is within there?

Enter a Servant

Saddle my horse.

God for his mercy, what treachery is here!

Duchess Of York

Why, what is it, my lord?

Duke Of York

Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse.

Now, by mine honour, by my life, by my troth,

I will appeach the villain.

Duchess Of York

What is the matter?

Duke Of York

Peace, foolish woman.

Duchess Of York

I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle.

Duke Of Aumerle

Good mother, be content; it is no more

Than my poor life must answer.

Duchess Of York

Thy life answer!

Duke Of York

Bring me my boots: I will unto the king.

Re-enter Servant with boots

Duchess Of York

Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amazed.

Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.

Duke Of York

Give me my boots, I say.

Duchess Of York

Why, York, what wilt thou do?

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?

Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?

Duke Of York

Thou fond mad woman,

Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?

A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament,

And interchangeably set down their hands,

To kill the king at Oxford.

Duchess Of York

He shall be none;

We’ll keep him here: then what is that to him?

Duke Of York

Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son,

I would appeach him.

Duchess Of York

Hadst thou groan’d for him

As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful.

But now I know thy mind; thou dost suspect

That I have been disloyal to thy bed,

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,

Not like to me, or any of my kin,

And yet I love him.

Duke Of York

Make way, unruly woman!

Exit

Duchess Of York

After, Aumerle! mount thee upon his horse;

Spur post, and get before him to the king,

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

Till Bolingbroke have pardon’d thee. Away, be gone!

Exeunt

SCENE III. A ROYAL PALACE.

Enter Henry Bolingbroke, Henry Percy, and other Lords

Henry Bolingbroke

Can no man tell me 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:

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,

And beat our watch, and rob our passengers;

Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy,

Takes on the point of honour to support

So dissolute a crew.

Henry Percy

My lord, some two days since I saw the prince,

And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford.

Henry Bolingbroke

And what said the gallant?

Henry Percy

His answer was, he would unto the stews,

And from the common’st creature pluck a glove,

And wear it as a favour; and with that

He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.

Henry Bolingbroke

As dissolute as desperate; yet through both

I see some sparks of better hope, which elder years

May happily bring forth. But who comes here?

Enter Duke Of Aumerle

Duke Of Aumerle

Where is the king?

Henry Bolingbroke

What means our cousin, that he stares and looks

So wildly?

Duke Of Aumerle

God save your grace! I do beseech your majesty,

To have some conference with your grace alone.

Henry Bolingbroke

Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.

Exeunt Henry Percy and Lords

What is the matter with our cousin now?

Duke Of Aumerle

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.

Henry Bolingbroke

Intended or committed was this fault?

If on the first, how heinous e’er it be,

To win thy after-love I pardon thee.

Duke Of Aumerle

Then give me leave that I may turn the key,

That no man enter till my tale be done.

Henry Bolingbroke

Have thy desire.

Duke Of York

[Within] My liege, beware; look to thyself;

Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.

Henry Bolingbroke

Villain, I’ll make thee safe.

Drawing

Duke Of Aumerle

Stay thy revengeful hand; thou hast no cause to fear.

Duke Of York

[Within] Open the door, secure, foolhardy king:

Shall I for love speak treason to thy face?

Open the door, or I will break it open.

Enter Duke Of York

Henry Bolingbroke

What is the matter, uncle? speak;

Recover breath; tell us how near is danger,

That we may arm us to encounter it.

Duke Of York

Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know

The treason that my haste forbids me show.

Duke Of Aumerle

Remember, as thou read’st, thy promise pass’d:

I do repent me; read not my name there

My heart is not confederate with my hand.

Duke Of York

It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.

I tore it from the traitor’s bosom, king;

Fear, and not love, begets his penitence:

Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove

A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.

Henry Bolingbroke

O heinous, strong and bold conspiracy!

O loyal father of a treacherous son!

Thou sheer, immaculate and silver fountain,

From when this stream through muddy passages

Hath held his current and defiled himself!

Thy overflow of good converts to bad,

And thy abundant goodness shall excuse

This deadly blot in thy digressing son.

Duke Of 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.

Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,

Or my shamed life in his dishonour lies:

Thou kill’st me in his life; giving him breath,

The traitor lives, the true man’s put to death.

Duchess Of York

[Within] What ho, my liege! for God’s sake, let me in.

Henry Bolingbroke

What shrill-voiced suppliant makes this eager cry?

Duchess Of York

A woman, and thy aunt, great king; ’tis I.

Speak with me, pity me, open the door.

A beggar begs that never begg’d before.

Henry Bolingbroke

Our scene is alter’d from a serious thing,

And now changed to ‘The Beggar and the King.’

My dangerous cousin, let your mother in:

I know she is come to pray for your foul sin.

Duke Of York

If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,

More sins for this forgiveness prosper may.

This fester’d joint cut off, the rest rest sound;

This let alone will all the rest confound.

Enter Duchess Of York

Duchess Of York

O king, believe not this hard-hearted man!

Love loving not itself none other can.

Duke Of York

Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here?

Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?

Duchess Of York

Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle liege.

Kneels

Henry Bolingbroke

Rise up, good aunt.

Duchess Of York

Not yet, I thee beseech:

For ever will I walk upon my knees,

And never see day that the happy sees,

Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,

By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.

Duke Of Aumerle

Unto my mother’s prayers I bend my knee.

Duke Of York

Against them both my true joints bended be.

Ill mayst thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!

Duchess Of York

Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face;

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:

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.

Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have

That mercy which true prayer ought to have.

Henry Bolingbroke

Good aunt, stand up.

Duchess Of York

Nay, do not say, ‘stand up;’

Say, ‘pardon’ first, and afterwards ‘stand up.’

And if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,

‘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:

The word is short, but not so short as sweet;

No word like ‘pardon’ for kings’ mouths so meet.

Duke Of York

Speak it in French, king; say, ‘pardonne moi.’

Duchess Of York

Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?

Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,

That set’st the word itself against the word!

Speak ‘pardon’ as ’tis current in our land;

The chopping French we do not understand.

Thine eye begins to speak; set thy tongue there;

Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear;

That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,

Pity may move thee ‘pardon’ to rehearse.

Henry Bolingbroke

Good aunt, stand up.

Duchess Of York

I do not sue to stand;

Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

Henry Bolingbroke

I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.

Duchess Of York

O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!

Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again;

Twice saying ‘pardon’ doth not pardon twain,

But makes one pardon strong.

Henry Bolingbroke

With all my heart

I pardon him.

Duchess Of York

A god on earth thou art.

Henry Bolingbroke

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

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:

Your mother well hath pray’d, and prove you true.

Duchess Of York

Come, my old son: I pray God make thee new.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. THE SAME.

Enter Exton and 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?

Servant

These were his very words.

Exton

‘Have I no friend?’ quoth he: he spake it twice,

And urged it twice together, did he not?

Servant

He did.

Exton

And speaking it, he wistly look’d on me,

And 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 CASTLE.

Enter King Richard

King Richard II

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,

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,

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

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

To thread the postern of a small 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

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,

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,

Bearing their own misfortunes on the back

Of such as have before endured the like.

Thus play I in one person many people,

And none contented: sometimes am I king;

Then treasons make 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

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 pleased, till he be eased

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.

And here have I the daintiness of ear

To cheque 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.

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,

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, which 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;

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!

For ’tis a sign of love; and love to Richard

Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

Enter a Groom of the Stable

Groom

Hail, royal prince!

King Richard II

Thanks, noble peer;

The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.

What art thou? and how comest thou hither,

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,

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

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!

King Richard II

Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,

How went he under him?

Groom

So proudly as if he disdain’d the ground.

King Richard II

So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!

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

Of that proud man that did usurp his back?

Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,

Since thou, created to be awed by man,

Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;

And yet I bear a burthen like an ass,

Spurr’d, gall’d and tired by jouncing Bolingbroke.

Enter Keeper, with a dish

Keeper

Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.

King Richard II

If thou love me, ’tis time thou wert away.

Groom

What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.

Exit

Keeper

My lord, will’t please you to fall to?

King Richard II

Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do.

Keeper

My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, who lately came from the king, commands the contrary.

King Richard II

The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee!

Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.

Beats the keeper

Keeper

Help, help, help!

Enter Exton and Servants, armed

King Richard II

How now! what means death in this rude assault?

Villain, thy own hand yields thy death’s instrument.

Snatching an axe from a Servant and killing him

Go thou, and fill another room in hell.

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;

Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.

Dies

Exton

As full of valour as of royal blood:

Both have I spill’d; O would the deed were good!

For now the devil, that told me I did well,

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 CASTLE.

Flourish. Enter Henry Bolingbroke, Duke Of York, with other Lords, and Attendants

Henry Bolingbroke

Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear

Is that the rebels have consumed with fire

Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;

But whether they be ta’en or slain we hear not.

Enter Northumberland

Welcome, my lord what is the news?

Northumberland

First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness.

The next news is, I have to London sent

The heads of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt, and Kent:

The manner of their taking may appear

At large discoursed in this paper here.

Henry Bolingbroke

We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;

And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.

Enter Lord Fitzwater

Lord Fitzwater

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.

Henry Bolingbroke

Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;

Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

Enter Henry Percy, and the Bishop Of Carlisle

Henry Percy

The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,

With clog of conscience and sour melancholy

Hath yielded up his body to the grave;

But here is Carlisle living, to abide

Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride.

Henry Bolingbroke

Carlisle, this is your doom:

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,

High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.

Enter Exton, with persons bearing a coffin

Exton

Great king, within this coffin I present

Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies

The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,

Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.

Henry Bolingbroke

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.

Exton

From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

Henry Bolingbroke

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.

The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,

But neither my good word nor princely favour:

With Cain go wander through shades of night,

And never show thy head by day nor light.

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:

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

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PALACE.

SCENE II. LONDON. AN APARTMENT OF THE PRINCE’S.

SCENE III. LONDON. THE PALACE.

ACT II

SCENE I. ROCHESTER. AN INN YARD.

SCENE II. THE HIGHWAY, NEAR GADSHILL.

SCENE III. WARKWORTH CASTLE

SCENE IV. THE BOAR’S-HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP.

ACT III

SCENE I. BANGOR. THE ARCHDEACON’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. LONDON. THE PALACE.

SCENE III. EASTCHEAP. THE BOAR’S-HEAD TAVERN.

ACT IV

SCENE I. THE REBEL CAMP NEAR SHREWSBURY.

SCENE II. A PUBLIC ROAD NEAR COVENTRY.

SCENE III. THE REBEL CAMP NEAR SHREWSBURY.

SCENE IV. YORK. THE ARCHBISHOP’S PALACE.

ACT V

SCENE I. KING HENRY IV’S CAMP NEAR SHREWSBURY.

SCENE II. THE REBEL CAMP.

SCENE III. PLAIN BETWEEN THE CAMPS.

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

King Henry the Fourth.

Henry, Prince of Wales, son to the King.

Prince John of Lancaster, son 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 in Eastcheap.

Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers, two Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants.

Scene: England and Wales.

ACT I

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Enter King Henry, Lord John Of Lancaster, the Earl of Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blunt, and others

King Henry IV

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 commenced in strands afar remote.

No more the thirsty entrance of this soil

Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood;

Nor more shall trenching war channel her fields,

Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs

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

And furious close of civil butchery

Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,

March all one way and be no more opposed

Against acquaintance, kindred and allies:

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

We are impressed and engaged to fight,

Forthwith a power of English shall we levy;

Whose arms were moulded in their mothers’ womb

To chase these pagans in those holy fields

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 now is twelve month old,

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

In forwarding this dear expedience.

Westmoreland

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;

Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,

Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight

Against the irregular and wild Glendower,

Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,

A thousand of his people butchered;

Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse,

Such beastly shameless transformation,

By those Welshwomen done as may not be

Without much shame retold or spoken of.

King Henry IV

It seems then that the tidings of this broil

Brake off our business for the Holy Land.

Westmoreland

This match’d with other did, 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,

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,

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,

Uncertain of the issue any way.

King Henry IV

Here is a dear, a true industrious friend,

Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse.

Stain’d with the variation of each soil

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,

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 Earl of Athol,

Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith:

And is not this an honourable spoil?

A gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not?

Westmoreland

In faith,

It is a conquest for a prince to boast of.

King Henry IV

Yea, there thou makest me sad and makest me sin

In envy that my Lord Northumberland

Should be the father to so blest a son,

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,

See riot and dishonour stain the brow

Of my young Harry. O that it could be proved

That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged

In cradle-clothes our children where they lay,

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,

Which he in this adventure hath surprised,

To his own use he keeps; and sends me word,

I shall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.

Westmoreland

This is his uncle’s teaching; this is Worcester,

Malevolent to you in all aspects;

Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up

The crest of youth against your dignity.

King Henry IV

But I have sent for him to answer this;

And for this cause awhile we must neglect

Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.

Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we

Will hold at Windsor; so inform the lords:

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.

Westmoreland

I will, my liege.

Exeunt

SCENE II. LONDON. AN APARTMENT OF THE PRINCE’S.

Enter the Prince Of Wales and Falstaff

Falstaff

Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?

Prince Henry

Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack and unbuttoning thee after supper and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? Unless hours were cups of sack and minutes capons and clocks the tongues of bawds and dials the signs of leaping-houses and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-coloured taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

Falstaff

Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses go by the moon and the seven stars, and not by Phoebus, he,’that wandering knight so fair.’ And, I prithee, sweet wag, when thou art king, as, God save thy grace,— majesty I should say, for grace thou wilt have none,—

Prince Henry

What, none?

Falstaff

No, by my troth, not so much as will serve to prologue to an egg and butter.

Prince Henry

Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.

Falstaff

Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night’s body be called thieves of the day’s beauty: let us be Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon; and let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.

Prince Henry

Thou sayest well, and it holds well too; for the fortune of us that are the moon’s men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon. As, for proof, now: a purse of gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing “Lay by” and spent with crying “Bring in;” now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder and by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.

Falstaff

By the Lord, thou sayest true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?

Prince Henry

As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?

Falstaff

How now, how now, mad wag! what, in thy quips and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?

Prince Henry

Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?

Falstaff

Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft.

Prince Henry

Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?

Falstaff

No; I’ll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.

Prince Henry

Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch; and where it would not, I have used my credit.

Falstaff

Yea, and so used it that were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent — But, I prithee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? and resolution thus fobbed as it is with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.

Prince Henry

No; thou shalt.

Falstaff

Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I’ll be a brave judge.

Prince Henry

Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves and so become a rare hangman.

Falstaff

Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humour as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.

Prince Henry

For obtaining of suits?

Falstaff

Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. ’sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib cat or a lugged bear.

Prince Henry

Or an old lion, or a lover’s lute.

Falstaff

Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.

Prince Henry

What sayest thou to a hare, or the melancholy of

Moor-ditch?

Falstaff

Thou hast the most unsavoury similes and art indeed the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince. But, Hal, I prithee, trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir, but I marked him not; and yet he talked very wisely, but I regarded him not; and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too.

Prince Henry

Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.

Falstaff

O, thou hast damnable iteration and art indeed able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal; God forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over: by the Lord, and I do not, I am a villain: I’ll be damned for never a king’s son in Christendom.

Prince Henry

Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?

Falstaff

’Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I’ll make one; an I do not, call me villain and baffle me.

Prince Henry

I see a good amendment of life in thee; from praying to purse-taking.

Falstaff

Why, Hal, ’tis my vocation, Hal; ’tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation.

Enter Poins

Poins! Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if men were to be saved by merit, what hole in hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent villain that ever cried “stand” to a true man.

Prince Henry

Good morrow, Ned.

Poins

Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says Monsieur Remorse? what says Sir John Sack and Sugar? Jack! how agrees the devil and thee about thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good-Friday last for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon’s leg?

Prince Henry

Sir John stands to his word, the devil shall have his bargain; for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs: he will give the devil his due.

Poins

Then art thou damned for keeping thy word with the devil.

Prince Henry

Else he had been damned for cozening the devil.

Poins

But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four o’clock, early at Gadshill! there are pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses: I have vizards for you all; you have horses for yourselves: Gadshill lies to-night in Rochester: I have bespoke supper to-morrow night in Eastcheap: we may do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of crowns; if you will not, tarry at home and be hanged.

Falstaff

Hear ye, Yedward; if I tarry at home and go not,

I’ll hang you for going.

Poins

You will, chops?

Falstaff

Hal, wilt thou make one?

Prince Henry

Who, I rob? I a thief? not I, by my faith.

Falstaff

There’s neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee, nor thou camest not of the blood royal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings.

Prince Henry

Well then, once in my days I’ll be a madcap.

Falstaff

Why, that’s well said.

Prince Henry

Well, come what will, I’ll tarry at home.

Falstaff

By the Lord, I’ll be a traitor then, when thou art king.

Prince Henry

I care not.

Poins

Sir John, I prithee, leave the prince and me alone: I will lay him down such reasons for this adventure that he shall go.

Falstaff

Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion and him the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest may move and what he hears may be believed, that the true prince may, for recreation sake, prove a false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want countenance. Farewell: you shall find me in Eastcheap.

Prince Henry

Farewell, thou latter spring! farewell, All-hallown summer!

Exit Falstaff

Poins

Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with us to-morrow: I have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto and Gadshill shall rob those men that we have already waylaid: yourself and I will not be there; and when they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off from my shoulders.

Prince Henry

How shall we part with them in setting forth?

Poins

Why, we will set forth before or after them, and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at our pleasure to fail, and then will they adventure upon the exploit themselves; which they shall have no sooner achieved, but we’ll set upon them.

Prince Henry

Yea, but ’tis like that they will know us by our horses, by our habits and by every other appointment, to be ourselves.

Poins

Tut! our horses they shall not see: I’ll tie them in the wood; our vizards we will change after we leave them: and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments.

Prince Henry

Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard for us.

Poins

Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for the third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, I’ll forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will be, the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper: how thirty, at least, he fought with; what wards, what blows, what extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lies the jest.

Prince Henry

Well, I’ll go with thee: provide us all things necessary and meet me to-morrow night in Eastcheap; there I’ll sup. Farewell.

Poins

Farewell, my lord.

Exit Poins

Prince Henry

I know you all, and will awhile uphold

The unyoked 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,

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.

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.

So, when this loose behavior I throw off

And pay the debt I never promised,

By how much better than my word I am,

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.

I’ll so offend, to make offence a skill;

Redeeming time when men think least I will.

Exit

SCENE III. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Enter the King, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt, with others

King Henry IV

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

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

Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud.

Earl Of Worcester

Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves

The scourge of greatness to be used on it;

And that same greatness too which our own hands

Have holp to make so portly.

Northumberland

My lord.—

King Henry IV

Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see

Danger and disobedience in thine eye:

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.

Exit Worcester

You were about to speak.

To North

Northumberland

Yea, my good lord.

Those prisoners in your highness’ name demanded,

Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,

Were, as he says, not with such strength denied

As is deliver’d to your majesty:

Either envy, therefore, or misprison

Is guilty of this fault and not my son.

Hotspur

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,

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;

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 smiled and talk’d,

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly,

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse

Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He question’d me; amongst the rest, demanded

My prisoners in your majesty’s behalf.

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,

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!—

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 salt-petre should be digg’d

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.

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

Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

Sir Walter Blunt

The circumstance consider’d, good my lord,

Whate’er Lord Harry Percy then had said

To such a person and in such a place,

At such a time, with all the rest retold,

May reasonably die and never rise

To do him wrong or any way impeach

What then he said, so he unsay it now.

King Henry IV

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;

Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray’d

The lives of those that he did lead to fight

Against that great magician, damn’d Glendower,

Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March

Hath lately married. Shall our coffers, then,

Be emptied to redeem a traitor home?

Shall we but treason? and indent with fears,

When they have lost and forfeited themselves?

No, on the barren mountains let him starve;

For I shall never hold that man my friend

Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost

To ransom home revolted Mortimer.

Hotspur

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,

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

In changing hardiment with great Glendower:

Three times they breathed and three times did they drink,

Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood;

Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks,

Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,

And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank,

Bloodstained with these valiant combatants.

Never did base and rotten policy

Colour her working with such deadly wounds;

Nor could the noble Mortimer

Receive so many, and all willingly:

Then let not him be slander’d with revolt.

King Henry IV

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

As Owen Glendower for an enemy.

Art thou not ashamed? But, sirrah, henceforth

Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer:

Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,

Or you shall hear in such a kind from me

As will displease you. My Lord Northumberland,

We licence your departure with your son.

Send us your prisoners, or you will hear of it.

Exeunt King Henry, Blunt, and train

Hotspur

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.

Northumberland

What, drunk with choler? stay and pause awhile:

Here comes your uncle.

Re-enter Worcester

Hotspur

Speak of Mortimer!

’Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul

Want mercy, if I do not join with him:

Yea, on his part I’ll empty all these veins,

And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust,

But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer

As high in the air as this unthankful king,

As this ingrate and canker’d Bolingbroke.

Northumberland

Brother, the king hath made your nephew mad.

Earl Of Worcester

Who struck this heat up after I was gone?

Hotspur

He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners;

And when I urged the ransom once again

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.

Earl Of Worcester

I cannot blame him: was not he proclaim’d

By Richard that dead is the next of blood?

Northumberland

He was; I heard the proclamation:

And then it was when the unhappy king,

— Whose wrongs in us God pardon!— did set forth

Upon his Irish expedition;

From whence he intercepted did return

To be deposed and shortly murdered.

Earl Of Worcester

And for whose death we in the world’s wide mouth

Live scandalized and foully spoken of.

Hotspur

But soft, I pray you; did King Richard then

Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer

Heir to the crown?

Northumberland

He did; myself did hear it.

Hotspur

Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king,

That wished him on the barren mountains starve.

But shall it be that you, that set the crown

Upon the head of this forgetful man

And for his sake wear the detested blot

Of murderous subornation, shall it be,

That you a world of curses undergo,

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

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

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,

An 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

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

Even with the bloody payment of your deaths:

Therefore, I say —

Earl Of Worcester

Peace, cousin, say no more:

And now I will unclasp a secret book,

And to your quick-conceiving discontents

I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous,

As full of peril and adventurous spirit

As to o’er-walk a current roaring loud

On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

Hotspur

If he fall in, good night! or sink or swim:

Send danger from the east unto the west,

So honour cross it from the north to south,

And let them grapple: O, the blood more stirs

To rouse a lion than to start a hare!

Northumberland

Imagination of some great exploit

Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.

Hotspur

By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap,

To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon,

Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,

And pluck up drowned honour by the locks;

So he that doth redeem her thence might wear

Without corrival, all her dignities:

But out upon this half-faced fellowship!

Earl Of Worcester

He apprehends a world of figures here,

But not the form of what he should attend.

Good cousin, give me audience for a while.

Hotspur

I cry you mercy.

Earl Of Worcester

Those same noble Scots

That are your prisoners,—

Hotspur

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.

Earl Of Worcester

You start away

And lend no ear unto my purposes.

Those prisoners you shall keep.

Hotspur

Nay, I will; that’s flat:

He said he would not ransom Mortimer;

Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer;

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

Nothing but “Mortimer,” and give it him

To keep his anger still in motion.

Earl Of Worcester

Hear you, cousin; a word.

Hotspur

All studies here I solemnly defy,

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.

Earl Of Worcester

Farewell, kinsman: I’ll talk to you

When you are better temper’d to attend.

Northumberland

Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool

Art thou to break into this woman’s mood,

Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!

Hotspur

Why, look you, I am whipp’d and scourged with rods,

Nettled and stung with pismires, when I hear

Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.

In Richard’s time,— what do you call the place?—

A plague upon it, it is in Gloucestershire;

’Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept,

His uncle York; where I first bow’d my knee

Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,—

’sblood!—

When you and he came back from Ravenspurgh.

Northumberland

At Berkley castle.

Hotspur

You say true:

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy

This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!

Look, “when his infant fortune came to age,”

And “gentle Harry Percy,” and “kind cousin;”

O, the devil take such cozeners! God forgive me!

Good uncle, tell your tale; I have done.

Earl Of Worcester

Nay, if you have not, to it again;

We will stay your leisure.

Hotspur

I have done, i’ faith.

Earl Of Worcester

Then once more to your Scottish prisoners.

Deliver them up without their ransom straight,

And make the Douglas’ son your only mean

For powers in Scotland; which, for divers reasons

Which I shall send you written, be assured,

Will easily be granted. You, my lord,

To Northumberland

Your son in Scotland being thus employ’d,

Shall secretly into the bosom creep

Of that same noble prelate, well beloved,

The archbishop.

Hotspur

Of York, is it not?

Earl Of Worcester

True; who bears hard

His brother’s death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop.

I speak not this in estimation,

As what I think might be, but what I know

Is ruminated, plotted and set down,

And only stays but to behold the face

Of that occasion that shall bring it on.

Hotspur

I smell it: upon my life, it will do well.

Northumberland

Before the game is afoot, thou still let’st slip.

Hotspur

Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot;

And then the power of Scotland and of York,

To join with Mortimer, ha?

Earl Of Worcester

And so they shall.

Hotspur

In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d.

Earl Of Worcester

And ’tis no little reason bids us speed,

To save our heads by raising of a head;

For, bear ourselves as even as we can,

The king will always think him in our debt,

And think we think ourselves unsatisfied,

Till he hath found a time to pay us home:

And see already how he doth begin

To make us strangers to his looks of love.

Hotspur

He does, he does: we’ll be revenged on him.

Earl Of Worcester

Cousin, farewell: no further go in this

Than I by letters shall direct your course.

When time is ripe, which will be suddenly,

I’ll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer;

Where you and Douglas and our powers at once,

As I will fashion it, shall happily meet,

To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,

Which now we hold at much uncertainty.

Northumberland

Farewell, good brother: we shall thrive, I trust.

Hotspur

Uncle, Adieu: O, let the hours be short

Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport!

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. ROCHESTER. AN INN YARD.

Enter a Carrier with a lantern in his hand

First Carrier

Heigh-ho! an it 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!

Ostler

[Within] Anon, anon.

First Carrier

I prithee, Tom, beat Cut’s saddle, put a few flocks in the point; poor jade, is wrung in the withers out of all cess.

Enter another Carrier

Second Carrier

Peas and beans are as dank here as a dog, and that is the next way to give poor jades the bots: this house is turned upside down since Robin Ostler died.

First Carrier

Poor fellow, never joyed since the price of oats rose; it was the death of him.

Second Carrier

I think this be the most villanous house in all

London road for fleas: I am stung like a tench.

First Carrier

Like a tench! by the mass, there is ne’er a king christen could be better bit than I have been since the first cock.

Second Carrier

Why, they will allow us ne’er a jordan, and then we leak in your chimney; and your chamber-lie breeds fleas like a loach.

First Carrier

What, ostler! come away and be hanged!

Second Carrier

I have a gammon of bacon and two razors of ginger, to be delivered as far as Charing-cross.

First Carrier

God’s body! 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 deed as drink, to break the pate on thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hanged! hast thou no faith in thee?

Enter Gadshill

Gadshill

Good morrow, carriers. What’s o’clock?

First Carrier

I think it be two o’clock.

Gadshill

I pray thee lend me thy lantern, to see my gelding in the stable.

First Carrier

Nay, by God, soft; I know a trick worth two of that, i’ faith.

Gadshill

I pray thee, lend me thine.

Second Carrier

Ay, when? can’st tell? Lend me thy lantern, quoth he? marry, I’ll see thee hanged first.

Gadshill

Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?

Second Carrier

Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee. Come, neighbour Mugs, we’ll call up the gentleman: they will along with company, for they have great charge.

Exeunt carriers

Gadshill

What, ho! chamberlain!

Chamberlain

[Within] At hand, quoth pick-purse.

Gadshill

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.

Enter Chamberlain

Chamberlain

Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds current that I told you yesternight: there’s a franklin in the wild of Kent hath brought three hundred marks with him in gold: I heard him tell it to one of his company last night at supper; a kind of auditor; one that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what. They are up already, and call for eggs and butter; they will away presently.

Gadshill

Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas’ clerks, I’ll give thee this neck.

Chamberlain

No, I’ll none of it: I pray thee keep that for the hangman; for I know thou worshippest St. Nicholas as truly as a man of falsehood may.

Gadshill

What talkest thou to me of the hangman? if I hang, I’ll make a fat pair of gallows; for if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me, and thou knowest he is no starveling. Tut! there are other Trojans that thou dreamest not of, the which for sport sake are content to do the profession some grace; that would, if matters should be looked into, for their own credit sake, make all whole. I am joined with no foot-land rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers, none of these mad mustachio purple-hued malt-worms; but with nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and great oneyers, such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner than speak, and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner than pray: and yet, zounds, I lie; for they pray continually to their saint, the commonwealth; or rather, not pray to her, but prey on her, for they ride up and down on her and make her their boots.

Chamberlain

What, the commonwealth their boots? will she hold out water in foul way?

Gadshill

She will, she will; justice hath liquored her. We steal as in a castle, cocksure; we have the receipt of fern-seed, we walk invisible.

Chamberlain

Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night than to fern-seed for your walking invisible.

Gadshill

Give me thy hand: thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as I am a true man.

Chamberlain

Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief.

Gadshill

Go to; “homo” is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE HIGHWAY, NEAR GADSHILL.

Enter Prince Henry and Poins

Poins

Come, shelter, shelter: I have removed Falstaff’s horse, and he frets like a gummed velvet.

Prince Henry

Stand close.

Enter Falstaff

Falstaff

Poins! Poins, and be hanged! Poins!

Prince Henry

Peace, ye fat-kidneyed rascal! what a brawling dost thou keep!

Falstaff

Where’s Poins, Hal?

Prince Henry

He is walked up to the top of the hill: I’ll go seek him.

Falstaff

I am accursed to rob in that thief’s company: the rascal hath removed my horse, and tied him I know not where. If I travel but four foot by the squier further afoot, I shall break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I ’scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his company hourly any time this two and twenty years, and yet I am bewitched with the rogue’s company. If the rascal hath not given me medicines to make me love him, I’ll be hanged; it could not be else: I have drunk medicines. Poins! Hal! a plague upon you both! Bardolph! Peto! I’ll starve ere I’ll rob a foot further. An ’twere not as good a deed as drink, to turn true man and to leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles afoot with me; and the stony-hearted villains know it well enough: a plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another!

They whistle

Whew! A plague upon you all! Give me my horse, you rogues; give me my horse, and be hanged!

Prince Henry

Peace, ye fat-guts! lie down; lay thine ear close to the ground and list if thou canst hear the tread of travellers.

Falstaff

Have you any levers to lift me up again, being down? ’sblood, I’ll not bear mine own flesh so far afoot again for all the coin in thy father’s exchequer. What a plague mean ye to colt me thus?

Prince Henry

Thou liest; thou art not colted, thou art uncolted.

Falstaff

I prithee, good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king’s son.

Prince Henry

Out, ye rogue! shall I be your ostler?

Falstaff

Go, hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent garters! If I be ta’en, I’ll peach for this. An I have not ballads made on you all and sung to filthy tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison: when a jest is so forward, and afoot too! I hate it.

Enter Gadshill, Bardolph and Peto

Gadshill

Stand.

Falstaff

So I do, against my will.

Poins

O, ’tis our setter: I know his voice. Bardolph, what news?

Bardolph

Case ye, case ye; on with your vizards: there ’s money of the king’s coming down the hill; ’tis going to the king’s exchequer.

Falstaff

You lie, ye rogue; ’tis going to the king’s tavern.

Gadshill

There’s enough to make us all.

Falstaff

To be hanged.

Prince Henry

Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane; Ned Poins and I will walk lower: if they ’scape from your encounter, then they light on us.

Peto

How many be there of them?

Gadshill

Some eight or ten.

Falstaff

’Zounds, will they not rob us?

Prince Henry

What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?

Falstaff

Indeed, I am not John of Gaunt, your grandfather; but yet no coward, Hal.

Prince Henry

Well, we leave that to the proof.

Poins

Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge: when thou needest him, there thou shalt find him. Farewell, and stand fast.

Falstaff

Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hanged.

Prince Henry

Ned, where are our disguises?

Poins

Here, hard by: stand close.

Exeunt Prince Henry and Poins

Falstaff

Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I: every man to his business.

Enter the Travellers

First Traveller

Come, neighbour: the boy shall lead our horses down the hill; we’ll walk afoot awhile, and ease our legs.

Thieves

Stand!

Travellers

Jesus bless us!

Falstaff

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!

Falstaff

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, ’faith.

Here they rob them and bind them. Exeunt

Re-enter Prince Henry and Poins

Prince Henry

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.

Poins

Stand close; I hear them coming.

Enter the Thieves again

Falstaff

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.

Prince Henry

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 them

Prince Henry

Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse:

The thieves are all 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:

Were ’t not for laughing, I should pity him.

Poins

How the rogue roar’d!

Exeunt

SCENE III. WARKWORTH CASTLE

Enter Hotspur, solus, reading a letter

Hotspur

“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;”— 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. “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.” 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 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.

Enter Lady Percy

How now, Kate! I must leave you within these two hours.

Lady Percy

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?

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 sit’st alone?

Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks;

And given my treasures and my rights of thee

To thick-eyed musing and cursed melancholy?

In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch’d,

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,

Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,

Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,

Of prisoners’ ransom and of soldiers slain,

And all the currents of a heady fight.

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;

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,

And I must know it, else he loves me not.

Hotspur

What, ho!

Enter Servant

Is Gilliams with the packet gone?

Servant

He is, my lord, an hour ago.

Hotspur

Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff?

Servant

One horse, my lord, he brought even now.

Hotspur

What horse? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not?

Servant

It is, my lord.

Hotspur

That roan shall by my throne.

Well, I will back him straight: O esperance!

Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.

Exit Servant

Lady Percy

But hear you, my lord.

Hotspur

What say’st thou, my lady?

Lady Percy

What is it carries you away?

Hotspur

Why, my horse, my love, my horse.

Lady Percy

Out, you mad-headed ape!

A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen

As you are toss’d with. In faith,

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,—

Hotspur

So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.

Lady Percy

Come, come, you paraquito, answer me

Directly unto this question that I ask:

In faith, I’ll break thy little finger, Harry,

An if thou wilt not tell me all things true.

Hotspur

Away,

Away, you trifler! Love! I love thee not,

I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world

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 say’st thou, Kate? what would’st thou have with me?

Lady Percy

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.

Hotspur

Come, wilt thou see me ride?

And when I am on horseback, I will swear

I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate;

I must not have you henceforth question me

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 farther wise

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.

Lady Percy

How! so far?

Hotspur

Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate:

Whither I go, thither shall you go too;

To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you.

Will this content you, Kate?

Lady Percy

It must of force.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. THE BOAR’S-HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP.

Enter Prince Henry and Poins

Prince Henry

Ned, prithee, come out of that fat room, and lend me thy hand to laugh a little.

Poins

Where hast been, Hal?

Prince Henry

With three or four loggerheads amongst three or four score hogsheads. I have sounded the very base-string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn brother to a leash of drawers; and can call them all by their christen names, as Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their salvation, that though I be but the prince of Wales, yet I am king of courtesy; and tell me flatly I am no proud Jack, like Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy, by the Lord, so they call me, and when I am king of England, I shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, dyeing scarlet; and when you breathe in your watering, they cry “hem!” and bid you play it off. To conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour, that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life. I tell thee, Ned, thou hast lost much honour, that thou wert not with me in this sweet action. But, sweet Ned,— to sweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this pennyworth of sugar, clapped even now into my hand by an under-skinker, one that never spake other English in his life than “Eight shillings and sixpence” and “You are welcome,” with this shrill addition, “Anon, anon, sir! Score a pint of bastard in the Half-Moon,” or so. But, Ned, to drive away the time till Falstaff come, I prithee, do thou stand in some by-room, while I question my puny drawer to what end he gave me the sugar; and do thou never leave calling “Francis,” that his tale to me may be nothing but “Anon.” Step aside, and I’ll show thee a precedent.

Poins

Francis!

Prince Henry

Thou art perfect.

Poins

Francis!

Exit Poins

Enter Francis

Francis

Anon, anon, sir. Look down into the Pomgarnet, Ralph.

Prince Henry

Come hither, Francis.

Francis

My lord?

Prince Henry

How long hast thou to serve, Francis?

Francis

Forsooth, five years, and as much as to —

Poins

[Within] Francis!

Francis

Anon, anon, sir.

Prince Henry

Five year! by’r lady, a long lease for the clinking of pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture and show it a fair pair of heels and run from it?

Francis

O Lord, sir, I’ll be sworn upon all the books in

England, I could find in my heart.

Poins

[Within] Francis!

Francis

Anon, sir.

Prince Henry

How old art thou, Francis?

Francis

Let me see — about Michaelmas next I shall be —

Poins

[Within] Francis!

Francis

Anon, sir. Pray stay a little, my lord.

Prince Henry

Nay, but hark you, Francis: for the sugar thou gavest me,’twas a pennyworth, wast’t not?

Francis

O Lord, I would it had been two!

Prince Henry

I will give thee for it a thousand pound: ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.

Poins

[Within] Francis!

Francis

Anon, anon.

Prince Henry

Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-morrow, Francis; or, Francis, o’ Thursday; or indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis!

Francis

My lord?

Prince Henry

Wilt thou rob this leathern jerkin, crystal-button, not-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch,—

Francis

O Lord, sir, who do you mean?

Prince Henry

Why, then, your brown bastard is your only drink; for look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully: in Barbary, sir, it cannot come to so much.

Francis

What, sir?

Poins

[Within] Francis!

Prince Henry

Away, you rogue! dost thou not hear them call?

Here they both call him; the drawer stands amazed, not knowing which way to go

Enter Vintner

Vintner

What, standest thou still, and hearest such a calling? Look to the guests within.

Exit Francis

My lord, old Sir John, with half-a-dozen more, are at the door: shall I let them in?

Prince Henry

Let them alone awhile, and then open the door.

Exit Vintner

Poins!

Re-enter Poins

Poins

Anon, anon, sir.

Prince Henry

Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the door: shall we be merry?

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?

Prince Henry

I am now of all humours that have showed themselves humours since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o’clock at midnight.

Re-enter Francis

What’s o’clock, Francis?

Francis

Anon, anon, sir.

Exit

Prince Henry

That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is upstairs and downstairs; 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.

Enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto; Francis following with wine

Poins

Welcome, Jack: where hast thou been?

Falstaff

A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too! marry, and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this life long, I’ll sew nether stocks and mend them and foot them too. A plague of all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant?

He drinks

Prince Henry

Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter? pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale of the sun’s! if thou didst, then behold that compound.

Falstaff

You rogue, here’s lime in this sack too: there is nothing but roguery to be found in villanous man: yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it. A villanous coward! Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old: God help the while! a bad world, I say. I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or any thing. A plague of all cowards, I say still.

Prince Henry

How now, wool-sack! what mutter you?

Falstaff

A king’s son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild-geese, I’ll never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales!

Prince Henry

Why, you whoreson round man, what’s the matter?

Falstaff

Are not you a coward? answer me to that: and Poins there?

Poins

’Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, by the

Lord, I’ll stab thee.

Falstaff

I call thee coward! I’ll see thee damned ere I call thee coward: but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders, you care not who sees your back: call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing! give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack: I am a rogue, if I drunk to-day.

Prince Henry

O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunkest last.

Falstaff

All’s one for that.

He drinks

A plague of all cowards, still say I.

Prince Henry

What’s the matter?

Falstaff

What’s the matter! there be four of us here have ta’en a thousand pound this day morning.

Prince Henry

Where is it, Jack? where is it?

Falstaff

Where is it! taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us.

Prince Henry

What, a hundred, man?

Falstaff

I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have ’scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw — ecce signum! I never dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards! Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains and the sons of darkness.

Prince Henry

Speak, sirs; how was it?

Gadshill

We four set upon some dozen —

Falstaff

Sixteen at least, my lord.

Gadshill

And bound them.

Peto

No, no, they were not bound.

Falstaff

You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.

Gadshill

As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us —

Falstaff

And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.

Prince Henry

What, fought you with them all?

Falstaff

All! I know not what you call all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish: if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legged creature.

Prince Henry

Pray God you have not murdered some of them.

Falstaff

Nay, that’s past praying for: I have peppered two of them; two I am sure I have paid, two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward; here I lay and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me —

Prince Henry

What, four? thou saidst but two even now.

Falstaff

Four, Hal; I told thee four.

Poins

Ay, ay, he said four.

Falstaff

These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

Prince Henry

Seven? why, there were but four even now.

Falstaff

In buckram?

Poins

Ay, four, in buckram suits.

Falstaff

Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

Prince Henry

Prithee, let him alone; we shall have more anon.

Falstaff

Dost thou hear me, Hal?

Prince Henry

Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Falstaff

Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram that I told thee of —

Prince Henry

So, two more already.

Falstaff

Their points being broken,—

Poins

Down fell their hose.

Falstaff

Began to give me ground: but I followed me close, came in foot and hand; and with a thought seven of the eleven I paid.

Prince Henry

O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!

Falstaff

But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves in Kendal green came at my back and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.

Prince Henry

These lies are like their father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson, obscene, grease tallow-catch,—

Falstaff

What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth the truth?

Prince Henry

Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us your reason: what sayest thou to this?

Poins

Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

Falstaff

What, upon compulsion? ’Zounds, an I were at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.

Prince Henry

I’ll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh,—

Falstaff

’sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat’s tongue, you bull’s pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor’s-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck,—

Prince Henry

Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again: and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this.

Poins

Mark, Jack.

Prince Henry

We two saw you four set on four and bound them, and were masters of their wealth. Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four; and, with a word, out-faced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house: and, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy and still run and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

Poins

Come, let’s hear, Jack; what trick hast thou now?

Falstaff

By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear you, my masters: was it for me to kill the heir-apparent? should I turn upon the true prince? why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules: but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was now a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee during my life; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors: watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? shall we have a play extempore?

Prince Henry

Content; and the argument shall be thy running away.

Falstaff

Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me!

Enter Hostess

Hostess

O Jesu, my lord the prince!

Prince Henry

How now, my lady the hostess! what sayest thou to me?

Hostess

Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the court at door would speak with you: he says he comes from your father.

Prince Henry

Give him as much as will make him a royal man, and send him back again to my mother.

Falstaff

What manner of man is he?

Hostess

An old man.

Falstaff

What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? Shall

I give him his answer?

Prince Henry

Prithee, do, Jack.

Falstaff

’Faith, and I’ll send him packing.

Exit Falstaff

Prince Henry

Now, sirs: by’r lady, you fought fair; so did you, Peto; so did you, Bardolph: you are lions too, you ran away upon instinct, you will not touch the true prince; no, fie!

Bardolph

’Faith, I ran when I saw others run.

Prince Henry

’Faith, tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff’s sword so hacked?

Peto

Why, he hacked it with his dagger, and said he would swear truth out of England but he would make you believe it was done in fight, and persuaded us to do the like.

Bardolph

Yea, and to tickle our noses with spear-grass to make them bleed, and then to beslubber our garments with it and swear it was the blood of true men. I did that I did not this seven year before, I blushed to hear his monstrous devices.

Prince Henry

O villain, thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen years ago, and wert taken with the manner, and ever since thou hast blushed extempore. Thou hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou rannest away: what instinct hadst thou for it?

Bardolph

My lord, do you see these meteors? do you behold these exhalations?

Prince Henry

I do.

Bardolph

What think you they portend?

Prince Henry

Hot livers and cold purses.

Bardolph

Choler, my lord, if rightly taken.

Prince Henry

No, if rightly taken, halter.

Re-enter Falstaff

Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone.

How now, my sweet creature of bombast!

How long is’t ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee?

Falstaff

My own knee! when I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle’s talon in the waist; I could have crept into any alderman’s thumb-ring: a plague of sighing and grief! it blows a man up like a bladder. There’s villanous news abroad: here was Sir John Bracy from your father; you must to the court in the morning. That same mad fellow of the north, Percy, and he of Wales, that gave Amamon the bastinado and made Lucifer cuckold and swore the devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh hook — what a plague call you him?

Poins

O, Glendower.

Falstaff

Owen, Owen, the same; and his son-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs o’ horseback up a hill perpendicular,—

Prince Henry

He that rides at high speed and with his pistol kills a sparrow flying.

Falstaff

You have hit it.

Prince Henry

So did he never the sparrow.

Falstaff

Well, that rascal hath good mettle in him; he will not run.

Prince Henry

Why, what a rascal art thou then, to praise him so for running!

Falstaff

O’ horseback, ye cuckoo; but afoot he will not budge a foot.

Prince Henry

Yes, Jack, upon instinct.

Falstaff

I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more: Worcester is stolen away to-night; thy father’s beard is turned white with the news: you may buy land now as cheap as stinking mackerel.

Prince Henry

Why, then, it is like, if there come a hot June and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy maidenheads as they buy hob-nails, by the hundreds.

Falstaff

By the mass, lad, thou sayest true; it is like we shall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal, art not thou horrible afeard? thou being heir-apparent, could the world pick thee out three such enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly afraid? doth not thy blood thrill at it?

Prince Henry

Not a whit, i’ faith; I lack some of thy instinct.

Falstaff

Well, thou wert be horribly chid tomorrow when thou comest to thy father: if thou love me, practise an answer.

Prince Henry

Do thou stand for my father, and examine me upon the particulars of my life.

Falstaff

Shall I? content: this chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown.

Prince Henry

Thy state is taken for a joined-stool, thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown!

Falstaff

Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give me a cup of sack to make my eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cambyses’ vein.

Prince Henry

Well, here is my leg.

Falstaff

And here is my speech. Stand aside, nobility.

Hostess

O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i’ faith!

Falstaff

Weep not, sweet queen; for trickling tears are vain.

Hostess

O, the father, how he holds his countenance!

Falstaff

For God’s sake, lords, convey my tristful queen;

For tears do stop the flood-gates of her eyes.

Hostess

O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as ever I see!

Falstaff

Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain. Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art accompanied: for though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted the sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy mother’s word, partly my own opinion, but chiefly a villanous trick of thine eye and a foolish-hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lies the point; why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher and eat blackberries? a question not to be asked. Shall the sun of England prove a thief and take purses? a question to be asked. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest: for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink but in tears, not in pleasure but in passion, not in words only, but in woes also: and yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.

Prince Henry

What manner of man, an it like your majesty?

Falstaff

A goodly portly man, i’ faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by’r lady, inclining to three score; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If then the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff: him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where hast thou been this month?

Prince Henry

Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for me, and I’ll play my father.

Falstaff

Depose me? if thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker or a poulter’s hare.

Prince Henry

Well, here I am set.

Falstaff

And here I stand: judge, my masters.

Prince Henry

Now, Harry, whence come you?

Falstaff

My noble lord, from Eastcheap.

Prince Henry

The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.

Falstaff

’sblood, my lord, they are false: nay, I’ll tickle ye for a young prince, i’ faith.

Prince Henry

Swearest thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne’er look on me. Thou art violently carried away from grace: there is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man; a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villany? wherein villanous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?

Falstaff

I would your grace would take me with you: whom means your grace?

Prince Henry

That villanous abominable misleader of youth,

Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.

Falstaff

My lord, the man I know.

Prince Henry

I know thou dost.

Falstaff

But to say I know more harm in him than in myself, were to say more than I know. That he is old, the more the pity, his white hairs do witness it; but that he is, saving your reverence, a whoremaster, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! if to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is damned: if to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh’s lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord; banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins: but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry’s company, banish not him thy Harry’s company: banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.

Prince Henry

I do, I will.

A knocking heard

Exeunt Hostess, Francis, and Bardolph

Re-enter Bardolph, running

Bardolph

O, my lord, my lord! the sheriff with a most monstrous watch is at the door.

Falstaff

Out, ye rogue! Play out the play: I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.

Re-enter the Hostess

Hostess

O Jesu, my lord, my lord!

Prince Henry

Heigh, heigh! the devil rides upon a fiddlestick: what’s the matter?

Hostess

The sheriff and all the watch are at the door: they are come to search the house. Shall I let them in?

Falstaff

Dost thou hear, Hal? never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit: thou art essentially mad, without seeming so.

Prince Henry

And thou a natural coward, without instinct.

Falstaff

I deny your major: if you will deny the sheriff, so; if not, let him enter: if I become not a cart as well as another man, a plague on my bringing up! I hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter as another.

Prince Henry

Go, hide thee behind the arras: the rest walk up above. Now, my masters, for a true face and good conscience.

Falstaff

Both which I have had: but their date is out, and therefore I’ll hide me.

Prince Henry

Call in the sheriff.

Exeunt all except Prince Henry and Peto

Enter Sheriff and the Carrier

Now, master sheriff, what is your will with me?

Sheriff

First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and cry

Hath follow’d certain men unto this house.

Prince Henry

What men?

Sheriff

One of them is well known, my gracious lord,

A gross fat man.

Carrier

As fat as butter.

Prince Henry

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,

Send him to answer thee, or any man,

For any thing he shall be charged withal:

And so let me entreat you leave the house.

Sheriff

I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen

Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.

Prince Henry

It may be so: if he have robb’d these men,

He shall be answerable; and so farewell.

Sheriff

Good night, my noble lord.

Prince Henry

I think it is good morrow, is it not?

Sheriff

Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o’clock.

Exeunt Sheriff and Carrier

Prince Henry

This oily rascal is known as well as Paul’s. Go, call him forth.

Peto

Falstaff!— Fast asleep behind the arras, and snorting like a horse.

Prince Henry

Hark, how hard he fetches breath. Search his pockets.

He searcheth his pockets, and findeth certain papers

What hast thou found?

Peto

Nothing but papers, my lord.

Prince Henry

Let’s see what they be: read them.

Peto

[Reads] Item, A capon,. . 2s. 2d.

Item, Sauce,. . . 4d.

Item, Sack, two gallons, 5s. 8d.

Item, Anchovies and sack after supper, 2s. 6d.

Item, Bread, ob.

Prince Henry

O monstrous! but one half-penny-worth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack! What there is else, keep close; we’ll read it at more advantage: there let him sleep till day. I’ll to the court in the morning. We must all to the wars, and thy place shall be 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.

Exeunt

Peto

Good morrow, good my lord.

ACT III

SCENE I. BANGOR. THE ARCHDEACON’S HOUSE.

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer, and Glendower

Mortimer

These promises are fair, the parties sure,

And our induction full of prosperous hope.

Hotspur

Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower,

Will you sit down?

And uncle Worcester: a plague upon it!

I have forgot the map.

Glendower

No, here it is.

Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur,

For by that name as oft as Lancaster

Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale and with

A rising sigh he wisheth you in heaven.

Hotspur

And you in hell, as oft as he hears Owen Glendower spoke of.

Glendower

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

Shaked like a coward.

Hotspur

Why, so it would have done at the same season, if your mother’s cat had but kittened, though yourself had never been born.

Glendower

I say the earth did shake when I was born.

Hotspur

And I say the earth was not of my mind,

If you suppose as fearing you it shook.

Glendower

The heavens were all on fire, the earth did tremble.

Hotspur

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

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

Our grandam earth, having this distemperature,

In passion shook.

Glendower

Cousin, of many men

I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave

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;

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

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

And hold me pace in deep experiments.

Hotspur

I think there’s no man speaks better Welsh.

I’ll to dinner.

Mortimer

Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad.

Glendower

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Hotspur

Why, so can I, or so can any man;

But will they come when you do call for them?

Glendower

Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command

The devil.

Hotspur

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,

And I’ll be sworn I have power to shame him hence.

O, while you live, tell truth and shame the devil!

Mortimer

Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.

Glendower

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.

Hotspur

Home without boots, and in foul weather too!

How ’scapes he agues, in the devil’s name?

Glendower

Come, here’s the map: shall we divide our right

According to our threefold order ta’en?

Mortimer

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:

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.

And our indentures tripartite are drawn;

Which being sealed interchangeably,

A business that this night may execute,

To-morrow, cousin Percy, you and I

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,

Not shall we need his help these fourteen days.

Within that space you may have drawn together

Your tenants, friends and neighbouring gentlemen.

Glendower

A shorter time shall send me to you, lords:

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.

Hotspur

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

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;

It shall not wind with such a deep indent,

To rob me of so rich a bottom here.

Glendower

Not wind? it shall, it must; you see it doth.

Mortimer

Yea, but

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.

Earl Of Worcester

Yea, but a little charge will trench him here

And on this north side win this cape of land;

And then he runs straight and even.

Hotspur

I’ll have it so: a little charge will do it.

Glendower

I’ll not have it alter’d.

Hotspur

Will not you?

Glendower

No, nor you shall not.

Hotspur

Who shall say me nay?

Glendower

Why, that will I.

Hotspur

Let me not understand you, then; speak it in Welsh.

Glendower

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

And gave the tongue a helpful ornament,

A virtue that was never seen in you.

Hotspur

Marry,

And I am glad of it with all my heart:

I had rather be a kitten and cry mew

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:

’Tis like the forced gait of a shuffling nag.

Glendower

Come, you shall have Trent turn’d.

Hotspur

I do not care: I’ll give thrice so much land

To any well-deserving friend;

But in the way of bargain, mark ye me,

I’ll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.

Are the indentures drawn? shall we be gone?

Glendower

The moon shines fair; you may away by night:

I’ll haste the writer and withal

Break with your wives of your departure hence:

I am afraid my daughter will run mad,

So much she doteth on her Mortimer.

Exit Glendower

Mortimer

Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!

Hotspur

I cannot choose: sometime he angers me

With telling me of the mouldwarp and the ant,

Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies,

And of a dragon and a finless fish,

A clip-wing’d griffin and a moulten raven,

A couching lion and a ramping cat,

And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff

As puts me from my faith. I tell you what;

He held me last night at least nine hours

In reckoning up the several devils’ names

That were his lackeys: I cried “hum,” and “well, go to,”

But mark’d him not a word. O, he is as tedious

As a tired horse, a railing wife;

Worse than a smoky house: I had rather live

With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far,

Than feed on cates and have him talk to me

In any summer-house in Christendom.

Mortimer

In faith, he is a worthy gentleman,

Exceedingly well read, and profited

In strange concealments, valiant as a lion

And as wondrous affable and as bountiful

As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin?

He holds your temper in a high respect

And curbs himself even of his natural scope

When you come ’cross his humour; faith, he does:

I warrant you, that man is not alive

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.

Earl Of Worcester

In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame;

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,—

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:

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.

Hotspur

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

Mortimer

This is the deadly spite that angers me;

My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.

Glendower

My daughter weeps: she will not part with you;

She’ll be a soldier too, she’ll to the wars.

Mortimer

Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy

Shall follow in your conduct speedily.

Glendower speaks to her in Welsh, and she answers him in the same

Glendower

She is desperate here; a peevish self-wind harlotry, one that no persuasion can do good upon.

The lady speaks in Welsh

Mortimer

I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh

Which thou pour’st down from these swelling heavens

I am too perfect in; and, but for shame,

In such a parley should I answer thee.

The lady speaks again in Welsh

I understand thy kisses and thou mine,

And that’s a feeling disputation:

But I will never be a truant, love,

Till I have learned thy language; for thy tongue

Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn’d,

Sung by a fair queen in a summer’s bower,

With ravishing division, to her lute.

Glendower

Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.

The lady speaks again in Welsh

Mortimer

O, I am ignorance itself in this!

Glendower

She bids you on 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 eyelids crown the god of sleep.

Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness,

Making such difference ’twixt wake and sleep

As is the difference betwixt day and night

The hour before the heavenly-harness’d team

Begins his golden progress in the east.

Mortimer

With all my heart I’ll sit and hear her sing:

By that time will our book, I think, be drawn

Glendower

Do so;

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.

Hotspur

Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.

Lady Percy

Go, ye giddy goose.

The music plays

Hotspur

Now I perceive the devil understands Welsh;

And ’tis no marvel he is so humorous.

By’r lady, he is a good musician.

Lady Percy

Then should you be nothing but musical for you are altogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh.

Hotspur

I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.

Lady Percy

Wouldst thou have thy head broken?

Hotspur

No.

Lady Percy

Then be still.

Hotspur

Neither;’tis a woman’s fault.

Lady Percy

Now God help thee!

Hotspur

To the Welsh lady’s bed.

Lady Percy

What’s that?

Hotspur

Peace! she sings.

Here the lady sings a Welsh song

Hotspur

Come, Kate, I’ll have your song too.

Lady Percy

Not mine, in good sooth.

Hotspur

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 givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths,

As if thou never walk’st further than Finsbury.

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.

Come, sing.

Lady Percy

I will not sing.

Hotspur

’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

Glendower

Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as slow

As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go.

By this our book is drawn; we’ll but seal,

And then to horse immediately.

Mortimer

With all my heart.

Exeunt

SCENE II. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Enter King Henry IV, Prince Henry, and others

King Henry IV

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,

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

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,

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

And hold their level with thy princely heart?

Prince Henry

So please your majesty, I would I could

Quit all offences with as clear excuse

As well as I am doubtless I can purge

Myself of many I am charged withal:

Yet such extenuation let me beg,

As, in reproof of many tales devised,

which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear,

By smiling pick-thanks and base news-mongers,

I may, for some things true, wherein my youth

Hath faulty wander’d and irregular,

Find pardon on my true submission.

King Henry IV

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.

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

Is ruin’d, and the soul of every man

Prophetically doth forethink thy fall.

Had I so lavish of my presence been,

So common-hackney’d in the eyes of men,

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,

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?”

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,

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

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,

To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push

Of every beardless vain comparative,

Grew a companion to the common streets,

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.

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,

Afford no extraordinary gaze,

Such as is bent on sun-like majesty

When it shines seldom in admiring eyes;

But rather drowzed 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, gorged and full.

And in that very line, Harry, standest thou;

For thou has lost thy princely privilege

With vile participation: not an eye

But is a-weary of thy common sight,

Save mine, which hath desired to see thee more;

Which now doth that I would not have it do,

Make blind itself with foolish tenderness.

Prince Henry

I shall hereafter, my thrice gracious lord,

Be more myself.

King Henry IV

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.

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,

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

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

And military title capital

Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ:

Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes,

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

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.

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

To fight against me under Percy’s pay,

To dog his heels and curtsy at his frowns,

To show how much thou art degenerate.

Prince Henry

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

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,

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,

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;

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.

This, in the name of God, I promise here:

The which if He be pleased I shall perform,

I do beseech your majesty may salve

The long-grown wounds of my intemperance:

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.

King Henry IV

A hundred thousand rebels die in this:

Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein.

Enter Blunt

How now, good Blunt? thy looks are full of speed.

Sir Walter Blunt

So hath the business that I come to speak of.

Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word

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,

As ever offer’d foul play in the state.

King Henry IV

The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day;

With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster;

For this advertisement is five days old:

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,

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.

Exeunt

SCENE III. EASTCHEAP. THE BOAR’S-HEAD TAVERN.

Enter Falstaff and Bardolph

Falstaff

Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last action? do I not bate? do I not dwindle? Why my skin hangs about me like an like an old lady’s loose gown; I am withered like an old apple-john. Well, I’ll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking; I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer’s horse: the inside of a church! Company, villanous company, hath been the spoil of me.

Bardolph

Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long.

Falstaff

Why, there is it: come sing me a bawdy song; make me merry. I was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough; swore little; diced not above seven times a week; went to a bawdy-house once in a quarter — of an hour; paid money that I borrowed, three of four times; lived well and in good compass: and now I live out of all order, out of all compass.

Bardolph

Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass, out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.

Falstaff

Do thou amend thy face, and I’ll amend my life: thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop, but ’tis in the nose of thee; thou art the Knight of the Burning Lamp.

Bardolph

Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.

Falstaff

No, I’ll be sworn; I make as good use of it as many a man doth of a Death’s-head or a memento mori: I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire and Dives that lived in purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be “By this fire, that’s God’s angel:” but thou art altogether given over; and wert indeed, but for the light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou rannest up Gadshill in the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there’s no purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light! Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern: but the sack that thou hast drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap at the dearest chandler’s in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of yours with fire any time this two and thirty years; God reward me for it!

Bardolph

’sblood, I would my face were in your belly!

Falstaff

God-a-mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burned.

Enter Hostess

How now, Dame Partlet the hen! have you inquired yet who picked my pocket?

Hostess

Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? do you think I keep thieves in my house? I have searched, I have inquired, so has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, servant by servant: the tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.

Falstaff

Ye lie, hostess: Bardolph was shaved and lost many a hair; and I’ll be sworn my pocket was picked. Go to, you are a woman, go.

Hostess

Who, I? no; I defy thee: God’s light, I was never called so in mine own house before.

Falstaff

Go to, I know you well enough.

Hostess

No, Sir John; You do not know me, Sir John. I know you, Sir John: you owe me money, Sir John; and now you pick a quarrel to beguile me of it: I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back.

Falstaff

Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given them away to bakers’ wives, and they have made bolters of them.

Hostess

Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings an ell. You owe money here besides, Sir John, for your diet and by-drinkings, and money lent you, four and twenty pound.

Falstaff

He had his part of it; let him pay.

Hostess

He? alas, he is poor; he hath nothing.

Falstaff

How! poor? look upon his face; what call you rich? let them coin his nose, let them coin his cheeks: Ill not pay a denier. What, will you make a younker of me? shall I not take mine case in mine inn but I shall have my pocket picked? I have lost a seal-ring of my grandfather’s worth forty mark.

Hostess

O Jesu, I have heard the prince tell him, I know not how oft, that ring was copper!

Falstaff

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.

Enter Prince Henry and Peto, marching, and Falstaff meets them playing on his truncheon like a life

How now, lad! is the wind in that door, i’ faith? must we all march?

Bardolph

Yea, two and two, Newgate fashion.

Hostess

My lord, I pray you, hear me.

Prince Henry

What sayest thou, Mistress Quickly? How doth thy husband? I love him well; he is an honest man.

Hostess

Good my lord, hear me.

Falstaff

Prithee, let her alone, and list to me.

Prince Henry

What sayest thou, Jack?

Falstaff

The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras and had my pocket picked: this house is turned bawdy-house; they pick pockets.

Prince Henry

What didst thou lose, Jack?

Falstaff

Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds of forty pound apiece, and a seal-ring of my grandfather’s.

Prince Henry

A trifle, some eight-penny matter.

Hostess

So I told him, my lord; and I said I heard your grace say so: and, my lord, he speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouthed man as he is; and said he would cudgel you.

Prince Henry

What! he did not?

Hostess

There’s neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in me else.

Falstaff

There’s no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune; nor no more truth in thee than in a drawn fox; and for womanhood, Maid Marian may be the deputy’s wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go

Hostess

Say, what thing? what thing?

Falstaff

What thing! why, a thing to thank God on.

Hostess

I am no thing to thank God on, I would thou shouldst know it; I am an honest man’s wife: and, setting thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to call me so.

Falstaff

Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say otherwise.

Hostess

Say, what beast, thou knave, thou?

Falstaff

What beast! why, an otter.

Prince Henry

An otter, Sir John! Why an otter?

Falstaff

Why, she’s neither fish nor flesh; a man knows not where to have her.

Hostess

Thou art an unjust man in saying so: thou or any man knows where to have me, thou knave, thou!

Prince Henry

Thou sayest true, hostess; and he slanders thee most grossly.

Hostess

So he doth you, my lord; and said this other day you ought him a thousand pound.

Prince Henry

Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound?

Falstaff

A thousand pound, Ha! a million: thy love is worth a million: thou owest me thy love.

Hostess

Nay, my lord, he called you Jack, and said he would cudgel you.

Falstaff

Did I, Bardolph?

Bardolph

Indeed, Sir John, you said so.

Falstaff

Yea, if he said my ring was copper.

Prince Henry

I say ’tis copper: darest thou be as good as thy word now?

Falstaff

Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but man, I dare: but as thou art prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring of a lion’s whelp.

Prince Henry

And why not as the lion?

Falstaff

The king is to be feared as the lion: dost thou think I’ll fear thee as I fear thy father? nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle break.

Prince Henry

O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about thy knees! But, sirrah, there’s no room for faith, truth, nor honesty in this bosom of thine; it is all filled up with guts and midriff. Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket! why, thou whoreson, impudent, embossed rascal, if there were anything in thy pocket but tavern-reckonings, memorandums of bawdy-houses, and one poor penny-worth of sugar-candy to make thee long-winded, if thy pocket were enriched with any other injuries but these, I am a villain: and yet you will stand to if; you will not pocket up wrong: art thou not ashamed?

Falstaff

Dost thou hear, Hal? thou knowest in the state of innocency Adam fell; and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villany? Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty. You confess then, you picked my pocket?

Prince Henry

It appears so by the story.

Falstaff

Hostess, I forgive thee: go, make ready breakfast; love thy husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy guests: thou shalt find me tractable to any honest reason: thou seest I am pacified still. Nay, prithee, be gone.

Exit Hostess

Now Hal, to the news at court: for the robbery, lad, how is that answered?

Prince Henry

O, my sweet beef, I must still be good angel to thee: the money is paid back again.

Falstaff

O, I do not like that paying back; ’tis a double labour.

Prince Henry

I am good friends with my father and may do any thing.

Falstaff

Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest, and do it with unwashed hands too.

Bardolph

Do, my lord.

Prince Henry

I have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot.

Falstaff

I would it had been of horse. Where shall I find one that can steal well? O for a fine thief, of the age of two and twenty or thereabouts! I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for these rebels, they offend none but the virtuous: I laud them, I praise them.

Prince Henry

Bardolph!

Bardolph

My lord?

Prince Henry

Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lancaster, to my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland.

Exit Bardolph

Go, Peto, to horse, to horse; for thou and I have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner time.

Exit Peto

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.

The land is burning; Percy stands on high;

And either we or they must lower lie.

Exit Prince Henry

Falstaff

Rare words! brave world! Hostess, my breakfast, come!

O, I could wish this tavern were my drum!

Exit

ACT IV

SCENE I. THE REBEL CAMP NEAR SHREWSBURY.

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas

Hotspur

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

Should go so general current through the world.

By God, I cannot flatter; I do defy

The tongues of soothers; but a braver place

In my heart’s love hath no man than yourself:

Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.

Earl Of Douglas

Thou art the king of honour:

No man so potent breathes upon the ground

But I will beard him.

Hotspur

Do so, and ’tis well.

Enter a Messenger with letters

What letters hast thou there?— I can but thank you.

Messenger

These letters come from your father.

Hotspur

Letters from him! why comes he not himself?

Messenger

He cannot come, my lord; he is grievous sick.

Hotspur

’Zounds! how has he the leisure to be sick

In such a rustling time? Who leads his power?

Under whose government come they along?

Messenger

His letters bear his mind, not I, my lord.

Earl Of Worcester

I prithee, tell me, doth he keep his bed?

Messenger

He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth;

And at the time of my departure thence

He was much fear’d by his physicians.

Earl Of Worcester

I would the state of time had first been whole

Ere he by sickness had been visited:

His health was never better worth than now.

Hotspur

Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth infect

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

So soon be drawn, nor did he think it meet

To lay so dangerous and dear a trust

On any soul removed but on his own.

Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,

That with our small conjunction we should on,

To see how fortune is disposed to us;

For, as he writes, there is no quailing now.

Because the king is certainly possess’d

Of all our purposes. What say you to it?

Earl Of Worcester

Your father’s sickness is a maim to us.

Hotspur

A perilous gash, a very limb lopp’d off:

And yet, in faith, it is not; his present want

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?

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.

Earl Of Douglas

’Faith, and so we should;

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.

Hotspur

A rendezvous, a home to fly unto.

If that the devil and mischance look big

Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.

Earl Of Worcester

But yet I would your father had been here.

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

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;

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:

This absence of your father’s draws a curtain,

That shows the ignorant a kind of fear

Before not dreamt of.

Hotspur

You strain too far.

I rather of his absence make this use:

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

To push against a kingdom, with his help

We shall o’erturn it topsy-turvy down.

Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.

Earl Of Douglas

As heart can think: there is not such a word

Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear.

Enter Sir Richard Vernon

Hotspur

My cousin Vernon, welcome, by my soul.

Vernon

Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord.

The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,

Is marching hitherwards; with him Prince John.

Hotspur

No harm: what more?

Vernon

And further, I have learn’d,

The king himself in person is set forth,

Or hitherwards intended speedily,

With strong and mighty preparation.

Hotspur

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,

And bid it pass?

Vernon

All furnish’d, all in arms;

All plumed like estridges that with the wind

Baited like eagles having lately bathed;

Glittering in golden coats, like images;

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,

His cuisses 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

And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

Hotspur

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,

And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war

All hot and bleeding will we offer them:

The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit

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

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!

Vernon

There is more news:

I learn’d in Worcester, as I rode along,

He cannot draw his power this fourteen days.

Earl Of Douglas

That’s the worst tidings that I hear of yet.

Worcester

Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound.

Hotspur

What may the king’s whole battle reach unto?

Vernon

To thirty thousand.

Hotspur

Forty let it be:

My father and Glendower being both away,

The powers of us may serve so great a day

Come, let us take a muster speedily:

Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily.

Earl Of Douglas

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

Falstaff

Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill me a bottle of sack: our soldiers shall march through; we’ll to Sutton Co’fil’ tonight.

Bardolph

Will you give me money, captain?

Falstaff

Lay out, lay out.

Bardolph

This bottle makes an angel.

Falstaff

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 town’s end.

Bardolph

I will, captain: farewell.

Exit

Falstaff

If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. I have misused the king’s press damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good house-holders, yeoman’s sons; inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as had been asked twice on the banns; such a commodity of warm slaves, as had as lieve hear the devil as a drum; such as fear the report of a caliver worse than a struck fowl or a hurt wild-duck. I pressed me none but such toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bellies no bigger than pins’ heads, and they have bought out their services; and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies, slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the glutton’s dogs licked his sores; and such as indeed were never soldiers, but discarded unjust serving-men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters and ostlers trade-fallen, the cankers of a calm world and a long peace, ten times more dishonourable ragged than an old faced ancient: and such have I, to fill up the rooms of them that have bought out their services, that you would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and pressed the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I’ll not march through Coventry with them, that’s flat: nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on; for indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There’s but a shirt and a half in all my company; and the half shirt is two napkins tacked together and thrown over the shoulders like an herald’s coat without sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host at Saint Alban’s, or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that’s all one; they’ll find linen enough on every hedge.

Enter the Prince and Westmoreland

Prince Henry

How now, blown Jack! how now, quilt!

Falstaff

What, Hal! how now, mad wag! what a devil dost thou in Warwickshire? My good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you mercy: I thought your honour had already been at Shrewsbury.

Westmoreland

Faith, Sir John,’tis more than time that I were there, and you too; but my powers are there already. The king, I can tell you, looks for us all: we must away all night.

Falstaff

Tut, never fear me: I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.

Prince Henry

I think, to steal cream indeed, for thy theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come after?

Falstaff

Mine, Hal, mine.

Prince Henry

I did never see such pitiful rascals.

Falstaff

Tut, tut; good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder; they’ll fill a pit as well as better: tush, man, mortal men, mortal men.

Westmoreland

Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare, too beggarly.

Falstaff

’Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they had that; and for their bareness, I am sure they never learned that of me.

Prince Henry

No I’ll be sworn; unless you call three fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste: Percy is already in the field.

Falstaff

What, is the king encamped?

Westmoreland

He is, Sir John: I fear we shall stay too long.

Falstaff

Well,

To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast

Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE REBEL CAMP NEAR SHREWSBURY.

Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Douglas, and Vernon

Hotspur

We’ll fight with him to-night.

Earl Of Worcester

It may not be.

Earl Of Douglas

You give him then the advantage.

Vernon

Not a whit.

Hotspur

Why say you so? looks he not for supply?

Vernon

So do we.

Hotspur

His is certain, ours is doubtful.

Earl Of Worcester

Good cousin, be advised; stir not tonight.

Vernon

Do not, my lord.

Earl Of Douglas

You do not counsel well:

You speak it out of fear and cold heart.

Vernon

Do me no slander, Douglas: by my life,

And I dare well maintain it with my life,

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

Which of us fears.

Earl Of Douglas

Yea, or to-night.

Vernon

Content.

Hotspur

To-night, say I.

Vernon

Come, come it nay not be. I wonder much,

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:

Your uncle Worcester’s horse came but today;

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.

Hotspur

So are the horses of the enemy

In general, journey-bated and brought low:

The better part of ours are full of rest.

Earl Of Worcester

The number of the king exceedeth ours:

For God’s sake. cousin, stay till all come in.

The trumpet sounds a parley

Enter Sir Walter Blunt

Sir Walter Blunt

I come with gracious offers from the king, if you vouchsafe me hearing and respect.

Hotspur

Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt; and would to God

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,

But stand against us like an enemy.

Sir Walter Blunt

And God defend but still I should stand so,

So long as out of limit and true rule

You stand against anointed majesty.

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

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

You shall have your desires with interest

And pardon absolute for yourself and these

Herein misled by your suggestion.

Hotspur

The king is kind; and well we know the king

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,

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,

To sue his livery and beg his peace,

With tears of innocency and terms of zeal,

My father, in kind heart and pity moved,

Swore him assistance and perform’d it too.

Now when the lords and barons of the realm

Perceived Northumberland did lean to him,

The more and less came in with cap and knee;

Met him in boroughs, cities, villages,

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

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,

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,

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;

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.

Sir Walter Blunt

Tut, I came not to hear this.

Hotspur

Then to the point.

In short time after, he deposed the king;

Soon after that, deprived him of his life;

And in the neck of that, task’d the whole state:

To make that worse, suffer’d his kinsman March,

Who is, if every owner were well placed,

Indeed his king, to be engaged in Wales,

There without ransom to lie forfeited;

Disgraced me in my happy victories,

Sought to entrap me by intelligence;

Rated mine uncle from the council-board;

In rage dismiss’d my father from the court;

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

Too indirect for long continuance.

Sir Walter Blunt

Shall I return this answer to the king?

Hotspur

Not so, Sir Walter: we’ll withdraw awhile.

Go to the king; and let there be impawn’d

Some surety for a safe return again,

And in the morning early shall my uncle

Bring him our purposes: and so farewell.

Sir Walter Blunt

I would you would accept of grace and love.

Hotspur

And may be so we shall.

Sir Walter Blunt

Pray God you do.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. YORK. THE ARCHBISHOP’S PALACE.

Enter the Archbishop Of York and Sir Michael

Archbishop Of York

Hie, good Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief

With winged haste to the lord marshal;

This to my cousin Scroop, and all the rest

To whom they are directed. If you knew

How much they do to import, you would make haste.

Sir Michael

My good lord,

I guess their tenor.

Archbishop Of York

Like enough you do.

To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day

Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men

Must bide the touch; for, sir, at Shrewsbury,

As I am truly given to understand,

The king with mighty and quick-raised power

Meets with Lord Harry: and, I fear, Sir Michael,

What with the sickness of Northumberland,

Whose power was in the first proportion,

And what with Owen Glendower’s absence thence,

Who with them was a rated sinew too

And comes not in, o’er-ruled by prophecies,

I fear the power of Percy is too weak

To wage an instant trial with the king.

Sir Michael

Why, my good lord, you need not fear;

There is Douglas and Lord Mortimer.

Archbishop Of York

No, Mortimer is not there.

Sir Michael

But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy,

And there is my Lord of Worcester and a head

Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen.

Archbishop Of York

And so there is: but yet the king hath drawn

The special head of all the land together:

The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster,

The noble Westmoreland and warlike Blunt;

And moe corrivals and dear men

Of estimation and command in arms.

Sir Michael

Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well opposed.

Archbishop Of York

I hope no less, yet needful ’tis to fear;

And, to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed:

For if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the king

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

To other friends; and so farewell, Sir Michael.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. KING HENRY IV’S CAMP NEAR SHREWSBURY.

Enter King Henry, Prince Henry, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl Of Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blunt, and Falstaff

King Henry IV

How bloodily the sun begins to peer

Above yon busky hill! the day looks pale

At his distemperature.

Prince Henry

The southern wind

Doth play the trumpet to his purposes,

And by his hollow whistling in the leaves

Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.

King Henry IV

Then with the losers let it sympathize,

For nothing can seem foul to those that win.

The 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 deceived our trust,

And made us doff our easy robes of peace,

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 curlish knot of all-abhorred war?

And move in that obedient orb again

Where you did give a fair and natural light,

And be no more an exhaled meteor,

A prodigy of fear and a portent

Of broached mischief to the unborn times?

Earl Of Worcester

Hear me, my liege:

For mine own part, I could be well content

To entertain the lag-end of my life

With quiet hours; for I do protest,

I have not sought the day of this dislike.

King Henry IV

You have not sought it! how comes it, then?

Falstaff

Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.

Prince Henry

Peace, chewet, peace!

Earl Of Worcester

It pleased your majesty to turn your looks

Of favour from myself and all our house;

And yet I must remember you, my lord,

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,

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,

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:

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,

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

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

To gripe the general sway into your hand;

Forget your oath to us at Doncaster;

And being fed by us you used us so

As that ungentle hull, the cuckoo’s bird,

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

We were enforced, for safety sake, to fly

Out of sight and raise this present head;

Whereby we stand opposed by such means

As you yourself have forged against yourself

By unkind usage, dangerous countenance,

And violation of all faith and troth

Sworn to us in your younger enterprise.

King Henry IV

These things indeed you have articulate,

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,

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;

Nor moody beggars, starving for a time

Of pellmell havoc and confusion.

Prince Henry

In both your armies there is many a soul

Shall pay full dearly for this encounter,

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,

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.

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 —

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.

King Henry IV

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

That are misled upon your cousin’s part;

And, will they take the offer of our grace,

Both he and they and you, every man

Shall be my friend again and I’ll be his:

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;

We will not now be troubled with reply:

We offer fair; take it advisedly.

Exeunt Worcester and Vernon

Prince Henry

It will not be accepted, on my life:

The Douglas and the Hotspur both together

Are confident against the world in arms.

King Henry IV

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!

Exeunt all but Prince Henry and Falstaff

Falstaff

Hal, if thou see me down in the battle and bestride me, so; ’tis a point of friendship.

Prince Henry

Nothing but a colossus can do thee that friendship.

Say thy prayers, and farewell.

Falstaff

I would ’twere bed-time, Hal, and all well.

Prince Henry

Why, thou owest God a death.

Exit Prince Henry

Falstaff

’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 in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. ’Tis insensible, then. Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon: and so ends my catechism.

Exit

SCENE II. THE REBEL CAMP.

Enter Worcester and Vernon

Earl Of Worcester

O, no, my nephew must not know, Sir Richard,

The liberal and kind offer of the king.

Vernon

’Twere best he did.

Earl Of Worcester

Then are we all undone.

It is not possible, it cannot be,

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;

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,

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;

it hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood,

And an adopted name of privilege,

A hair-brain’d Hotspur, govern’d by a spleen:

All his offences live upon my head

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,

In any case, the offer of the king.

Vernon

Deliver what you will; I’ll say ’tis so.

Here comes your cousin.

Enter Hotspur and Douglas

Hotspur

My uncle is return’d:

Deliver up my Lord of Westmoreland.

Uncle, what news?

Earl Of Worcester

The king will bid you battle presently.

Earl Of Douglas

Defy him by the Lord of Westmoreland.

Hotspur

Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so.

Earl Of Douglas

Marry, and shall, and very willingly.

Exit

Earl Of Worcester

There is no seeming mercy in the king.

Hotspur

Did you beg any? God forbid!

Earl Of Worcester

I told him gently of our grievances,

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.

Re-enter the Earl Of Douglas

Earl Of Douglas

Arm, gentlemen; to arms! for I have thrown

A brave defiance in King Henry’s teeth,

And Westmoreland, that was engaged, did bear it;

Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on.

Earl Of Worcester

The Prince of Wales stepp’d forth before the king,

And, nephew, challenged you to single fight.

Hotspur

O, would the quarrel lay upon our heads,

And that no man might draw short breath today

But I and Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me,

How show’d his tasking? seem’d it in contempt?

Vernon

No, by my soul; I never in my life

Did hear a challenge urged more modestly,

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 to your deservings like a chronicle,

Making you ever better than his praise

By still dispraising praise valued in you;

And, which became him like a prince indeed,

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.

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 misconstrued in his wantonness.

Hotspur

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

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

Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue,

Can lift your blood up with persuasion.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

My lord, here are letters for you.

Hotspur

I cannot read them now.

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.

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.

Enter another Messenger

Messenger

My lord, prepare; the king comes on apace.

Hotspur

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

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.

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.

The trumpets sound. They embrace, and exeunt

SCENE III. PLAIN BETWEEN THE CAMPS.

King Henry enters with his power. Alarum to the battle. Then enter Douglas and Sir Walter Blunt

Sir Walter Blunt

What is thy name, that in the battle thus

Thou crossest me? what honour dost thou seek

Upon my head?

Earl Of Douglas

Know then, my name is Douglas;

And I do haunt thee in the battle thus

Because some tell me that thou art a king.

Sir Walter Blunt

They tell thee true.

Earl Of Douglas

The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought

Thy likeness, for instead of thee, King Harry,

This sword hath ended him: so shall it thee,

Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner.

Sir Walter Blunt

I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot;

And thou shalt find a king that will revenge

Lord Stafford’s death.

They fight. Douglas kills Sir Walter Blunt. Enter Hotspur

Hotspur

O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus, never had triumph’d upon a Scot.

Earl Of Douglas

All’s done, all’s won; here breathless lies the king.

Hotspur

Where?

Earl Of Douglas

Here.

Hotspur

This, Douglas? no: I know this face full well:

A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt;

Semblably furnish’d like the king himself.

Earl Of Douglas

A fool go with thy soul, whither it goes!

A borrow’d title hast thou bought too dear:

Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king?

Hotspur

The king hath many marching in his coats.

Earl Of Douglas

Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats;

I’ll murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece,

Until I meet the king.

Hotspur

Up, and away!

Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day.

Exeunt

Alarum. Enter Falstaff, solus

Falstaff

Though I could ’scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here; here’s no scoring but upon the pate. Soft! who are you? Sir Walter Blunt: there’s honour for you! here’s no vanity! I am as hot as moulten lead, and as heavy too: God keep lead out of me! I need no more weight than mine own bowels. I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered: there’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive; and they are for the town’s end, to beg during life. But who comes here?

Enter Prince Henry

Prince Henry

What, stand’st thou idle here? lend me thy sword:

Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff

Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies,

Whose deaths are yet unrevenged: I prithee,

Lend me thy sword.

Falstaff

O Hal, I prithee, give me leave to breathe awhile. Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms as I have done this day. I have paid Percy, I have made him sure.

Prince Henry

He is, indeed; and living to kill thee. I prithee, lend me thy sword.

Falstaff

Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou get’st not my sword; but take my pistol, if thou wilt.

Prince Henry

Give it to me: what, is it in the case?

Falstaff

Ay, Hal; ’tis hot, ’tis hot; there’s that will sack a city.

Prince Henry draws it out, and finds it to be a bottle of sack

Prince Henry

What, is it a time to jest and dally now?

He throws the bottle at him. Exit

Falstaff

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 Falstaff

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Alarum. Excursions. Enter Prince Henry, Lord John Of Lancaster, and Earl Of Westmoreland

King Henry IV

I prithee,

Harry, withdraw thyself; thou bleed’st too much.

Lord John of Lancaster, go you with him.

Lancaster

Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too.

Prince Henry

I beseech your majesty, make up,

Lest your retirement do amaze your friends.

King Henry IV

I will do so.

My Lord of Westmoreland, lead him to his tent.

Westmoreland

Come, my lord, I’ll lead you to your tent.

Prince Henry

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,

Where stain’d nobility lies trodden on,

and rebels’ arms triumph in massacres!

Lancaster

We breathe too long: come, cousin Westmoreland,

Our duty this way lies; for God’s sake come.

Exeunt Lancaster and Westmoreland

Prince Henry

By God, thou hast deceived me, Lancaster;

I did not think thee lord of such a spirit:

Before, I loved thee as a brother, John;

But now, I do respect thee as my soul.

King Henry IV

I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point

With lustier maintenance than I did look for

Of such an ungrown warrior.

Prince Henry

O, this boy

Lends mettle to us all!

Exit

Enter Douglas

Earl Of Douglas

Another king! they grow like Hydra’s heads:

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?

King Henry IV

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:

But, seeing thou fall’st on me so luckily,

I will assay thee: so, defend thyself.

Earl Of Douglas

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, Prince Henry enters

Prince Henry

Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like

Never to hold it up again! the spirits

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?

Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succor sent,

And so hath Clifton: I’ll to Clifton straight.

King Henry IV

Stay, and breathe awhile:

Thou hast redeem’d thy lost opinion,

And show’d thou makest some tender of my life,

In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me.

Prince Henry

O God! they did me too much injury

That ever said I hearken’d for your death.

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

And saved the treacherous labour of your son.

King Henry IV

Make up to Clifton: I’ll to Sir Nicholas Gawsey.

Exit

Enter Hotspur

Hotspur

If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.

Prince Henry

Thou speak’st as if I would deny my name.

Hotspur

My name is Harry Percy.

Prince Henry

Why, then I see

A very valiant rebel of the name.

I am the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,

To share with me in glory any more:

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.

Hotspur

Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come

To end the one of us; and would to God

Thy name in arms were now as great as mine!

Prince Henry

I’ll make it greater ere I part from thee;

And all the budding honours on thy crest

I’ll crop, to make a garland for my head.

Hotspur

I can no longer brook thy vanities.

They fight

Enter Falstaff

Falstaff

Well said, Hal! to it Hal! Nay, you shall find no boy’s play here, I can tell you.

Re-enter Douglas; he fights with Falstaff, who falls down as if he were dead, and exit Douglas. Hotspur is wounded, and falls

Hotspur

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 sword my flesh:

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

Lies on my tongue: no, Percy, thou art dust

And food for —

Dies

Prince Henry

For worms, brave Percy: fare thee well, great heart!

Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk!

When that this body did contain a spirit,

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

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;

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 ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,

But not remember’d in thy epitaph!

He spieth Falstaff on the ground

What, old acquaintance! could not all this flesh

Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell!

I could have better spared a better man:

O, I should have a heavy miss of thee,

If I were much in love with vanity!

Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day,

Though many dearer, in this bloody fray.

Embowell’d will I see thee by and by:

Till then in blood by noble Percy lie.

Exit Prince Henry

Falstaff

[Rising up] 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.

Takes up Hotspur on his back

Re-enter Prince Henry and Lord John Of Lancaster

Prince Henry

Come, brother John; full bravely hast thou flesh’d

Thy maiden sword.

Lancaster

But, soft! whom have we here?

Did you not tell me this fat man was dead?

Prince Henry

I did; I saw him dead,

Breathless and bleeding on the ground. Art thou alive?

Or is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight?

I prithee, speak; we will not trust our eyes

Without our ears: thou art not what thou seem’st.

Falstaff

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 Henry

Why, Percy I killed myself and saw thee dead.

Falstaff

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.

Lancaster

This is the strangest tale that ever I heard.

Prince Henry

This is the strangest fellow, brother John.

Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back:

For my part, if a lie may do thee grace,

I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.

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.

Exeunt Prince Henry and Lancaster

Falstaff

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 IV, Prince Henry, Lord John Lancaster, Earl Of Westmoreland, with Worcester and Vernon prisoners

King Henry IV

Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke.

Ill-spirited Worcester! did not we send grace,

Pardon and terms of love to all of you?

And wouldst thou turn our offers contrary?

Misuse the tenor 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,

If like a Christian thou hadst truly borne

Betwixt our armies true intelligence.

Earl Of Worcester

What I have done my safety urged me to;

And I embrace this fortune patiently,

Since not to be avoided it falls on me.

King Henry IV

Bear Worcester to the death and Vernon too:

Other offenders we will pause upon.

Exeunt Worcester and Vernon, guarded

How goes the field?

Prince Henry

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;

And falling from a hill, he was so bruised

That the pursuers took him. At my tent

The Douglas is; and I beseech your grace

I may dispose of him.

King Henry IV

With all my heart.

Prince Henry

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:

His valour shown upon our crests to-day

Hath taught us how to cherish such high deeds

Even in the bosom of our adversaries.

Lancaster

I thank your grace for this high courtesy,

Which I shall give away immediately.

King Henry IV

Then this remains, that we divide our power.

You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland

Towards York shall bend you with your dearest speed,

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,

Meeting the cheque 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

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

NONE

ACT I

SCENE I. THE SAME.

SCENE II. LONDON. A STREET.

SCENE III. YORK. THE ARCHBISHOP’S PALACE.

ACT II

SCENE I. LONDON. A STREET.

SCENE II. LONDON. ANOTHER STREET.

SCENE III. WARKWORTH. BEFORE THE CASTLE.

SCENE IV. LONDON. THE BOAR’S-HEAD TAVERN IN EASTCHEAP.

ACT III

SCENE I. WESTMINSTER. THE PALACE.

SCENE II. GLOUCESTERSHIRE. BEFORE SHALLOW’S HOUSE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. YORKSHIRE. GAULTREE FOREST.

SCENE II. ANOTHER PART OF THE FOREST.

SCENE III. ANOTHER PART OF THE FOREST.

SCENE IV. WESTMINSTER. THE JERUSALEM CHAMBER.

SCENE V. ANOTHER CHAMBER.

ACT V

SCENE I. GLOUCESTERSHIRE. SHALLOW’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. WESTMINSTER. THE PALACE.

SCENE III. GLOUCESTERSHIRE. SHALLOW’S ORCHARD.

SCENE IV. LONDON. A STREET.

SCENE V. A PUBLIC PLACE NEAR WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

EPILOGUE

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Rumour, the Presenter. King Henry IV.

Henry, Prince of Wales, Prince John of Lancaster, Prince Humphrey of Gloucester, Thomas, Duke of Clarence, Sons of Henry IV.

Earl of Northumberland, Scroop, Archbishop Of York, Lord Mowbray, Lord Hastings, Lord Bardolph, Sir John Colevile, Travers and Morton, retainers of Northumberland, Opposites against King Henry IV.

Earl of Warwick, Earl of Westmoreland, Earl of Surrey, Earl of Kent, Gower,Harcourt, Blunt, Of the King's party.

Lord Chief-Justice and Servant.

Sir John Falstaff, Edward Poins, Bardolph, Pistol, Peto, Irregular humourists.

Page, to Falstaff.

Robert Shallow and Silence, country Justices.

Davy, servant to Shallow.

Fang and Snare, Sheriff's officers

Ralph Mouldy, Simon Shadow, Thomas Wart, Francis Feeble, Peter Bullcalf, Country soldiers

Lady Northumberland.

Lady Percy, Percy's widow.

Mistress Quickly, Hostess of the Boar's Head, Eastcheap.

Doll Tearsheet.

Lords, Attendants, Porter, Drawers, Beadles, Grooms, Servants, Speaker of the Epilogue

Scene: England

NONE

Warkworth. Before the castle

Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues

Rumour

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

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.

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 prepared defence,

Whiles 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

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

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

Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops,

Quenching the flame of bold rebellion

Even with the rebel’s blood. But what mean I

To speak so true at first? my office is

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.

This have I rumour’d through the peasant towns

Between that 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,

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. THE SAME.

Enter Lord Bardolph

Lord Bardolph

Who keeps the gate here, ho?

The Porter opens the gate

Where is the earl?

Porter

What shall I say you are?

Lord Bardolph

Tell thou the earl

That the Lord Bardolph doth attend him here.

Porter

His lordship is walk’d forth into the orchard;

Please it your honour, knock but at the gate,

And he himself wilt answer.

Enter Northumberland

Lord Bardolph

Here comes the earl.

Exit Porter

Northumberland

What news, Lord Bardolph? every minute now

Should be the father of some stratagem:

The times are wild: contention, like a horse

Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose

And bears down all before him.

Lord Bardolph

Noble earl,

I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.

Northumberland

Good, an God will!

Lord Bardolph

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

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,

So fought, so follow’d and so fairly won,

Came not till now to dignify the times,

Since Caesar’s fortunes!

Northumberland

How is this derived?

Saw you the field? came you from Shrewsbury?

Lord Bardolph

I spake with one, my lord, that came from thence,

A gentleman well bred and of good name,

That freely render’d me these news for true.

Northumberland

Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent

On Tuesday last to listen after news.

Enter Travers

Lord Bardolph

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.

Northumberland

Now, Travers, what good tidings comes with you?

Travers

My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn’d me back

With joyful tidings; and, being better horsed,

Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard

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:

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

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.

Northumberland

Ha! Again:

Said he young Harry Percy’s spur was cold?

Of Hotspur Coldspur? that rebellion

Had met ill luck?

Lord Bardolph

My lord, I’ll tell you what;

If my young lord your son have not the day,

Upon mine honour, for a silken point

I’ll give my barony: never talk of it.

Northumberland

Why should that gentleman that rode by Travers

Give then such instances of loss?

Lord Bardolph

Who, he?

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

Northumberland

Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf,

Foretells the nature of a tragic volume:

So looks the strand whereon the imperious flood

Hath left a witness’d usurpation.

Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury?

Morton

I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;

Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask

To fright our party.

Northumberland

How doth my son and brother?

Thou tremblest; and the whiteness in thy cheek

Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.

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,

And would have told him half his Troy was burnt;

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;

Your brother thus: so fought the noble Douglas:’

Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds:

But in the end, to stop my ear indeed,

Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise,

Ending with ‘Brother, son, and all are dead.’

Morton

Douglas is living, and your brother, yet;

But, for my lord your son —

Northumberland

Why, he is dead.

See what a ready tongue suspicion hath!

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 an earl his divination lies,

And I will take it as a sweet disgrace

And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.

Morton

You are too great to be by me gainsaid:

Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain.

Northumberland

Yet, for all this, say not that Percy’s dead.

I see a strange confession in thine eye:

Thou shakest thy head and hold’st it fear or sin

To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so;

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

Hath but a losing office, and his tongue

Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,

Remember’d tolling a departing friend.

Lord Bardolph

I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.

Morton

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 out-breathed,

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

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;

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,

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,

Fly from the field. Then was the 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,

’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,

Under the conduct of young Lancaster

And Westmoreland. This is the news at full.

Northumberland

For this I shall have time enough to mourn.

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,

Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire

Out of his keeper’s arms, even so my limbs,

Weaken’d with grief, being now enraged with grief,

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

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 enraged Northumberland!

Let heaven kiss earth! now let not Nature’s hand

Keep the wild flood confined! let order die!

And let this world no longer be a stage

To feed contention in a lingering act;

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!

Travers

This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord.

Lord Bardolph

Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.

Morton

The lives of all your loving complices

Lean on your health; the which, if you give o’er

To stormy passion, must perforce decay.

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,

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 advised his flesh was capable

Of wounds and scars and that his forward spirit

Would lift him where most trade of danger ranged:

Yet did you say ‘Go forth;’ and none of this,

Though strongly apprehended, could restrain

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?

Lord Bardolph

We all that are engaged to this loss

Knew that we ventured on such dangerous seas

That if we wrought our life ’twas ten to one;

And yet we ventured, for the gain proposed

Choked the respect of likely peril fear’d;

And since we are o’erset, venture again.

Come, we will all put forth, body and goods.

Morton

’Tis more than time: and, my most noble lord,

I hear for certain, and do speak the truth,

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,

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

Turns insurrection to religion:

Supposed sincere and holy in his thoughts,

He’s followed both with body and with mind;

And doth enlarge his rising with the blood

Of fair King Richard, scraped 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;

And more and less do flock to follow him.

Northumberland

I knew of this before; but, to speak truth,

This present grief had wiped it from my mind.

Go in with me; and counsel every man

The aptest way for safety and revenge:

Get posts and letters, and make friends with speed:

Never so few, and never yet more need.

Exeunt

SCENE II. LONDON. A STREET.

Enter Falstaff, with his Page bearing his sword and buckler

Falstaff

Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to my water?

Page

He said, sir, the water itself was a good healthy water; but, for the party that owed it, he might have more diseases than he knew for.

Falstaff

Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me: the brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent anything that tends to laughter, more than I invent or is invented on me: I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men. I do here walk before thee like a sow that hath overwhelmed all her litter but one. If the prince put thee into my service for any other reason than to set me off, why then I have no judgment. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art fitter to be worn in my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never manned with an agate till now: but I will inset you neither in gold nor silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back again to your master, for a jewel,— the juvenal, the prince your master, whose chin is not yet fledged. I will sooner have a beard grow in the palm of my hand than he shall get one on his cheek; and yet he will not stick to say his face is a face-royal: God may finish it when he will, ’tis not a hair amiss yet: he may keep it still at a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn sixpence out of it; and yet he’ll be crowing as if he had writ man ever since his father was a bachelor. He may keep his own grace, but he’s almost out of mine, I can assure him. What said Master Dombledon about the satin for my short cloak and my slops?

Page

He said, sir, you should procure him better assurance than Bardolph: he would not take his band and yours; he liked not the security.

Falstaff

Let him be damned, like the glutton! pray God his tongue be hotter! A whoreson Achitophel! a rascally yea-forsooth knave! to bear a gentleman in hand, and then stand upon security! The whoreson smooth-pates do now wear nothing but high shoes, and bunches of keys at their girdles; and if a man is through with them in honest taking up, then they must stand upon security. I had as lief they would put ratsbane in my mouth as offer to stop it with security. I looked a’ should have sent me two and twenty yards of satin, as I am a true knight, and he sends me security. Well, he may sleep in security; for he hath the horn of abundance, and the lightness of his wife shines through it: and yet cannot he see, though he have his own lanthorn to light him. Where’s Bardolph?

Page

He’s gone into Smithfield to buy your worship a horse.

Falstaff

I bought him in Paul’s, and he’ll buy me a horse in Smithfield: an I could get me but a wife in the stews, I were manned, horsed, and wived.

Enter the Lord Chief-Justice and Servant

Page

Sir, here comes the nobleman that committed the

Prince for striking him about Bardolph.

Falstaff

Wait, close; I will not see him.

Lord Chief-Justice

What’s he that goes there?

Servant

Falstaff, an’t please your lordship.

Lord Chief-Justice

He that was in question for the robbery?

Servant

He, my lord: but he hath since done good service at Shrewsbury; and, as I hear, is now going with some charge to the Lord John of Lancaster.

Lord Chief-Justice

What, to York? Call him back again.

Servant

Sir John Falstaff!

Falstaff

Boy, tell him I am deaf.

Page

You must speak louder; my master is deaf.

Lord Chief-Justice

I am sure he is, to the hearing of any thing good.

Go, pluck him by the elbow; I must speak with him.

Servant

Sir John!

Falstaff

What! a young knave, and begging! Is there not wars? is there not employment? doth not the king lack subjects? do not the rebels need soldiers? Though it be a shame to be on any side but one, it is worse shame to beg than to be on the worst side, were it worse than the name of rebellion can tell how to make it.

Servant

You mistake me, sir.

Falstaff

Why, sir, did I say you were an honest man? setting my knighthood and my soldiership aside, I had lied in my throat, if I had said so.

Servant

I pray you, sir, then set your knighthood and our soldiership aside; and give me leave to tell you, you lie in your throat, if you say I am any other than an honest man.

Falstaff

I give thee leave to tell me so! I lay aside that which grows to me! if thou gettest any leave of me, hang me; if thou takest leave, thou wert better be hanged. You hunt counter: hence! avaunt!

Servant

Sir, my lord would speak with you.

Lord Chief-Justice

Sir John Falstaff, a word with you.

Falstaff

My good lord! God give your lordship good time of day. I am glad to see your lordship abroad: I heard say your lordship was sick: I hope your lordship goes abroad by advice. Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, hath yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time; and I must humbly beseech your lordship to have a reverent care of your health.

Lord Chief-Justice

Sir John, I sent for you before your expedition to

Shrewsbury.

Falstaff

An’t please your lordship, I hear his majesty is returned with some discomfort from Wales.

Lord Chief-Justice

I talk not of his majesty: you would not come when

I sent for you.

Falstaff

And I hear, moreover, his highness is fallen into this same whoreson apoplexy.

Lord Chief-Justice

Well, God mend him! I pray you, let me speak with you.

Falstaff

This apoplexy is, as I take it, a kind of lethargy, an’t please your lordship; a kind of sleeping in the blood, a whoreson tingling.

Lord Chief-Justice

What tell you me of it? be it as it is.

Falstaff

It hath its original from much grief, from study and perturbation of the brain: I have read the cause of his effects in Galen: it is a kind of deafness.

Lord Chief-Justice

I think you are fallen into the disease; for you hear not what I say to you.

Falstaff

Very well, my lord, very well: rather, an’t please you, it is the disease of not listening, the malady of not marking, that I am troubled withal.

Lord Chief-Justice

To punish you by the heels would amend the attention of your ears; and I care not if I do become your physician.

Falstaff

I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient: your lordship may minister the potion of imprisonment to me in respect of poverty; but how should I be your patient to follow your prescriptions, the wise may make some dram of a scruple, or indeed a scruple itself.

Lord Chief-Justice

I sent for you, when there were matters against you for your life, to come speak with me.

Falstaff

As I was then advised by my learned counsel in the laws of this land-service, I did not come.

Lord Chief-Justice

Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in great infamy.

Falstaff

He that buckles him in my belt cannot live in less.

Lord Chief-Justice

Your means are very slender, and your waste is great.

Falstaff

I would it were otherwise; I would my means were greater, and my waist slenderer.

Lord Chief-Justice

You have misled the youthful prince.

Falstaff

The young prince hath misled me: I am the fellow with the great belly, and he my dog.

Lord Chief-Justice

Well, I am loath to gall a new-healed wound: your day’s service at Shrewsbury hath a little gilded over your night’s exploit on Gad’s-hill: you may thank the unquiet time for your quiet o’er-posting that action.

Falstaff

My lord?

Lord Chief-Justice

But since all is well, keep it so: wake not a sleeping wolf.

Falstaff

To wake a wolf is as bad as to smell a fox.

Lord Chief-Justice

What! you are as a candle, the better part burnt out.

Falstaff

A wassail candle, my lord, all tallow: if I did say of wax, my growth would approve the truth.

Lord Chief-Justice

There is not a white hair on your face but should have his effect of gravity.

Falstaff

His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy.

Lord Chief-Justice

You follow the young prince up and down, like his ill angel.

Falstaff

Not so, my lord; your ill angel is light; but I hope he that looks upon me will take me without weighing: and yet, in some respects, I grant, I cannot go: I cannot tell. Virtue is of so little regard in these costermonger times that true valour is turned bear-herd: pregnancy is made a tapster, and hath his quick wit wasted in giving reckonings: all the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of this age shapes them, are not worth a gooseberry. You that are old consider not the capacities of us that are young; you do measure the heat of our livers with the bitterness of your galls: and we that are in the vaward of our youth, I must confess, are wags too.

Lord Chief-Justice

Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old with all the characters of age? Have you not a moist eye? a dry hand? a yellow cheek? a white beard? a decreasing leg? an increasing belly? is not your voice broken? your wind short? your chin double? your wit single? and every part about you blasted with antiquity? and will you yet call yourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir John!

Falstaff

My lord, I was born about three of the clock in the afternoon, with a white head and something a round belly. For my voice, I have lost it with halloing and singing of anthems. To approve my youth further, I will not: the truth is, I am only old in judgment and understanding; and he that will caper with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him! For the box of the ear that the prince gave you, he gave it like a rude prince, and you took it like a sensible lord. I have chequed him for it, and the young lion repents; marry, not in ashes and sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack.

Lord Chief-Justice

Well, God send the prince a better companion!

Falstaff

God send the companion a better prince! I cannot rid my hands of him.

Lord Chief-Justice

Well, the king hath severed you and Prince Harry: I hear you are going with Lord John of Lancaster against the Archbishop and the Earl of Northumberland.

Falstaff

Yea; I thank your pretty sweet wit for it. But look you pray, all you that kiss my lady Peace at home, that our armies join not in a hot day; for, by the Lord, I take but two shirts out with me, and I mean not to sweat extraordinarily: if it be a hot day, and I brandish any thing but a bottle, I would I might never spit white again. There is not a dangerous action can peep out his head but I am thrust upon it: well, I cannot last ever: but it was alway yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common. If ye will needs say I am an old man, you should give me rest. I would to God my name were not so terrible to the enemy as it is: I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.

Lord Chief-Justice

Well, be honest, be honest; and God bless your expedition!

Falstaff

Will your lordship lend me a thousand pound to furnish me forth?

Lord Chief-Justice

Not a penny, not a penny; you are too impatient to bear crosses. Fare you well: commend me to my cousin Westmoreland.

Exeunt Chief-Justice and Servant

Falstaff

If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle. A man can no more separate age and covetousness than a’ can part young limbs and lechery: but the gout galls the one, and the pox pinches the other; and so both the degrees prevent my curses. Boy!

Page

Sir?

Falstaff

What money is in my purse?

Page

Seven groats and two pence.

Falstaff

I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. Go bear this letter to my Lord of Lancaster; this to the prince; this to the Earl of Westmoreland; and this to old Mistress Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to marry since I perceived the first white hair on my chin. About it: you know where to find me.

Exit Page

A pox of this gout! or, a gout of this pox! for the one or the other plays the rogue with my great toe. ’Tis no matter if I do halt; I have the wars for my colour, and my pension shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit will make use of any thing: I will turn diseases to commodity.

Exit

SCENE III. YORK. THE ARCHBISHOP’S PALACE.

Enter the Archbishop Of York, the Lords Hastings, Mowbray, and Bardolph

Archbishop Of York

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?

Mowbray

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

Upon the power and puissance of the king.

Hastings

Our present musters grow upon the file

To five and twenty thousand men of choice;

And our supplies live largely in the hope

Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns

With an incensed fire of injuries.

Lord Bardolph

The question then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus;

Whether our present five and twenty thousand

May hold up head without Northumberland?

Hastings

With him, we may.

Lord Bardolph

Yea, marry, there’s the point:

But if without him we be thought too feeble,

My judgment is, we should not step too far

Till we had his assistance by the hand;

For in a theme so bloody-faced as this

Conjecture, expectation, and surmise

Of aids incertain should not be admitted.

Archbishop Of York

’Tis very true, Lord Bardolph; for indeed

It was young Hotspur’s case at Shrewsbury.

Lord Bardolph

It was, my lord; who lined himself with hope,

Eating the air on promise of supply,

Flattering himself in project of a power

Much smaller than the smallest of his thoughts:

And so, with great imagination

Proper to madmen, led his powers to death

And winking leap’d into destruction.

Hastings

But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt

To lay down likelihoods and forms of hope.

Lord Bardolph

Yes, if this present quality of war,

Indeed the instant action: a cause on foot

Lives so in hope as in an early spring

We see the appearing buds; which to prove fruit,

Hope gives not so much warrant as despair

That frosts will bite them. When we mean to build,

We first survey the plot, then draw the model;

And when we see the figure of the house,

Then must we rate the cost of the erection;

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

And set another up, should we survey

The plot of situation and the model,

Consent upon a sure foundation,

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,

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

A naked subject to the weeping clouds

And waste for churlish winter’s tyranny.

Hastings

Grant that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth,

Should be still-born, and that we now possess’d

The utmost man of expectation,

I think we are a body strong enough,

Even as we are, to equal with the king.

Lord Bardolph

What, is the king but five and twenty thousand?

Hastings

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

Must take up us: so is the unfirm king

In three divided; and his coffers sound

With hollow poverty and emptiness.

Archbishop Of York

That he should draw his several strengths together

And come against us in full puissance,

Need not be dreaded.

Hastings

If he should do so,

He leaves his back unarm’d, the French and Welsh

Baying him at the heels: never fear that.

Lord Bardolph

Who is it like should lead his forces hither?

Hastings

The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland;

Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth:

But who is substituted ’gainst the French,

I have no certain notice.

Archbishop Of York

Let us on,

And publish the occasion of our arms.

The commonwealth is sick of their own choice;

Their over-greedy love hath surfeited:

An 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,

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 provokest thyself to cast him up.

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?

They that, when Richard lived, 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

After the admired heels of Bolingbroke,

Criest now ‘O earth, yield us that king again,

And take thou this!’ O thoughts of men accursed!

Past and to come seems best; things present worst.

Mowbray

Shall we go draw our numbers and set on?

Hastings

We are time’s subjects, and time bids be gone.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. LONDON. A STREET.

Enter Mistress Quickly, Fang and his Boy with her, and Snare following.

Mistress Quickly

Master Fang, have you entered the action?

Fang

It is entered.

Mistress Quickly

Where’s your yeoman? Is’t a lusty yeoman? will a’ stand to ’t?

Fang

Sirrah, where’s Snare?

Mistress Quickly

O Lord, ay! good Master Snare.

Snare

Here, here.

Fang

Snare, we must arrest Sir John Falstaff.

Mistress Quickly

Yea, good Master Snare; I have entered him and all.

Snare

It may chance cost some of us our lives, for he will stab.

Mistress Quickly

Alas the day! take heed of him; he stabbed me in mine own house, and that most beastly: in good faith, he cares not what mischief he does. If his weapon be out: he will foin like any devil; he will spare neither man, woman, nor child.

Fang

If I can close with him, I care not for his thrust.

Mistress Quickly

No, nor I neither: I’ll be at your elbow.

Fang

An I but fist him once; an a’ come but within my vice,—

Mistress Quickly

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 is 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 errant malmsey-nose knave, Bardolph, with him. Do your offices, do your offices: Master Fang and Master Snare, do me, do me, do me your offices.

Enter Falstaff, Page, and Bardolph

Falstaff

How now! whose mare’s dead? what’s the matter?

Fang

Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of Mistress Quickly.

Falstaff

Away, varlets! Draw, Bardolph: cut me off the villain’s head: throw the quean in the channel.

Mistress Quickly

Throw me in the channel! I’ll throw thee in the channel. Wilt thou? wilt thou? thou bastardly rogue! Murder, murder! Ah, thou honeysuckle villain! wilt thou kill God’s officers and the king’s? Ah, thou honey-seed rogue! thou art a honey-seed, a man-queller, and a woman-queller.

Falstaff

Keep them off, Bardolph.

Fang

A rescue! a rescue!

Mistress Quickly

Good people, bring a rescue or two. Thou wo’t, wo’t thou? Thou wo’t, wo’t ta? do, do, thou rogue! do, thou hemp-seed!

Falstaff

Away, you scullion! you rampallion! You fustilarian! I’ll tickle your catastrophe.

Enter the Lord Chief-Justice, and his men

Lord Chief-Justice

What is the matter? keep the peace here, ho!

Mistress Quickly

Good my lord, be good to me. I beseech you, stand to me.

Lord Chief-Justice

How now, Sir John! what are you brawling here?

Doth this become your place, your time and business?

You should have been well on your way to York.

Stand from him, fellow: wherefore hang’st upon him?

Mistress Quickly

O most worshipful lord, an’t please your grace, I am a poor widow of Eastcheap, and he is arrested at my suit.

Lord Chief-Justice

For what sum?

Mistress Quickly

It is more than for some, my lord; it is for all, all I have. He hath eaten me out of house and home; he hath put all my substance into that fat belly of his: but I will have some of it out again, or I will ride thee o’ nights like the mare.

Falstaff

I think I am as like to ride the mare, if I have any vantage of ground to get up.

Lord Chief-Justice

How comes this, Sir John? Fie! what man of good temper would endure this tempest of exclamation? Are you not ashamed to enforce a poor widow to so rough a course to come by her own?

Falstaff

What is the gross sum that I owe thee?

Mistress Quickly

Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, upon Wednesday in Wheeson week, when the prince broke thy head for liking his father to a singing-man of Windsor, thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me and make me my lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the butcher’s wife, come in then and call me gossip Quickly? coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar; telling us she had a good dish of prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat some; whereby I told thee they were ill for a green wound? And didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with such poor people; saying that ere long they should call me madam? And didst thou not kiss me and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings? I put thee now to thy book-oath: deny it, if thou canst.

Falstaff

My lord, this is a poor mad soul; and she says up and down the town that the eldest son is like you: she hath been in good case, and the truth is, poverty hath distracted her. But for these foolish officers, I beseech you I may have redress against them.

Lord Chief-Justice

Sir John, Sir John, I am well acquainted with your manner of wrenching the true cause the false way. It is not a confident brow, nor the throng of words that come with such more than impudent sauciness from you, can thrust me from a level consideration: you have, as it appears to me, practised upon the easy-yielding spirit of this woman, and made her serve your uses both in purse and in person.

Mistress Quickly

Yea, in truth, my lord.

Lord Chief-Justice

Pray thee, peace. Pay her the debt you owe her, and unpay the villany you have done her: the one you may do with sterling money, and the other with current repentance.

Falstaff

My lord, I will not undergo this sneap without reply. You call honourable boldness impudent sauciness: if a man will make courtesy and say nothing, he is virtuous: no, my lord, my humble duty remembered, I will not be your suitor. I say to you, I do desire deliverance from these officers, being upon hasty employment in the king’s affairs.

Lord Chief-Justice

You speak as having power to do wrong: but answer in the effect of your reputation, and satisfy this poor woman.

Falstaff

Come hither, hostess.

Enter Gower

Lord Chief-Justice

Now, Master Gower, what news?

Gower

The king, my lord, and Harry Prince of Wales

Are near at hand: the rest the paper tells.

Falstaff

As I am a gentleman.

Mistress Quickly

Faith, you said so before.

Falstaff

As I am a gentleman. Come, no more words of it.

Mistress Quickly

By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be fain to pawn both my plate and the tapestry of my dining-chambers.

Falstaff

Glasses, glasses is the only drinking: and for thy walls, a pretty slight drollery, or the story of the Prodigal, or the German hunting in water-work, is worth a thousand of these bed-hangings and these fly-bitten tapestries. Let it be ten pound, if thou canst. Come, an ’twere not for thy humours, there’s not a better wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and draw the action. Come, thou must not be in this humour with me; dost not know me? come, come, I know thou wast set on to this.

Mistress Quickly

Pray thee, Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles: i’ faith, I am loath to pawn my plate, so God save me, la!

Falstaff

Let it alone; I’ll make other shift: you’ll be a fool still.

Mistress Quickly

Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown. I hope you’ll come to supper. You’ll pay me all together?

Falstaff

Will I live?

To Bardolph

Go, with her, with her; hook on, hook on.

Mistress Quickly

Will you have Doll Tearsheet meet you at supper?

Falstaff

No more words; let’s have her.

Exeunt Mistress Quickly, Bardolph, Officers and Boy

Lord Chief-Justice

I have heard better news.

Falstaff

What’s the news, my lord?

Lord Chief-Justice

Where lay the king last night?

Gower

At Basingstoke, my lord.

Falstaff

I hope, my lord, all’s well: what is the news, my lord?

Lord Chief-Justice

Come all his forces back?

Gower

No; fifteen hundred foot, five hundred horse,

Are marched up to my lord of Lancaster,

Against Northumberland and the Archbishop.

Falstaff

Comes the king back from Wales, my noble lord?

Lord Chief-Justice

You shall have letters of me presently:

Come, go along with me, good Master Gower.

Falstaff

My lord!

Lord Chief-Justice

What’s the matter?

Falstaff

Master Gower, shall I entreat you with me to dinner?

Gower

I must wait upon my good lord here; I thank you, good Sir John.

Lord Chief-Justice

Sir John, you loiter here too long, being you are to take soldiers up in counties as you go.

Falstaff

Will you sup with me, Master Gower?

Lord Chief-Justice

What foolish master taught you these manners, Sir John?

Falstaff

Master Gower, if they become me not, he was a fool that taught them me. This is the right fencing grace, my lord; tap for tap, and so part fair.

Lord Chief-Justice

Now the Lord lighten thee! thou art a great fool.

Exeunt

SCENE II. LONDON. ANOTHER STREET.

Enter Prince Henry and Poins

Prince Henry

Before God, I am exceeding weary.

Poins

Is’t come to that? I had thought weariness durst not have attached one of so high blood.

Prince Henry

Faith, it does me; though it discolours the complexion of my greatness to acknowledge it. Doth it not show vilely in me to desire small beer?

Poins

Why, a prince should not be so loosely studied as to remember so weak a composition.

Prince Henry

Belike then my appetite was not princely got; for, by my troth, I do now remember the poor creature, small beer. But, indeed, these humble considerations make me out of love with my greatness. What a disgrace is it to me to remember thy name! or to know thy face to-morrow! or to take note how many pair of silk stockings thou hast, viz. these, and those that were thy peach-coloured ones! or to bear the inventory of thy shirts, as, one for superfluity, and another for use! But that the tennis-court-keeper knows better than I; for it is a low ebb of linen with thee when thou keepest not racket there; as thou hast not done a great while, because the rest of thy low countries have made a shift to eat up thy holland: and God knows, whether those that bawl out the ruins of thy linen shall inherit his kingdom: but the midwives say the children are not in the fault; whereupon the world increases, and kindreds are mightily strengthened.

Poins

How ill it follows, after you have laboured so hard, you should talk so idly! Tell me, how many good young princes would do so, their fathers being so sick as yours at this time is?

Prince Henry

Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins?

Poins

Yes, faith; and let it be an excellent good thing.

Prince Henry

It shall serve among wits of no higher breeding than thine.

Poins

Go to; I stand the push of your one thing that you will tell.

Prince Henry

Marry, I tell thee, it is not meet that I should be sad, now my father is sick: albeit I could tell thee, as to one it pleases me, for fault of a better, to call my friend, I could be sad, and sad indeed too.

Poins

Very hardly upon such a subject.

Prince Henry

By this hand thou thinkest me as far in the devil’s book as thou and Falstaff for obduracy and persistency: let the end try the man. But I tell thee, my heart bleeds inwardly that my father is so sick: and keeping such vile company as thou art hath in reason taken from me all ostentation of sorrow.

Poins

The reason?

Prince Henry

What wouldst thou think of me, if I should weep?

Poins

I would think thee a most princely hypocrite.

Prince Henry

It would be every man’s thought; and thou art a blessed fellow to think as every man thinks: never a man’s thought in the world keeps the road-way better than thine: every man would think me an hypocrite indeed. And what accites your most worshipful thought to think so?

Poins

Why, because you have been so lewd and so much engraffed to Falstaff.

Prince Henry

And to thee.

Poins

By this light, I am well spoke on; I can hear it with my own ears: the worst that they can say of me is that I am a second brother and that I am a proper fellow of my hands; and those two things, I confess, I cannot help. By the mass, here comes Bardolph.

Enter Bardolph and Page

Prince Henry

And the boy that I gave Falstaff: a’ had him from me Christian; and look, if the fat villain have not transformed him ape.

Bardolph

God save your grace!

Prince Henry

And yours, most noble Bardolph!

Bardolph

Come, you virtuous ass, you bashful fool, must you be blushing? wherefore blush you now? What a maidenly man-at-arms are you become! Is’t such a matter to get a pottle-pot’s maidenhead?

Page

A’ calls me e’en now, my lord, through a red lattice, and I could discern no part of his face from the window: at last I spied his eyes, and methought he had made two holes in the ale-wife’s new petticoat and so peeped through.

Prince Henry

Has not the boy profited?

Bardolph

Away, you whoreson upright rabbit, away!

Page

Away, you rascally Althaea’s dream, away!

Prince Henry

Instruct us, boy; what dream, boy?

Page

Marry, my lord, Althaea dreamed she was delivered of a fire-brand; and therefore I call him her dream.

Prince Henry

A crown’s worth of good interpretation: there ’tis, boy.

Poins

O, that this good blossom could be kept from cankers! Well, there is sixpence to preserve thee.

Bardolph

An you do not make him hanged among you, the gallows shall have wrong.

Prince Henry

And how doth thy master, Bardolph?

Bardolph

Well, my lord. He heard of your grace’s coming to town: there’s a letter for you.

Poins

Delivered with good respect. And how doth the martlemas, your master?

Bardolph

In bodily health, sir.

Poins

Marry, the immortal part needs a physician; but that moves not him: though that be sick, it dies not.

Prince Henry

I do allow this wen to be as familiar with me as my dog; and he holds his place; for look you how be writes.

Poins

[Reads] ‘John Falstaff, knight,’— every man must know that, as oft as he has occasion to name himself: even like those that are kin to the king; for they never prick their finger but they say, ‘There’s some of the king’s blood spilt.’ ‘How comes that?’ says he, that takes upon him not to conceive. The answer is as ready as a borrower’s cap, ‘I am the king’s poor cousin, sir.’

Prince Henry

Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will fetch it from Japhet. But to the letter.

Poins

[Reads] ‘sir John Falstaff, knight, to the son of the king, nearest his father, Harry Prince of Wales, greeting.’ Why, this is a certificate.

Prince Henry

Peace!

Poins

[Reads] ‘I will imitate the honourable Romans in brevity:’ he sure means brevity in breath, short-winded. ‘I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I leave thee. Be not too familiar with Poins; for he misuses thy favours so much, that he swears thou art to marry his sister Nell. Repent at idle times as thou mayest; and so, farewell. Thine, by yea and no, which is as much as to say, as thou usest him, Jack Falstaff with my familiars, John with my brothers and sisters, and Sir John with all Europe.’ My lord, I’ll steep this letter in sack and make him eat it.

Prince Henry

That’s to make him eat twenty of his words. But do you use me thus, Ned? must I marry your sister?

Poins

God send the wench no worse fortune! But I never said so.

Prince Henry

Well, thus we play the fools with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us. Is your master here in London?

Bardolph

Yea, my lord.

Prince Henry

Where sups he? doth the old boar feed in the old frank?

Bardolph

At the old place, my lord, in Eastcheap.

Prince Henry

What company?

Page

Ephesians, my lord, of the old church.

Prince Henry

Sup any women with him?

Page

None, my lord, but old Mistress Quickly and

Mistress Doll Tearsheet.

Prince Henry

What pagan may that be?

Page

A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kinswoman of my master’s.

Prince Henry

Even such kin as the parish heifers are to the town bull. Shall we steal upon them, Ned, at supper?

Poins

I am your shadow, my lord; I’ll follow you.

Prince Henry

Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word to your master that I am yet come to town: there’s for your silence.

Bardolph

I have no tongue, sir.

Page

And for mine, sir, I will govern it.

Prince Henry

Fare you 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.

Prince Henry

How might we see Falstaff bestow himself to-night in his true colours, and not ourselves be seen?

Poins

Put on two leathern jerkins and aprons, and wait upon him at his table as drawers.

Prince Henry

From a God to a bull? a heavy decension! 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 THE CASTLE.

Enter Northumberland, Lady Northumberland, and Lady Percy

Northumberland

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.

Lady

Northumberland

I have given over, I will speak no more:

Do what you will; your wisdom be your guide.

Northumberland

Alas, sweet wife, my honour is at pawn;

And, but my going, nothing can redeem it.

Lady Percy

O yet, for God’s sake, go not to these wars!

The time was, father, that you broke your word,

When you were more endeared to it than now;

When your own Percy, when my heart’s dear Harry,

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.

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

To do brave acts: he was indeed the glass

Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves:

He had no legs that practised not his gait;

And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish,

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,

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!

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

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

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,

Have talk’d of Monmouth’s grave.

Northumberland

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,

Or it will seek me in another place

And find me worse provided.

Lady

Northumberland

O, fly to Scotland,

Till that the nobles and the armed commons

Have of their puissance made a little taste.

Lady Percy

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;

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.

Northumberland

Come, come, go in with me. ’Tis with my mind

As with the tide swell’d up unto his height,

That makes a still-stand, running neither way:

Fain would I go to meet the archbishop,

But many thousand reasons hold me back.

I will resolve for Scotland: there am I,

Till time and vantage crave my company.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. LONDON. THE BOAR’S-HEAD TAVERN IN EASTCHEAP.

Enter two Drawers

First Drawer

What the devil hast thou brought there? apple-johns? thou knowest Sir John cannot endure an apple-john.

Second Drawer

Mass, thou sayest true. The prince once set a dish of apple-johns before him, and told him there were five more Sir Johns, and, putting off his hat, said ‘I will now take my leave of these six dry, round, old, withered knights.’ It angered him to the heart: but he hath forgot that.

First Drawer

Why, then, cover, and set them down: and see if thou canst find out Sneak’s noise; Mistress Tearsheet would fain hear some music. Dispatch: the room where they supped is too hot; they’ll come in straight.

Second Drawer

Sirrah, here will be the prince and Master Poins anon; and they will put on two of our jerkins and aprons; and Sir John must not know of it: Bardolph hath brought word.

First Drawer

By the mass, here will be old Utis: it will be an excellent stratagem.

Second Drawer

I’ll see if I can find out Sneak.

Exit

Enter Mistress Quickly and Doll Tearsheet

Mistress Quickly

I’ faith, sweetheart, methinks now you are in an excellent good temperality: your pulsidge beats as extraordinarily as heart would desire; and your colour, I warrant you, is as red as any rose, in good truth, la! But, i’ faith, you have drunk too much canaries; and that’s a marvellous searching wine, and it perfumes the blood ere one can say ‘What’s this?’ How do you now?

Doll Tearsheet

Better than I was: hem!

Mistress Quickly

Why, that’s well said; a good heart’s worth gold.

Lo, here comes Sir John.

Enter Falstaff

Falstaff

[Singing] ‘When Arthur first in court,’

— Empty the jordan.

Exit First Drawer

Singing

—’And was a worthy king.’ How now, Mistress Doll!

Mistress Quickly

Sick of a calm; yea, good faith.

Falstaff

So is all her sect; an they be once in a calm, they are sick.

Doll Tearsheet

You muddy rascal, is that all the comfort you give me?

Falstaff

You make fat rascals, Mistress Doll.

Doll Tearsheet

I make them! gluttony and diseases make them; I make them not.

Falstaff

If the cook help to make the gluttony, you help to make the diseases, Doll: we catch of you, Doll, we catch of you; grant that, my poor virtue grant that.

Doll Tearsheet

Yea, joy, our chains and our jewels.

Falstaff

‘Your broaches, pearls, and ouches:’ for to serve bravely is to come halting off, you know: to come off the breach with his pike bent bravely, and to surgery bravely; to venture upon the charged chambers bravely,—

Doll Tearsheet

Hang yourself, you muddy conger, hang yourself!

Mistress Quickly

By my troth, this is the old fashion; you two never meet but you fall to some discord: you are both, i’ good truth, as rheumatic as two dry toasts; you cannot one bear with another’s confirmities. What the good-year! one must bear, and that must be you: you are the weaker vessel, as they say, the emptier vessel.

Doll Tearsheet

Can a weak empty vessel bear such a huge full hogshead? there’s a whole merchant’s venture of Bourdeaux stuff in him; you have not seen a hulk better stuffed in the hold. Come, I’ll be friends with thee, Jack: thou art going to the wars; and whether I shall ever see thee again or no, there is nobody cares.

Re-enter First Drawer

First Drawer

Sir, Ancient Pistol’s below, and would speak with you.

Doll Tearsheet

Hang him, swaggering rascal! let him not come hither: it is the foul-mouthed’st rogue in England.

Mistress Quickly

If he swagger, let him not come here: no, by my faith; I must live among my neighbours: I’ll no swaggerers: I am in good name and fame with the very best: shut the door; there comes no swaggerers here: I have not lived all this while, to have swaggering now: shut the door, I pray you.

Falstaff

Dost thou hear, hostess?

Mistress Quickly

Pray ye, pacify yourself, Sir John: there comes no swaggerers here.

Falstaff

Dost thou hear? it is mine ancient.

Mistress Quickly

Tilly-fally, Sir John, ne’er tell me: your ancient swaggerer comes not in my doors. I was before Master Tisick, the debuty, t’other day; and, as he said to me, ’twas no longer ago than Wednesday last, ‘I’ good faith, neighbour Quickly,’ says he; Master Dumbe, our minister, was by then; ‘neighbour Quickly,’ says he, ‘receive those that are civil; for,’ said he, ‘you are in an ill name:’ now a’ said so, I can tell whereupon; ‘for,’ says he, ‘you are an honest woman, and well thought on; therefore take heed what guests you receive: receive,’ says he, ‘no swaggering companions.’ There comes none here: you would bless you to hear what he said: no, I’ll no swaggerers.

Falstaff

He’s no swaggerer, hostess; a tame cheater, i’ faith; you may stroke him as gently as a puppy greyhound: he’ll not swagger with a Barbary hen, if her feathers turn back in any show of resistance. Call him up, drawer.

Exit First Drawer

Mistress Quickly

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.

Doll Tearsheet

So you do, hostess.

Mistress Quickly

Do I? yea, in very truth, do I, an ’twere an aspen leaf: I cannot abide swaggerers.

Enter Pistol, Bardolph, and Page

Pistol

God save you, Sir John!

Falstaff

Welcome, Ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge you with a cup of sack: do you discharge upon mine hostess.

Pistol

I will discharge upon her, Sir John, with two bullets.

Falstaff

She is Pistol-proof, sir; you shall hardly offend her.

Mistress Quickly

Come, I’ll drink no proofs nor no bullets: I’ll drink no more than will do me good, for no man’s pleasure, I.

Pistol

Then to you, Mistress Dorothy; I will charge you.

Doll Tearsheet

Charge me! I scorn you, scurvy companion. What! you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you mouldy rogue, away! I am meat for your master.

Pistol

I know you, Mistress Dorothy.

Doll Tearsheet

Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! by this wine, I’ll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you! Since when, I pray you, sir? God’s light, with two points on your shoulder? much!

Pistol

God let me not live, but I will murder your ruff for this.

Falstaff

No more, Pistol; I would not have you go off here: discharge yourself of our company, Pistol.

Mistress Quickly

No, Good Captain Pistol; not here, sweet captain.

Doll Tearsheet

Captain! thou abominable damned cheater, art thou not ashamed to be called captain? An captains were of my mind, they would truncheon you out, for taking their names upon you before you have earned them. You a captain! you slave, for what? for tearing a poor whore’s ruff in a bawdy-house? He a captain! hang him, rogue! he lives upon mouldy stewed prunes and dried cakes. A captain! God’s light, these villains will make the word as odious as the word ‘occupy;’ which was an excellent good word before it was ill sorted: therefore captains had need look to ’t.

Bardolph

Pray thee, go down, good ancient.

Falstaff

Hark thee hither, Mistress Doll.

Pistol

Not I I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph, I could tear her: I’ll be revenged of her.

Page

Pray thee, go down.

Pistol

I’ll see her damned first; to Pluto’s damned lake, by this hand, to the infernal deep, with Erebus and tortures vile also. Hold hook and line, say I. Down, down, dogs! down, faitors! Have we not Hiren here?

Mistress Quickly

Good Captain Peesel, be quiet; ’tis very late, i’ faith: I beseek you now, aggravate your choler.

Pistol

These be good humours, indeed! Shall pack-horses

And hollow pamper’d jades of Asia,

Which cannot go but thirty mile a-day,

Compare with Caesars, and with Cannibals,

And Trojan Greeks? nay, rather damn them with

King Cerberus; and let the welkin roar.

Shall we fall foul for toys?

Mistress Quickly

By my troth, captain, these are very bitter words.

Bardolph

Be gone, good ancient: this will grow to abrawl anon.

Pistol

Die men like dogs! give crowns like pins! Have we not Heren here?

Mistress Quickly

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.

Pistol

Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis.

Come, give’s some sack.

‘si fortune me tormente, sperato me contento.’

Fear we broadsides? no, let the fiend give fire:

Give me some sack: and, sweetheart, lie thou there.

Laying down his sword

Come we to full points here; and are etceteras nothing?

Falstaff

Pistol, I would be quiet.

Pistol

Sweet knight, I kiss thy neaf: what! we have seen the seven stars.

Doll Tearsheet

For God’s sake, thrust him down stairs: I cannot endure such a fustian rascal.

Pistol

Thrust him down stairs! know we not Galloway nags?

Falstaff

Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat shilling: nay, an a’ do nothing but speak nothing, a’ shall be nothing here.

Bardolph

Come, get you down stairs.

Pistol

What! shall we have incision? shall we imbrue?

Snatching up his sword

Then death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days!

Why, then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds

Untwine the Sisters Three! Come, Atropos, I say!

Mistress Quickly

Here’s goodly stuff toward!

Falstaff

Give me my rapier, boy.

Doll Tearsheet

I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not draw.

Falstaff

Get you down stairs.

Drawing, and driving Pistol out

Mistress Quickly

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 Pistol and Bardolph

Doll Tearsheet

I pray thee, Jack, be quiet; the rascal’s gone.

Ah, you whoreson little valiant villain, you!

Mistress Quickly

He you not hurt i’ the groin? methought a’ made a shrewd thrust at your belly.

Re-enter Bardolph

Falstaff

Have you turned him out o’ doors?

Bardolph

Yea, sir. The rascal’s drunk: you have hurt him, sir, i’ the shoulder.

Falstaff

A rascal! to brave me!

Doll Tearsheet

Ah, you sweet little rogue, you! alas, poor ape, how thou sweatest! come, let me wipe thy face; come on, you whoreson chops: ah, rogue! i’faith, I love thee: thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better than the Nine Worthies: ah, villain!

Falstaff

A rascally slave! I will toss the rogue in a blanket.

Doll Tearsheet

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.

Falstaff

Let them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my knee, Doll. A rascal bragging slave! the rogue fled from me like quicksilver.

Doll Tearsheet

I’ faith, and thou followedst him like a church. Thou whoreson little tidy Bartholomew boar-pig, when wilt thou leave fighting o’ days and foining o’ nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven?

Enter, behind, Prince Henry and Poins, disguised

Falstaff

Peace, good Doll! do not speak like a death’s-head; do not bid me remember mine end.

Doll Tearsheet

Sirrah, what humour’s the prince of?

Falstaff

A good shallow young fellow: a’ would have made a good pantler, a’ would ha’ chipp’d bread well.

Doll Tearsheet

They say Poins has a good wit.

Falstaff

He a good wit? hang him, baboon! his wit’s as thick as Tewksbury mustard; there’s no more conceit in him than is in a mallet.

Doll Tearsheet

Why does the prince love him so, then?

Falstaff

Because their legs are both of a bigness, and a’ plays at quoits well, and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles’ ends for flap-dragons, and rides the wild-mare with the boys, and jumps upon joined-stools, and swears with a good grace, and wears his boots very smooth, like unto the sign of the leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet stories; and such other gambol faculties a’ has, that show a weak mind and an able body, for the which the prince admits him: for the prince himself is such another; the weight of a hair will turn the scales between their avoirdupois.

Prince Henry

Would not this nave of a wheel have his ears cut off?

Poins

Let’s beat him before his whore.

Prince Henry

Look, whether the withered elder hath not his poll clawed like a parrot.

Poins

Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?

Falstaff

Kiss me, Doll.

Prince Henry

Saturn and Venus this year in conjunction! what says the almanac to that?

Poins

And look, whether the fiery Trigon, his man, be not lisping to his master’s old tables, his note-book, his counsel-keeper.

Falstaff

Thou dost give me flattering busses.

Doll Tearsheet

By my troth, I kiss thee with a most constant heart.

Falstaff

I am old, I am old.

Doll Tearsheet

I love thee better than I love e’er a scurvy young boy of them all.

Falstaff

What stuff wilt have a kirtle of? I shall receive money o’ Thursday: shalt have a cap to-morrow. A merry song, come: it grows late; we’ll to bed. Thou’lt forget me when I am gone.

Doll Tearsheet

By my troth, thou’lt set me a-weeping, an thou sayest so: prove that ever I dress myself handsome till thy return: well, harken at the end.

Falstaff

Some sack, Francis.

Prince Henry

Poins

Anon, anon, sir.

Coming forward

Falstaff

Ha! a bastard son of the king’s? And art not thou

Poins his brother?

Prince Henry

Why, thou globe of sinful continents! what a life dost thou lead!

Falstaff

A better than thou: I am a gentleman; thou art a drawer.

Prince Henry

Very true, sir; and I come to draw you out by the ears.

Mistress Quickly

O, the Lord preserve thy good grace! by my troth, welcome to London. Now, the Lord bless that sweet face of thine! O, Jesu, are you come from Wales?

Falstaff

Thou whoreson mad compound of majesty, by this light flesh and corrupt blood, thou art welcome.

Doll Tearsheet

How, you fat fool! I scorn you.

Poins

My lord, he will drive you out of your revenge and turn all to a merriment, if you take not the heat.

Prince Henry

You whoreson candle-mine, you, how vilely did you speak of me even now before this honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman!

Mistress Quickly

God’s blessing of your good heart! and so she is, by my troth.

Falstaff

Didst thou hear me?

Prince Henry

Yea, and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by Gad’s-hill: you knew I was at your back, and spoke it on purpose to try my patience.

Falstaff

No, no, no; not so; I did not think thou wast within hearing.

Prince Henry

I shall drive you then to confess the wilful abuse; and then I know how to handle you.

Falstaff

No abuse, Hal, o’ mine honour, no abuse.

Prince Henry

Not to dispraise me, and call me pantier and bread-chipper and I know not what?

Falstaff

No abuse, Hal.

Poins

No abuse?

Falstaff

No abuse, Ned, i’ the world; honest Ned, none. I dispraised him before the wicked, that the wicked might not fall in love with him; in which doing, I have done the part of a careful friend and a true subject, and thy father is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal: none, Ned, none: no, faith, boys, none.

Prince Henry

See now, whether pure fear and entire cowardice doth not make thee wrong this virtuous gentlewoman to close with us? is she of the wicked? is thine hostess here of the wicked? or is thy boy of the wicked? or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nose, of the wicked?

Poins

Answer, thou dead elm, answer.

Falstaff

The fiend hath pricked down Bardolph irrecoverable; and his face is Lucifer’s privy-kitchen, where he doth nothing but roast malt-worms. For the boy, there is a good angel about him; but the devil outbids him too.

Prince Henry

For the women?

Falstaff

For one of them, she is in hell already, and burns poor souls. For the other, I owe her money, and whether she be damned for that, I know not.

Mistress Quickly

No, I warrant you.

Falstaff

No, I think thou art not; I think thou art quit for that. Marry, there is another indictment upon thee, for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy house, contrary to the law; for the which I think thou wilt howl.

Mistress Quickly

All victuallers do so; what’s a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent?

Prince Henry

You, gentlewoman,-

Doll Tearsheet

What says your grace?

Falstaff

His grace says that which his flesh rebels against.

Knocking within

Mistress Quickly

Who knocks so loud at door? Look to the door there, Francis.

Enter Peto

Prince Henry

Peto, how now! what news?

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,

Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns,

And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff.

Prince Henry

By heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame,

So idly to profane the precious time,

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 Prince Henry, Poins, Peto and Bardolph

Falstaff

Now comes in the sweetest morsel of the night, and we must hence and leave it unpicked.

Knocking within

More knocking at the door!

Re-enter Bardolph

How now! what’s the matter?

Bardolph

You must away to court, sir, presently;

A dozen captains stay at door for you.

Falstaff

[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.

Doll Tearsheet

I cannot speak; if my heart be not read to burst,— well, sweet Jack, have a care of thyself.

Falstaff

Farewell, farewell.

Exeunt Falstaff and Bardolph

Mistress Quickly

Well, fare thee well: I have known thee these twenty-nine years, come peascod-time; but an honester and truer-hearted man,— well, fare thee well.

Bardolph

[Within] Mistress Tearsheet!

Mistress Quickly

What’s the matter?

Bardolph

[Within] Good Mistress Tearsheet, come to my master.

Mistress Quickly

O, run, Doll, run; run, good Doll: come.

She comes blubbered

Yea, will you come, Doll?

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. WESTMINSTER. THE PALACE.

Enter King Henry IV in his nightgown, with a Page

King Henry IV

Go call the Earls of Surrey and of Warwick;

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

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?

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 perfumed chambers of the great,

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 leavest the kingly couch

A watch-case or a common ‘larum-bell?

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast

Seal up the ship-boy’s eyes, and rock his brains

In cradle of the rude imperious surge

And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them

With deafening clamour in the slippery clouds,

That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?

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,

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

Warwick

Many good morrows to your majesty!

King Henry IV

Is it good morrow, lords?

Warwick

’Tis one o’clock, and past.

King Henry IV

Why, then, good morrow to you all, my lords.

Have you read o’er the letters that I sent you?

Warwick

We have, my liege.

King Henry IV

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.

Warwick

It is but as a body yet distemper’d;

Which to his former strength may be restored

With good advice and little medicine:

My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool’d.

King Henry IV

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

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

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

Since Richard and Northumberland, great friends,

Did feast together, and in two years after

Were they at wars: it is but eight years since

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

Gave him defiance. But which of you was by —

You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember —

To Warwick

When Richard, with his eye brimful of tears,

Then cheque’d and rated by Northumberland,

Did speak these words, now proved 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

That I and greatness were compell’d to kiss:

‘The time shall come,’ thus did he follow it,

‘The time will come, that foul sin, gathering head,

Shall break into corruption:’ so went on,

Foretelling this same time’s condition

And the division of our amity.

Warwick

There is a history in all men’s lives,

Figuring the nature of the times deceased;

The which observed, a man may prophesy,

With a near aim, of the main chance of things

As yet not come to life, which in their seeds

And weak beginnings 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

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.

King Henry IV

Are these things then necessities?

Then let us meet them like necessities:

And that same word even now cries out on us:

They say the bishop and Northumberland

Are fifty thousand strong.

Warwick

It cannot be, my lord;

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo,

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

Shall bring this prize in very easily.

To comfort you the more, I have received

A certain instance that Glendower is dead.

Your majesty hath been this fortnight ill,

And these unseason’d hours perforce must add

Unto your sickness.

King Henry IV

I will take your counsel:

And were these inward wars once out of hand,

We would, dear lords, unto the Holy Land.

Exeunt

SCENE II. GLOUCESTERSHIRE. BEFORE SHALLOW’S HOUSE.

Enter Shallow and Silence, meeting; Mouldy, Shadow, Wart, Feeble, Bullcalf, a Servant or two with them

Shallow

Come on, come on, come on, sir; give me your hand, sir, give me your hand, sir: an early stirrer, by the rood! And how doth my good cousin Silence?

Silence

Good morrow, good cousin Shallow.

Shallow

And how doth my cousin, your bedfellow? and your fairest daughter and mine, my god-daughter Ellen?

Silence

Alas, a black ousel, cousin Shallow!

Shallow

By yea and nay, sir, I dare say my cousin William is become a good scholar: he is at Oxford still, is he not?

Silence

Indeed, sir, to my cost.

Shallow

A’ must, then, to the inns o’ court shortly. I was once of Clement’s Inn, where I think they will talk of mad Shallow yet.

Silence

You were called ‘lusty Shallow’ then, cousin.

Shallow

By the mass, I was called any thing; and I would have done any thing indeed too, and roundly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Barnes, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man; you had not four such swinge-bucklers in all the inns o’ court again: and I may say to you, we knew where the bona-robas were and had the best of them all at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.

Silence

This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about soldiers?

Shallow

The same Sir John, the very same. I see him break Skogan’s head at the court-gate, when a’ was a crack not thus high: and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray’s Inn. Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent! and to see how many of my old acquaintance are dead!

Silence

We shall all follow, cousin.

Shadow

Certain, ’tis certain; very sure, very sure: death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all; all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair?

Silence

By my troth, I was not there.

Shallow

Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet?

Silence

Dead, sir.

Shallow

Jesu, Jesu, dead! a’ drew a good bow; and dead! a’ shot a fine shoot: John a Gaunt loved him well, and betted much money on his head. Dead! a’ would have clapped i’ the clout at twelve score; and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and fourteen and a half, that it would have done a man’s heart good to see. How a score of ewes now?

Silence

Thereafter as they be: a score of good ewes may be worth ten pounds.

Shallow

And is old Double dead?

Silence

Here come two of Sir John Falstaff’s men, as I think.

Enter Bardolph and one with him

Bardolph

Good morrow, honest gentlemen: I beseech you, which is Justice Shallow?

Shallow

I am Robert Shallow, sir; a poor esquire of this county, and one of the king’s justices of th e peace: What is your good pleasure with me?

Bardolph

My captain, sir, commends him to you; my captain, Sir John Falstaff, a tall gentleman, by heaven, and a most gallant leader.

Shallow

He greets me well, sir. I knew him a good backsword man. How doth the good knight? may I ask how my lady his wife doth?

Bardolph

Sir, pardon; a soldier is better accommodated than with a wife.

Shallow

It is well said, in faith, sir; and it is well said indeed too. Better accommodated! it is good; yea, indeed, is it: good phrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable. Accommodated! it comes of ‘accommodo’ very good; a good phrase.

Bardolph

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.

Shallow

It is very just.

Enter Falstaff

Look, here comes good Sir John. Give me your good hand, give me your worship’s good hand: by my troth, you like well and bear your years very well: welcome, good Sir John.

Falstaff

I am glad to see you well, good Master Robert

Shallow: Master Surecard, as I think?

Shallow

No, Sir John; it is my cousin Silence, in commission with me.

Falstaff

Good Master Silence, it well befits you should be of the peace.

Silence

Your good-worship is welcome.

Falstaff

Fie! this is hot weather, gentlemen. Have you provided me here half a dozen sufficient men?

Shallow

Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit?

Falstaff

Let me see them, I beseech you.

Shallow

Where’s the roll? where’s the roll? where’s the roll? Let me see, let me see, let me see. So, so: yea, marry, sir: Ralph Mouldy! Let them appear as I call; let them do so, let them do so. Let me see; where is Mouldy?

Mouldy

Here, an’t please you.

Shallow

What think you, Sir John? a good-limbed fellow; young, strong, and of good friends.

Falstaff

Is thy name Mouldy?

Mouldy

Yea, an’t please you.

Falstaff

’Tis the more time thou wert used.

Shallow

Ha, ha, ha! most excellent, i’ faith! Things that are mouldy lack use: very singular good! in faith, well said, Sir John, very well said.

Falstaff

Prick him.

Mouldy

I was pricked well enough before, an you could have let me alone: my old dame will be undone now for one to do her husbandry and her drudgery: you need not to have pricked me; there are other men fitter to go out than I.

Falstaff

Go to: peace, Mouldy; you shall go. Mouldy, it is time you were spent.

Mouldy

Spent!

Shallow

Peace, fellow, peace; stand aside: know you where you are? For the other, Sir John: let me see: Simon Shadow!

Falstaff

Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under: he’s like to be a cold soldier.

Shallow

Where’s Shadow?

Shadow

Here, sir.

Falstaff

Shadow, whose son art thou?

Shadow

My mother’s son, sir.

Falstaff

Thy mother’s son! like enough, and thy father’s shadow: so the son of the female is the shadow of the male: it is often so, indeed; but much of the father’s substance!

Shallow

Do you like him, Sir John?

Falstaff

Shadow will serve for summer; prick him, for we have a number of shadows to fill up the muster-book.

Shallow

Thomas Wart!

Falstaff

Where’s he?

Wart

Here, sir.

Falstaff

Is thy name Wart?

Wart

Yea, sir.

Falstaff

Thou art a very ragged wart.

Shallow

Shall I prick him down, Sir John?

Falstaff

It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon his back and the whole frame stands upon pins: prick him no more.

Shallow

Ha, ha, ha! you can do it, sir; you can do it: I commend you well. Francis Feeble!

Feeble

Here, sir.

Falstaff

What trade art thou, Feeble?

Feeble

A woman’s tailor, sir.

Shallow

Shall I prick him, sir?

Falstaff

You may: but if he had been a man’s tailor, he’ld ha’ pricked you. Wilt thou make as many holes in an enemy’s battle as thou hast done in a woman’s petticoat?

Feeble

I will do my good will, sir; you can have no more.

Falstaff

Well said, good woman’s tailor! well said, courageous Feeble! thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove or most magnanimous mouse. Prick the woman’s tailor: well, Master Shallow; deep, Master Shallow.

Feeble

I would Wart might have gone, sir.

Falstaff

I would thou wert a man’s tailor, that thou mightst mend him and make him fit to go. I cannot put him to a private soldier that is the leader of so many thousands: let that suffice, most forcible Feeble.

Feeble

It shall suffice, sir.

Falstaff

I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who is next?

Shallow

Peter Bullcalf o’ the green!

Falstaff

Yea, marry, let’s see Bullcalf.

Bullcalf

Here, sir.

Falstaff

’Fore God, a likely fellow! Come, prick me Bullcalf till he roar again.

Bullcalf

O Lord! good my lord captain,—

Falstaff

What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked?

Bullcalf

O Lord, sir! I am a diseased man.

Falstaff

What disease hast thou?

Bullcalf

A whoreson cold, sir, a cough, sir, which I caught with ringing in the king’s affairs upon his coronation-day, sir.

Falstaff

Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown; we wilt have away thy cold; and I will take such order that my friends shall ring for thee. Is here all?

Shallow

Here is two more called than your number, you must have but four here, sir: and so, I pray you, go in with me to dinner.

Falstaff

Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot tarry dinner. I am glad to see you, by my troth, Master Shallow.

Shallow

O, Sir John, do you remember since we lay all night in the windmill in Saint George’s field?

Falstaff

No more of that, good Master Shallow, no more of that.

Shallow

Ha! ’twas a merry night. And is Jane Nightwork alive?

Falstaff

She lives, Master Shallow.

Shallow

She never could away with me.

Falstaff

Never, never; she would always say she could not abide Master Shallow.

Shallow

By the mass, I could anger her to the heart. She was then a bona-roba. Doth she hold her own well?

Falstaff

Old, old, Master Shallow.

Shallow

Nay, she must be old; she cannot choose but be old; certain she’s old; and had Robin Nightwork by old Nightwork before I came to Clement’s Inn.

Silence

That’s fifty-five year ago.

Shallow

Ha, cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen that that this knight and I have seen! Ha, Sir John, said I well?

Falstaff

We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.

Shallow

That we have, that we have, that we have; in faith,

Sir John, we have: our watch-word was ‘Hem boys!’

Come, let’s to dinner; come, let’s to dinner:

Jesus, the days that we have seen! Come, come.

Exeunt Falstaff and Justices

Bullcalf

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.

Bardolph

Go to; stand aside.

Mouldy

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.

Bardolph

Go to; stand aside.

Feeble

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 is too good to serve’s prince; and let it go which way it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next.

Bardolph

Well said; thou’rt a good fellow.

Feeble

Faith, I’ll bear no base mind.

Re-enter Falstaff and the Justices

Falstaff

Come, sir, which men shall I have?

Shallow

Four of which you please.

Bardolph

Sir, a word with you: I have three pound to free

Mouldy and Bullcalf.

Falstaff

Go to; well.

Shallow

Come, Sir John, which four will you have?

Falstaff

Do you choose for me.

Shallow

Marry, then, Mouldy, Bullcalf, Feeble and Shadow.

Falstaff

Mouldy and Bullcalf: for you, Mouldy, stay at home till you are past service: and for your part, Bullcalf, grow till you come unto it: I will none of you.

Shallow

Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong: they are your likeliest men, and I would have you served with the best.

Falstaff

Will you tell me, Master Shallow, how to choose a man? Care I for the limb, the thewes, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man! Give me the spirit, Master Shallow. Here’s Wart; you see what a ragged appearance it is; a’ shall charge you and discharge you with the motion of a pewterer’s hammer, come off and on swifter than he that gibbets on the brewer’s bucket. And this same half-faced fellow, Shadow; give me this man: he presents no mark to the enemy; the foeman may with as great aim level at the edge of a penknife. And for a retreat; how swiftly will this Feeble the woman’s tailor run off! O, give me the spare men, and spare me the great ones. Put me a caliver into Wart’s hand, Bardolph.

Bardolph

Hold, Wart, traverse; thus, thus, thus.

Falstaff

Come, manage me your caliver. So: very well: go to: very good, exceeding good. O, give me always a little, lean, old, chapt, bald shot. Well said, i’ faith, Wart; thou’rt a good scab: hold, there’s a tester for thee.

Shallow

He is not his craft’s master; he doth not do it right. I remember at Mile-end Green, when I lay at Clement’s Inn — I was then Sir Dagonet in Arthur’s show,— there was a little quiver fellow, and a’ would manage you his piece thus; and a’ would about and about, and come you in and come you in: ‘rah, tah, tah,’ would a’ say; ‘bounce’ would a’ say; and away again would a’ go, and again would a’ come: I shall ne’er see such a fellow.

Falstaff

These fellows will do well, Master Shallow. God keep you, Master Silence: I will not use many words with you. Fare you well, gentlemen both: I thank you: I must a dozen mile to-night. Bardolph, give the soldiers coats.

Shallow

Sir John, the Lord bless you! God prosper your affairs! God send us peace! At your return visit our house; let our old acquaintance be renewed; peradventure I will with ye to the court.

Falstaff

’Fore God, I would you would, Master Shallow.

Shallow

Go to; I have spoke at a word. God keep you.

Falstaff

Fare you well, gentle gentlemen.

Exeunt Justices

On, Bardolph; lead the men away.

Exeunt Bardolph, Recruits, & c

As I return, I will fetch off these justices: I do see the bottom of Justice Shallow. Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying! This same starved justice hath done nothing but prate to me of the wildness of his youth, and the feats he hath done about Turnbull Street: and every third word a lie, duer paid to the hearer than the Turk’s tribute. I do remember him at Clement’s Inn like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when a’ was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife: a’ was so forlorn, that his dimensions to any thick sight were invincible: a’ was the very genius of famine; yet lecherous as a monkey, and the whores called him mandrake: a’ came ever in the rearward of the fashion, and sung those tunes to the overscutched huswives that he heard the carmen whistle, and swear they were his fancies or his good-nights. And now is this Vice’s dagger become a squire, and talks as familiarly of John a Gaunt as if he had been sworn brother to him; and I’ll be sworn a’ ne’er saw him but once in the Tilt-yard; and then he burst his head for crowding among the marshal’s men. I saw it, and told John a Gaunt he beat his own name; for you might have thrust him and all his apparel into an eel-skin; the case of a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a court: and now has he land and beefs. Well, I’ll be acquainted with him, if I return; and it shall go hard but I will make him a philosopher’s two stones to me: if the young dace be a bait for the old pike, I see no reason in the law of nature but I may snap at him. Let time shape, and there an end.

Exit

ACT IV

SCENE I. YORKSHIRE. GAULTREE FOREST.

Enter the Archbishop Of York, Mowbray, Lord Hastings, and others

Archbishop Of York

What is this forest call’d?

Hastings

’Tis Gaultree Forest, an’t shall please your grace.

Archbishop Of York

Here stand, my lords; and send discoverers forth

To know the numbers of our enemies.

Hastings

We have sent forth already.

Archbishop Of York

’Tis well done.

My friends and brethren in these great affairs,

I must acquaint you that I have received

New-dated letters from Northumberland;

Their cold intent, tenor 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

He is retired, to ripe his growing fortunes,

To Scotland: and concludes in hearty prayers

That your attempts may overlive the hazard

And fearful melting of their opposite.

Mowbray

Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground

And dash themselves to pieces.

Enter a Messenger

Hastings

Now, what news?

Messenger

West of this forest, scarcely off a mile,

In goodly form comes on the enemy;

And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number

Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand.

Mowbray

The just proportion that we gave them out

Let us sway on and face them in the field.

Archbishop Of York

What well-appointed leader fronts us here?

Enter Westmoreland

Mowbray

I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland.

Westmoreland

Health and fair greeting from our general,

The prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.

Archbishop Of York

Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in peace:

What doth concern your coming?

Westmoreland

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,

Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags,

And countenanced by boys and beggary,

I say, if damn’d commotion so appear’d,

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

With your fair honours. You, lord archbishop,

Whose see is by a civil peace maintained,

Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch’d,

Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor’d,

Whose white investments figure innocence,

The dove and very blessed spirit of peace,

Wherefore do you so ill translate ourself

Out of the speech of peace that bears such grace,

Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war;

Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood,

Your pens to lances and your tongue divine

To a trumpet and a point of war?

Archbishop Of York

Wherefore do I this? so the question stands.

Briefly to this end: we are all diseased,

And with our surfeiting and wanton hours

Have brought ourselves into a burning fever,

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,

Nor do I as an enemy to peace

Troop in the throngs of military men;

But rather show awhile like fearful war,

To diet rank minds sick of happiness

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,

And find our griefs heavier than our offences.

We see which way the stream of time doth run,

And are enforced from our most quiet there

By the rough torrent of occasion;

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:

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,

Whose memory is written on the earth

With yet appearing blood, and the examples

Of every minute’s instance, present now,

Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms,

Not to break peace or any branch of it,

But to establish here a peace indeed,

Concurring both in name and quality.

Westmoreland

When ever yet was your appeal denied?

Wherein have you been galled by the king?

What peer hath been suborn’d to grate on you,

That you should seal this lawless bloody book

Of forged rebellion with a seal divine

And consecrate commotion’s bitter edge?

Archbishop Of York

My brother general, the commonwealth,

To brother born an household cruelty,

I make my quarrel in particular.

Westmoreland

There is no need of any such redress;

Or if there were, it not belongs to you.

Mowbray

Why not to him in part, and to us all

That feel the bruises of the days before,

And suffer the condition of these times

To lay a heavy and unequal hand

Upon our honours?

Westmoreland

O, my good Lord Mowbray,

Construe the times to their necessities,

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

That you should have an inch of any ground

To build a grief on: were you not restored

To all the Duke of Norfolk’s signories,

Your noble and right well remember’d father’s?

Mowbray

What thing, in honour, had my father lost,

That need to be revived and breathed in me?

The king that loved him, as the state stood then,

Was force perforce compell’d to banish him:

And then that Harry Bolingbroke and he,

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 sparking through sights of steel

And the loud trumpet blowing them together,

Then, then, when there was nothing could have stay’d

My father from the breast of Bolingbroke,

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

Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.

Westmoreland

You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what.

The Earl of Hereford was reputed then

In England the most valiant gentlemen:

Who knows on whom fortune would then have smiled?

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

Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love

Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on

And bless’d and graced indeed, more than the king.

But this is mere digression from my purpose.

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,

You shall enjoy them, every thing set off

That might so much as think you enemies.

Mowbray

But he hath forced us to compel this offer;

And it proceeds from policy, not love.

Westmoreland

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

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 heart should be as good

Say you not then our offer is compell’d.

Mowbray

Well, by my will we shall admit no parley.

Westmoreland

That argues but the shame of your offence:

A rotten case abides no handling.

Hastings

Hath the Prince John a full commission,

In very ample virtue of his father,

To hear and absolutely to determine

Of what conditions we shall stand upon?

Westmoreland

That is intended in the general’s name:

I muse you make so slight a question.

Archbishop Of York

Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this schedule,

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,

Acquitted by a true substantial form

And present execution of our wills

To us and to our purposes confined,

We come within our awful banks again

And knit our powers to the arm of peace.

Westmoreland

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

Which must decide it.

Archbishop Of York

My lord, we will do so.

Exit Westmoreland

Mowbray

There is a thing within my bosom tells me

That no conditions of our peace can stand.

Hastings

Fear you not that: if we can make our peace

Upon such large terms and so absolute

As our conditions shall consist upon,

Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.

Mowbray

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;

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.

Archbishop Of York

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,

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

As his misdoubts present occasion:

His foes are so enrooted with his friends

That, plucking to unfix an enemy,

He doth unfasten so and shake a friend:

So that this land, like an offensive wife

That hath enraged him on to offer strokes,

As he is striking, holds his infant up

And hangs resolved correction in the arm

That was uprear’d to execution.

Hastings

Besides, the king hath wasted all his rods

On late offenders, that he now doth lack

The very instruments of chastisement:

So that his power, like to a fangless lion,

May offer, but not hold.

Archbishop Of York

’Tis very true:

And therefore be assured, my good lord marshal,

If we do now make our atonement well,

Our peace will, like a broken limb united,

Grow stronger for the breaking.

Mowbray

Be it so.

Here is return’d my Lord of Westmoreland.

Re-enter Westmoreland

Westmoreland

The prince is here at hand: pleaseth your lordship

To meet his grace just distance ’tween our armies.

Mowbray

Your grace of York, in God’s name then, set forward.

Archbishop Of York

Before, and greet his grace: my lord, we come.

Exeunt

SCENE II. ANOTHER PART OF THE FOREST.

Enter, from one side, Mowbray, attended; afterwards the Archbishop Of York, Hastings, and others: from the other side, Prince John of Lancaster, and Westmoreland; Officers, and others with them

Lancaster

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

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,

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,

Would he abuse the countenance of the king,

Alack, what mischiefs might he set abrooch

In shadow of such greatness! With you, lord bishop,

It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken

How deep you were within the books of God?

To us the speaker in his parliament;

To us the imagined voice of God himself;

The very opener and intelligencer

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,

As a false favourite doth his prince’s name,

In deeds dishonourable? You have ta’en up,

Under the counterfeited zeal of God,

The subjects of his substitute, my father,

And both against the peace of heaven and him

Have here up-swarm’d them.

Archbishop Of York

Good my Lord of Lancaster,

I am not here against your father’s peace;

But, as I told my lord of Westmoreland,

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,

The which hath been with scorn shoved 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,

And true obedience, of this madness cured,

Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty.

Mowbray

If not, we ready are to try our fortunes

To the last man.

Hastings

And though we here fall down,

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

Whiles England shall have generation.

Lancaster

You are too shallow, Hastings, much too shallow,

To sound the bottom of the after-times.

Westmoreland

Pleaseth your grace to answer them directly

How far forth you do like their articles.

Lancaster

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,

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,

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.

Archbishop Of York

I take your princely word for these redresses.

Lancaster

I give it you, and will maintain my word:

And thereupon I drink unto your grace.

Hastings

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

Archbishop Of York

To you, my noble Lord of Westmoreland.

Westmoreland

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 ye

Shall show itself more openly hereafter.

Archbishop Of York

I do not doubt you.

Westmoreland

I am glad of it.

Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mowbray.

Mowbray

You wish me health in very happy season;

For I am, on the sudden, something ill.

Archbishop Of York

Against ill chances men are ever merry;

But heaviness foreruns the good event.

Westmoreland

Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden sorrow

Serves to say thus, ‘some good thing comes to-morrow.’

Archbishop Of York

Believe me, I am passing light in spirit.

Mowbray

So much the worse, if your own rule be true.

Shouts within

Lancaster

The word of peace is render’d: hark, how they shout!

Mowbray

This had been cheerful after victory.

Archbishop Of York

A peace is of the nature of a conquest;

For then both parties nobly are subdued,

And neither party loser.

Lancaster

Go, my lord,

And let our army be discharged too.

Exit Westmoreland

And, good my lord, so please you, let our trains

March, by us, that we may peruse the men

We should have coped withal.

Archbishop Of York

Go, good Lord Hastings,

And, ere they be dismissed, let them march by.

Exit Hastings

Lancaster

I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together.

Re-enter Westmoreland

Now, cousin, wherefore stands our army still?

Westmoreland

The leaders, having charge from you to stand,

Will not go off until they hear you speak.

Lancaster

They know their duties.

Re-enter Hastings

Hastings

My lord, our army is dispersed already;

Like youthful steers unyoked, they take their courses

East, west, north, south; or, like a school broke up,

Each hurries toward his home and sporting-place.

Westmoreland

Good tidings, my Lord Hastings; for the which

I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason:

And you, lord archbishop, and you, Lord Mowbray,

Of capitol treason I attach you both.

Mowbray

Is this proceeding just and honourable?

Westmoreland

Is your assembly so?

Archbishop Of York

Will you thus break your faith?

Lancaster

I pawn’d thee none:

I promised you redress of these same grievances

Whereof you did complain; which, by mine honour,

I will perform with a most Christian care.

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.

Exeunt

SCENE III. ANOTHER PART OF THE FOREST.

Alarum. Excursions. Enter Falstaff and Colevile, meeting

Falstaff

What’s your name, sir? of what condition are you, and of what place, I pray?

Colevile

I am a knight, sir, and my name is Colevile of the dale.

Falstaff

Well, then, Colevile is your name, a knight is your degree, and your place the dale: Colevile shall be still your name, a traitor your degree, and the dungeon your place, a place deep enough; so shall you be still Colevile of the dale.

Colevile

Are not you Sir John Falstaff?

Falstaff

As good a man as he, sir, whoe’er I am. Do ye yield, sir? or shall I sweat for you? if I do sweat, they are the drops of thy lovers, and they weep for thy death: therefore rouse up fear and trembling, and do observance to my mercy.

Colevile

I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought yield me.

Falstaff

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 indifference, I were simply the most active fellow in Europe: my womb, my womb, my womb, undoes me. Here comes our general.

Enter Prince John Of Lancaster, Westmoreland, Blunt, and others

Lancaster

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?

When every thing is ended, then you come:

These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life,

One time or other break some gallows’ back.

Falstaff

I would be sorry, my lord, but it should be thus: I never knew yet but rebuke and cheque was the reward of valour. Do you think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? have I, in my poor and old motion, the expedition of thought? I have speeded hither with the very extremest inch of possibility; I have foundered nine score and odd posts: and here, travel-tainted as I am, have in my pure and immaculate valour, taken Sir John Colevile of the dale, a most furious knight and valorous enemy. But what of that? he saw me, and yielded; that I may justly say, with the hook-nosed fellow of Rome, ‘I came, saw, and overcame.’

Lancaster

It was more of his courtesy than your deserving.

Falstaff

I know not: here he is, and here I yield him: and I beseech your grace, let it be booked with the rest of this day’s deeds; or, by the Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad else, with mine own picture on the top on’t, Colevile kissing my foot: to the which course if I be enforced, if you do not all show like gilt twopences to me, and I in the clear sky of fame o’ershine you as much as the full moon doth the cinders of the element, which show like pins’ heads to her, believe not the word of the noble: therefore let me have right, and let desert mount.

Lancaster

Thine’s too heavy to mount.

Falstaff

Let it shine, then.

Lancaster

Thine’s too thick to shine.

Falstaff

Let it do something, my good lord, that may do me good, and call it what you will.

Lancaster

Is thy name Colevile?

Colevile

It is, my lord.

Lancaster

A famous rebel art thou, Colevile.

Falstaff

And a famous true subject took him.

Colevile

I am, my lord, but as my betters are

That led me hither: had they been ruled by me,

You should have won them dearer than you have.

Falstaff

I know not how they sold themselves: but thou, like a kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis; and I thank thee for thee.

Re-enter Westmoreland

Lancaster

Now, have you left pursuit?

Westmoreland

Retreat is made and execution stay’d.

Lancaster

Send Colevile with his confederates

To York, to present execution:

Blunt, lead him hence; and see you guard him sure.

Exeunt Blunt and others with Colevile

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,

Which, cousin, you shall bear to comfort him,

And we with sober speed will follow you.

Falstaff

My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go

Through Gloucestershire: and, when you come to court,

Stand my good lord, pray, in your good report.

Lancaster

Fare you well, Falstaff: I, in my condition,

Shall better speak of you than you deserve.

Exeunt all but Falstaff

Falstaff

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 curdy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble fiery and delectable shapes, which, delivered o’er to the voice, the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of your excellent sherris is, the warming of the blood; which, before cold and settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice; but the sherris warms it and makes it course from the inwards to the parts extreme: it illumineth the face, which as a beacon gives warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the vital commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their 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 learning a mere hoard of gold kept by a devil, till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like lean, sterile and bare land, manured, 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 humane principle I would teach them should be, to forswear thin potations and to addict themselves to sack.

Enter Bardolph

How now Bardolph?

Bardolph

The army is discharged all and gone.

Falstaff

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 IV, the Princes Thomas of Clarence and Humphrey of Gloucester, Warwick, and others

King Henry IV

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.

Our navy is address’d, our power collected,

Our substitutes in absence well invested,

And every thing lies level to our wish:

Only, we want a little personal strength;

And pause us, till these rebels, now afoot,

Come underneath the yoke of government.

Warwick

Both which we doubt not but your majesty

Shall soon enjoy.

King Henry IV

Humphrey, my son of Gloucester,

Where is the prince your brother?

Gloucester

I think he’s gone to hunt, my lord, at Windsor.

King Henry IV

And how accompanied?

Gloucester

I do not know, my lord.

King Henry IV

Is not his brother, Thomas of Clarence, with him?

Gloucester

No, my good lord; he is in presence here.

Clarence

What would my lord and father?

King Henry IV

Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence.

How chance thou art not with the prince thy brother?

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

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

By seeming cold or careless of his will;

For he is gracious, if he be observed:

He hath a tear for pity and a hand

Open as day for melting charity:

Yet notwithstanding, being incensed, he’s flint,

As humorous as winter and as sudden

As flaws congealed in the spring of day.

His temper, therefore, must be well observed:

Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,

When thou perceive his blood inclined to mirth;

But, being moody, give him line and scope,

Till that his passions, like a whale on ground,

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,

Mingled with venom of suggestion —

As, force perforce, the age will pour it in —

Shall never leak, though it do work as strong

As aconitum or rash gunpowder.

Clarence

I shall observe him with all care and love.

King Henry IV

Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas?

Clarence

He is not there to-day; he dines in London.

King Henry IV

And how accompanied? canst thou tell that?

Clarence

With Poins, and other his continual followers.

King Henry IV

Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds;

And he, the noble image of my youth,

Is overspread with them: therefore my grief

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

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

Towards fronting peril and opposed decay!

Warwick

My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite:

The prince but studies his companions

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

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,

By which his grace must mete the lives of others,

Turning past evils to advantages.

King Henry IV

’Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb

In the dead carrion.

Enter Westmoreland

Who’s here? Westmoreland?

Westmoreland

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;

There is not now a rebel’s sword unsheath’d

But peace puts forth her olive every where.

The manner how this action hath been borne

Here at more leisure may your highness read,

With every course in his particular.

King Henry IV

O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird,

Which ever in the haunch of winter sings

The lifting up of day.

Enter Harcourt

Look, here’s more news.

Harcourt

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!

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

This packet, please it you, contains at large.

King Henry IV

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;

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.

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.

Gloucester

Comfort, your majesty!

Clarence

O my royal father!

Westmoreland

My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself, look up.

Warwick

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.

Clarence

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.

Gloucester

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.

Clarence

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.

Warwick

Speak lower, princes, for the king recovers.

Gloucester

This apoplexy will certain be his end.

King Henry IV

I pray you, take me up, and bear me hence

Into some other chamber: softly, pray.

SCENE V. ANOTHER CHAMBER.

King Henry IV lying on a bed: Clarence, Gloucester, Warwick, and others in attendance

King Henry IV

Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends;

Unless some dull and favourable hand

Will whisper music to my weary spirit.

Warwick

Call for the music in the other room.

King Henry IV

Set me the crown upon my pillow here.

Clarence

His eye is hollow, and he changes much.

Warwick

Less noise, less noise!

Enter Prince Henry

Prince Henry

Who saw the Duke of Clarence?

Clarence

I am here, brother, full of heaviness.

Prince Henry

How now! rain within doors, and none abroad!

How doth the king?

Gloucester

Exceeding ill.

Prince Henry

Heard he the good news yet?

Tell it him.

Gloucester

He alter’d much upon the hearing it.

Prince Henry

If he be sick with joy, he’ll recover without physic.

Warwick

Not so much noise, my lords: sweet prince, speak low; The king your father is disposed to sleep.

Clarence

Let us withdraw into the other room.

Warwick

Will’t please your grace to go along with us?

Prince Henry

No; I will sit and watch here by the king.

Exeunt all but Prince Henry

Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow,

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

As he whose brow with homely biggen 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,

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!

This sleep is sound indeed, this is a sleep

That from this golden rigol hath divorced

So many English kings. Thy due from me

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,

Which, as immediate as thy place and blood,

Derives itself to me. Lo, here it sits,

Which God shall guard: and put the world’s whole strength

Into one giant arm, it shall not force

This lineal honour from me: this from thee

Will I to mine leave, as ’tis left to me.

Exit

King Henry IV

Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence!

Re-enter Warwick, Gloucester, Clarence, and the rest

Clarence

Doth the king call?

Warwick

What would your majesty? How fares your grace?

King Henry IV

Why did you leave me here alone, my lords?

Clarence

We left the prince my brother here, my liege,

Who undertook to sit and watch by you.

King Henry IV

The Prince of Wales! Where is he? let me see him:

He is not here.

Warwick

This door is open; he is gone this way.

Gloucester

He came not through the chamber where we stay’d.

King Henry IV

Where is the crown? who took it from my pillow?

Warwick

When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.

King Henry IV

The prince hath ta’en it hence: go, seek him out.

Is he so hasty that he doth suppose

My sleep my death?

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

When gold becomes her object!

For this the foolish over-careful fathers

Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care,

Their bones with industry;

For this they have engrossed and piled up

The canker’d heaps of strange-achieved gold;

For this they have been thoughtful to invest

Their sons with arts and martial exercises:

When, like the bee, culling from every flower

The virtuous sweets,

Our thighs pack’d with wax, our mouths with honey,

We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees,

Are murdered 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 determined me?

Warwick

My lord, I found the prince in the next room,

Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks,

With such a deep demeanor in great sorrow

That tyranny, which never quaff’d but blood,

Would, by beholding him, have wash’d his knife

With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither.

King Henry IV

But wherefore did he take away the crown?

Re-enter Prince Henry

Lo, where he comes. Come hither to me, Harry.

Depart the chamber, leave us here alone.

Exeunt Warwick and the rest

Prince Henry

I never thought to hear you speak again.

King Henry IV

Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought:

I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.

Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair

That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours

Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!

Thou seek’st the greatness that will o’erwhelm thee.

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 stolen that which after some few hours

Were thine without offence; and at my death

Thou hast seal’d up my expectation:

Thy life did manifest thou lovedst me not,

And thou wilt have me die assured of it.

Thou hidest 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,

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:

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:

Harry the Fifth is crown’d: up, vanity!

Down, royal state! all you sage counsellors, hence!

And to the English court assemble now,

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

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 on every innocent.

O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows!

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!

Prince Henry

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,

Let me no more from this obedience rise,

Which my most inward true and duteous spirit

Teacheth, this prostrate and exterior bending.

God witness with me, when I here came in,

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!

Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,

And dead almost, my liege, to think you were,

I spake unto this crown as having sense,

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,

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,

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,

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,

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!

King Henry IV

O my son,

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;

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

How troublesome it sat upon my head.

To thee it shall descend with bitter quiet,

Better opinion, better confirmation;

For all the soil of the achievement goes

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;

Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,

Wounding supposed peace: all these bold fears

Thou see’st with peril I have answered;

For all my reign hath been but as a scene

Acting that argument: and now my death

Changes the mode; for what in me was purchased,

Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort;

So thou the garland wear’st successively.

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 advanced

And by whose power I well might lodge a fear

To be again displaced: which to avoid,

I cut them off; and had a purpose now

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

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.

How I came by the crown, O God forgive;

And grant it may with thee in true peace live!

Prince Henry

My gracious liege,

You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me;

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 Lord John of Lancaster

King Henry IV

Look, look, here comes my John of Lancaster.

Lancaster

Health, peace, and happiness to my royal father!

King Henry IV

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.

Where is my Lord of Warwick?

Prince Henry

My Lord of Warwick!

Enter Warwick, and others

King Henry IV

Doth any name particular belong

Unto the lodging where I first did swoon?

Warwick

’Tis call’d Jerusalem, my noble lord.

King Henry IV

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;

Which vainly I supposed 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. SHALLOW’S HOUSE.

Enter Shallow, Falstaff, Bardolph, and Page

Shallow

By cock and pie, sir, you shall not away to-night.

What, Davy, I say!

Falstaff

You must excuse me, Master Robert Shallow.

Shallow

I will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused. Why, Davy!

Enter Davy

Davy

Here, sir.

Shallow

Davy, Davy, Davy, Davy, let me see, Davy; let me see, Davy; let me see: yea, marry, William cook, bid him come hither. Sir John, you shall not be excused.

Davy

Marry, sir, thus; those precepts cannot be served: and, again, sir, shall we sow the headland with wheat?

Shallow

With red wheat, Davy. But for William cook: are there no young pigeons?

Davy

Yes, sir. Here is now the smith’s note for shoeing and plough-irons.

Shallow

Let it be cast and paid. Sir John, you shall not be excused.

Davy

Now, sir, a new link to the bucket must need be had: and, sir, do you mean to stop any of William’s wages, about the sack he lost the other day at Hinckley fair?

Shallow

A’ shall answer it. Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens, a joint of mutton, and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William cook.

Davy

Doth the man of war stay all night, sir?

Shallow

Yea, Davy. I will use him well: a friend i’ the court is better than a penny in purse. Use his men well, Davy; for they are arrant knaves, and will backbite.

Davy

No worse than they are backbitten, sir; for they have marvellous foul linen.

Shallow

Well conceited, Davy: about thy business, Davy.

Davy

I beseech you, sir, to countenance William Visor of

Woncot against Clement Perkes of the hill.

Shallow

There is many complaints, Davy, against that Visor: that Visor is an arrant knave, on my knowledge.

Davy

I grant your worship that he is a knave, sir; but yet, God forbid, sir, but a knave should have some countenance at his friend’s request. An honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not. I have served your worship truly, sir, this eight years; and if I cannot once or twice in a quarter bear out a knave against an honest man, I have but a very little credit with your worship. The knave is mine honest friend, sir; therefore, I beseech your worship, let him be countenanced.

Shallow

Go to; I say he shall have no wrong. Look about, Davy.

Exit Davy

Where are you, Sir John? Come, come, come, off with your boots. Give me your hand, Master Bardolph.

Bardolph

I am glad to see your worship.

Shallow

I thank thee with all my heart, kind

Master Bardolph: and welcome, my tall fellow.

To the Page

Come, Sir John.

Falstaff

I’ll follow you, good Master Robert Shallow.

Exit Shallow

Bardolph, look to our horses.

Exeunt Bardolph and Page

If I were sawed into quantities, I should make four dozen of such bearded hermits’ staves as Master Shallow. It is a wonderful thing to see the semblable coherence of his men’s spirits and his: they, by observing of him, do bear themselves like foolish justices; he, by conversing with them, is turned into a justice-like serving-man: their spirits are so married in conjunction with the participation of society that they flock together in consent, like so many wild-geese. If I had a suit to Master Shallow, I would humour his men with the imputation of being near their master: if to his men, I would curry with Master Shallow that no man could better command his servants. It is certain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is caught, as men take diseases, one of another: therefore let men take heed of their company. I will devise matter enough out of this Shallow to keep Prince Harry in continual laughter the wearing out of six fashions, which is four terms, or two actions, and a’ shall laugh without intervallums. O, it is much that a lie with a slight oath and a jest with a sad brow will do with a fellow that never had the ache in his shoulders! O, you shall see him laugh till his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up!

Shallow

[Within] Sir John!

Falstaff

I come, Master Shallow; I come, Master Shallow.

Exit

SCENE II. WESTMINSTER. THE PALACE.

Enter Warwick and the Lord Chief-Justice, meeting

Warwick

How now, my lord chief-justice! whither away?

Lord Chief-Justice

How doth the king?

Warwick

Exceeding well; his cares are now all ended.

Lord Chief-Justice

I hope, not dead.

Warwick

He’s walk’d the way of nature;

And to our purposes he lives no more.

Lord Chief-Justice

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.

Warwick

Indeed I think the young king loves you not.

Lord Chief-Justice

I know he doth not, and do arm myself

To welcome the condition of the time,

Which cannot look more hideously upon me

Than I have drawn it in my fantasy.

Enter Lancaster, Clarence, Gloucester, Westmoreland, and others

Warwick

Here come the heavy issue of dead Harry:

O that the living Harry had the temper

Of him, the worst of these three gentlemen!

How many nobles then should hold their places

That must strike sail to spirits of vile sort!

Lord Chief-Justice

O God, I fear all will be overturn’d!

Lancaster

Good morrow, cousin Warwick, good morrow.

Gloucester

Clarence

Good morrow, cousin.

Lancaster

We meet like men that had forgot to speak.

Warwick

We do remember; but our argument

Is all too heavy to admit much talk.

Lancaster

Well, peace be with him that hath made us heavy.

Lord Chief-Justice

Peace be with us, lest we be heavier!

Gloucester

O, good my lord, you have lost a friend indeed;

And I dare swear you borrow not that face

Of seeming sorrow, it is sure your own.

Lancaster

Though no man be assured what grace to find,

You stand in coldest expectation:

I am the sorrier; would ’twere otherwise.

Clarence

Well, you must now speak Sir John Falstaff fair;

Which swims against your stream of quality.

Lord Chief-Justice

Sweet princes, what I did, I did in honour,

Led by the impartial conduct of my soul:

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,

And tell him who hath sent me after him.

Warwick

Here comes the prince.

Enter King Henry V, attended

Lord Chief-Justice

Good morrow; and God save your majesty!

King Henry V

This new and gorgeous garment, majesty,

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,

But Harry Harry. Yet be sad, good brothers,

For, by my faith, it very well becomes you:

Sorrow so royally in you appears

That I will deeply put the fashion on

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 assured,

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

By number into hours of happiness.

Princes

We hope no other from your majesty.

King Henry V

You all look strangely on me: and you most;

You are, I think, assured I love you not.

Lord Chief-Justice

I am assured, if I be measured rightly,

Your majesty hath no just cause to hate me.

King Henry V

No!

How might a prince of my great hopes forget

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?

Lord Chief-Justice

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,

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;

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,

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.

Question your royal thoughts, make the case yours;

Be now the father and propose a son,

Hear your own dignity so much profaned,

See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted,

Behold yourself so by a son disdain’d;

And then imagine me taking your part

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,

My person, or my liege’s sovereignty.

King Henry 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,

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,

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

The unstained sword that you have used to bear;

With this remembrance, that you use the same

With the like bold, just and impartial spirit

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

To your well-practised 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;

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

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

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

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,

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!

Exeunt

SCENE III. GLOUCESTERSHIRE. SHALLOW’S ORCHARD.

Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Silence, Davy, Bardolph, and the Page

Shallow

Nay, you shall see my 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.

Falstaff

’Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich.

Shallow

Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all,

Sir John: marry, good air. Spread, Davy; spread,

Davy; well said, Davy.

Falstaff

This Davy serves you for good uses; he is your serving-man and your husband.

Shallow

A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet, Sir John: by the mass, I have drunk too much sack at supper: a good varlet. Now sit down, now sit down: come, cousin.

Silence

Ah, sirrah! quoth-a, we shall

Do nothing but eat, and make good cheer,

Singing

And praise God for the merry year;

When flesh is cheap and females dear,

And lusty lads roam here and there

So merrily,

And ever among so merrily.

Falstaff

There’s a merry heart! Good Master Silence, I’ll give you a health for that anon.

Shallow

Give Master Bardolph some wine, Davy.

Davy

Sweet sir, sit; I’ll be with you anon. most sweet sir, sit. Master page, good master page, sit. Proface! What you want in meat, we’ll have in drink: but you must bear; the heart’s all.

Exit

Shallow

Be merry, Master Bardolph; and, my little soldier there, be merry.

Silence

Be merry, be merry, my wife has all;

Singing

For women are shrews, both short and tall:

’Tis merry in hall when beards wag all,

And welcome merry Shrove-tide.

Be merry, be merry.

Falstaff

I did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle.

Silence

Who, I? I have been merry twice and once ere now.

Re-enter Davy

Davy

There’s a dish of leather-coats for you.

To Bardolph

Shallow

Davy!

Davy

Your worship! I’ll be with you straight.

To Bardolph

A cup of wine, sir?

Silence

A cup of wine that’s brisk and fine,

Singing

And drink unto the leman mine;

And a merry heart lives long-a.

Falstaff

Well said, Master Silence.

Silence

An we shall be merry, now comes in the sweet o’ the night.

Falstaff

Health and long life to you, Master Silence.

Silence

Fill the cup, and let it come;

Singing

I’ll pledge you a mile to the bottom.

Shallow

Honest Bardolph, welcome: if thou wantest any thing, and wilt not call, beshrew thy heart. Welcome, my little tiny thief.

To the Page

And welcome indeed too. I’ll drink to Master

Bardolph, and to all the cavaleros about London.

Davy

I hove to see London once ere I die.

Bardolph

An I might see you there, Davy,—

Shallow

By the mass, you’ll crack a quart together, ha!

Will you not, Master Bardolph?

Bardolph

Yea, sir, in a pottle-pot.

Shallow

By God’s liggens, I thank thee: the knave will stick by thee, I can assure thee that. A’ will not out; he is true bred.

Bardolph

And I’ll stick by him, sir.

Shallow

Why, there spoke a king. Lack nothing: be merry.

Knocking within

Look who’s at door there, ho! who knocks?

Exit Davy

Falstaff

Why, now you have done me right.

To Silence, seeing him take off a bumper

Silence

[Singing]

Do me right,

And dub me knight: Samingo.

Is’t not so?

Falstaff

’Tis so.

Silence

Is’t so? Why then, say an old man can do somewhat.

Re-enter Davy

Davy

An’t please your worship, there’s one Pistol come from the court with news.

Falstaff

From the court! let him come in.

Enter Pistol

How now, Pistol!

Pistol

Sir John, God save you!

Falstaff

What wind blew you hither, Pistol?

Pistol

Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. Sweet knight, thou art now one of the greatest men in this realm.

Silence

By’r lady, I think a’ be, but goodman Puff of Barson.

Pistol

Puff!

Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base!

Sir John, I am thy Pistol and thy friend,

And helter-skelter have I rode to thee,

And tidings do I bring and lucky joys

And golden times and happy news of price.

Falstaff

I pray thee now, deliver them like a man of this world.

Pistol

A foutre for the world and worldlings base!

I speak of Africa and golden joys.

Falstaff

O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news?

Let King Cophetua know the truth thereof.

Silence

And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John.

Singing

Pistol

Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons?

And shall good news be baffled?

Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies’ lap.

Silence

Honest gentleman, I know not your breeding.

Pistol

Why then, lament therefore.

Shallow

Give me pardon, sir: if, sir, you come with news from the court, I take it there’s but two ways, either to utter them, or to conceal them. I am, sir, under the king, in some authority.

Pistol

Under which king, Besonian? speak, or die.

Shallow

Under King Harry.

Pistol

Harry the Fourth? or Fifth?

Shallow

Harry the Fourth.

Pistol

A foutre for thine office!

Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is king;

Harry the Fifth’s the man. I speak the truth:

When Pistol lies, do this; and fig me, like

The bragging Spaniard.

Falstaff

What, is the old king dead?

Pistol

As nail in door: the things I speak are just.

Falstaff

Away, Bardolph! saddle my horse. Master Robert

Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the land,

’tis thine. Pistol, I will double-charge thee with dignities.

Bardolph

O joyful day!

I would not take a knighthood for my fortune.

Pistol

What! I do bring good news.

Falstaff

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. Blessed are they that have been my friends; and woe to my lord chief-justice!

Pistol

Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also!

‘Where is the life that late I led?’ say they:

Why, here it is; welcome these pleasant days!

Exeunt

SCENE IV. LONDON. A STREET.

Enter Beadles, dragging in Hostess Quickly and Doll Tearsheet

Mistress Quickly

No, thou arrant knave; I would to God that I might die, that I might have thee hanged: thou hast drawn my shoulder out of joint.

First Beadle

The constables have delivered her over to me; and she shall have whipping-cheer enough, I warrant her: there hath been a man or two lately killed about her.

Doll Tearsheet

Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie. Come on; I ’ll tell thee what, thou damned tripe-visaged rascal, an the child I now go with do miscarry, thou wert better thou hadst struck thy mother, thou paper-faced villain.

Mistress Quickly

O the Lord, that Sir John were come! he would make this a bloody day to somebody. But I pray God the fruit of her womb miscarry!

First Beadle

If it do, you shall have a dozen of cushions again; you have but eleven now. Come, I charge you both go with me; for the man is dead that you and Pistol beat amongst you.

Doll Tearsheet

I’ll tell you what, you thin man in a censer, I will have you as soundly swinged for this,— you blue-bottle rogue, you filthy famished correctioner, if you be not swinged, I’ll forswear half-kirtles.

First Beadle

Come, come, you she knight-errant, come.

Mistress Quickly

O God, that right should thus overcome might!

Well, of sufferance comes ease.

Doll Tearsheet

Come, you rogue, come; bring me to a justice.

Mistress Quickly

Ay, come, you starved blood-hound.

Doll Tearsheet

Goodman death, goodman bones!

Mistress Quickly

Thou atomy, thou!

Doll Tearsheet

Come, you thin thing; come you rascal.

First Beadle

Very well.

Exeunt

SCENE V. A PUBLIC PLACE NEAR WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Enter two Grooms, strewing rushes

First Groom

More rushes, more rushes.

Second Groom

The trumpets have sounded twice.

First Groom

’Twill be two o’clock ere they come from the coronation: dispatch, dispatch.

Exeunt

Enter Falstaff, Shallow, Pistol, Bardolph, and Page

Falstaff

Stand here by me, Master Robert Shallow; I will make the king do you grace: I will leer upon him as a’ comes by; and do but mark the countenance that he will give me.

Pistol

God bless thy lungs, good knight.

Falstaff

Come here, Pistol; stand behind me. O, if I had had time to have made new liveries, I would have bestowed the thousand pound I borrowed of you. But ’tis no matter; this poor show doth better: this doth infer the zeal I had to see him.

Shallow

It doth so.

Falstaff

It shows my earnestness of affection,—

Shallow

It doth so.

Falstaff

My devotion,—

Shallow

It doth, it doth, it doth.

Falstaff

As it were, to ride day and night; and not to deliberate, not to remember, not to have patience to shift me,—

Shallow

It is best, certain.

Falstaff

But to stand stained with travel, and sweating with desire to see him; thinking of nothing else, putting all affairs else in oblivion, as if there were nothing else to be done but to see him.

Pistol

’Tis ‘semper idem,’ for ‘obsque hoc nihil est:’

’tis all in every part.

Shallow

’Tis so, indeed.

Pistol

My knight, I will inflame thy noble liver,

And make thee rage.

Thy Doll, and Helen of thy noble thoughts,

Is in base durance and contagious prison;

Haled thither

By most mechanical and dirty hand:

Rouse up revenge from ebon den with fell

Alecto’s snake,

For Doll is in. Pistol speaks nought but truth.

Falstaff

I will deliver her.

Shouts within, and the trumpets sound

Pistol

There roar’d the sea, and trumpet-clangor sounds.

Enter King Henry V and his train, the Lord Chief- Justice among them

Falstaff

God save thy grace, King Hal! my royal Hal!

Pistol

The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal imp of fame!

Falstaff

God save thee, my sweet boy!

King Henry IV

My lord chief-justice, speak to that vain man.

Lord Chief-Justice

Have you your wits? know you what ’tis to speak?

Falstaff

My king! my Jove! I speak to thee, my heart!

King Henry IV

I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers;

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 awaked, I do despise my dream.

Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace;

Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gape

For thee thrice wider than for other men.

Reply not to me with a fool-born jest:

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.

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,

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:

And, as we hear you do reform yourselves,

We will, according to your strengths and qualities,

Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord,

To see perform’d the tenor of our word. Set on.

Exeunt King Henry V, & c

Falstaff

Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pound.

Shallow

Yea, marry, Sir John; which I beseech you to let me have home with me.

Falstaff

That can hardly be, Master Shallow. Do not you grieve at this; I shall be sent for in private to him: look you, he must seem thus to the world: fear not your advancements; I will be the man yet that shall make you great.

Shallow

I cannot well perceive how, unless you should give me your doublet and stuff me out with straw. I beseech you, good Sir John, let me have five hundred of my thousand.

Falstaff

Sir, I will be as good as my word: this that you heard was but a colour.

Shallow

A colour that I fear you will die in, Sir John.

Falstaff

Fear no colours: go with me to dinner: come, Lieutenant Pistol; come, Bardolph: I shall be sent for soon at night.

Re-enter Prince John of Lancaster, the Lord Chief-Justice; Officers with them

Lord Chief-Justice

Go, carry Sir John Falstaff to the Fleet:

Take all his company along with him.

Falstaff

My lord, my lord,—

Lord Chief-Justice

I cannot now speak: I will hear you soon.

Take them away.

Pistol

Si fortune me tormenta, spero contenta.

Exeunt all but Prince John and the Lord Chief-Justice

Lancaster

I like this fair proceeding of the king’s:

He hath intent his wonted followers

Shall all be very well provided for;

But all are banish’d till their conversations

Appear more wise and modest to the world.

Lord Chief-Justice

And so they are.

Lancaster

The king hath call’d his parliament, my lord.

Lord Chief-Justice

He hath.

Lancaster

I will lay odds that, ere this year expire,

We bear our civil swords and native fire

As far as France: I beard a bird so sing,

Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king.

Come, will you hence?

Exeunt

EPILOGUE

Spoken by a Dancer

First my fear; then my courtesy; last my speech. My fear is, your displeasure; my courtesy, my duty; and my speech, to beg your pardons. 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 meant 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. 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 would 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. 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 any thing 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.

The Life of King Henry the Fifth

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

PROLOGUE

SCENE I. LONDON. AN ANTE-CHAMBER IN THE KING’S PALACE.

SCENE II. THE SAME. THE PRESENCE CHAMBER.

ACT II

PROLOGUE

SCENE I. LONDON. A STREET.

SCENE II. SOUTHAMPTON. A COUNCIL-CHAMBER.

SCENE III. LONDON. BEFORE A TAVERN.

SCENE IV. FRANCE. THE KING’S PALACE.

ACT III

PROLOGUE

SCENE I. FRANCE. BEFORE HARFLEUR.

SCENE II. THE SAME.

SCENE III. THE SAME. BEFORE THE GATES.

SCENE IV. THE FRENCH KING’S PALACE.

SCENE V. THE SAME.

SCENE VI. THE ENGLISH CAMP IN PICARDY.

SCENE VII. THE FRENCH CAMP, NEAR AGINCOURT:

ACT IV

PROLOGUE

SCENE I. THE ENGLISH CAMP AT AGINCOURT.

SCENE II. THE FRENCH CAMP.

SCENE III. THE ENGLISH CAMP.

SCENE IV. THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE VI. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE VII. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE VIII. BEFORE KING HENRY’S PAVILION.

ACT V

PROLOGUE

SCENE I. FRANCE. THE ENGLISH CAMP.

SCENE II. FRANCE. A ROYAL PALACE.

EPILOGUE

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

King Henry V,

Dukes of Gloucester and Bedford, brothers of the King.

Duke of Exeter, uncle to the King.

Duke of York, cousin to the King.

Earls of Salisbury, Westmoreland, Warwick and Cambridge.

Archbishop of Canterbury.

Bishop of Ely.

Lord Scroop.

Sir Thomas Grey.

Sir Thomas Erpingham.

Gower, Fluellen, Macmorris and Jamy, officers in the English army.

John Bates, Alexander Court, Michael Williams, soldiers in the English army.

Pistol, Nym, Bardolph.

Hostess Quickly, wife of Pistol.

Boy,

Herald,

Charles the Sixth, King Of France,

Louis, the Dauphin,

Dukes of Burgundy, Orleans and Bourbon.

The Constable of France.

Rambures and Grandpre, French Lords.

Governor of Harfleur.

Montjoy, a French herald.

Queen Isabel of France.

Katharine, her daughter.

Alice, maid to Katherine.

Chorus,

Ambassadors, Soldiers, Messengers, &.c.

ACT I

PROLOGUE

Enter Chorus

Chorus

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!

Then should the warlike 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, and gentles all,

The flat unraised spirits that have dared

On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth

So great an object: can this cockpit hold

The vasty fields of France? or may we cram

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;

And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,

On your imaginary forces work.

Suppose within the girdle of these walls

Are now confined two mighty monarchies,

Whose high upreared and abutting fronts

The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;

Into a thousand parts divide on man,

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,

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;

Who prologue-like your humble patience pray,

Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.

Exit

SCENE I. LONDON. AN ANTE-CHAMBER IN THE KING’S PALACE.

Enter the Archbishop Of Canterbury, and the Bishop Of Ely

Canterbury

My lord, I’ll tell you; that self bill is urged,

Which in the eleventh year of the last king’s reign

Was like, and had indeed against us pass’d,

But that the scambling and unquiet time

Did push it out of farther question.

Ely

But how, my lord, shall we resist it now?

Canterbury

It must be thought on. If it pass against us,

We lose the better half of our possession:

For all the temporal lands which men devout

By testament have given to the church

Would they strip from us; being valued thus:

As much as would maintain, to the king’s honour,

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.

A hundred almshouses right well supplied;

And to the coffers of the king beside,

A thousand pounds by the year: thus runs the bill.

Ely

This would drink deep.

Canterbury

’Twould drink the cup and all.

Ely

But what prevention?

Canterbury

The king is full of grace and fair regard.

Ely

And a true lover of the holy church.

Canterbury

The courses of his youth promised it not.

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

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;

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

As in this king.

Ely

We are blessed in the change.

Canterbury

Hear him but reason in divinity,

And all-admiring with an inward wish

You would desire the king were made a prelate:

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:

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,

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:

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,

And never noted in him any study,

Any retirement, any sequestration

From open haunts and popularity.

Ely

The strawberry grows underneath the nettle

And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best

Neighbour’d by fruit of baser quality:

And so the prince obscured his contemplation

Under the veil of wildness; which, no doubt,

Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night,

Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty.

Canterbury

It must be so; for miracles are ceased;

And therefore we must needs admit the means

How things are perfected.

Ely

But, my good lord,

How now for mitigation of this bill

Urged by the commons? Doth his majesty

Incline to it, or no?

Canterbury

He seems indifferent,

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

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

Did to his predecessors part withal.

Ely

How did this offer seem received, my lord?

Canterbury

With good acceptance of his majesty;

Save that there was not time enough to hear,

As I perceived his grace would fain have done,

The severals and unhidden passages

Of his true titles to some certain dukedoms

And generally to the crown and seat of France

Derived from Edward, his great-grandfather.

Ely

What was the impediment that broke this off?

Canterbury

The French ambassador upon that instant

Craved audience; and the hour, I think, is come

To give him hearing: is it four o’clock?

Ely

It is.

Canterbury

Then go we in, to know his embassy;

Which I could with a ready guess declare,

Before the Frenchman speak a word of it.

Ely

I’ll wait upon you, and I long to hear it.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME. THE PRESENCE CHAMBER.

Enter King Henry V, Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Warwick, Westmoreland, and Attendants

King Henry V

Where is my gracious Lord of Canterbury?

Exeter

Not here in presence.

King Henry V

Send for him, good uncle.

Westmoreland

Shall we call in the ambassador, my liege?

King Henry V

Not yet, my cousin: we would be resolved,

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

Canterbury

God and his angels guard your sacred throne

And make you long become it!

King Henry V

Sure, we thank you.

My learned lord, we pray you to proceed

And justly and religiously unfold

Why the law Salique that they have in France

Or should, or should not, bar us in our claim:

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

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.

Therefore take heed how you impawn our person,

How you awake our sleeping sword of war:

We charge you, in the name of God, take heed;

For never two such kingdoms did contend

Without much fall of blood; whose guiltless drops

Are every one a woe, a sore complaint

’Gainst him whose wrong gives edge unto the swords

That make such waste in brief mortality.

Under this conjuration, speak, my lord;

For we will hear, note and believe in heart

That what you speak is in your conscience wash’d

As pure as sin with baptism.

Canterbury

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:’

‘No woman shall succeed in Salique land:’

Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze

To be the realm of France, and Pharamond

The founder of this law and female bar.

Yet their own authors faithfully affirm

That the land Salique is in Germany,

Between the floods of Sala and of Elbe;

Where Charles the Great, having subdued the Saxons,

There left behind and settled certain French;

Who, holding in disdain the German women

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.

Then doth it well appear that Salique law

Was not devised for the realm of France:

Nor did the French possess the Salique land

Until four hundred one and twenty years

After defunction of King Pharamond,

Idly supposed the founder of this law;

Who died within the year of our redemption

Four hundred twenty-six; and Charles the Great

Subdued 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,

Did, as heir general, being descended

Of Blithild, which was daughter to King Clothair,

Make claim and title to the crown of France.

Hugh Capet also, who usurped the crown

Of Charles the duke of Lorraine, sole heir male

Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great,

To find his title with some shows of truth,

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

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

That fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother,

Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare,

Daughter to Charles the foresaid duke of Lorraine:

By the which marriage the line of Charles the Great

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

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

Than amply to imbar their crooked titles

Usurp’d from you and your progenitors.

King Henry V

May I with right and conscience make this claim?

Canterbury

The sin upon my head, dread sovereign!

For in the book of Numbers is it writ,

When the man dies, let the inheritance

Descend unto the daughter. Gracious lord,

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 warlike spirit,

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

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,

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-puissant liege

Is in the very May-morn of his youth,

Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises.

Exeter

Your brother kings and monarchs of the earth

Do all expect that you should rouse yourself,

As did the former lions of your blood.

Westmoreland

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

And lie pavilion’d in the fields of France.

Canterbury

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

Will raise your highness such a mighty sum

As never did the clergy at one time

Bring in to any of your ancestors.

King Henry V

We must not only arm to invade the French,

But lay down our proportions to defend

Against the Scot, who will make road upon us

With all advantages.

Canterbury

They of those marches, gracious sovereign,

Shall be a wall sufficient to defend

Our inland from the pilfering borderers.

King Henry V

We do not mean the coursing snatchers only,

But fear the main intendment of the Scot,

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,

With ample and brim fulness of his force,

Galling the gleaned land with hot assays,

Girding with grievous siege castles and towns;

That England, being empty of defence,

Hath shook and trembled at the ill neighbourhood.

Canterbury

She hath been then more fear’d than harm’d, my liege;

For hear her but exampled by herself:

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

The King of Scots; whom she did send to France,

To fill King Edward’s fame with prisoner kings

And make her chronicle as rich with praise

As is the ooze and bottom of the sea

With sunken wreck and sunless treasuries.

Westmoreland

But there’s a saying very old and true,

‘If that you will France win,

Then with Scotland first begin:’

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,

To tear and havoc more than she can eat.

Exeter

It follows then the cat must stay at home:

Yet that is but a crush’d necessity,

Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries,

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,

Put into parts, doth keep in one consent,

Congreeing in a full and natural close,

Like music.

Canterbury

Therefore doth heaven divide

The state of man in divers functions,

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

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,

Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds,

Which pillage they with merry march bring home

To the tent-royal of their emperor;

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

Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate,

The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,

Delivering o’er to executors pale

The lazy yawning drone. I this infer,

That many things, having full reference

To one consent, may work contrariously:

As many arrows, loosed several ways,

Come to one mark; as many ways meet in one town;

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

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.

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.

King Henry V

Call in the messengers sent from the Dauphin.

Exeunt some Attendants

Now are we well resolved; and, by God’s help,

And yours, the noble sinews of our power,

France being ours, we’ll bend it to our awe,

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,

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,

Not worshipp’d with a waxen epitaph.

Enter Ambassadors of France

Now are we well prepared to know the pleasure

Of our fair cousin Dauphin; for we hear

Your greeting is from him, not from the king.

First Ambassador

May’t please your majesty to give us leave

Freely to render what we have in charge;

Or shall we sparingly show you far off

The Dauphin’s meaning and our embassy?

King Henry V

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

Tell us the Dauphin’s mind.

First Ambassador

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.

In answer of which claim, the prince our master

Says that you savour too much of your youth,

And bids you be advised there’s nought in France

That can be with a nimble galliard won;

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

Hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks.

King Henry V

What treasure, uncle?

Exeter

Tennis-balls, my liege.

King Henry V

We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us;

His present and your pains we thank you for:

When we have march’d our rackets to these balls,

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

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.

We never valued 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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Convey them with safe conduct. Fare you well.

Exeunt Ambassadors

Exeter

This was a merry message.

King Henry V

We hope to make the sender blush at it.

Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour

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

Be soon collected and all things thought upon

That may with reasonable swiftness add

More feathers to our wings; for, God before,

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

PROLOGUE

Enter Chorus

Chorus

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:

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,

And hides a sword from hilts unto the point

With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,

Promised to Harry and his followers.

The French, advised by good intelligence

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,

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

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,

If hell and treason hold their promises,

Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton.

Linger your patience on; and we’ll digest

The abuse of distance; force a play:

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.

But, till the king come forth, and not till then,

Unto Southampton do we shift our scene.

Exit

SCENE I. LONDON. A STREET.

Enter Corporal Nym and Lieutenant Bardolph

Bardolph

Well met, Corporal Nym.

Nym

Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph.

Bardolph

What, are Ancient Pistol and you friends yet?

Nym

For my part, I care not: I say little; but when time shall serve, there shall be smiles; but that shall be as it may. I dare not fight; but I will wink and hold out mine iron: it is a simple one; but what though? it will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man’s sword will: and there’s an end.

Bardolph

I will bestow a breakfast to make you friends; and we’ll be all three sworn brothers to France: let it be so, good Corporal Nym.

Nym

Faith, I will live so long as I may, that’s the certain of it; and when I cannot live any longer, I will do as I may: that is my rest, that is the rendezvous of it.

Bardolph

It is certain, corporal, that he is married to Nell Quickly: and certainly she did you wrong; for you were troth-plight to her.

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

Bardolph

Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife: good corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host Pistol!

Pistol

Base tike, call’st thou me host? Now, by this hand,

I swear, I scorn the term; Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers.

Hostess

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.

Bardolph

Good lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here.

Nym

Pish!

Pistol

Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear’d cur of Iceland!

Hostess

Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your sword.

Nym

Will you shog off? I would have you solus.

Pistol

‘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!

I do retort the ‘solus’ in thy bowels;

For I can take, and Pistol’s cock is up,

And flashing fire will follow.

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.

Pistol

O braggart vile and damned furious wight!

The grave doth gape, and doting death is near;

Therefore exhale.

Bardolph

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

Pistol

An oath of mickle might; and fury shall abate.

Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give:

Thy spirits are most tall.

Nym

I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair terms: that is the humour of it.

Pistol

‘Couple a gorge!’

That is the word. I thee defy again.

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,

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 you, 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.

Bardolph

Away, you rogue!

Hostess

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.

Exeunt Hostess and Boy

Bardolph

Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to France together: why the devil should we keep knives to cut one another’s throats?

Pistol

Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food howl on!

Nym

You’ll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting?

Pistol

Base is the slave that pays.

Nym

That now I will have: that’s the humour of it.

Pistol

As manhood shall compound: push home.

They draw

Bardolph

By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I’ll kill him; by this sword, I will.

Pistol

Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.

Bardolph

Corporal Nym, an thou wilt be friends, be friends: an thou wilt not, why, then, be enemies with me too. Prithee, put up.

Nym

I shall have my eight shillings I won of you at betting?

Pistol

A noble shalt thou have, and present pay;

And liquor likewise will I give to thee,

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

Unto the camp, and profits will accrue.

Give me thy hand.

Nym

I shall have my noble?

Pistol

In cash most justly paid.

Nym

Well, then, that’s the humour of’t.

Re-enter Hostess

Hostess

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.

Pistol

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.

Pistol

Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins we will live.

SCENE II. SOUTHAMPTON. A COUNCIL-CHAMBER.

Enter Exeter, Bedford, and Westmoreland

Bedford

’Fore God, his grace is bold, to trust these traitors.

Exeter

They shall be apprehended by and by.

Westmoreland

How smooth and even they do bear themselves!

As if allegiance in their bosoms sat,

Crowned with faith and constant loyalty.

Bedford

The king hath note of all that they intend,

By interception which they dream not of.

Exeter

Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow,

Whom he hath dull’d and cloy’d with gracious favours,

That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell

His sovereign’s life to death and treachery.

Trumpets sound. Enter King Henry V, Scroop, Cambridge, Grey, and Attendants

King Henry V

Now sits the wind fair, and we will aboard.

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,

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.

King Henry V

I doubt not that; since we are well persuaded

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.

Cambridge

Never was monarch better fear’d and loved

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.

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.

King Henry V

We therefore have great cause of thankfulness;

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,

And labour shall refresh itself with hope,

To do your grace incessant services.

King Henry V

We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter,

Enlarge the man committed yesterday,

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

Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind.

King Henry V

O, let us yet be merciful.

Cambridge

So may your highness, and yet punish too.

Grey

Sir,

You show great mercy, if you give him life,

After the taste of much correction.

King Henry V

Alas, your too much love and care of me

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,

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 punished. And now to our French causes:

Who are the late commissioners?

Cambridge

I one, my lord:

Your highness bade me ask for it to-day.

Scroop

So did you me, my liege.

Grey

And I, my royal sovereign.

King Henry V

Then, Richard Earl of Cambridge, there is yours;

There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham; and, sir knight,

Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours:

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

So much complexion? Look ye, how they change!

Their cheeks are paper. Why, what read you there

That hath so cowarded and chased your blood

Out of appearance?

Cambridge

I do confess my fault;

And do submit me to your highness’ mercy.

Grey

Scroop

To which we all appeal.

King Henry V

The mercy that was quick in us but late,

By your own counsel is suppress’d and kill’d:

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,

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

Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspired,

And sworn unto the practises of France,

To kill us here in Hampton: to the which

This knight, no less for bounty bound to us

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,

That almost mightst have coin’d me into gold,

Wouldst thou have practised on me for thy use,

May it be possible, that foreign hire

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 and white, my eye will scarcely see it.

Treason and murder ever kept together,

As two yoke-devils sworn to either’s purpose,

Working so grossly in a natural cause,

That admiration did not whoop at them:

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

Hath got the voice in hell for excellence:

All other devils that suggest by treasons

Do botch and bungle up damnation

With patches, colours, and with forms being fetch’d

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.

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

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?

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,

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:

And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot,

To mark the full-fraught man and best indued

With some suspicion. I will weep for thee;

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 practises!

Exeter

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.

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;

Which I beseech your highness to forgive,

Although my body pay the price of it.

Cambridge

For me, the gold of France did not seduce;

Although I did admit it as a motive

The sooner to effect what I intended:

But God be thanked for prevention;

Which I in sufferance heartily will rejoice,

Beseeching God and you to pardon me.

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:

My fault, but not my body, pardon, sovereign.

King Henry V

God quit you in his mercy! Hear your sentence.

You have conspired against our royal person,

Join’d with an enemy proclaim’d and from his coffers

Received 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

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

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

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,

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.

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:

No king of England, if not king of France.

Exeunt

SCENE III. LONDON. BEFORE A TAVERN.

Enter Pistol, Hostess, Nym, Bardolph, and Boy

Hostess

Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.

Pistol

No; for my manly heart doth yearn.

Bardolph, be blithe: Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins:

Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,

And we must yearn therefore.

Bardolph

Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is, either in heaven or in hell!

Hostess

Nay, sure, he’s not in hell: he’s in Arthur’s bosom, if ever man went to Arthur’s bosom. A’ made a finer end and went away an it had been any christom child; a’ parted even just between twelve and one, even at the turning o’ the tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets and play with flowers and smile upon his fingers’ ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a’ babbled of green fields. ‘How now, sir John!’ quoth I ‘what, man! be o’ good cheer.’ So a’ cried out ‘God, God, God!’ three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him a’ should not think of God; I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So a’ bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone; then I felt to his knees, and they were as cold as any stone, and so upward and upward, and all was as cold as any stone.

Nym

They say he cried out of sack.

Hostess

Ay, that a’ did.

Bardolph

And of women.

Hostess

Nay, that a’ did not.

Boy

Yes, that a’ did; and said they were devils incarnate.

Hostess

A’ could never abide carnation; ’twas a colour he never liked.

Boy

A’ said once, the devil would have him about women.

Hostess

A’ did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he was rheumatic, and talked of the whore of Babylon.

Boy

Do you not remember, a’ saw a flea stick upon Bardolph’s nose, and a’ said it was a black soul burning in hell-fire?

Bardolph

Well, the fuel is gone that maintained that fire: that’s all the riches I got in his service.

Nym

Shall we shog? the king will be gone from

Southampton.

Pistol

Come, let’s away. My love, give me thy lips.

Look to my chattels and my movables:

Let senses rule; the word is ‘Pitch and Pay:’

Trust none;

For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes,

And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck:

Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor.

Go, clear thy c rystals. 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.

Pistol

Touch her soft mouth, and march.

Bardolph

Farewell, hostess.

Kissing her

Nym

I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; but, adieu.

Pistol

Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee command.

Hostess

Farewell; adieu.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. FRANCE. THE KING’S PALACE.

Flourish. Enter the French King, the Dauphin, the Dukes of Berri and Bretagne, the Constable, and others

King Of France

Thus comes 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 of Bretagne,

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;

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

Left by the fatal and neglected English

Upon our fields.

Dauphin

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,

But that defences, musters, preparations,

Should be maintain’d, assembled and collected,

As were a war in expectation.

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:

For, my good liege, she is so idly king’d,

Her sceptre so fantastically borne

By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth,

That fear attends her not.

Constable

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,

How modest in exception, and withal

How terrible in constant resolution,

And you shall find his vanities forespent

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.

Dauphin

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:

So the proportions of defence are fill’d;

Which of a weak or niggardly projection

Doth, like a miser, spoil his coat with scanting

A little cloth.

King Of France

Think we King Harry strong;

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:

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;

Whiles that his mountain sire, on mountain standing,

Up in the air, crown’d with the golden sun,

Saw his heroical seed, and smiled to see him,

Mangle the work of nature and deface

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.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

Ambassadors from Harry King of England

Do crave admittance to your majesty.

King Of France

We’ll give them present audience. Go, and bring them.

Exeunt Messenger and certain Lords

You see this chase is hotly follow’d, friends.

Dauphin

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:

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin

As self-neglecting.

Re-enter Lords, with Exeter and train

King Of France

From our brother England?

Exeter

From him; and thus he greets your majesty.

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

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,

Pick’d from the worm-holes of long-vanish’d days,

Nor from the dust of old oblivion raked,

He sends you this most memorable line,

In every branch truly demonstrative;

Willing to overlook this pedigree:

And when you find him evenly derived

From his most famed of famous ancestors,

Edward the Third, he bids you then resign

Your crown and kingdom, indirectly held

From him the native and true challenger.

King Of France

Or else what follows?

Exeter

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,

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

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,

That shall be swallow’d in this controversy.

This is his claim, his threatening and my message;

Unless the Dauphin be in presence here,

To whom expressly I bring greeting too.

King Of France

For us, we will consider of this further:

To-morrow shall you bear our full intent

Back to our brother England.

Dauphin

For the Dauphin,

I stand here for him: what to him from England?

Exeter

Scorn and defiance; slight regard, contempt,

And any thing that may not misbecome

The mighty sender, doth he prize you at.

Thus says my king; an’ if your father’s highness

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

Shall chide your trespass and return your mock

In second accent of his ordnance.

Dauphin

Say, if my father render fair return,

It is against my will; for I desire

Nothing but odds with England: to that end,

As matching to his youth and vanity,

I did present him with the Paris balls.

Exeter

He’ll make your Paris Louvre shake for it,

Were it the mistress-court of mighty Europe:

And, be assured, you’ll find a difference,

As we his subjects have in wonder found,

Between the promise of his greener days

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.

King Of France

To-morrow shall you know our mind at full.

Exeter

Dispatch us with all speed, lest that our king

Come here himself to question our delay;

For he is footed in this land already.

King Of France

You shall be soon dispatch’s with fair conditions:

A night is but small breath and little pause

To answer matters of this consequence.

Flourish. Exeunt

ACT III

PROLOGUE

Enter Chorus

Chorus

Thus with imagined 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

Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet

With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning:

Play with your fancies, and in them behold

Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;

Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give

To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,

Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,

Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea,

Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but think

You stand upon the ravage and behold

A city on the inconstant billows dancing;

For so appears this fleet majestical,

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,

Either past or not arrived to pith and puissance;

For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d

With one appearing hair, that will not follow

These cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?

Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege;

Behold the ordnance on their carriages,

With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur.

Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back;

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

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.

Alarum. Enter King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Gloucester, and Soldiers, with scaling-ladders

King Henry V

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:

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;

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let pry through the portage of the head

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled rock

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 sheathed their swords for lack of argument:

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest

That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,

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;

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:

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

Bardolph

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.

Pistol

The plain-song is most just: for humours do abound:

Knocks go and come; God’s vassals drop and die;

And sword and shield,

In bloody field,

Doth win immortal fame.

Boy

Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.

Pistol

And I:

If wishes would prevail with me,

My purpose should not fail with me,

But thither would I hie.

Boy

As duly, but not as truly,

As bird doth sing on bough.

Enter Fluellen

Fluellen

Up to the breach, you dogs! avaunt, you cullions!

Driving them forward

Pistol

Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould.

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.

Exeunt all but Boy

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 antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, he is white-livered and red-faced; by the means whereof a’ faces it out, but fights not. For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword; by the means whereof a’ breaks words, and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, he hath heard that men of few words are the best men; and therefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest a’ should be thought a coward: but his few bad words are matched with as few good deeds; for a’ never broke any man’s head but his own, and that was against a post when he was drunk. They will steal 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

Re-enter Fluellen, Gower following

Gower

Captain Fluellen, you must come presently to the mines; the Duke of Gloucester would speak with you.

Fluellen

To the mines! tell you the duke, it is not so good to come to the mines; for, look you, the mines is not according to the disciplines of the war: the concavities of it is not sufficient; for, look you, the athversary, you may discuss unto the duke, look you, is digt himself four yard under the countermines: by Cheshu, I think a’ will plough up all, if there is not better directions.

Gower

The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the order of the siege is given, is altogether directed by an Irishman, a very valiant gentleman, i’ faith.

Fluellen

It is Captain Macmorris, is it not?

Gower

I think it be.

Fluellen

By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world: I will verify as much in his beard: be has no more directions in the true disciplines of the wars, look you, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog.

Enter Macmorris and Captain Jamy

Gower

Here a’ comes; and the Scots captain, Captain Jamy, with him.

Fluellen

Captain Jamy is a marvellous falourous gentleman, that is certain; and of great expedition and knowledge in th’ aunchient wars, upon my particular knowledge of his directions: by Cheshu, he will maintain his argument as well as any military man in the world, in the disciplines of the pristine wars of the Romans.

Jamy

I say gud-day, Captain Fluellen.

Fluellen

God-den to your worship, good Captain James.

Gower

How now, Captain Macmorris! have you quit the mines? have the pioneers given o’er?

Macmorris

By Chrish, la! tish ill done: the work ish give over, the trompet sound the retreat. By my hand, I swear, and my father’s soul, the work ish ill done; it ish give over: I would have blowed up the town, so Chrish save me, la! in an hour: O, tish ill done, tish ill done; by my hand, tish ill done!

Fluellen

Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will you voutsafe me, look you, a few disputations with you, as partly touching or concerning the disciplines of the war, the Roman wars, in the way of argument, look you, and friendly communication; partly to satisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, look you, of my mind, as touching the direction of the military discipline; that is the point.

Jamy

It sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud captains bath: and I sall quit you with gud leve, as I may pick occasion; that sall I, marry.

Macmorris

It is no time to discourse, so Chrish save me: the day is hot, and the weather, and the wars, and the king, and the dukes: it is no time to discourse. The town is beseeched, and the trumpet call us to the breach; and we talk, and, be Chrish, do nothing: ’tis shame for us all: so God sa’ me, ’tis shame to stand still; it is shame, by my hand: and there is throats to be cut, and works to be done; and there ish nothing done, so Chrish sa’ me, la!

Jamy

By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine take themselves to slomber, ay’ll de gud service, or ay’ll lig i’ the grund for it; ay, or go to death; and ay’ll pay ’t as valourously as I may, that sall I suerly do, that is the breff and the long. Marry, I wad full fain hear some question ’tween you tway.

Fluellen

Captain Macmorris, I think, look you, under your correction, there is not many of your nation —

Macmorris

Of my nation! What ish my nation? Ish a villain, and a bastard, and a knave, and a rascal. What ish my nation? Who talks of my nation?

Fluellen

Look you, if you take the matter otherwise than is meant, Captain Macmorris, peradventure I shall think you do not use me with that affability as in discretion you ought to use me, look you: being as good a man as yourself, both in the disciplines of war, and in the derivation of my birth, and in other particularities.

Macmorris

I do not know you so good a man as myself: so

Chrish save me, I will cut off your head.

Gower

Gentlemen both, you will mistake each other.

Jamy

A! that’s a foul fault.

A parley sounded

Gower

The town sounds a parley.

Fluellen

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 war; and there is an end.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE SAME. BEFORE THE GATES.

The Governor and some Citizens on the walls; the English forces below. Enter King Henry and his train

King Henry V

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

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

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

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,

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

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

As send precepts to the leviathan

To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur,

Take pity of your town and of your people,

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.

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,

And their most reverend heads dash’d to the walls,

Your naked infants spitted upon pikes,

Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused

Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry

At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen.

What say you? will you yield, and this avoid,

Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy’d?

Governor

Our expectation hath this day an end:

The Dauphin, whom of succors we entreated,

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;

For we no longer are defensible.

King Henry V

Open your gates. Come, uncle Exeter,

Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain,

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.

To-night in Harfleur we will be your guest;

To-morrow for the march are we addrest.

Flourish. The King and his train enter the town

SCENE IV. THE FRENCH KING’S PALACE.

Enter Katharine and Alice

Katharine

Alice, tu as ete en Angleterre, et tu parles bien le langage.

Alice

Un peu, madame.

Katharine

Je te prie, m’enseignez: il faut que j’apprenne a parler. Comment appelez-vous la main en Anglois?

Alice

La main? elle est appelee de hand.

Katharine

De hand. Et les doigts?

Alice

Les doigts? ma foi, j’oublie les doigts; mais je me souviendrai. Les doigts? je pense qu’ils sont appeles de fingres; oui, de fingres.

Katharine

La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres. Je pense que je suis le bon ecolier; j’ai gagne deux mots d’Anglois vitement. Comment appelez-vous les ongles?

Alice

Les ongles? nous les appelons de nails.

Katharine

De nails. Ecoutez; dites-moi, si je parle bien: de hand, de fingres, et de nails.

Alice

C’est bien dit, madame; il est fort bon Anglois.

Katharine

Dites-moi l’Anglois pour le bras.

Alice

De arm, madame.

Katharine

Et le coude?

Alice

De elbow.

Katharine

De elbow. Je m’en fais la repetition de tous les mots que vous m’avez appris des a present.

Alice

Il est trop difficile, madame, comme je pense.

Katharine

Excusez-moi, Alice; ecoutez: de hand, de fingres, de nails, de arma, de bilbow.

Alice

De elbow, madame.

Katharine

O Seigneur Dieu, je m’en oublie! de elbow. Comment appelez-vous le col?

Alice

De neck, madame.

Katharine

De nick. Et le menton?

Alice

De chin.

Katharine

De sin. Le col, de nick; de menton, de sin.

Alice

Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en verite, vous prononcez les mots aussi droit que les natifs d’Angleterre.

Katharine

Je ne doute point d’apprendre, par la grace de Dieu, et en peu de temps.

Alice

N’avez vous pas deja oublie ce que je vous ai enseigne?

Katharine

Non, je reciterai a vous promptement: de hand, de fingres, de mails —

Alice

De nails, madame.

Katharine

De nails, de arm, de ilbow.

Alice

Sauf votre honneur, de elbow.

Katharine

Ainsi dis-je; de elbow, de nick, et de sin. Comment appelez-vous le pied et la robe?

Alice

De foot, madame; et de coun.

Katharine

De foot et de coun! O Seigneur Dieu! ce sont mots de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et impudique, et non pour les dames d’honneur d’user: je ne voudrais prononcer ces mots devant les seigneurs de France pour tout le monde. Foh! le foot et le coun! Neanmoins, je reciterai une autre fois ma lecon ensemble: de hand, de fingres, de nails, de arm, de elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun.

Alice

Excellent, madame!

Katharine

C’est assez pour une fois: allons-nous a diner.

Exeunt

SCENE V. THE SAME.

Enter the King Of France, the Dauphin, the Duke oF Bourbon, the Constable Of France, and others

King Of France

’Tis certain he hath pass’d the river Somme.

Constable

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.

Dauphin

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,

And overlook their grafters?

Bourbon

Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!

Mort de ma vie! if they march along

Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom,

To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm

In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.

Constable

Dieu de batailles! where have they this mettle?

Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull,

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?

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

Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields!

Poor we may call them in their native lords.

Dauphin

By faith and honour,

Our madams mock at us, and plainly say

Our mettle is bred out and they will give

Their bodies to the lust of English youth

To new-store France with bastard warriors.

Bourbon

They bid us to the English dancing-schools,

And teach lavoltas high and swift corantos;

Saying our grace is only in our heels,

And that we are most lofty runaways.

King Of France

Where is Montjoy the herald? speed him hence:

Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.

Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edged

More sharper than your swords, hie to the field:

Charles Delabreth, high constable of France;

You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri,

Alencon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy;

Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont,

Beaumont, Grandpre, Roussi, and Fauconberg,

Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois;

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:

Go down upon him, you have power enough,

And in a captive chariot into Rouen

Bring him our prisoner.

Constable

This becomes the great.

Sorry am I his numbers are so few,

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.

King Of France

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 Rouen.

Dauphin

Not so, I do beseech your majesty.

King Of France

Be patient, for you shall remain with us.

Now forth, lord constable and princes all,

And quickly bring us word of England’s fall.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. THE ENGLISH CAMP IN PICARDY.

Enter Gower and Fluellen, meeting

Gower

How now, Captain Fluellen! come you from the bridge?

Fluellen

I assure you, there is very excellent services committed at the bridge.

Gower

Is the Duke of Exeter safe?

Fluellen

The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as Agamemnon; and a man that I love and honour with my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my life, and my living, and my uttermost power: he is not-God be praised and blessed!— any hurt in the world; but keeps the bridge most valiantly, with excellent discipline. There is an aunchient lieutenant there at the pridge, I think in my very conscience he is as valiant a man as Mark Antony; and he is a man of no estimation in the world; but did see him do as gallant service.

Gower

What do you call him?

Fluellen

He is called Aunchient Pistol.

Gower

I know him not.

Enter Pistol

Fluellen

Here is the man.

Pistol

Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours:

The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.

Fluellen

Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at his hands.

Pistol

Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart,

And of buxom valour, hath, by cruel fate,

And giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel,

That goddess blind,

That stands upon the rolling restless stone —

Fluellen

By your patience, Aunchient Pistol. Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind; 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.

Pistol

Fortune is Bardolph’s foe, and frowns on him;

For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must a’ be:

A damned death!

Let gallows gape for dog; let man go free

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:

And let not Bardolph’s vital thread be cut

With edge of penny cord and vile reproach:

Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite.

Fluellen

Aunchient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning.

Pistol

Why then, rejoice therefore.

Fluellen

Certainly, aunchient, it is not a thing to rejoice at: for if, look you, he were my brother, I would desire the duke to use his good pleasure, and put him to execution; for discipline ought to be used.

Pistol

Die and be damn’d! and figo for thy friendship!

Fluellen

It is well.

Pistol

The fig of Spain!

Exit

Fluellen

Very good.

Gower

Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal; I remember him now; a bawd, a cutpurse.

Fluellen

I’ll assure you, a’ uttered as brave words at the bridge as you shall see in a summer’s day. But it is very well; what he has spoke to me, that is well, I warrant you, when time is serve.

Gower

Why, ’tis a gull, a fool, a rogue, that now and then goes to the wars, to grace himself at his return into London under the form of a soldier. And such fellows are perfect in the great commanders’ names: and they will learn you by rote where services were done; at such and such a sconce, at such a breach, at such a convoy; who came off bravely, who was shot, who disgraced, what terms the enemy stood on; and this they con perfectly in the phrase of war, which they trick up with new-tuned oaths: and what a beard of the general’s cut and a horrid suit of the camp will do among foaming bottles and ale-washed wits, is wonderful to be thought on. But you must learn to know such slanders of the age, or else you may be marvellously mistook.

Fluellen

I tell you what, Captain Gower; I do perceive he is not the man that he would gladly make show to the world he is: if I find a hole in his coat, I will tell him my mind.

Drum heard

Hark you, the king is coming, and I must speak with him from the pridge.

Drum and colours. Enter King Henry, Gloucester, and Soldiers

God pless your majesty!

King Henry V

How now, Fluellen! camest thou from the bridge?

Fluellen

Ay, so please your majesty. The Duke of Exeter has very gallantly maintained the pridge: the French is gone off, look you; and there is gallant and most prave passages; marry, th’ athversary was have possession of the pridge; but he is enforced to retire, and the Duke of Exeter is master of the pridge: I can tell your majesty, the duke is a prave man.

King Henry V

What men have you lost, Fluellen?

Fluellen

The perdition of th’ athversary hath been very great, reasonable great: marry, for my part, I think the duke hath lost never a man, but one that is like to be executed for robbing a church, one Bardolph, if your majesty know the man: his face is all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames o’ fire: and his lips blows at his nose, and it is like a coal of fire, sometimes plue and sometimes red; but his nose is executed and his fire’s out.

King Henry V

We would have all such offenders so cut off: and we give express charge, that in our marches through the country, there be nothing compelled from the villages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the French upbraided or abused in disdainful language; for when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner.

Tucket. Enter Montjoy

Montjoy

You know me by my habit.

King Henry V

Well then I know thee: what shall I know of thee?

Montjoy

My master’s mind.

King Henry V

Unfold it.

Montjoy

Thus says my king: Say thou to Harry of England: Though we seemed dead, we did but sleep: advantage is a better soldier than rashness. Tell him we could have rebuked him at Harfleur, but that we thought not good to bruise an injury till it were full ripe: now we speak upon our cue, and our voice is imperial: England shall repent his folly, see his weakness, and admire our sufferance. Bid him therefore consider of his ransom; which must proportion the losses we have borne, the subjects we have lost, the disgrace we have digested; which in weight to re-answer, his pettiness would bow under. For our losses, his exchequer is too poor; for the effusion of our blood, the muster of his kingdom too faint a number; and for our disgrace, his own person, kneeling at our feet, but a weak and worthless satisfaction. To this add defiance: and tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose condemnation is pronounced. So far my king and master; so much my office.

King Henry V

What is thy name? I know thy quality.

Montjoy

Montjoy.

King Henry V

Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back.

And tell thy king I do not seek him now;

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,

My people are with sickness much enfeebled,

My numbers lessened, and those few I have

Almost no better than so many French;

Who when they were in health, I tell thee, herald,

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.

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,

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,

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;

Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it:

So tell your master.

Montjoy

I shall deliver so. Thanks to your highness.

Exit

Gloucester

I hope they will not come upon us now.

King Henry V

We are in God’s hand, brother, not in theirs.

March to the bridge; it now draws toward night:

Beyond the river we’ll encamp ourselves,

And on to-morrow, bid them march away.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. THE FRENCH CAMP, NEAR AGINCOURT:

Enter the Constable of France, the Lord Rambures, Orleans, Dauphin, with others

Constable

Tut! I have the best armour of the world. Would it were day!

Orleans

You have an excellent armour; but let my horse have his due.

Constable

It is the best horse of Europe.

Orleans

Will it never be morning?

Dauphin

My lord of Orleans, and my lord high constable, you talk of horse and armour?

Orleans

You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world.

Dauphin

What a long night is this! I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. Ca, ha! he bounds from the earth, as if his entrails were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus, chez les narines de feu! When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.

Orleans

He’s of the colour of the nutmeg.

Dauphin

And of the heat of the ginger. It is a beast for Perseus: he is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in Patient stillness while his rider mounts him: he is indeed a horse; and all other jades you may call beasts.

Constable

Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and excellent horse.

Dauphin

It is the prince of palfreys; his neigh is like the bidding of a monarch and his countenance enforces homage.

Orleans

No more, cousin.

Dauphin

Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from the rising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey: it is a theme as fluent as the sea: turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and my horse is argument for them all: ’tis a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and for a sovereign’s sovereign to ride on; and for the world, familiar to us and unknown to lay apart their particular functions and wonder at him. I once writ a sonnet in his praise and began thus: ‘Wonder of nature,’—

Orleans

I have heard a sonnet begin so to one’s mistress.

Dauphin

Then did they imitate that which I composed to my courser, for my horse is my mistress.

Orleans

Your mistress bears well.

Dauphin

Me well; which is the prescript praise and perfection of a good and particular mistress.

Constable

Nay, for methought yesterday your mistress shrewdly shook your back.

Dauphin

So perhaps did yours.

Constable

Mine was not bridled.

Dauphin

O then belike she was old and gentle; and you rode, like a kern of Ireland, your French hose off, and in your straight strossers.

Constable

You have good judgment in horsemanship.

Dauphin

Be warned by me, then: they that ride so and ride not warily, fall into foul bogs. I had rather have my horse to my mistress.

Constable

I had as lief have my mistress a jade.

Dauphin

I tell thee, constable, my mistress wears his own hair.

Constable

I could make as true a boast as that, if I had a sow to my mistress.

Dauphin

‘Le chien est retourne a son propre vomissement, et la truie lavee au bourbier;’ thou makest use of any thing.

Constable

Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress, or any such proverb so little kin to the purpose.

Rambures

My lord constable, the armour that I saw in your tent to-night, are those stars or suns upon it?

Constable

Stars, my lord.

Dauphin

Some of them will fall to-morrow, I hope.

Constable

And yet my sky shall not want.

Dauphin

That may be, for you bear a many superfluously, and

’twere more honour some were away.

Constable

Even as your horse bears your praises; who would trot as well, were some of your brags dismounted.

Dauphin

Would I were able to load him with his desert! Will it never be day? I will trot to-morrow a mile, and my way shall be paved with English faces.

Constable

I will not say so, for fear I should be faced out of my way: but I would it were morning; for I would fain be about the ears of the English.

Rambures

Who will go to hazard with me for twenty prisoners?

Constable

You must first go yourself to hazard, ere you have them.

Dauphin

’Tis midnight; I’ll go arm myself.

Exit

Orleans

The Dauphin longs for morning.

Rambures

He longs to eat the English.

Constable

I think he will eat all he kills.

Orleans

By the white hand of my lady, he’s a gallant prince.

Constable

Swear by her foot, that she may tread out the oath.

Orleans

He is simply the most active gentleman of France.

Constable

Doing is activity; and he will still be doing.

Orleans

He never did harm, that I heard of.

Constable

Nor will do none to-morrow: he will keep that good name still.

Orleans

I know him to be valiant.

Constable

I was told that by one that knows him better than you.

Orleans

What’s he?

Constable

Marry, he told me so himself; and he said he cared not who knew it

Orleans

He needs not; it is no hidden virtue in him.

Constable

By my faith, sir, but it is; never any body saw it but his lackey: ’tis a hooded valour; and when it appears, it will bate.

Orleans

Ill will never said well.

Constable

I will cap that proverb with ‘There is flattery in friendship.’

Orleans

And I will take up that with ‘Give the devil his due.’

Constable

Well placed: there stands your friend for the devil: have at the very eye of that proverb with ‘A pox of the devil.’

Orleans

You are the better at proverbs, by how much ‘A fool’s bolt is soon shot.’

Constable

You have shot over.

Orleans

’Tis not the first time you were overshot.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

My lord high constable, the English lie within fifteen hundred paces of your tents.

Constable

Who hath measured the ground?

Messenger

The Lord Grandpre.

Constable

A valiant and most expert gentleman. Would it were day! Alas, poor Harry of England! he longs not for the dawning as we do.

Orleans

What a wretched and peevish fellow is this king of England, to mope with his fat-brained followers so far out of his knowledge!

Constable

If the English had any apprehension, they would run away.

Orleans

That they lack; for if their heads had any intellectual armour, they could never wear such heavy head-pieces.

Rambures

That island of England breeds very valiant creatures; their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage.

Orleans

Foolish curs, that run winking into the mouth of a Russian bear and have their heads crushed like rotten apples! You may as well say, that’s a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.

Constable

Just, just; and the men do sympathize with the mastiffs in robustious and rough coming on, leaving their wits with their wives: and then give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight like devils.

Orleans

Ay, but these English are shrewdly out of beef.

Constable

Then shall we find to-morrow they have only stomachs to eat and none to fight. Now is it time to arm: come, shall we about it?

Orleans

It is now two o’clock: but, let me see, by ten

We shall have each a hundred Englishmen.

Exeunt

ACT IV

PROLOGUE

Enter Chorus

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

The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fixed sentinels almost receive

The secret whispers of each other’s watch:

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames

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,

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.

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

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

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

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.

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;

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour

Unto the weary and all-watched night,

But freshly looks and over-bears attaint

With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;

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,

Thawing cold fear, that 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;

Where — O for pity!— we shall much disgrace

With four or five most vile and ragged foils,

Right ill-disposed in brawl ridiculous,

The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see,

Minding true things by what their mockeries be.

Exit

SCENE I. THE ENGLISH CAMP AT AGINCOURT.

Enter King Henry, Bedford, and Gloucester

King Henry V

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,

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,

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.

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.

Erpingham

Not so, my liege: this lodging likes me better,

Since I may say ‘Now lie I like a king.’

King Henry V

’Tis good for men to love their present pains

Upon example; so the spirit is eased:

And when the mind is quicken’d, out of doubt,

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;

Do my good morrow to them, and anon

Desire them an to my pavilion.

Gloucester

We shall, my liege.

Erpingham

Shall I attend your grace?

King Henry V

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.

Erpingham

The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!

Exeunt all but King Henry

King Henry V

God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak’st cheerfully.

Enter Pistol

Pistol

Qui va la?

King Henry V

A friend.

Pistol

Discuss unto me; art thou officer?

Or art thou base, common and popular?

King Henry V

I am a gentleman of a company.

Pistol

Trail’st thou the puissant pike?

King Henry V

Even so. What are you?

Pistol

As good a gentleman as the emperor.

King Henry V

Then you are a better than the king.

Pistol

The king’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold,

A lad of life, an imp of fame;

Of parents good, of fist most valiant.

I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string

I love the lovely bully. What is thy name?

King Henry V

Harry le Roy.

Pistol

Le Roy! a Cornish name: art thou of Cornish crew?

King Henry V

No, I am a Welshman.

Pistol

Know’st thou Fluellen?

King Henry V

Yes.

Pistol

Tell him, I’ll knock his leek about his pate

Upon Saint Davy’s day.

King Henry V

Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day, lest he knock that about yours.

Pistol

Art thou his friend?

King Henry V

And his kinsman too.

Pistol

The figo for thee, then!

King Henry V

I thank you: God be with you!

Pistol

My name is Pistol call’d.

Exit

King Henry V

It sorts well with your fierceness.

Enter Fluellen and Gower

Gower

Captain Fluellen!

Fluellen

So! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak lower. It is the greatest admiration of the universal world, when the true and aunchient prerogatifes and laws of the wars is not kept: if you would take the pains but to examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle toddle nor pibble pabble in Pompey’s camp; I warrant you, you shall find the ceremonies of the wars, and the cares of it, and the forms of it, and the sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be otherwise.

Gower

Why, the enemy is loud; you hear him all night.

Fluellen

If the enemy is an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also, look you, be an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb? in your own conscience, now?

Gower

I will speak lower.

Fluellen

I pray you and beseech you that you will.

Exeunt Gower and Fluellen

King Henry V

Though it appear a little out of fashion,

There is much care and valour in this Welshman.

Enter three soldiers, John Bates, Alexander Court, and Michael Williams

Court

Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which breaks yonder?

Bates

I think it be: but we have no great cause to desire the approach of day.

Williams

We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I think we shall never see the end of it. Who goes there?

King Henry V

A friend.

Williams

Under what captain serve you?

King Henry V

Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.

Williams

A good old commander and a most kind gentleman: I pray you, what thinks he of our estate?

King Henry V

Even as men wrecked upon a sand, that look to be washed off the next tide.

Bates

He hath not told his thought to the king?

King Henry V

No; nor it is not meet he should. For, though I speak it to you, I think the king is but a man, as I am: the violet smells to him as it doth to me: the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but human conditions: his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing. Therefore when he sees reason of fears, as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are: yet, in reason, no man should possess him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army.

Bates

He may show what outward courage he will; but I believe, as cold a night as ’tis, he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck; and so I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.

King Henry V

By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king: I think he would not wish himself any where but where he is.

Bates

Then I would he were here alone; so should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men’s lives saved.

King Henry V

I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him here alone, howsoever you speak this to feel other men’s minds: methinks I could not die any where so contented as in the king’s company; his cause being just and his quarrel honourable.

Williams

That’s more than we know.

Bates

Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know enough, if we know we are the kings subjects: if his cause be wrong, our obedience to the king wipes the crime of it out of us.

Williams

But if the cause be not good, the king himself hath a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and arms and heads, chopped off in battle, shall join together at the latter day and cry all ‘We died at such a place;’ some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die well that die in a battle; for how can they charitably dispose of any thing, when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it; whom to disobey were against all proportion of subjection.

King Henry V

So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness by your rule, should be imposed upon his father that sent him: or if a servant, under his master’s command transporting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers and die in many irreconciled iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of the servant’s damnation: but this is not so: the king is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant; for they purpose not their death, when they purpose their services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers: some peradventure have on them the guilt of premeditated and contrived murder; some, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of perjury; some, making the wars their bulwark, that have before gored the gentle bosom of peace with pillage and robbery. Now, if these men have defeated the law and outrun native punishment, though they can outstrip men, they have no wings to fly from God: war is his beadle, war is vengeance; so that here men are punished for before-breach of the king’s laws in now the king’s quarrel: where they feared the death, they have borne life away; and where they would be safe, they perish: then if they die unprovided, no more is the king guilty of their damnation than he was before guilty of those impieties for the which they are now visited. Every subject’s duty is the king’s; but every subject’s soul is his own. Therefore should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every mote out of his conscience: and dying so, death is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained: and in him that escapes, it were not sin to think that, making God so free an offer, He let him outlive that day to see His greatness and to teach others how they should prepare.

Williams

’Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill upon his own head, the king is not to answer it.

Bates

But I do not desire he should answer for me; and yet I determine to fight lustily for him.

King Henry V

I myself heard the king say he would not be ransomed.

Williams

Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully: but when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we ne’er the wiser.

King Henry V

If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after.

Williams

You pay him then. That’s a perilous shot out of an elder-gun, that a poor and private displeasure can do against a monarch! you may as well go about to turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a peacock’s feather. You’ll never trust his word after! come, ’tis a foolish saying.

King Henry V

Your reproof is something too round: I should be angry with you, if the time were convenient.

Williams

Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live.

King Henry V

I embrace it.

Williams

How shall I know thee again?

King Henry V

Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet: then, if ever thou darest acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.

Williams

Here’s my glove: give me another of thine.

King Henry V

There.

Williams

This will I also wear in my cap: if ever thou come to me and say, after to-morrow, ‘This is my glove,’ by this hand, I will take thee a box on the ear.

King Henry V

If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.

Williams

Thou darest as well be hanged.

King Henry V

Well. I will do it, though I take thee in the king’s company.

Williams

Keep thy word: fare thee well.

Bates

Be friends, you English fools, be friends: we have

French quarrels enow, if you could tell how to reckon.

King Henry V

Indeed, the French may lay twenty French crowns to one, they will beat us; for they bear them on their shoulders: but it is no English treason to cut French crowns, and to-morrow the king himself will be a clipper.

Exeunt soldiers

Upon the king! let us our lives, our souls,

Our debts, our careful wives,

Our children and our sins lay on the king!

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!

And what have kings, that privates have not too,

Save ceremony, save general ceremony?

And what art thou, thou idle ceremony?

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!

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

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!

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,

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,

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

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,

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

Sweats in the eye of Phoebus 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,

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.

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.

Enter Erpingham

Erpingham

My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence,

Seek through your camp to find you.

King Henry V

Good old knight,

Collect them all together at my tent:

I’ll be before thee.

Erpingham

I shall do’t, my lord.

Exit

King Henry V

O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts;

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,

O, not to-day, think not upon the fault

My father made in compassing the crown!

I Richard’s body have interred anew;

And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears

Than from it issued 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

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,

Imploring pardon.

Enter Gloucester

Gloucester

My liege!

King Henry V

My brother Gloucester’s voice? Ay;

I know thy errand, I will go with thee:

The day, my friends and all things stay for me.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE FRENCH CAMP.

Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures, and others

Orleans

The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords!

Dauphin

Montez A cheval! My horse! varlet! laquais! ha!

Orleans

O brave spirit!

Dauphin

Via! les eaux et la terre.

Orleans

Rien puis? L’air et la feu.

Dauphin

Ciel, cousin Orleans.

Enter Constable

Now, my lord constable!

Constable

Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh!

Dauphin

Mount them, and make incision in their hides,

That their hot blood may spin in English eyes,

And dout them with superfluous courage, ha!

Rambures

What, will you have them weep our horses’ blood?

How shall we, then, behold their natural tears?

Enter Messenger

Messenger

The English are embattled, you French peers.

Constable

To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse!

Do but behold yon poor and starved band,

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

To give each naked curtle-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.

’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

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.

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 Grandpre

Grandpre

Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?

Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones,

Ill-favouredly become the morning field:

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:

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

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.

Description cannot suit itself in words

To demonstrate the life of such a battle

In life so lifeless as it shows itself.

Constable

They have said their prayers, and they stay for death.

Dauphin

Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits

And give their fasting horses provender,

And after fight with them?

Constable

I stay but for my guidon: to the field!

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 Gloucester, Bedford, Exeter, Erpingham, with all his host: Salisbury and Westmoreland

Gloucester

Where is the king?

Bedford

The king himself is rode to view their battle.

Westmoreland

Of fighting men they have full three score thousand.

Exeter

There’s five to one; besides, they all are fresh.

Salisbury

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,

My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,

And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu!

Bedford

Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck go with thee!

Exeter

Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day:

And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,

For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour.

Exit Salisbury

Bedford

He is full of valour as of kindness;

Princely in both.

Enter the King

Westmoreland

O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those men in England

That do no work to-day!

King Henry V

What’s he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow

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,

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,

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

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

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 called the feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

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,

But he’ll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day: then shall our names.

Familiar in his mouth as household words

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;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember’d;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

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

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Re-enter Salisbury

Salisbury

My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed:

The French are bravely in their battles set,

And will with all expedience charge on us.

King Henry V

All things are ready, if our minds be so.

Westmoreland

Perish the man whose mind is backward now!

King Henry V

Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?

Westmoreland

God’s will! my liege, would you and I alone,

Without more help, could fight this royal battle!

King Henry V

Why, now thou hast unwish’d five thousand men;

Which likes me better than to wish us one.

You know your places: God be with you all!

Tucket. Enter Montjoy

Montjoy

Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,

If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,

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

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.

King Henry V

Who hath sent thee now?

Montjoy

The Constable of France.

King Henry V

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?

The man that once did sell the lion’s skin

While the beast lived, was killed with hunting him.

A many of our bodies shall no doubt

Find native graves; upon the which, I trust,

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 dunghills,

They shall be famed; for there the sun shall greet them,

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,

Break out into a second course of mischief,

Killing in relapse of mortality.

Let me speak proudly: tell the constable

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 —

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

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;

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,

Shall yield them little, tell the constable.

Montjoy

I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well:

Thou never shalt hear herald any more.

Exit

King Henry V

I fear thou’lt once more come again for ransom.

Enter York

York

My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg

The leading of the vaward.

King Henry V

Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away:

And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!

Exeunt

SCENE IV. THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

Alarum. Excursions. Enter Pistol, French Soldier, and Boy

Pistol

Yield, cur!

French Soldier

Je pense que vous etes gentilhomme de bonne qualite.

Pistol

Qualtitie calmie custure me! Art thou a gentleman? what is thy name? discuss.

French Soldier

O Seigneur Dieu!

Pistol

O, Signieur Dew should be a gentleman:

Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark;

O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox,

Except, O signieur, thou do give to me

Egregious ransom.

French Soldier

O, prenez misericorde! ayez pitie de moi!

Pistol

Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys;

Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat

In drops of crimson blood.

French Soldier

Est-il impossible d’echapper la force de ton bras?

Pistol

Brass, cur!

Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat,

Offer’st me brass?

French Soldier

O pardonnez moi!

Pistol

Say’st thou me so? is that a ton of moys?

Come hither, boy: ask me this slave in French

What is his name.

Boy

Ecoutez: comment etes-vous appele?

French Soldier

Monsieur le Fer.

Boy

He says his name is Master Fer.

Pistol

Master Fer! I’ll fer him, and firk him, and ferret him: discuss the same in French unto him.

Boy

I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk.

Pistol

Bid him prepare; for I will cut his throat.

French Soldier

Que dit-il, monsieur?

Boy

Il me commande de vous dire que vous faites vous pret; car ce soldat ici est dispose tout a cette heure de couper votre gorge.

Pistol

Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy,

Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns;

Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword.

French Soldier

O, je vous supplie, pour l’amour de Dieu, me pardonner! Je suis gentilhomme de bonne maison: gardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai deux cents ecus.

Pistol

What are his words?

Boy

He prays you to save his life: he is a gentleman of a good house; and for his ransom he will give you two hundred crowns.

Pistol

Tell him my fury shall abate, and I the crowns will take.

French Soldier

Petit monsieur, que dit-il?

Boy

Encore qu’il est contre son jurement de pardonner aucun prisonnier, neanmoins, pour les ecus que vous l’avez promis, il est content de vous donner la liberte, le franchisement.

French Soldier

Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille remercimens; et je m’estime heureux que je suis tombe entre les mains d’un chevalier, je pense, le plus brave, vaillant, et tres distingue seigneur d’Angleterre.

Pistol

Expound unto me, boy.

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.

Pistol

As I suck blood, I will some mercy show.

Follow me!

Boy

Suivez-vous le grand capitaine.

Exeunt Pistol, and French Soldier

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 any thing 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.

Enter Constable, Orleans, Bourbon, Dauphin, and Rambures

Constable

O diable!

Orleans

O seigneur! le jour est perdu, tout est perdu!

Dauphin

Mort de ma vie! all is confounded, all!

Reproach and everlasting shame

Sits mocking in our plumes. O merchante fortune!

Do not run away.

A short alarum

Constable

Why, all our ranks are broke.

Dauphin

O perdurable shame! let’s stab ourselves.

Be these the wretches that we play’d at dice for?

Orleans

Is this the king we sent to for his ransom?

Bourbon

Shame and eternal shame, nothing but shame!

Let us die in honour: once more back again;

And he that will not follow Bourbon now,

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.

Constable

Disorder, that hath spoil’d us, friend us now!

Let us on heaps go offer up our lives.

Orleans

We are enow yet living in the field

To smother up the English in our throngs,

If any order might be thought upon.

Bourbon

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

King Henry V

Well have we done, thrice valiant countrymen:

But all’s not done; yet keep the French the field.

Exeter

The Duke of York commends him to your majesty.

King Henry V

Lives he, good uncle? thrice within this hour

I saw him down; thrice up again and fighting;

From helmet to the spur all blood he was.

Exeter

In which array, brave soldier, doth he lie,

Larding the plain; and by his bloody side,

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,

And takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes

That bloodily did spawn upon his face;

And cries aloud ‘Tarry, dear cousin Suffolk!

My soul shall thine keep company to heaven;

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 smiled me in the face, raught me his hand,

And, with a feeble gripe, says ‘Dear my lord,

Commend my service to me sovereign.’

So did he turn and over Suffolk’s neck

He threw his wounded arm and kiss’d his lips;

And so espoused to death, with blood he seal’d

A testament of noble-ending love.

The pretty and sweet manner of it forced

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.

King Henry V

I blame you not;

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 reinforced their scatter’d men:

Then every soldier kill his prisoners:

Give the word through.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Enter Fluellen and Gower

Fluellen

Kill the poys and the luggage! ’tis expressly against the law of arms: ’tis as arrant a piece of knavery, mark you now, as can be offer’t; in your conscience, now, is it not?

Gower

’Tis certain there’s not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha’ done this slaughter: besides, they have burned and carried away all that was in the king’s tent; wherefore the king, most worthily, hath caused every soldier to cut his prisoner’s throat. O, ’tis a gallant king!

Fluellen

Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower. What call you the town’s name where Alexander the Pig was born!

Gower

Alexander the Great.

Fluellen

Why, I pray you, is not pig great? the pig, or the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save the phrase is a little variations.

Gower

I think Alexander the Great was born in Macedon; his father was called Philip of Macedon, as I take it.

Fluellen

I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn. I tell you, captain, if you look in the maps of the ’orld, I warrant you sall find, in the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon; and there is also moreover a river at Monmouth: it is called Wye at Monmouth; but it is out of my prains what is the name of the other river; but ’tis all one, ’tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both. If you mark Alexander’s life well, Harry of Monmouth’s life is come after it indifferent well; for there is figures in all things. Alexander, God knows, and you know, in his rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his displeasures, and his indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his best friend, Cleitus.

Gower

Our king is not like him in that: he never killed any of his friends.

Fluellen

It is not well done, mark you now take the tales out of my mouth, ere it is made and finished. I speak but in the figures and comparisons of it: as Alexander killed his friend Cleitus, being in his ales and his cups; so also Harry Monmouth, being in his right wits and his good judgments, turned away the fat knight with the great belly-doublet: he was full of jests, and gipes, and knaveries, and mocks; I have forgot his name.

Gower

Sir John Falstaff.

Fluellen

That is he: I’ll tell you there is good men porn at Monmouth.

Gower

Here comes his majesty.

Alarum. Enter King Henry, and forces; Warwick, Gloucester, Exeter, and others

King Henry V

I was not angry since I came to France

Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald;

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,

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

Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so.

Enter Montjoy

Exeter

Here comes the herald of the French, my liege.

Gloucester

His eyes are humbler than they used to be.

King Henry V

How now! what means this, herald? know’st thou not

That I have fined these bones of mine for ransom?

Comest thou again for ransom?

Montjoy

No, great king:

I come to thee for charitable licence,

That we may wander o’er this bloody field

To look 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;

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!

King Henry V

I tell thee truly, herald,

I know not if the day be ours or no;

For yet a many of your horsemen peer

And gallop o’er the field.

Montjoy

The day is yours.

King Henry V

Praised be God, and not our strength, for it!

What is this castle call’d that stands hard by?

Montjoy

They call it Agincourt.

King Henry V

Then call we this the field of Agincourt,

Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus.

Fluellen

Your grandfather of famous memory, an’t please your majesty, and your great-uncle Edward the Plack Prince of Wales, as I have read in the chronicles, fought a most prave pattle here in France.

King Henry V

They did, Fluellen.

Fluellen

Your majesty says very true: if your majesties is remembered of it, the Welshmen did good service in a garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps; which, your majesty know, to this hour is an honourable badge of the service; and I do believe your majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Tavy’s day.

King Henry V

I wear it for a memorable honour;

For I am Welsh, you know, good countryman.

Fluellen

All the water in Wye cannot wash your majesty’s Welsh plood out of your pody, I can tell you that: God pless it and preserve it, as long as it pleases his grace, and his majesty too!

King Henry V

Thanks, good my countryman.

Fluellen

By Jeshu, I am your majesty’s countryman, I care not who know it; I will confess it to all the ’orld: I need not to be ashamed of your majesty, praised be God, so long as your majesty is an honest man.

King Henry V

God keep me so! Our heralds go with him:

Bring me just notice of the numbers dead

On both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither.

Points to Williams. Exeunt Heralds with Montjoy

Exeter

Soldier, you must come to the king.

King Henry V

Soldier, why wearest thou that glove in thy cap?

Williams

An’t please your majesty, ’tis the gage of one that

I should fight withal, if he be alive.

King Henry V

An Englishman?

Williams

An’t please your majesty, a rascal that swaggered with me last night; who, if alive and ever dare to challenge this glove, I have sworn to take him a box o’ th’ ear: or if I can see my glove in his cap, which he swore, as he was a soldier, he would wear if alive, I will strike it out soundly.

King Henry V

What think you, Captain Fluellen? is it fit this soldier keep his oath?

Fluellen

He is a craven and a villain else, an’t please your majesty, in my conscience.

King Henry V

It may be his enemy is a gentleman of great sort, quite from the answer of his degree.

Fluellen

Though he be as good a gentleman as the devil is, as Lucifer and Belzebub himself, it is necessary, look your grace, that he keep his vow and his oath: if he be perjured, see you now, his reputation is as arrant a villain and a Jacksauce, as ever his black shoe trod upon God’s ground and his earth, in my conscience, la!

King Henry V

Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when thou meetest the fellow.

Williams

So I will, my liege, as I live.

King Henry V

Who servest thou under?

Williams

Under Captain Gower, my liege.

Fluellen

Gower is a good captain, and is good knowledge and literatured in the wars.

King Henry V

Call him hither to me, soldier.

Williams

I will, my liege.

Exit

King Henry V

Here, Fluellen; wear thou this favour for me and stick it in thy cap: when Alencon and myself were down together, I plucked this glove from his helm: if any man challenge this, he is a friend to Alencon, and an enemy to our person; if thou encounter any such, apprehend him, an thou dost me love.

Fluellen

Your grace doo’s me as great honours as can be desired in the hearts of his subjects: I would fain see the man, that has but two legs, that shall find himself aggrieved at this glove; that is all; but I would fain see it once, an please God of his grace that I might see.

King Henry V

Knowest thou Gower?

Fluellen

He is my dear friend, an please you.

King Henry V

Pray thee, go seek him, and bring him to my tent.

Fluellen

I will fetch him.

Exit

King Henry V

My Lord of Warwick, and my brother Gloucester,

Follow Fluellen closely at the heels:

The glove which I have given him for a favour

May haply purchase him a box o’ th’ 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

By his blunt bearing he will keep his word,

Some sudden mischief may arise of it;

For I do know Fluellen valiant

And, touched with choler, hot as gunpowder,

And quickly will return an injury:

Follow and see there be no harm between them.

Go you with me, uncle of Exeter.

Exeunt

SCENE VIII. BEFORE KING HENRY’S PAVILION.

Enter Gower and Williams

Williams

I warrant it is to knight you, captain.

Enter Fluellen

Fluellen

God’s will and his pleasure, captain, I beseech you now, come apace to the king: there is more good toward you peradventure than is in your knowledge to dream of.

Williams

Sir, know you this glove?

Fluellen

Know the glove! I know the glove is glove.

Williams

I know this; and thus I challenge it.

Strikes him

Fluellen

’sblood! an arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England!

Gower

How now, sir! you villain!

Williams

Do you think I’ll be forsworn?

Fluellen

Stand away, Captain Gower; I will give treason his payment into ploughs, I warrant you.

Williams

I am no traitor.

Fluellen

That’s a lie in thy throat. I charge you in his majesty’s name, apprehend him: he’s a friend of the Duke Alencon’s.

Enter Warwick and Gloucester

Warwick

How now, how now! what’s the matter?

Fluellen

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

King Henry V

How now! what’s the matter?

Fluellen

My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, that, look your grace, has struck the glove which your majesty is take out of the helmet of Alencon.

Williams

My liege, this was my glove; here is the fellow of it; and he that I gave it to in change promised to wear it in his cap: I promised to strike him, if he did: I met this man with my glove in his cap, and I have been as good as my word.

Fluellen

Your majesty hear now, saving your majesty’s manhood, what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, lousy knave it is: I hope your majesty is pear me testimony and witness, and will avouchment, that this is the glove of Alencon, that your majesty is give me; in your conscience, now?

King Henry V

Give me thy glove, soldier: look, here is the fellow of it. ’Twas I, indeed, thou promised’st to strike; And thou hast given me most bitter terms.

Fluellen

An please your majesty, let his neck answer for it, if there is any martial law in the world.

King Henry V

How canst thou make me satisfaction?

Williams

All offences, my lord, come from the heart: never came any from mine that might offend your majesty.

King Henry V

It was ourself thou didst abuse.

Williams

Your majesty came not like yourself: you appeared to me but as a common man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness; and what your highness suffered under that shape, I beseech you take it for your own fault and not mine: for had you been as I took you for, I made no offence; therefore, I beseech your highness, pardon me.

King Henry V

Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with crowns,

And give it to this fellow. Keep it, fellow;

And wear it for an honour in thy cap

Till I do challenge it. Give him the crowns:

And, captain, you must needs be friends with him.

Fluellen

By this day and this light, the fellow has mettle enough in his belly. Hold, there is twelve pence for you; and I pray you to serve Got, and keep you out of prawls, and prabbles’ and quarrels, and dissensions, and, I warrant you, it is the better for you.

Williams

I will none of your money.

Fluellen

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 silling, I warrant you, or I will change it.

Enter an English Herald

King Henry V

Now, herald, are the dead number’d?

Herald

Here is the number of the slaughter’d French.

King Henry V

What prisoners of good sort are taken, uncle?

Exeter

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.

King Henry V

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,

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,

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:

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 Guichard Dolphin,

John Duke of Alencon, Anthony Duke of Brabant,

The brother of the Duke of Burgundy,

And Edward Duke of Bar: of lusty earls,

Grandpre and Roussi, Fauconberg and Foix,

Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale.

Here was a royal fellowship of death!

Where is the number of our English dead?

Herald shews him another paper

Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk,

Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire:

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,

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!

Exeter

’Tis wonderful!

King Henry V

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

Which is his only.

Fluellen

Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to tell how many is killed?

King Henry V

Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgement,

That God fought for us.

Fluellen

Yes, my conscience, he did us great good.

King Henry V

Do we all holy rites;

Let there be sung ‘Non nobis’ and ‘Te Deum;’

The dead with charity enclosed in clay:

And then to Calais; and to England then:

Where ne’er from France arrived more happy men.

Exeunt

ACT V

PROLOGUE

Enter Chorus

Chorus

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,

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

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

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;

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;

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!

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 Caesar in:

As, by a lower but loving likelihood,

Were now the general of our gracious empress,

As in good time he may, from Ireland coming,

Bringing rebellion broached on his sword,

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

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 chanced,

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. THE ENGLISH CAMP.

Enter Fluellen and Gower

Gower

Nay, that’s right; but why wear you your leek today?

Saint Davy’s day is past.

Fluellen

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 world 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 bid me eat my leek: it was in place where I could not breed no contention with him; but I will be so bold 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.

Enter Pistol

Gower

Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock.

Fluellen

’Tis no matter for his swellings nor his turkey-cocks. God pless you, Aunchient Pistol! you scurvy, lousy knave, God pless you!

Pistol

Ha! art thou bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan,

To have me fold up Parca’s fatal web?

Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.

Fluellen

I peseech you heartily, scurvy, lousy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek: because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections and your appetites and your digestions doo’s not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it.

Pistol

Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.

Fluellen

There is one goat for you.

Strikes him

Will you be so good, scauld knave, as eat it?

Pistol

Base Trojan, thou shalt die.

Fluellen

You say very true, scauld knave, when God’s will is: I will desire you to live in the mean time, and eat your victuals: come, there is sauce for it.

Strikes him

You called me yesterday mountain-squire; but I will make you to-day a squire of low degree. I pray you, fall to: if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.

Gower

Enough, captain: you have astonished him.

Fluellen

I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or I will peat his pate four days. Bite, I pray you; it is good for your green wound and your ploody coxcomb.

Pistol

Must I bite?

Fluellen

Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and out of question too, and ambiguities.

Pistol

By this leek, I will most horribly revenge: I eat and eat, I swear —

Fluellen

Eat, I pray you: will you have some more sauce to your leek? there is not enough leek to swear by.

Pistol

Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see I eat.

Fluellen

Much good do you, scauld knave, heartily. Nay, pray you, throw none away; the skin is good for your broken coxcomb. When you take occasions to see leeks hereafter, I pray you, mock at ’em; that is all.

Pistol

Good.

Fluellen

Ay, leeks is good: hold you, there is a groat to heal your pate.

Pistol

Me a groat!

Fluellen

Yes, verily and in truth, you shall take it; or I have another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat.

Pistol

I take thy groat in earnest of revenge.

Fluellen

If I owe you any thing, I will pay you in cudgels: you shall be a woodmonger, and buy nothing of me but cudgels. God b’ wi’ you, and keep you, and heal your pate.

Exit

Pistol

All hell shall stir for this.

Gower

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 avouch 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

Pistol

Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now?

News have I, that my Nell is dead i’ the spital

Of malady of France;

And there my rendezvous is quite cut off.

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:

And patches will I get unto these cudgell’d scars,

And swear I got them in the Gallia wars.

Exit

SCENE II. FRANCE. A ROYAL PALACE.

Enter, at one door King Henry, Exeter, Bedford, Gloucester, Warwick, Westmoreland, and other Lords; at another, the French King, Queen Isabel, the Princess Katharine, Alice and other Ladies; the Duke of Burgundy, and his train

King Henry V

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,

By whom this great assembly is contrived,

We do salute you, Duke of Burgundy;

And, princes French, and peers, health to you all!

King Of France

Right joyous are we to behold your face,

Most worthy brother England; fairly met:

So are you, princes English, every one.

Queen Isabel

So happy be the issue, brother England,

Of this good day and of this gracious meeting,

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:

The venom of such looks, we fairly hope,

Have lost their quality, and that this day

Shall change all griefs and quarrels into love.

King Henry V

To cry amen to that, thus we appear.

Queen Isabel

You English princes all, I do salute you.

Burgundy

My duty to you both, on equal love,

Great Kings of France and England! That I have labour’d,

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

That, face to face and royal eye to eye,

You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me,

If I demand, before this royal view,

What rub or what impediment there is,

Why that the naked, poor and mangled Peace,

Dear nurse of arts and joyful births,

Should not in this best garden of the world

Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage?

Alas, she hath from France too long been chased,

And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps,

Corrupting in its own fertility.

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

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

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,

The sciences that should become our country;

But grow like savages,— as soldiers will

That nothing do but meditate on blood,—

To swearing and stern looks, diffused attire

And every thing that seems unnatural.

Which to reduce into our former favour

You are assembled: and my speech entreats

That I may know the let, why gentle Peace

Should not expel these inconveniences

And bless us with her former qualities.

King Henry V

If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the peace,

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 tenors and particular effects

You have enscheduled briefly in your hands.

Burgundy

The king hath heard them; to the which as yet

There is no answer made.

King Henry V

Well then the peace,

Which you before so urged, lies in his answer.

King Of France

I have but with a cursorary eye

O’erglanced the articles: pleaseth your grace

To appoint some of your council presently

To sit with us once more, with better heed

To re-survey them, we will suddenly

Pass our accept and peremptory answer.

King Henry V

Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exeter,

And brother Clarence, and you, brother Gloucester,

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,

Any thing in or out of our demands,

And we’ll consign thereto. Will you, fair sister,

Go with the princes, or stay here with us?

Queen Isabel

Our gracious brother, I will go with them:

Haply a woman’s voice may do some good,

When articles too nicely urged be stood on.

King Henry V

Yet leave our cousin Katharine here with us:

She is our capital demand, comprised

Within the fore-rank of our articles.

Queen Isabel

She hath good leave.

Exeunt all except Henry, Katharine, and Alice

King Henry V

Fair Katharine, and most fair,

Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms

Such as will enter at a lady’s ear

And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?

Katharine

Your majesty shall mock at me; I cannot speak your England.

King Henry V

O fair Katharine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart, I will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue. Do you like me, Kate?

Katharine

Pardonnez-moi, I cannot tell vat is ‘like me.’

King Henry V

An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel.

Katharine

Que dit-il? que je suis semblable a les anges?

Alice

Oui, vraiment, sauf votre grace, ainsi dit-il.

King Henry V

I said so, dear Katharine; and I must not blush to affirm it.

Katharine

O bon Dieu! les langues des hommes sont pleines de tromperies.

King Henry V

What says she, fair one? that the tongues of men are full of deceits?

Alice

Oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits: dat is de princess.

King Henry V

The princess is the better Englishwoman. I’ faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding: I am glad thou canst speak no better English; for, if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say ‘I love you:’ then if you urge me farther than to say ‘do you in faith?’ I wear out my suit. Give me your answer; i’ faith, do: and so clap hands and a bargain: how say you, lady?

Katharine

Sauf votre honneur, me understand vell.

King Henry V

Marry, if you would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me: for the one, I have neither words nor measure, and for the other, I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my armour on my back, under the correction of bragging be it spoken. I should quickly leap into a wife. Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favours, I could lay on like a butcher and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation; only downright oaths, which I never use till urged, nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sun-burning, that never looks in his glass for love of any thing he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. I speak to thee plain soldier: If thou canst love me for this, take me: if not, to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places: for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies’ favours, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon; for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And what sayest thou then to my love? speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.

Katharine

Is it possible dat I sould love de enemy of France?

King Henry V

No; it is not possible you should love the enemy of France, Kate: but, in loving me, you should love the friend of France; for I love France so well that I will not part with a village of it; I will have it all mine: and, Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then yours is France and you are mine.

Katharine

I cannot tell vat is dat.

King Henry V

No, Kate? I will tell thee in French; which I am sure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married wife about her husband’s neck, hardly to be shook off. Je quand sur le possession de France, et quand vous avez le possession de moi,— let me see, what then? Saint Denis be my speed!— donc votre est France et vous etes mienne. It is as easy for me, Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much more French: I shall never move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me.

Katharine

Sauf votre honneur, le Francois que vous parlez, il est meilleur que l’Anglois lequel je parle.

King Henry V

No, faith, is’t not, Kate: but thy speaking of my tongue, and I thine, most truly-falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one. But, Kate, dost thou understand thus much English, canst thou love me?

Katharine

I cannot tell.

King Henry V

Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I’ll ask them. Come, I know thou lovest me: and at night, when you come into your closet, you’ll question this gentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to her dispraise those parts in me that you love with your heart: but, good Kate, mock me mercifully; the rather, gentle princess, because I love thee cruelly. If ever thou beest mine, Kate, as I have a saving faith within me tells me thou shalt, I get thee with scambling, and thou must therefore needs prove a good soldier-breeder: shall not thou and I, between Saint Denis and Saint George, compound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go to Constantinople and take the Turk by the beard? shall we not? what sayest thou, my fair flower-de-luce?

Katharine

I do not know dat

King Henry V

No; ’tis hereafter to know, but now to promise: do but now promise, Kate, you will endeavour for your French part of such a boy; and for my English moiety take the word of a king and a bachelor. How answer you, la plus belle Katharine du monde, mon tres cher et devin deesse?

Katharine

Your majestee ave fausse French enough to deceive de most sage demoiselle dat is en France.

King Henry V

Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honour, in true English, I love thee, Kate: by which honour I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect of my visage. Now, beshrew my father’s ambition! he was thinking of civil wars when he got me: therefore was I created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear: my comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of beauty, can do no more, spoil upon my face: thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better: and therefore tell me, most fair Katharine, will you have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress; take me by the hand, and say ‘Harry of England I am thine:’ which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal, but I will tell thee aloud ‘England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Harry Plantagenet is thine;’ who though I speak it before his face, if he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is music and thy English broken; therefore, queen of all, Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken English; wilt thou have me?

Katharine

Dat is as it sall please de roi mon pere.

King Henry V

Nay, it will please him well, Kate it shall please him, Kate.

Katharine

Den it sall also content me.

King Henry V

Upon that I kiss your hand, and I call you my queen.

Katharine

Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez: ma foi, je ne veux point que vous abaissiez votre grandeur en baisant la main d’une de votre seigeurie indigne serviteur; excusez-moi, je vous supplie, mon tres-puissant seigneur.

King Henry V

Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.

Katharine

Les dames et demoiselles pour etre baisees devant leur noces, il n’est pas la coutume de France.

King Henry V

Madam my interpreter, what says she?

Alice

Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of

France,— I cannot tell vat is baiser en Anglish.

King Henry V

To kiss.

Alice

Your majesty entendre bettre que moi.

King Henry V

It is not a fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they are married, would she say?

Alice

Oui, vraiment.

King Henry V

O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak list of a country’s fashion: we are the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults; as I will do yours, for upholding the nice fashion of your country in denying me a kiss: therefore, patiently and yielding.

Kissing her

You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate: there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs. Here comes your father.

Re-enter the French King and his Queen, Burgundy, and other Lords

Burgundy

God save your majesty! my royal cousin, teach you our princess English?

King Henry V

I would have her learn, my fair cousin, how perfectly I love her; and that is good English.

Burgundy

Is she not apt?

King Henry V

Our tongue is rough, coz, and my condition is not smooth; so that, having neither the voice nor the heart of flattery about me, I cannot so conjure up the spirit of love in her, that he will appear in his true likeness.

Burgundy

Pardon the frankness of my mirth, if I answer you for that. If you would conjure in her, you must make a circle; if conjure up love in her in his true likeness, he must appear naked and blind. Can you blame her then, being a maid yet rosed over with the virgin crimson of modesty, if she deny the appearance of a naked blind boy in her naked seeing self? It were, my lord, a hard condition for a maid to consign to.

King Henry V

Yet they do wink and yield, as love is blind and enforces.

Burgundy

They are then excused, my lord, when they see not what they do.

King Henry V

Then, good my lord, teach your cousin to consent winking.

Burgundy

I will wink on her to consent, my lord, if you will teach her to know my meaning: for maids, well summered and warm kept, are like flies at Bartholomew-tide, blind, though they have their eyes; and then they will endure handling, which before would not abide looking on.

King Henry V

This moral ties me over to time and a hot summer; and so I shall catch the fly, your cousin, in the latter end and she must be blind too.

Burgundy

As love is, my lord, before it loves.

King Henry V

It is so: and you may, some of you, thank love for my blindness, who cannot see many a fair French city for one fair French maid that stands in my way.

French King

Yes, my lord, you see them perspectively, the cities turned into a maid; for they are all girdled with maiden walls that war hath never entered.

King Henry V

Shall Kate be my wife?

French King

So please you.

King Henry V

I am content; so the maiden cities you talk of may wait on her: so the maid that stood in the way for my wish shall show me the way to my will.

French King

We have consented to all terms of reason.

King Henry V

Is’t so, my lords of England?

Westmoreland

The king hath granted every article:

His daughter first, and then in sequel all,

According to their firm proposed natures.

Exeter

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 trescher fils Henri, Roi d’Angleterre, Heritier de France; and thus in Latin, Praeclarissimus filius noster Henricus, Rex Angliae, et Haeres Franciae.

French King

Nor this I have not, brother, so denied,

But your request shall make me let it pass.

King Henry V

I pray you then, in love and dear alliance,

Let that one article rank with the rest;

And thereupon give me your daughter.

French King

Take her, fair son, and from her blood raise up

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!

King Henry V

Now, welcome, Kate: and bear me witness all,

That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen.

Flourish

Queen Isabel

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,

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!

All

Amen!

King Henry V

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.

Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me;

And may our oaths well kept and prosperous be!

Sennet. Exeunt

EPILOGUE

Enter Chorus

Chorus

Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen,

Our bending author hath pursued the story,

In little room confining mighty men,

Mangling by starts the full course of their glory.

Small time, but in that small most greatly lived

This star of England: Fortune made his sword;

By which the world’s best garden be achieved,

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,

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.

Exit

The First Part of King Henry the Sixth

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

SCENE II. FRANCE. BEFORE ORLEANS.

SCENE III. LONDON. BEFORE THE TOWER.

SCENE IV. ORLEANS.

SCENE V. THE SAME.

SCENE VI. THE SAME.

ACT II

SCENE I. BEFORE ORLEANS.

SCENE II. ORLEANS. WITHIN THE TOWN.

SCENE III. AUVERGNE. THE COUNTESS’S CASTLE.

SCENE IV. LONDON. THE TEMPLE-GARDEN.

SCENE V. THE TOWER OF LONDON.

ACT III

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PARLIAMENT-HOUSE.

SCENE II. FRANCE. BEFORE ROUEN.

SCENE III. THE PLAINS NEAR ROUEN.

SCENE IV. PARIS. THE PALACE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. PARIS. A HALL OF STATE.

SCENE II. BEFORE BOURDEAUX.

SCENE III. PLAINS IN GASCONY.

SCENE IV. OTHER PLAINS IN GASCONY.

SCENE V. THE ENGLISH CAMP NEAR BOURDEAUX.

SCENE VI. A FIELD OF BATTLE.

SCENE VII. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

ACT V

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PALACE.

SCENE II. FRANCE. PLAINS IN ANJOU.

SCENE III. BEFORE ANGIERS.

SCENE IV. CAMP OF THE YORK IN ANJOU.

SCENE V. LONDON. THE PALACE.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Alencon,

Basset,

Bastard Of Orleans,

Bedford,

Bishop of Winchester,

Boy,

Burgundy,

Captain,

Charles,

Countess of Auvergne,

Exeter,

Fastolfe,

First Gaoler,

First Sentinel,

First Serving-man,

First Soldier,

First Warder,

Gargrave,

General,

Glansdale,

Gloucester,

Joan La Pucelle,

John Talbot,

King Henry VI,

Lawyer,

Legate,

Lucy,

Margaret,

Mayor,

Messenger,

Mortimer,

Officer,

Plantagenet,

Porter,

Reignier,

Salisbury,

Scout,

Second Serving-man,

Second Warder,

Sentinels,

Sergeant,

Servant,

Shepherd,

Soldier,

Somerset,

Suffolk,

Talbot,

Third Serving-man,

Vernon,

Warwick,

Watch,

Woodvile,

York,

ACT I

SCENE I. WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Dead March. Enter the Funeral of King Henry the Fifth, attended on by Dukes of Bedford, Regent of France; Gloucester, Protector; and Exeter, Earl of Warwick, the Bishop Of Winchester, Heralds, & c

Bedford

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!

King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!

England ne’er lost a king of so much worth.

Gloucester

England ne’er had a king until his time.

Virtue he had, deserving to command:

His brandish’d sword did blind men with his beams:

His arms spread wider than a dragon’s wings;

His sparking eyes, replete with wrathful fire,

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.

Exeter

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

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?

Or shall we think the subtle-witted French

Conjurers and sorcerers, that afraid of him

By magic verses have contrived his end?

Bishop Of Winchester

He was a king bless’d of the King of kings.

Unto the French the dreadful judgement-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.

Gloucester

The church! where is it? Had not churchmen pray’d,

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.

Bishop Of Winchester

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.

Gloucester

Name not religion, for thou lovest the flesh,

And ne’er throughout the year to church thou go’st

Except it be to pray against thy foes.

Bedford

Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace:

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,

When at their mothers’ moist eyes babes shall suck,

Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears,

And none but women left to wail the dead.

Henry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate:

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 Caesar or bright —

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

My honourable lords, health to you all!

Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,

Of loss, of slaughter and discomfiture:

Guienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans,

Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost.

Bedford

What say’st 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.

Gloucester

Is Paris lost? is Rouen yielded up?

If Henry were recall’d to life again,

These news would cause him once more yield the ghost.

Exeter

How were they lost? what treachery was used?

Messenger

No treachery; but want of men and money.

Amongst the soldiers this is muttered,

That here you maintain several factions,

And whilst a field should be dispatch’d and fought,

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,

By guileful fair words peace may be obtain’d.

Awake, awake, English nobility!

Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot:

Cropp’d are the flower-de-luces in your arms;

Of England’s coat one half is cut away.

Exeter

Were our tears wanting to this funeral,

These tidings would call forth their flowing tides.

Bedford

Me they concern; Regent I am of France.

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.

Enter to them another Messenger

Messenger

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 of Rheims;

The Bastard of Orleans with him is join’d;

Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part;

The Duke of Alencon flieth to his side.

Exeter

The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him!

O, whither shall we fly from this reproach?

Gloucester

We will not fly, but to our enemies’ throats.

Bedford, if thou be slack, I’ll fight it out.

Bedford

Gloucester, why doubt’st thou of my forwardness?

An army have I muster’d in my thoughts,

Wherewith already France is overrun.

Enter another Messenger

Messenger

My gracious lords, to add to your laments,

Wherewith you now bedew King Henry’s hearse,

I must inform you of a dismal fight

Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French.

Bishop Of Winchester

What! wherein Talbot overcame? is’t so?

Messenger

O, no; wherein Lord Talbot was o’erthrown:

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.

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;

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;

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, enraged he flew:

The French exclaim’d, the devil was in arms;

All the whole army stood agazed on him:

His soldiers spying his undaunted spirit

A Talbot! a Talbot! cried out amain

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, placed behind

With purpose to relieve and follow them,

Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke.

Hence grew the general wreck and massacre;

Enclosed were they with their enemies:

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.

Bedford

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.

Messenger

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.

Bedford

His ransom there is none but I shall pay:

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;

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.

Messenger

So you had need; for Orleans is besieged;

The English army is grown weak and faint:

The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply,

And hardly keeps his men from mutiny,

Since they, so few, watch such a multitude.

Exeter

Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn,

Either to quell the Dauphin utterly,

Or bring him in obedience to your yoke.

Bedford

I do remember it; and here take my leave,

To go about my preparation.

Exit

Gloucester

I’ll to the Tower with all the haste I can,

To view the artillery and munition;

And then I will proclaim young Henry king.

Exit

Exeter

To Eltham will I, where the young king is,

Being ordain’d his special governor,

And for his safety there I’ll best devise.

Exit

Bishop Of Winchester

Each hath his place and function to attend:

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

And sit at chiefest stern of public weal.

Exeunt

SCENE II. FRANCE. BEFORE ORLEANS.

Sound a flourish. Enter Charles, Alencon, and Reignier, marching with drum and Soldiers

Charles

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.

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.

Alencon

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.

Reignier

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,

Nor men nor money hath he to make war.

Charles

Sound, sound alarum! we will rush on them.

Now for the honour of the forlorn French!

Him I forgive my death that killeth me

When he sees me go back one foot or fly.

Exeunt

Here alarum; they are beaten back by the English with great loss. Re-enter Charles, Alencon, and Reignier

Charles

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.

Reignier

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.

Alencon

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;

For none but Samsons and Goliases

It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten!

Lean, raw-boned rascals! who would e’er suppose

They had such courage and audacity?

Charles

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.

Reignier

I think, by some odd gimmors or device

Their arms are set like clocks, stiff to strike on;

Else ne’er could they hold out so as they do.

By my consent, we’ll even let them alone.

Alencon

Be it so.

Enter the Bastard Of Orleans

Bastard Of Orleans

Where’s the Prince Dauphin? I have news for him.

Charles

Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us.

Bastard Of Orleans

Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall’d:

Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence?

Be not dismay’d, for succor is at hand:

A holy maid hither with me I bring,

Which by a vision sent to her from heaven

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:

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.

Charles

Go, call her in.

Exit Bastard Of Orleans

But first, to try her skill,

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.

Re-enter the Bastard Of Orleans, with Joan La Pucelle

Reignier

Fair maid, is’t thou wilt do these wondrous feats?

Joan La Pucelle

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 amazed, there’s nothing hid from me:

In private will I talk with thee apart.

Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile.

Reignier

She takes upon her bravely at first dash.

Joan La Pucelle

Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd’s daughter,

My wit untrain’d in any kind of art.

Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleased

To shine on my contemptible estate:

Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs,

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

And free my country from calamity:

Her aid she promised and assured success:

In complete glory she reveal’d herself;

And, whereas I was black and swart before,

With those clear rays which she infused on me

That beauty am I bless’d with which you see.

Ask me what question thou canst possible,

And I will answer unpremeditated:

My courage try by combat, if thou darest,

And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex.

Resolve on this, thou shalt be fortunate,

If thou receive me for thy warlike mate.

Charles

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;

Otherwise I renounce all confidence.

Joan La Pucelle

I am prepared: here is my keen-edged sword,

Deck’d with five flower-de-luces on each side;

The which at Touraine, in Saint Katharine’s churchyard,

Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth.

Charles

Then come, o’ God’s name; I fear no woman.

Joan La Pucelle

And while I live, I’ll ne’er fly from a man.

Here they fight, and Joan La Pucelle overcomes

Charles

Stay, stay thy hands! thou art an Amazon

And fightest with the sword of Deborah.

Joan La Pucelle

Christ’s mother helps me, else I were too weak.

Charles

Whoe’er helps thee, ’tis thou that must help me:

Impatiently I burn with thy desire;

My heart and hands thou hast at once subdued.

Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so,

Let me thy servant and not sovereign be:

’Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus.

Joan La Pucelle

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.

Charles

Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall.

Reignier

My lord, methinks, is very long in talk.

Alencon

Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock;

Else ne’er could he so long protract his speech.

Reignier

Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean?

Alencon

He may mean more than we poor men do know:

These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues.

Reignier

My lord, where are you? what devise you on?

Shall we give over Orleans, or no?

Joan La Pucelle

Why, no, I say, distrustful recreants!

Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard.

Charles

What she says I’ll confirm: we’ll fight it out.

Joan La Pucelle

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.

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.

Now am I like that proud insulting ship

Which Caesar and his fortune bare at once.

Charles

Was Mahomet inspired with a dove?

Thou with an eagle art inspired then.

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?

Alencon

Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege.

Reignier

Woman, do what thou canst to save our honours;

Drive them from Orleans and be immortalized.

Charles

Presently we’ll try: come, let’s away about it:

No prophet will I trust, if she prove false.

Exeunt

SCENE III. LONDON. BEFORE THE TOWER.

Enter Gloucester, with his Serving-men in blue coats

Gloucester

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.

First Warder

[Within] Who’s there that knocks so imperiously?

First Serving-Man

It is the noble Duke of Gloucester.

Second Warder

[Within] Whoe’er he be, you may not be let in.

First Serving-Man

Villains, answer you so the lord protector?

First Warder

[Within] The Lord protect him! so we answer him:

We do no otherwise than we are will’d.

Gloucester

Who willed you? or whose will stands but mine?

There’s none protector of the realm but I.

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

Woodvile

What noise is this? what traitors have we here?

Gloucester

Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear?

Open the gates; here’s Gloucester that would enter.

Woodvile

Have patience, noble duke; I may not open;

The Cardinal of Winchester forbids:

From him I have express commandment

That thou nor none of thine shall be let in.

Gloucester

Faint-hearted Woodvile, prizest him ’fore me?

Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate,

Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne’er could brook?

Thou art no friend to God or to the king:

Open the gates, or I’ll shut thee out shortly.

Serving-Men Open the gates unto the lord protector,

Or we’ll burst them open, if that you come not quickly.

Enter to the Protector at the Tower Gates Bishop Of Winchester and his men in tawny coats

Bishop Of Winchester

How now, ambitious Humphry! what means this?

Gloucester

Peel’d priest, dost thou command me to be shut out?

Bishop Of Winchester

I do, thou most usurping proditor,

And not protector, of the king or realm.

Gloucester

Stand back, thou manifest conspirator,

Thou that contrivedst to murder our dead lord;

Thou that givest whores indulgences to sin:

I’ll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal’s hat,

If thou proceed in this thy insolence.

Bishop Of Winchester

Nay, stand thou back, I will not budge a foot:

This be Damascus, be thou cursed Cain,

To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt.

Gloucester

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.

Bishop Of Winchester

Do what thou darest; I beard thee to thy face.

Gloucester

What! am I dared and bearded to my face?

Draw, men, for all this privileged place;

Blue coats to tawny coats. Priest, beware your beard,

I mean to tug it and to cuff you soundly:

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.

Bishop Of Winchester

Gloucester, thou wilt answer this before the pope.

Gloucester

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!

Here Gloucester’s men beat out Bishop Of Winchester’s men, and enter in the hurly- burly the Mayor of London and his Officers

Mayor

Fie, lords! that you, being supreme magistrates,

Thus contumeliously should break the peace!

Gloucester

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.

Bishop Of Winchester

Here’s Gloucester, a foe to citizens,

One that still motions war and never peace,

O’ercharging your free purses with large fines,

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.

Gloucester

I will not answer thee with words, but blows.

Here they skirmish again

Mayor

Naught rests for me in this tumultuous strife

But to make open proclamation:

Come, officer; as loud as e’er thou canst,

Cry.

Officer

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.

Gloucester

Cardinal, I’ll be no breaker of the law:

But we shall meet, and break our minds at large.

Bishop Of Winchester

Gloucester, we will meet; to thy cost, be sure:

Thy heart-blood I will have for this day’s work.

Mayor

I’ll call for clubs, if you will not away.

This cardinal’s more haughty than the devil.

Gloucester

Mayor, farewell: thou dost but what thou mayst.

Bishop Of Winchester

Abominable Gloucester, guard thy head;

For I intend to have it ere long.

Exeunt, severally, Gloucester and Bishop Of Winchester with their Serving-men

Mayor

See the coast clear’d, and then we will depart.

Good God, these nobles should such stomachs bear!

I myself fight not once in forty year.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. ORLEANS.

Enter, on the walls, a Master Gunner and his Boy

Master-Gunner Sirrah, thou know’st how Orleans is besieged,

And how the English have the suburbs won.

Boy

Father, I know; and oft have shot at them,

Howe’er unfortunate I miss’d my aim.

Master-Gunner But now thou shalt not. Be thou ruled 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

How the English, in the suburbs close intrench’d,

Wont, through a secret grate 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.

To intercept this inconvenience,

A piece of ordnance ’gainst it I have placed;

And even these three days have I watch’d,

If I could see them.

Now do thou watch, 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

Boy

Father, I warrant you; take you no care;

I’ll never trouble you, if I may spy them.

Exit

Enter, on the turrets, Salisbury and Talbot, Glansdale, Gargrave, and others

Salisbury

Talbot, my life, my joy, again return’d!

How wert thou handled being prisoner?

Or by what means got’st thou to be released?

Discourse, I prithee, on this turret’s top.

Talbot

The Duke of Bedford had a prisoner

Call’d the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles;

For him was I exchanged and ransomed.

But with a baser man of arms by far

Once in contempt they would have barter’d me:

Which I, disdaining, scorn’d; and craved death,

Rather than I would be so vile esteem’d.

In fine, redeem’d I was as I desired.

But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart,

Whom with my bare fists I would execute,

If I now had him brought into my power.

Salisbury

Yet tell’st thou not how thou wert entertain’d.

Talbot

With scoffs and scorns and contumelious taunts.

In open market-place produced they me,

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,

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;

So great fear of my name ’mongst them was spread,

That they supposed I could rend bars of steel,

And spurn in pieces posts of adamant:

Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had,

That walked about me every minute-while;

And if I did but stir out of my bed,

Ready they were to shoot me to the heart.

Enter the Boy with a linstock

Salisbury

I grieve to hear what torments you endured,

But we will be revenged sufficiently

Now it is supper-time in Orleans:

Here, through this grate, I count each one

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

Where is best place to make our battery next.

Gargrave

I think, at the north gate; for there stand lords.

Glansdale

And I, here, at the bulwark of the bridge.

Talbot

For aught I see, this city must be famish’d,

Or with light skirmishes enfeebled.

Here they shoot. Salisbury and Gargrave fall

Salisbury

O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners!

Gargrave

O Lord, have mercy on me, woful man!

Talbot

What chance is this that suddenly hath cross’d us?

Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak:

How farest thou, mirror of all martial men?

One of thy eyes and thy cheek’s side struck off!

Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand

That hath contrived this woful 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,

His sword did ne’er leave striking in the field.

Yet livest 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.

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?

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.

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:

Wretched shall France be only in my name.

Here an alarum, and it thunders and lightens

What stir is this? what tumult’s in the heavens?

Whence cometh this alarum and the noise?

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

My lord, my lord, the French have gathered head:

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

Talbot

Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan!

It irks his heart he cannot be revenged.

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,

And then we’ll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare.

Alarum. Exeunt

SCENE V. THE SAME.

Here an alarum again: and Talbot pursueth the Dauphin, and driveth him: then enter Joan La Pucelle, driving Englishmen before her, and exit after them then re-enter Talbot

Talbot

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:

Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch,

And straightway give thy soul to him thou servest.

Joan La Pucelle

Come, come, ’tis only I that must disgrace thee.

Here they fight

Talbot

Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail?

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.

They fight again

Joan La Pucelle

Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come:

I must go victual Orleans forthwith.

A short alarum; then enter the town with soldiers

O’ertake me, if thou canst; I scorn thy strength.

Go, go, cheer up thy hungry-starved men;

Help Salisbury to make his testament:

This day is ours, as many more shall be.

Exit

Talbot

My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s wheel;

I know not where I am, nor what I do;

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.

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;

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.

Alarum. Here 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 enter’d into Orleans,

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.

Exit Talbot. Alarum; retreat; flourish

SCENE VI. THE SAME.

Enter, on the walls, Joan La Pucelle, Charles, Reignier, Alencon, and Soldiers

Joan La Pucelle

Advance our waving colours on the walls;

Rescued is Orleans from the English

Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform’d her word.

Charles

Divinest creature, Astraea’s daughter,

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!

Recover’d is the town of Orleans:

More blessed hap did ne’er befall our state.

Reignier

Why ring not out the bells aloud throughout the town?

Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires

And feast and banquet in the open streets,

To celebrate the joy that God hath given us.

Alencon

All France will be replete with mirth and joy,

When they shall hear how we have play’d the men.

Charles

’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.

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

Than the rich-jewel’d of Darius,

Transported shall be at high festivals

Before the kings and queens of France.

No longer on Saint Denis will we cry,

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 a Sergeant of a band with two Sentinels

Sergeant

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.

First Sentinel

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

Talbot

Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy,

By whose approach the regions of Artois,

Wallon and Picardy are friends to us,

This happy night the Frenchmen are secure,

Having all day caroused and banqueted:

Embrace we then this opportunity

As fitting best to quittance their deceit

Contrived by art and baleful sorcery.

Bedford

Coward of France! how much he wrongs his fame,

Despairing of his own arm’s fortitude,

To join with witches and the help of hell!

Burgundy

Traitors have never other company.

But what’s that Pucelle whom they term so pure?

Talbot

A maid, they say.

Bedford

A maid! and be so martial!

Burgundy

Pray God she prove not masculine ere long,

If underneath the standard of the French

She carry armour as she hath begun.

Talbot

Well, let them practise and converse with spirits:

God is our fortress, in whose conquering name

Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.

Bedford

Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee.

Talbot

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.

Bedford

Agreed: I’ll to yond corner.

Burgundy

And I to this.

Talbot

And here will Talbot mount, or make his grave.

Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right

Of English Henry, shall this night appear

How much in duty I am bound to both.

Sentinels

Arm! arm! the enemy doth make assault!

Cry: ‘St. George,’ ‘A Talbot.’

The French leap over the walls in their shirts. Enter, several ways, the Bastard Of Orleans, Alencon, and Reignier, half ready, and half unready

Alencon

How now, my lords! what, all unready so?

Bastard Of Orleans

Unready! ay, and glad we ’scaped so well.

Reignier

’Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds,

Hearing alarums at our chamber-doors.

Alencon

Of all exploits since first I follow’d arms,

Ne’er heard I of a warlike enterprise

More venturous or desperate than this.

Bastard Of Orleans

I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell.

Reignier

If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him.

Alencon

Here cometh Charles: I marvel how he sped.

Bastard Of Orleans

Tut, holy Joan was his defensive guard.

Enter Charles and Joan La Pucelle

Charles

Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame?

Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal,

Make us partakers of a little gain,

That now our loss might be ten times so much?

Joan La Pucelle

Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend!

At all times will you have my power alike?

Sleeping or waking must I still prevail,

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.

Charles

Duke of Alencon, this was your default,

That, being captain of the watch to-night,

Did look no better to that weighty charge.

Alencon

Had all your quarters been as safely kept

As that whereof I had the government,

We had not been thus shamefully surprised.

Bastard Of Orleans

Mine was secure.

Reignier

And so was mine, my lord.

Charles

And, for myself, most part of all this night,

Within her quarter and mine own precinct

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 La Pucelle

Question, my lords, no further of the case,

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 dispersed,

And lay new platforms to endamage them.

Alarum. Enter an English Soldier, crying ‘A Talbot! a Talbot!’ They fly, leaving their clothes behind

Soldier

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,

Using no other weapon but his name.

Exit

SCENE II. ORLEANS. WITHIN THE TOWN.

Enter Talbot, Bedford, Burgundy, a Captain, and others

Bedford

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

Talbot

Bring forth the body of old Salisbury,

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,

There hath at least five Frenchmen died tonight.

And that hereafter ages may behold

What ruin happen’d in revenge of him,

Within their chiefest temple I’ll erect

A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr’d:

Upon the which, that every one may read,

Shall be engraved the sack of Orleans,

The treacherous manner of his mournful death

And what a terror he had been to France.

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.

Bedford

’Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began,

Roused on the sudden from their drowsy beds,

They did amongst the troops of armed men

Leap o’er the walls for refuge in the field.

Burgundy

Myself, as far as I could well discern

For smoke and dusky vapours of the night,

Am sure I scared the Dauphin and his trull,

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,

We’ll follow them with all the power we have.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

All hail, my lords! which of this princely train

Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts

So much applauded through the realm of France?

Talbot

Here is the Talbot: who would speak with him?

Messenger

The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne,

With modesty admiring thy renown,

By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe

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.

Burgundy

Is it even so? Nay, then, I see our wars

Will turn unto a peaceful comic sport,

When ladies crave to be encounter’d with.

You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit.

Talbot

Ne’er trust me then; for when a world of men

Could not prevail with all their oratory,

Yet hath a woman’s kindness over-ruled:

And therefore tell her I return great thanks,

And in submission will attend on her.

Will not your honours bear me company?

Bedford

No, truly; it is more than manners will:

And I have heard it said, unbidden guests

Are often welcomest when they are gone.

Talbot

Well then, alone, since there’s no remedy,

I mean to prove this lady’s courtesy.

Come hither, captain.

Whispers

You perceive my mind?

Captain

I do, my lord, and mean accordingly.

Exeunt

SCENE III. AUVERGNE. THE COUNTESS’S CASTLE.

Enter the Countess and her Porter

Countess of Auvergne

Porter, remember what I gave in charge;

And when you have done so, bring the keys to me.

Porter

Madam, I will.

Exit

Countess of Auvergne

The plot is laid: if all things fall out right,

I shall as famous be by this exploit

As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus’ death.

Great is the rumor of this dreadful knight,

And his achievements of no less account:

Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears,

To give their censure of these rare reports.

Enter Messenger and Talbot

Messenger

Madam,

According as your ladyship desired,

By message craved, so is Lord Talbot come.

Countess of Auvergne

And he is welcome. What! is this the man?

Messenger

Madam, it is.

Countess of Auvergne

Is this the scourge of France?

Is this the Talbot, so much fear’d abroad

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,

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.

Talbot

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.

Countess of Auvergne

What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes.

Messenger

Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves

To know the cause of your abrupt departure.

Talbot

Marry, for that she’s in a wrong belief,

I go to certify her Talbot’s here.

Re-enter Porter with keys

Countess of Auvergne

If thou be he, then art thou prisoner.

Talbot

Prisoner! to whom?

Countess of Auvergne

To me, blood-thirsty lord;

And for that cause I trained thee to my house.

Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me,

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

Wasted our country, slain our citizens

And sent our sons and husbands captivate.

Talbot

Ha, ha, ha!

Countess of Auvergne

Laughest thou, wretch? thy mirth shall turn to moan.

Talbot

I laugh to see your ladyship so fond

To think that you have aught but Talbot’s shadow

Whereon to practise your severity.

Countess of Auvergne

Why, art not thou the man?

Talbot

I am indeed.

Countess of Auvergne

Then have I substance too.

Talbot

No, no, I am but shadow of myself:

You are deceived, my substance is not here;

For what you see is but the smallest part

And least proportion of humanity:

I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here,

It is of such a spacious lofty pitch,

Your roof were not sufficient to contain’t.

Countess of Auvergne

This is a riddling merchant for the nonce;

He will be here, and yet he is not here:

How can these contrarieties agree?

Talbot

That will I show you presently.

Winds his horn. Drums strike up: a peal of ordnance. Enter soldiers

How say you, madam? are you now persuaded

That Talbot is but shadow of himself?

These are his substance, sinews, arms and strength,

With which he yoketh your rebellious necks,

Razeth your cities and subverts your towns

And in a moment makes them desolate.

Countess of Auvergne

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.

Talbot

Be not dismay’d, fair lady; nor misconstrue

The mind of Talbot, as you did mistake

The outward composition of his body.

What you have done hath not offended me;

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.

Countess of Auvergne

With all my heart, and think me honoured

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 another Lawyer

Richard

Plantagenet

Great lords and gentlemen, what means this silence?

Dare no man answer in a case of truth?

Suffolk

Within the Temple-hall we were too loud;

The garden here is more convenient.

Richard

Plantagenet

Then say at once if I maintain’d the truth;

Or else was wrangling Somerset in the error?

Suffolk

Faith, I have been a truant in the law,

And never yet could frame my will to it;

And therefore frame the law unto my will.

Somerset

Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us.

Warwick

Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch;

Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth;

Between two blades, which bears the better temper:

Between two horses, which doth bear him best;

Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye;

I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgement;

But in these nice sharp quillets of the law,

Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.

Richard

Plantagenet

Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance:

The truth appears so naked on my side

That any purblind eye may find it out.

Somerset

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.

Richard

Plantagenet

Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak,

In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts:

Let him that is a true-born gentleman

And stands upon the honour of his birth,

If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,

From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.

Somerset

Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer,

But dare maintain the party of the truth,

Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.

Warwick

I love no colours, and without all colour

Of base insinuating flattery

I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet.

Suffolk

I pluck this red rose with young Somerset

And say withal I think he held the right.

Vernon

Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more,

Till you conclude that he upon whose side

The fewest roses are cropp’d from the tree

Shall yield the other in the right opinion.

Somerset

Good Master Vernon, it is well objected:

If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence.

Richard

Plantagenet

And I.

Vernon

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.

Somerset

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.

Vernon

If I my lord, for my opinion bleed,

Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt

And keep me on the side where still I am.

Somerset

Well, well, come on: who else?

Lawyer

Unless my study and my books be false,

The argument you held was wrong in you:

To Somerset

In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too.

Richard

Plantagenet

Now, Somerset, where is your argument?

Somerset

Here in my scabbard, meditating that

Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red.

Richard

Plantagenet

Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our roses;

For pale they look with fear, as witnessing

The truth on our side.

Somerset

No, Plantagenet,

’Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks

Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses,

And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error.

Richard

Plantagenet

Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset?

Somerset

Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet?

Richard

Plantagenet

Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth;

Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood.

Somerset

Well, I’ll find friends to wear my bleeding roses,

That shall maintain what I have said is true,

Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen.

Richard

Plantagenet

Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand,

I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy.

Suffolk

Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.

Richard

Plantagenet

Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee.

Suffolk

I’ll turn my part thereof into thy throat.

Somerset

Away, away, good William de la Pole!

We grace the yeoman by conversing with him.

Warwick

Now, by God’s will, thou wrong’st him, Somerset;

His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence,

Third son to the third Edward King of England:

Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root?

Richard

Plantagenet

He bears him on the place’s privilege,

Or durst not, for his craven heart, say thus.

Somerset

By him that made me, I’ll maintain my words

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;

And, till thou be restored, thou art a yeoman.

Richard

Plantagenet

My father was attached, not attainted,

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,

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.

Somerset

Ah, thou shalt find us ready for thee still;

And know us by these colours for thy foes,

For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear.

Richard

Plantagenet

And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose,

As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate,

Will I for ever and my faction wear,

Until it wither with me to my grave

Or flourish to the height of my degree.

Suffolk

Go forward and be choked with thy ambition!

And so farewell until I meet thee next.

Exit

Somerset

Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious Richard.

Exit

Richard

Plantagenet

How I am braved and must perforce endure it!

Warwick

This blot that they object against your house

Shall be wiped 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.

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,

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.

Richard

Plantagenet

Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you,

That you on my behalf would pluck a flower.

Vernon

In your behalf still will I wear the same.

Lawyer

And so will I.

Richard

Plantagenet

Thanks, gentle sir.

Come, let us four to dinner: I dare say

This quarrel will drink blood another day.

Exeunt

SCENE V. THE TOWER OF LONDON.

Enter Mortimer, brought in a chair, and Gaolers

Mortimer

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.

And these grey 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,

Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent;

Weak shoulders, overborne with burthening 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,

Unable to support this lump of clay,

Swift-winged with desire to get a grave,

As witting I no other comfort have.

But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come?

First Gaoler

Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come:

We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber;

And answer was return’d that he will come.

Mortimer

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,

This loathsome sequestration have I had:

And even since then hath Richard been obscured,

Deprived of honour and inheritance.

But now the arbitrator of despairs,

Just death, kind umpire of men’s miseries,

With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence:

I would his troubles likewise were expired,

That so he might recover what was lost.

Enter Richard Plantagenet

First Gaoler

My lord, your loving nephew now is come.

Mortimer

Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come?

Richard

Plantagenet

Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly used,

Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes.

Mortimer

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.

And now declare, sweet stem from York’s great stock,

Why didst thou say, of late thou wert despised?

Richard

Plantagenet

First, lean thine aged back against mine arm;

And, in that ease, I’ll tell thee my disease.

This day, in argument upon a case,

Some words there grew ’twixt Somerset and me;

Among which terms he used his lavish tongue

And did upbraid me with my father’s death:

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

And for alliance sake, declare the cause

My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head.

Mortimer

That cause, fair nephew, that imprison’d me

And hath detain’d me all my flowering youth

Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine,

Was cursed instrument of his decease.

Richard

Plantagenet

Discover more at large what cause that was,

For I am ignorant and cannot guess.

Mortimer

I will, if that my fading breath permit

And death approach not ere my tale be done.

Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king,

Deposed his nephew Richard, Edward’s son,

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,

Endeavor’d my advancement to the throne:

The reason moved these warlike lords to this

Was, for that — young King Richard thus removed,

Leaving no heir begotten of his body —

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

From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree,

Being but fourth of that heroic line.

But mark: as in this haughty attempt

They laboured to plant the rightful heir,

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 derived

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

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 tide rested, were suppress’d.

Richard

Plantagenet

Of which, my lord, your honour is the last.

Mortimer

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:

But yet be wary in thy studious care.

Richard

Plantagenet

Thy grave admonishments prevail with me:

But yet, methinks, my father’s execution

Was nothing less than bloody tyranny.

Mortimer

With silence, nephew, be thou politic:

Strong-fixed is the house of Lancaster,

And like a mountain, not to be removed.

But now thy uncle is removing hence:

As princes do their courts, when they are cloy’d

With long continuance in a settled place.

Richard

Plantagenet

O, uncle, would some part of my young years

Might but redeem the passage of your age!

Mortimer

Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaughterer doth

Which giveth many wounds when one will kill.

Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good;

Only give order for my funeral:

And so farewell, and fair be all thy hopes

And prosperous be thy life in peace and war!

Dies

Richard

Plantagenet

And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul!

In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage

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

Will see his burial better than his life.

Exeunt Gaolers, bearing out the body of Mortimer

Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer,

Choked with ambition of the meaner sort:

And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries,

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,

Or make my ill the advantage of my good.

Exit

ACT III

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PARLIAMENT-HOUSE.

Flourish. Enter King Henry VI, Exeter, Gloucester, Warwick, Somerset, and Suffolk; the Bishop Of Winchester, Richard Plantagenet, and others. Gloucester offers to put up a bill; Bishop Of Winchester snatches it, and tears it

Bishop of Winchester

Comest thou with deep premeditated lines,

With written pamphlets studiously devised,

Humphrey of Gloucester? If thou canst accuse,

Or aught intend’st to lay unto my charge,

Do it without invention, suddenly;

As I with sudden and extemporal speech

Purpose to answer what thou canst object.

Gloucester

Presumptuous priest! this place commands my patience,

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 forged, or am not able

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.

Thou art a most pernicious usurer,

Forward by nature, enemy to peace;

Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems

A man of thy profession and degree;

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,

The king, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt

From envious malice of thy swelling heart.

Bishop of Winchester

Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouchsafe

To give me hearing what I shall reply.

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?

And for dissension, who preferreth peace

More than I do?— except I be provoked.

No, my good lords, it is not that offends;

It is not that that hath incensed the duke:

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.

But he shall know I am as good —

Gloucester

As good!

Thou bastard of my grandfather!

Bishop of Winchester

Ay, lordly sir; for what are you, I pray,

But one imperious in another’s throne?

Gloucester

Am I not protector, saucy priest?

Bishop of Winchester

And am not I a prelate of the church?

Gloucester

Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps

And useth it to patronage his theft.

Bishop of Winchester

Unreverent Gloster!

Gloucester

Thou art reverent

Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life.

Bishop of Winchester

Rome shall remedy this.

Warwick

Roam thither, then.

Somerset

My lord, it were your duty to forbear.

Warwick

Ay, see the bishop be not overborne.

Somerset

Methinks my lord should be religious

And know the office that belongs to such.

Warwick

Methinks his lordship should be humbler; it fitteth not a prelate so to plead.

Somerset

Yes, when his holy state is touch’d so near.

Warwick

State holy or unhallow’d, what of that?

Is not his grace protector to the king?

Richard

Plantagenet

[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.

King Henry VI

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.

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

That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.

A noise within, ‘Down with the tawny-coats!’

What tumult’s this?

Warwick

An uproar, I dare warrant,

Begun through malice of the bishop’s men.

A noise again, ‘stones! stones!’ Enter Mayor

Mayor

O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry,

Pity the city of London, pity us!

The bishop and the Duke of Gloucester’s men,

Forbidden late to carry any weapon,

Have fill’d their pockets full of pebble stones

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

And we for fear compell’d to shut our shops.

Enter Serving-men, in skirmish, with bloody pates

King Henry VI

We charge you, on allegiance to ourself,

To hold your slaughtering hands and keep the peace.

Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife.

First Serving-man

Nay, if we be forbidden stones,

We’ll fall to it with our teeth.

Second Serving-man

Do what ye dare, we are as resolute.

Skirmish again

Gloucester

You of my household, leave this peevish broil

And set this unaccustom’d fight aside.

Third Serving-man

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:

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

And have our bodies slaughtered by thy foes.

First Serving-man

Ay, and the very parings of our nails

Shall pitch a field when we are dead.

Begin again

Gloucester

Stay, stay, I say!

And if you love me, as you say you do,

Let me persuade you to forbear awhile.

King Henry VI

O, how this discord doth afflict my soul!

Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold

My sighs and tears and will not once relent?

Who should be pitiful, if you be not?

Or who should study to prefer a peace.

If holy churchmen take delight in broils?

Warwick

Yield, my lord protector; yield, Winchester;

Except you mean with obstinate repulse

To slay your sovereign and destroy the realm.

You see what mischief and what murder too

Hath been enacted through your enmity;

Then be at peace except ye thirst for blood.

Bishop of Winchester

He shall submit, or I will never yield.

Gloucester

Compassion on the king commands me stoop;

Or I would see his heart out, ere the priest

Should ever get that privilege of me.

Warwick

Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the duke

Hath banish’d moody discontented fury,

As by his smoothed brows it doth appear:

Why look you still so stern and tragical?

Gloucester

Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand.

King Henry VI

Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you preach

That malice was a great and grievous sin;

And will not you maintain the thing you teach,

But prove a chief offender in the same?

Warwick

Sweet king! the bishop hath a kindly gird.

For shame, my lord of Winchester, relent!

What, shall a child instruct you what to do?

Bishop of Winchester

Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee;

Love for thy love and hand for hand I give.

Gloucester

[Aside] Ay, but, I fear me, with a hollow heart.—

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!

Bishop of Winchester

[Aside] So help me God, as I intend it not!

King Henry VI

O, loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester,

How joyful am I made by this contract!

Away, my masters! trouble us no more;

But join in friendship, as your lords have done.

First Serving-man

Content: I’ll to the surgeon’s.

Second Serving-man

And so will I.

Third Serving-man

And I will see what physic the tavern affords.

Exeunt Serving-men, Mayor, &c

Warwick

Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign,

Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet

We do exhibit to your majesty.

Gloucester

Well urged, my Lord of Warwick: or sweet prince,

And if your grace mark every circumstance,

You have great reason to do Richard right;

Especially for those occasions

At Eltham Place I told your majesty.

King Henry VI

And those occasions, uncle, were of force:

Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is

That Richard be restored to his blood.

Warwick

Let Richard be restored to his blood;

So shall his father’s wrongs be recompensed.

Bishop of Winchester

As will the rest, so willeth Winchester.

King Henry VI

If Richard will be true, not that alone

But all the whole inheritance I give

That doth belong unto the house of York,

From whence you spring by lineal descent.

Richard

Plantagenet

Thy humble servant vows obedience

And humble service till the point of death.

King Henry VI

Stoop then and set your knee against my foot;

And, in reguerdon of that duty done,

I gird thee with the valiant sword of York:

Rise Richard, like a true Plantagenet,

And rise created princely Duke of York.

Richard

Plantagenet

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!

Somerset

[Aside] Perish, base prince, ignoble Duke of York!

Gloucester

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

Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends,

As it disanimates his enemies.

King Henry VI

When Gloucester says the word, King Henry goes;

For friendly counsel cuts off many foes.

Gloucester

Your ships already are in readiness.

Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but Exeter

Exeter

Ay, we may march in England or in France,

Not seeing what is likely to ensue.

This late dissension grown betwixt the peers

Burns under feigned ashes of forged 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,

So will this base and envious discord breed.

And now I fear that fatal prophecy

Which in the time of Henry named the Fifth

Was in the mouth of every sucking babe;

That Henry born at Monmouth should win all

And Henry born at Windsor lose all:

Which is so plain that Exeter doth wish

His days may finish ere that hapless time.

Exit

SCENE II. FRANCE. BEFORE ROUEN.

Enter Joan La Pucelle disguised, with four Soldiers with sacks upon their backs

Joan La Pucelle

These are the city gates, the gates of Rouen,

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

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,

That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them.

First Soldier

Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the city,

And we be lords and rulers over Rouen;

Therefore we’ll knock.

Knocks

Watch

[Within] Qui est la?

Joan La Pucelle

Paysans, pauvres gens de France;

Poor market folks that come to sell their corn.

Watch

Enter, go in; the market bell is rung.

Joan La Pucelle

Now, Rouen, I’ll shake thy bulwarks to the ground.

Exeunt

Enter Charles, the Bastard Of Orleans, Alencon, Reignier, and forces

Charles

Saint Denis bless this happy stratagem!

And once again we’ll sleep secure in Rouen.

Bastard Of Orleans

Here enter’d Pucelle and her practisants;

Now she is there, how will she specify

Where is the best and safest passage in?

Reignier

By thrusting out a torch from yonder tower;

Which, once discern’d, shows that her meaning is,

No way to that, for weakness, which she enter’d.

Enter Joan La Pucelle on the top, thrusting out a torch burning

Joan La Pucelle

Behold, this is the happy wedding torch

That joineth Rouen unto her countrymen,

But burning fatal to the Talbotites!

Exit

Bastard Of Orleans

See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend;

The burning torch in yonder turret stands.

Charles

Now shine it like a comet of revenge,

A prophet to the fall of all our foes!

Reignier

Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends;

Enter, and cry ‘The Dauphin!’ presently,

And then do execution on the watch.

Alarum. Exeunt

An alarum. Enter Talbot in an excursion

Talbot

France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy tears,

If Talbot but survive thy treachery.

Pucelle, that witch, that damned sorceress,

Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares,

That hardly we escaped the pride of France.

Exit

An alarum: excursions. Bedford, brought in sick in a chair. Enter Talbot and Burgundy without: within Joan La Pucelle, Charles, Bastard Of Orleans, Alencon, and Reignier, on the walls

Joan La Pucelle

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?

Burgundy

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.

Charles

Your grace may starve perhaps before that time.

Bedford

O, let no words, but deeds, revenge this treason!

Joan La Pucelle

What will you do, good grey-beard? break a lance,

And run a tilt at death within a chair?

Talbot

Foul fiend of France, and hag of all despite,

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,

Or else let Talbot perish with this shame.

Joan La Pucelle

Are ye so hot, sir? yet, Pucelle, hold thy peace;

If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow.

The English whisper together in council

God speed the parliament! who shall be the speaker?

Talbot

Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field?

Joan La Pucelle

Belike your lordship takes us then for fools,

To try if that our own be ours or no.

Talbot

I speak not to that railing Hecate,

But unto thee, Alencon, and the rest;

Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out?

Alencon

Signior, no.

Talbot

Signior, hang! base muleters of France!

Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls

And dare not take up arms like gentlemen.

Joan La Pucelle

Away, captains! let’s get us from the walls;

For Talbot means no goodness by his looks.

God be wi’ you, my lord! we came but to tell you

That we are here.

Exeunt from the walls

Talbot

And there will we be too, ere it be long,

Or else reproach be Talbot’s greatest fame!

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

And as his father here was conqueror,

As sure as in this late-betrayed town

Great Coeur-de-lion’s heart was buried,

So sure I swear to get the town or die.

Burgundy

My vows are equal partners with thy vows.

Talbot

But, ere we go, regard this dying prince,

The valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord,

We will bestow you in some better place,

Fitter for sickness and for crazy age.

Bedford

Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me:

Here will I sit before the walls of Rouen

And will be partner of your weal or woe.

Burgundy

Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade you.

Bedford

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:

Methinks I should revive the soldiers’ hearts,

Because I ever found them as myself.

Talbot

Undaunted spirit in a dying breast!

Then be it so: heavens keep old Bedford safe!

And now no more ado, brave Burgundy,

But gather we our forces out of hand

And set upon our boasting enemy.

Exeunt all but Bedford and Attendants

An alarum: excursions. Enter Fastolfe and a Captain

Captain

Whither away, Sir John Fastolfe, in such haste?

Fastolfe

Whither away! to save myself by flight:

We are like to have the overthrow again.

Captain

What! will you fly, and leave Lord Talbot?

Fastolfe

Ay,

All the Talbots in the world, to save my life!

Exit

Captain

Cowardly knight! ill fortune follow thee!

Exit

Retreat: excursions. Joan La Pucelle, Alencon, and Charles fly

Bedford

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.

Bedford dies, and is carried in by two in his chair

An alarum. Re-enter Talbot, Burgundy, and the rest

Talbot

Lost, and recover’d in a day again!

This is a double honour, Burgundy:

Yet heavens have glory for this victory!

Burgundy

Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy

Enshrines thee in his heart and there erects

Thy noble deeds as valour’s monuments.

Talbot

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? Rouen hangs her head for grief

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,

For there young Henry with his nobles lie.

Burgundy

What wills Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy.

Talbot

But yet, before we go, let’s not forget

The noble Duke of Bedford late deceased,

But see his exequies fulfill’d in Rouen:

A braver soldier never couched lance,

A gentler heart did never sway in court;

But kings and mightiest potentates must die,

For that’s the end of human misery.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE PLAINS NEAR ROUEN.

Enter Charles, the Bastard Of Orleans, Alencon, Joan La Pucelle, and forces

Joan La Pucelle

Dismay not, princes, at this accident,

Nor grieve that Rouen is so recovered:

Care is no cure, but rather corrosive,

For things that are not to be remedied.

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 ruled.

Charles

We have been guided by thee hitherto,

And of thy cunning had no diffidence:

One sudden foil shall never breed distrust.

Bastard Of Orleans

Search out thy wit for secret policies,

And we will make thee famous through the world.

Alencon

We’ll set thy statue in some holy place,

And have thee reverenced like a blessed saint:

Employ thee then, sweet virgin, for our good.

Joan La Pucelle

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.

Charles

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.

Alencon

For ever should they be expulsed from France

And not have title of an earldom here.

Joan La Pucelle

Your honours shall perceive how I will work

To bring this matter to the wished end.

Drum sounds 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 at a distance, Talbot and his forces

There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread,

And all the troops of English after him.

French march. Enter Burgundy and 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.

Trumpets sound a parley

Charles

A parley with the Duke of Burgundy!

Burgundy

Who craves a parley with the Burgundy?

Joan La Pucelle

The princely Charles of France, thy countryman.

Burgundy

What say’st thou, Charles? for I am marching hence.

Charles

Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words.

Joan La Pucelle

Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France!

Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee.

Burgundy

Speak on; but be not over-tedious.

Joan La Pucelle

Look on thy country, look on fertile France,

And see the cities and the towns defaced

By wasting ruin of the cruel foe.

As looks the mother on her lowly babe

When death doth close his tender dying eyes,

See, see the pining malady of France;

Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds,

Which thou thyself hast given her woful breast.

O, turn thy edged sword another way;

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,

And wash away thy country’s stained spots.

Burgundy

Either she hath bewitch’d me with her words,

Or nature makes me suddenly relent.

Joan La Pucelle

Besides, all French and France exclaims on thee,

Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny.

Who joint’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

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,

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,

In spite of Burgundy and all his friends.

See, then, thou fight’st against thy countrymen

And joint’st with them will be thy slaughtermen.

Come, come, return; return, thou wandering lord:

Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms.

Burgundy

I am vanquished; these haughty words of hers

Have batter’d me like roaring cannon-shot,

And made me almost yield upon my knees.

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.

Joan La Pucelle

[Aside] Done like a Frenchman: turn, and turn again!

Charles

Welcome, brave duke! thy friendship makes us fresh.

Bastard Of Orleans

And doth beget new courage in our breasts.

Alencon

Pucelle hath bravely play’d her part in this,

And doth deserve a coronet of gold.

Charles

Now let us on, my lords, and join our powers,

And seek how we may prejudice the foe.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. PARIS. THE PALACE.

Enter King Henry VI, Gloucester, Bishop Of Winchester, York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Exeter, Vernon Basset, and others. To them with his Soldiers, Talbot

Talbot

My gracious prince, and honourable peers,

Hearing of your arrival in this realm,

I have awhile given truce unto my wars,

To do my duty to my sovereign:

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,

Lets fall his sword before your highness’ feet,

And with submissive loyalty of heart

Ascribes the glory of his conquest got

First to my God and next unto your grace.

Kneels

King Henry VI

Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloucester,

That hath so long been resident in France?

Gloucester

Yes, if it please your majesty, my liege.

King Henry VI

Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord!

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,

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:

Therefore, stand up; and, for these good deserts,

We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury;

And in our coronation take your place.

Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but Vernon and Basset

Vernon

Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea,

Disgracing of these colours that I wear

In honour of my noble Lord of York:

Darest thou maintain the former words thou spakest?

Basset

Yes, sir; as well as you dare patronage

The envious barking of your saucy tongue

Against my lord the Duke of Somerset.

Vernon

Sirrah, thy lord I honour as he is.

Basset

Why, what is he? as good a man as York.

Vernon

Hark ye; not so: in witness, take ye that.

Strikes him

Basset

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.

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.

Vernon

Well, miscreant, I’ll be there as soon as you;

And, after, meet you sooner than you would.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. PARIS. A HALL OF STATE.

Enter King Henry VI, Gloucester, Bishop Of Winchester, York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Talbot, Exeter, the Governor, of Paris, and others

Gloucester

Lord bishop, set the crown upon his head.

Bishop of Winchester

God save King Henry, of that name the sixth!

Gloucester

Now, governor of Paris, take your oath,

That you elect no other king but him;

Esteem none friends but such as are his friends,

And none your foes but such as shall pretend

Malicious practises against his state:

This shall ye do, so help you righteous God!

Enter Fastolfe

Fastolfe

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.

Talbot

Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee!

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

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

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

Were there surprised and taken prisoners.

Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss;

Or whether that such cowards ought to wear

This ornament of knighthood, yea or no.

Gloucester

To say the truth, this fact was infamous

And ill beseeming any common man,

Much more a knight, a captain and a leader.

Talbot

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;

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,

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.

King Henry VI

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

Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy.

Gloucester

What means his grace, that he hath changed his style?

No more but, plain and bluntly, ‘To the king!’

Hath he forgot he is his sovereign?

Or doth this churlish superscription

Pretend some alteration in good will?

What’s here?

Reads

‘I have, upon especial cause,

Moved with compassion of my country’s wreck,

Together with the pitiful complaints

Of such as your oppression feeds upon,

Forsaken your pernicious faction

And join’d with Charles, the rightful King of France.’

O monstrous treachery! can this be so,

That in alliance, amity and oaths,

There should be found such false dissembling guile?

King Henry VI

What! doth my uncle Burgundy revolt?

Gloucester

He doth, my lord, and is become your foe.

King Henry VI

Is that the worst this letter doth contain?

Gloucester

It is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes.

King Henry VI

Why, then, Lord Talbot there shall talk with him

And give him chastisement for this abuse.

How say you, my lord? are you not content?

Talbot

Content, my liege! yes, but that I am prevented,

I should have begg’d I might have been employ’d.

King Henry VI

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.

Talbot

I go, my lord, in heart desiring still

You may behold confusion of your foes.

Exit

Enter Vernon and Basset

Vernon

Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign.

Basset

And me, my lord, grant me the combat too.

York

This is my servant: hear him, noble prince.

Somerset

And this is mine: sweet Henry, favour him.

King Henry VI

Be patient, lords; and give them leave to speak.

Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim?

And wherefore crave you combat? or with whom?

Vernon

With him, my lord; for he hath done me wrong.

Basset

And I with him; for he hath done me wrong.

King Henry VI

What is that wrong whereof you both complain?

First let me know, and then I’ll answer you.

Basset

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

Did represent my master’s blushing cheeks,

When stubbornly he did repugn the truth

About a certain question in the law

Argued betwixt the Duke of York and him;

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.

Vernon

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 provoked by him;

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?

Somerset

Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will out,

Though ne’er so cunningly you smother it.

King Henry VI

Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men,

When for so slight and frivolous a cause

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,

And then your highness shall command a peace.

Somerset

The quarrel toucheth none but us alone;

Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then.

York

There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset.

Vernon

Nay, let it rest where it began at first.

Basset

Confirm it so, mine honourable lord.

Gloucester

Confirm it so! Confounded be your strife!

And perish ye, with your audacious prate!

Presumptuous vassals, are you not ashamed

With this immodest clamorous outrage

To trouble and disturb the king and us?

And you, my lords, methinks you do not well

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.

Exeter

It grieves his highness: good my lords, be friends.

King Henry VI

Come hither, you that would be combatants:

Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour,

Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause.

And you, my lords, remember where we are,

In France, amongst a fickle wavering nation:

If they perceive dissension in our looks

And that within ourselves we disagree,

How will their grudging stomachs be provoked

To wilful disobedience, and rebel!

Beside, what infamy will there arise,

When foreign princes shall be certified

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,

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,

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,

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

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.

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,

With Charles, Alencon and that traitorous rout.

Flourish. Exeunt all but York, Warwick, Exeter and Vernon

Warwick

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.

Warwick

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.

Exeunt all but Exeter

Exeter

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

More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils,

Than yet can be imagined or supposed.

But howsoe’er, no simple man that sees

This jarring discord of nobility,

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 rain, there begins confusion.

Exit

SCENE II. BEFORE BOURDEAUX.

Enter Talbot, with trump and drum

Talbot

Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trumpeter:

Summon their general unto the wall.

Trumpet sounds. Enter General and others, aloft

English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth,

Servant in arms to Harry King of England;

And thus he would: Open your city gates;

Be humble to us; call my sovereign yours,

And do him homage as obedient subjects;

And I’ll withdraw me and my bloody power:

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

Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers,

If you forsake the offer of their love.

General

Thou ominous and fearful owl of death,

Our nation’s terror and their bloody scourge!

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:

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;

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

Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot.

Lo, there thou stand’st, a breathing valiant man,

Of an invincible unconquer’d spirit!

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,

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;

And mine shall ring thy dire departure out.

Exeunt General, & c

Talbot

He fables not; I hear the enemy:

Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings.

O, negligent and heedless discipline!

How are we park’d and bounded in a pale,

A little herd of England’s timorous deer,

Mazed with a yelping kennel of French curs!

If we be English deer, be then in blood;

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:

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!

Exeunt

SCENE III. PLAINS IN GASCONY.

Enter a Messenger that meets York. Enter York with trumpet and many Soldiers

York

Are not the speedy scouts return’d again,

That dogg’d the mighty army of the Dauphin?

Messenger

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,

By your espials were discovered

Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led,

Which join’d with him and made their march for Bourdeaux.

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,

And I am lowted by a traitor villain

And cannot help the noble chevalier:

God comfort him in this necessity!

If he miscarry, farewell wars in France.

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

And hemm’d about with grim destruction:

To Bourdeaux, warlike duke! to Bourdeaux, York!

Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England’s honour.

York

O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart

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 makes me weep,

That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep.

Lucy

O, send some succor to the distress’d lord!

York

He dies, we lose; I break my warlike word;

We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get;

All ’long of this vile traitor Somerset.

Lucy

Then God take mercy on brave Talbot’s soul;

And on his son young John, who two hours since

I met in travel toward his warlike father!

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?

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.

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

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.

Exit

SCENE IV. OTHER PLAINS IN GASCONY.

Enter Somerset, with his army; a Captain of Talbot’s with him

Somerset

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

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,

That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name.

Captain

Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me

Set from our o’ermatch’d forces forth for aid.

Enter Sir William Lucy

Somerset

How now, Sir William! whither were you sent?

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

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,

Keep off aloof with worthless emulation.

Let not your private discord keep away

The levied succors that should lend him aid,

While he, renowned noble gentleman,

Yields up his life unto a world of odds:

Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy,

Alencon, Reignier, compass him about,

And Talbot perisheth by your default.

Somerset

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.

Somerset

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,

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.

Somerset

Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen straight:

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.

Somerset

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

Talbot

O young John Talbot! I did send for thee

To tutor thee in stratagems of war,

That Talbot’s name might be in thee revived

When sapless age and weak unable limbs

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:

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 Talbot

Is my name Talbot? and am I your son?

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,

That basely fled when noble Talbot stood.

Talbot

Fly, to revenge my death, if I be slain.

John Talbot

He that flies so will ne’er return again.

Talbot

If we both stay, we both are sure to die.

John Talbot

Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly:

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;

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;

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,

Rather than life preserved with infamy.

Talbot

Shall all thy mother’s hopes lie in one tomb?

John Talbot

Ay, rather than I’ll shame my mother’s womb.

Talbot

Upon my blessing, I command thee go.

John Talbot

To fight I will, but not to fly the foe.

Talbot

Part of thy father may be saved in thee.

John Talbot

No part of him but will be shame in me.

Talbot

Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it.

John Talbot

Yes, your renowned name: shall flight abuse it?

Talbot

Thy father’s charge shall clear thee from that stain.

John Talbot

You cannot witness for me, being slain.

If death be so apparent, then both fly.

Talbot

And leave my followers here to fight and die?

My age was never tainted with such shame.

John Talbot

And shall my youth be guilty of such blame?

No more can I be sever’d from your side,

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.

Talbot

Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son,

Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon.

Come, side by side together live and die.

And soul with soul from France to heaven fly.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. A FIELD OF BATTLE.

Alarum: excursions, wherein John Talbot is hemmed about, and Talbot rescues him

Talbot

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;

I gave thee life and rescued thee from death.

John Talbot

O, twice my father, twice am I thy son!

The life thou gavest me first was lost and done,

Till with thy warlike sword, despite of late,

To my determined time thou gavest new date.

Talbot

When from the Dauphin’s crest thy sword struck fire,

It warm’d thy father’s heart with proud desire

Of bold-faced victory. Then leaden age,

Quicken’d with youthful spleen and warlike rage,

Beat down Alencon, Orleans, Burgundy,

And from the pride of Gallia rescued thee.

The ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood

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

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:’

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,

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,

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;

’Tis but the shortening 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;

All these are saved if thou wilt fly away.

John Talbot

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,

Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly,

The coward horse that bears me fail and die!

And like me to the peasant boys of France,

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;

If son to Talbot, die at Talbot’s foot.

Talbot

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;

And, commendable proved, let’s die in pride.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Alarum: excursions. Enter Talbot led by a Servant

Talbot

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 perceived 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;

But when my angry guardant stood alone,

Tendering my ruin and assail’d of none,

Dizzy-eyed fury and great rage of heart

Suddenly made him from my side to start

Into the clustering battle of the French;

And in that sea of blood my boy did drench

His over-mounting spirit, and there died,

My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride.

Servant

O, my dear lord, lo, where your son is borne!

Enter Soldiers, with the body of John Talbot

Talbot

Thou antic death, which laugh’st us here to scorn,

Anon, from thy insulting tyranny,

Coupled in bonds of perpetuity,

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!

Brave death by speaking, whether 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.

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

Enter Charles, Alencon, Burgundy, Bastard Of Orleans, Joan La Pucelle, and forces

Charles

Had York and Somerset brought rescue in,

We should have found a bloody day of this.

Bastard Of Orleans

How the young whelp of Talbot’s, raging-wood,

Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen’s blood!

Joan La Pucelle

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:’

So, rushing in the bowels of the French,

He left me proudly, as unworthy fight.

Burgundy

Doubtless he would have made a noble knight;

See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms

Of the most bloody nurser of his harms!

Bastard Of Orleans

Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder

Whose life was England’s glory, Gallia’s wonder.

Charles

O, no, forbear! for that which we have fled

During the life, let us not wrong it dead.

Enter Sir William Lucy, attended; Herald of the French preceding

Lucy

Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin’s tent,

To know who hath obtained the glory of the day.

Charles

On what submissive message art thou sent?

Lucy

Submission, Dauphin! ’tis a mere French word;

We English warriors wot not what it means.

I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta’en

And to survey the bodies of the dead.

Charles

For prisoners ask’st thou? hell our prison is.

But tell me whom thou seek’st.

Lucy

But where’s the great Alcides of the field,

Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury,

Created, for his rare success in arms,

Great Earl of Washford, Waterford and Valence;

Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield,

Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton,

Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield,

The thrice-victorious Lord of Falconbridge;

Knight of the noble order of Saint George,

Worthy Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece;

Great marshal to Henry the Sixth

Of all his wars within the realm of France?

Joan La Pucelle

Here is a silly stately style indeed!

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.

Lucy

Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen’s only scourge,

Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis?

O, were mine eyeballs into bullets turn’d,

That I in rage might shoot them at your faces!

O, that I could but call these dead to life!

It were enough to fright the realm of France:

Were but his picture left amongst you here,

It would amaze the proudest of you all.

Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence

And give them burial as beseems their worth.

Joan La Pucelle

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,

They would but stink, and putrefy the air.

Charles

Go, take their bodies hence.

Lucy

I’ll bear them hence; but from their ashes shall be rear’d

A phoenix that shall make all France afeard.

Charles

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.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Sennet. Enter King Henry VI, Gloucester, and Exeter

King Henry VI

Have you perused the letters from the pope,

The emperor and the Earl of Armagnac?

Gloucester

I have, my lord: and their intent is this:

They humbly sue unto your excellence

To have a godly peace concluded of

Between the realms of England and of France.

King Henry VI

How doth your grace affect their motion?

Gloucester

Well, my good lord; and as the only means

To stop effusion of our Christian blood

And ’stablish quietness on every side.

King Henry VI

Ay, marry, uncle; for I always thought

It was both impious and unnatural

That such immanity and bloody strife

Should reign among professors of one faith.

Gloucester

Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect

And surer bind this knot of amity,

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.

King Henry VI

Marriage, uncle! alas, my years are young!

And fitter is my study and my books

Than wanton dalliance with a paramour.

Yet call the ambassador; and, as you please,

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 Cardinal Of Winchester in Cardinal’s habit, a Legate and two Ambassadors

Exeter

What! is my Lord of Winchester install’d,

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,

He’ll make his cap co-equal with the crown.’

King Henry VI

My lords ambassadors, your several suits

Have been consider’d and debated on.

And therefore are we certainly resolved

To draw conditions of a friendly peace;

Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean

Shall be transported presently to France.

Gloucester

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,

He doth intend she shall be England’s queen.

King Henry VI

In argument and proof of which contract,

Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection.

And so, my lord protector, see them guarded

And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp’d

Commit them to the fortune of the sea.

Exeunt all but Cardinal Of Winchester and Legate

Cardinal

Bishop of Winchester

Stay, my lord legate: you shall first receive

The sum of money which I promised

Should be deliver’d to his holiness

For clothing me in these grave ornaments.

Legate

I will attend upon your lordship’s leisure.

Cardinal

Bishop of Winchester

[Aside] Now Winchester will not submit, I trow,

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:

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, Alencon, Bastard Of Orleans, Reignier, Joan La Pucelle, and forces

Charles

These news, my lord, may cheer our drooping spirits:

’Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt

And turn again unto the warlike French.

Alencon

Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France,

And keep not back your powers in dalliance.

Joan La Pucelle

Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us;

Else, ruin combat with their palaces!

Enter Scout

Scout

Success unto our valiant general,

And happiness to his accomplices!

Charles

What tidings send our scouts? I prithee, speak.

Scout

The English army, that divided was

Into two parties, is now conjoined in one,

And means to give you battle presently.

Charles

Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is;

But we will presently provide for them.

Burgundy

I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there:

Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear.

Joan La Pucelle

Of all base passions, fear is most accursed.

Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine,

Let Henry fret and all the world repine.

Charles

Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate!

Exeunt

SCENE III. BEFORE ANGIERS.

Alarum. Excursions. Enter Joan La Pucelle

Joan La Pucelle

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.

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.

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!

Where I was wont to feed you with my blood,

I’ll lop a member off and give it you

In earnest of further benefit,

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

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

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:

Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust.

Exit

Excursions. Re-enter Joan La Pucelle fighting hand to hand with York. 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.

A goodly prize, fit for the devil’s grace!

See, how the ugly wench doth bend her brows,

As if with Circe she would change my shape!

Joan La Pucelle

Changed to a worser shape thou canst not be.

York

O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man;

No shape but his can please your dainty eye.

Joan La Pucelle

A plaguing mischief light on Charles and thee!

And may ye both be suddenly surprised

By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds!

York

Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold thy tongue!

Joan La Pucelle

I prithee, give me leave to curse awhile.

York

Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake.

Exeunt

Alarum. Enter Suffolk with Margaret in his hand

Suffolk

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,

And lay them gently on thy tender side.

Who art thou? say, that I may honour thee.

Margaret

Margaret my name, and daughter to a king,

The King of Naples, whosoe’er thou art.

Suffolk

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,

Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings.

Yet, if this servile usage once offend.

Go, and be free again, as Suffolk’s friend.

She is going

O, stay! I have no power to let her pass;

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.

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?

Wilt thou be daunted at a woman’s sight?

Ay, beauty’s princely majesty is such,

Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.

Margaret

Say, Earl of Suffolk — if thy name be so —

What ransom must I pay before I pass?

For I perceive I am thy prisoner.

Suffolk

How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit,

Before thou make a trial of her love?

Margaret

Why speak’st thou not? what ransom must I pay?

Suffolk

She’s beautiful, and therefore to be woo’d;

She is a woman, therefore to be won.

Margaret

Wilt thou accept of ransom? yea, or no.

Suffolk

Fond man, remember that thou hast a wife;

Then how can Margaret be thy paramour?

Margaret

I were best to leave him, for he will not hear.

Suffolk

There all is marr’d; there lies a cooling card.

Margaret

He talks at random; sure, the man is mad.

Suffolk

And yet a dispensation may be had.

Margaret

And yet I would that you would answer me.

Suffolk

I’ll win this Lady Margaret. For whom?

Why, for my king: tush, that’s a wooden thing!

Margaret

He talks of wood: it is some carpenter.

Suffolk

Yet so my fancy may be satisfied,

And peace established between these realms

But there remains a scruple in that too;

For though her father be the King of Naples,

Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor,

And our nobility will scorn the match.

Margaret

Hear ye, captain, are you not at leisure?

Suffolk

It shall be so, disdain they ne’er so much.

Henry is youthful and will quickly yield.

Madam, I have a secret to reveal.

Margaret

What though I be enthrall’d? he seems a knight,

And will not any way dishonour me.

Suffolk

Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say.

Margaret

Perhaps I shall be rescued by the French;

And then I need not crave his courtesy.

Suffolk

Sweet madam, give me a hearing in a cause —

Margaret

Tush, women have been captivate ere now.

Suffolk

Lady, wherefore talk you so?

Margaret

I cry you mercy, ’tis but Quid for Quo.

Suffolk

Say, gentle princess, would you not suppose

Your bondage happy, to be made a queen?

Margaret

To be a queen in bondage is more vile

Than is a slave in base servility;

For princes should be free.

Suffolk

And so shall you,

If happy England’s royal king be free.

Margaret

Why, what concerns his freedom unto me?

Suffolk

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 —

Margaret

What?

Suffolk

His love.

Margaret

I am unworthy to be Henry’s wife.

Suffolk

No, gentle madam; I unworthy am

To woo so fair a dame to be his wife,

And have no portion in the choice myself.

How say you, madam, are ye so content?

Margaret

An if my father please, I am content.

Suffolk

Then call our captains and our colours forth.

And, madam, at your father’s castle walls

We’ll crave a parley, to confer with him.

A parley sounded. Enter Reignier on the walls

See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner!

Reignier

To whom?

Suffolk

To me.

Reignier

Suffolk, what remedy?

I am a soldier, and unapt to weep,

Or to exclaim on fortune’s fickleness.

Suffolk

Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord:

Consent, and for thy honour give consent,

Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king;

Whom I with pain have woo’d and won thereto;

And this her easy-held imprisonment

Hath gained thy daughter princely liberty.

Reignier

Speaks Suffolk as he thinks?

Suffolk

Fair Margaret knows

That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign.

Reignier

Upon thy princely warrant, I descend

To give thee answer of thy just demand.

Exit from the walls

Suffolk

And here I will expect thy coming.

Trumpets sound. Enter Reignier, below

Reignier

Welcome, brave earl, into our territories:

Command in Anjou what your honour pleases.

Suffolk

Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child,

Fit to be made companion with a king:

What answer makes your grace unto my suit?

Reignier

Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth

To be the princely bride of such a lord;

Upon condition I may quietly

Enjoy mine own, the country Maine and Anjou,

Free from oppression or the stroke of war,

My daughter shall be Henry’s, if he please.

Suffolk

That is her ransom; I deliver her;

And those two counties I will undertake

Your grace shall well and quietly enjoy.

Reignier

And I again, in Henry’s royal name,

As deputy unto that gracious king,

Give thee her hand, for sign of plighted faith.

Suffolk

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

To be mine own attorney in this case.

I’ll over then to England with this news,

And make this marriage to be solemnized.

So farewell, Reignier: set this diamond safe

In golden palaces, as it becomes.

Reignier

I do embrace thee, as I would embrace

The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here.

Margaret

Farewell, my lord: good wishes, praise and prayers

Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret.

Going

Suffolk

Farewell, sweet madam: but hark you, Margaret;

No princely commendations to my king?

Margaret

Such commendations as becomes a maid,

A virgin and his servant, say to him.

Suffolk

Words sweetly placed and modestly directed.

But madam, I must trouble you again;

No loving token to his majesty?

Margaret

Yes, my good lord, a pure unspotted heart,

Never yet taint with love, I send the king.

Suffolk

And this withal.

Kisses her

Margaret

That for thyself: I will not so presume

To send such peevish tokens to a king.

Exeunt Reignier and Margaret

Suffolk

O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk, stay;

Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth;

There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk.

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,

That, when thou comest to kneel at Henry’s feet,

Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder.

Exit

SCENE IV. CAMP OF THE 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

Shepherd

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,

Must I behold thy timeless cruel death?

Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I’ll die with thee!

Joan La Pucelle

Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch!

I am descended of a gentler blood:

Thou art no father nor no friend of mine.

Shepherd

Out, out! My lords, an please you, ’tis not so;

I did beget her, all the parish knows:

Her mother liveth yet, can testify

She was the first fruit of my bachelorship.

Warwick

Graceless! wilt thou deny thy parentage?

York

This argues what her kind of life hath been,

Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes.

Shepherd

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.

Joan La Pucelle

Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn’d this man,

Of purpose to obscure my noble birth.

Shepherd

’Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest

The morn that I was wedded to her mother.

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,

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?

O, burn her, burn her! hanging is too good.

Exit

York

Take her away; for she hath lived too long,

To fill the world with vicious qualities.

Joan La Pucelle

First, let me tell you whom you have condemn’d:

Not me begotten of a shepherd swain,

But issued from the progeny of kings;

Virtuous and holy; chosen from above,

By inspiration of celestial grace,

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,

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.

No, misconceived! Joan of Arc hath been

A virgin from her tender infancy,

Chaste and immaculate in very thought;

Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effused,

Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven.

York

Ay, ay: away with her to execution!

Warwick

And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid,

Spare for no faggots, let there be enow:

Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake,

That so her torture may be shortened.

Joan La Pucelle

Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?

Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity,

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.

York

Now heaven forfend! the holy maid with child!

Warwick

The greatest miracle that e’er ye wrought:

Is all your strict preciseness come to this?

York

She and the Dauphin have been juggling:

I did imagine what would be her refuge.

Warwick

Well, go to; we’ll have no bastards live;

Especially since Charles must father it.

Joan La Pucelle

You are deceived; my child is none of his:

It was Alencon that enjoy’d my love.

York

Alencon! that notorious Machiavel!

It dies, an if it had a thousand lives.

Joan La Pucelle

O, give me leave, I have deluded you:

’Twas neither Charles nor yet the duke I named,

But Reignier, king of Naples, that prevail’d.

Warwick

A married man! that’s most intolerable.

York

Why, here’s a girl! I think she knows not well,

There were so many, whom she may accuse.

Warwick

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.

Joan La Pucelle

Then lead me hence; with whom I leave my curse:

May never glorious sun reflex his beams

Upon the country where you make abode;

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,

Thou foul accursed minister of hell!

Enter Cardinal Of Winchester, attended

Cardinal

Bishop of Winchester

Lord regent, I do greet your excellence

With letters of commission from the king.

For know, my lords, the states of Christendom,

Moved with remorse of these outrageous broils,

Have earnestly implored a general peace

Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French;

And here at hand the Dauphin and his train

Approacheth, to confer about some matter.

York

Is all our travail turn’d to this effect?

After the slaughter of so many peers,

So many captains, gentlemen and soldiers,

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,

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.

Warwick

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, Alencon, Bastard Of Orleans, Reignier, and others

Charles

Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed

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

The hollow passage of my poison’d voice,

By sight of these our baleful enemies.

Cardinal

Bishop of Winchester

Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus:

That, in regard King Henry gives consent,

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, submit thyself,

Thou shalt be placed as viceroy under him,

And still enjoy thy regal dignity.

Alencon

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?

This proffer is absurd and reasonless.

Charles

’Tis known already that I am possess’d

With more than half the Gallian territories,

And therein reverenced for their lawful king:

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

That which I have than, coveting for more,

Be cast from possibility of all.

York

Insulting Charles! hast thou by secret means

Used intercession to obtain a league,

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

And not of any challenge of desert,

Or we will plague thee with incessant wars.

Reignier

My lord, you do not well in obstinacy

To cavil in the course of this contract:

If once it be neglected, ten to one

We shall not find like opportunity.

Alencon

To say the truth, it is your policy

To save your subjects from such massacre

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.

Warwick

How say’st thou, Charles? shall our condition stand?

Charles

It shall;

Only reserved, you claim no interest

In any of our towns of garrison.

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.

So, now dismiss your army when ye please:

Hang up your ensign, let your drums be still,

For here we entertain a solemn peace.

Exeunt

SCENE V. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Enter Suffolk in conference with King Henry VI, Gloucester and Exeter

King Henry VI

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:

And like as rigor of tempestuous gusts

Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide,

So am I driven by breath of her renown

Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive

Where I may have fruition of her love.

Suffolk

Tush, my good lord, this superficial tale

Is but a preface of her worthy praise;

The chief perfections of that lovely dame

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,

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,

To love and honour Henry as her lord.

King Henry VI

And otherwise will Henry ne’er presume.

Therefore, my lord protector, give consent

That Margaret may be England’s royal queen.

Gloucester

So should I give consent to flatter sin.

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?

Suffolk

As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths;

Or one that, at a triumph having vow’d

To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists

By reason of his adversary’s odds:

A poor earl’s daughter is unequal odds,

And therefore may be broke without offence.

Gloucester

Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than that?

Her father is no better than an earl,

Although in glorious titles he excel.

Suffolk

Yes, lord, her father is a king,

The King of Naples and Jerusalem;

And of such great authority in France

As his alliance will confirm our peace

And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance.

Gloucester

And so the Earl of Armagnac may do,

Because he is near kinsman unto Charles.

Exeter

Beside, his wealth doth warrant a liberal dower,

Where Reignier sooner will receive than give.

Suffolk

A dower, my lords! disgrace not so your king,

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 seek a queen to make him rich:

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;

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,

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,

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,

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;

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.

Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me

That Margaret shall be queen, and none but she.

King Henry VI

Whether it be through force of your report,

My noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that

My tender youth was never yet attaint

With any passion of inflaming love,

I cannot tell; but this I am assured,

I feel such sharp dissension in my breast,

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

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,

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:

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,

I may revolve and ruminate my grief.

Exit

Gloucester

Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and last.

Exeunt Gloucester and Exeter

Suffolk

Thus Suffolk hath prevail’d; and thus he goes,

As did the youthful Paris once to Greece,

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.

Exit

The Second Part of King Henry the Sixth

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PALACE.

SCENE II. GLOUCESTER’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. THE PALACE.

SCENE IV. GLOUCESTER’S GARDEN.

ACT II

SCENE I. SAINT ALBAN’S.

SCENE II. LONDON. YORK’S GARDEN.

SCENE III. A HALL OF JUSTICE.

SCENE IV. A STREET.

ACT III

SCENE I. THE ABBEY AT BURY ST. EDMUND’S.

SCENE II. BURY ST. EDMUND’S. A ROOM OF STATE.

SCENE III. A BEDCHAMBER.

ACT IV

SCENE I. THE COAST OF KENT.

SCENE II. BLACKHEATH.

SCENE III. ANOTHER PART OF BLACKHEATH.

SCENE IV. LONDON. THE PALACE.

SCENE V. LONDON. THE TOWER.

SCENE VI. LONDON. CANNON STREET.

SCENE VII. LONDON. SMITHFIELD.

SCENE VIII. SOUTHWARK.

SCENE IX. KENILWORTH CASTLE.

SCENE X. KENT. IDEN’S GARDEN.

ACT V

SCENE I. FIELDS BETWEEN DARTFORD AND BLACKHEATH.

SCENE II. SAINT ALBAN’S.

SCENE III. FIELDS NEAR ST. ALBAN’S.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

King Henry VI

Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, his uncle

Henry, Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, great-uncle to the King

Richard, Duke of York

Edward, his son

Richard, also son to the Duke of York

Edmund Beaufort, 2nd Duke of Somerset

William de la Pole, 1st Duke of Suffolk

Humphrey Stafford, 1st Duke of Buckingham

Thomas Clifford, 8th Baron Clifford

Young Clifford, his son

Richard Neville, 5th Earl of Salisbury

Richard Neville, 16th Earl of Warwick

Lord Scales

Lord Say

Sir Humphrey Stafford

William Stafford, his brother

Sir John Stanley

Vaux

Matthew Goffe

Alexander Iden, a Kentish Gentleman

Lieutenant, Shipmates, Master's Mate, and Walter Whitmore

Two Gentlemen, prisoners with Suffolk

John Hume and John Southwell, priests

Roger Bolingbrook, a conjurer

Thomas Horner, an armorer

Peter Thump, his apprentice

Clerk of Chartam

Mayor of Saint Albans

Simcox, an impostor

Jack Cade, a rebel

George Bevis, John Holland, Dick the butcher, Smith the Weaver, Michael, etc., followers of Jack Cade

Two murderers

Margaret of Anjou, Queen to King Henry

Eleanor Cobham, Duchess of Gloucester

Margaret Jourdain, a witch

Wife to Simcox

Spirit

Lords, Ladies, attendants, heralds, soldiers, etc.

ACT I

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Flourish of trumpets: then hautboys. Enter King Henry VI, Gloucester, Salisbury, Warwick, and Cardinal, on the one side; Queen Margaret, Suffolk, York, Somerset, and Buckingham, on the other

Suffolk

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,

So, in the famous ancient city, Tours,

In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil,

The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne and Alencon,

Seven earls, twelve barons and twenty reverend bishops,

I have perform’d my task and was espoused:

And humbly now upon my bended knee,

In sight of England and her lordly peers,

Deliver up my title in the queen

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 received.

King Henry VI

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!

For thou hast given me in this beauteous face

A world of earthly blessings to my soul,

If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.

Queen Margaret

Great King of England and my gracious lord,

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 alder-liefest sovereign,

Makes me the bolder to salute my king

With ruder terms, such as my wit affords

And over-joy of heart doth minister.

King Henry VI

Her sight did ravish; but her grace in speech,

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.

All

[Kneeling] Long live Queen Margaret, England’s happiness!

Queen Margaret

We thank you all.

Flourish

Suffolk

My lord protector, so it please your grace,

Here are the articles of contracted peace

Between our sovereign and the French king Charles,

For eighteen months concluded by consent.

Gloucester

[Reads] ‘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’—

Lets the paper fall

King Henry VI

Uncle, how now!

Gloucester

Pardon me, gracious lord;

Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart

And dimm’d mine eyes, that I can read no further.

King Henry VI

Uncle of Winchester, I pray, read on.

Cardinal

[Reads] ‘Item, It is further agreed between them, that the duchies of Anjou and Maine shall be released and delivered over to the king her father, and she sent over of the King of England’s own proper cost and charges, without having any dowry.’

King Henry VI

They please us well. Lord marquess, kneel down:

We here create thee the first duke of Suffolk,

And gird 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

Be full expired. Thanks, uncle Winchester,

Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset,

Salisbury, and Warwick;

We thank you all for the great favour done,

In entertainment to my princely queen.

Come, let us in, and with all speed provide

To see her coronation be perform’d.

Exeunt King Henry VI, Queen Margaret, and Suffolk

Gloucester

Brave peers of England, pillars of the state,

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?

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,

To keep by policy what Henry got?

Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham,

Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick,

Received deep scars in France and Normandy?

Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself,

With all the learned council of the realm,

Studied so long, sat in the council-house

Early and late, debating to and fro

How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe,

And had his highness in his infancy

Crowned in Paris in despite of foes?

And shall these labours and these honours die?

Shall Henry’s conquest, Bedford’s vigilance,

Your deeds of war and all our counsel die?

O peers of England, shameful is this league!

Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame,

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!

Cardinal

Nephew, what means this passionate discourse,

This peroration with such circumstance?

For France, ’tis ours; and we will keep it still.

Gloucester

Ay, uncle, we will keep it, if we can;

But now it is impossible we should:

Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast,

Hath given the duchy of Anjou and Maine

Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style

Agrees not with the leanness of his purse.

Salisbury

Now, by the death of Him that died for all,

These counties were the keys of Normandy.

But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son?

Warwick

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.

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,

Delivered up again with peaceful words?

Mort Dieu!

York

For Suffolk’s duke, may he be suffocate,

That dims the honour of this warlike isle!

France should have torn and rent my very heart,

Before I would have yielded to this league.

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.

Gloucester

A proper jest, and never heard before,

That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth

For costs and charges in transporting her!

She should have stayed in France and starved

in France, Before —

Cardinal

My Lord of Gloucester, now ye grow too hot:

It was the pleasure of my lord the King.

Gloucester

My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind;

’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,

We shall begin our ancient bickerings.

Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone,

I prophesied France will be lost ere long.

Exit

Cardinal

So, there goes our protector in a rage.

’Tis known to you he is mine enemy,

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,

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 displeased at it.

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,’

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,

He will be found a dangerous protector.

Buckingham

Why should he, then, protect our sovereign,

He being of age to govern of himself?

Cousin of Somerset, join you with me,

And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk,

We’ll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat.

Cardinal

This weighty business will not brook delay:

I’ll to the Duke of Suffolk presently.

Exit

Somerset

Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey’s pride

And greatness of his place be grief to us,

Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal:

His insolence is more intolerable

Than all the princes in the land beside:

If Gloucester be displaced, he’ll be protector.

Buckingham

Or thou or I, Somerset, will be protector,

Despite Duke Humphrey or the cardinal.

Exeunt Buckingham and Somerset

Salisbury

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.

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,

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 housekeeping,

Hath 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,

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,

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,

While they do tend the profit of the land.

Warwick

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.

Salisbury

Then let’s make haste away, and look unto the main.

Warwick

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,

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

Stands on a tickle point, now they are gone:

Suffolk concluded on the articles,

The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleased

To change two dukedoms for a duke’s fair daughter.

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;

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 shared and all is borne away,

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

Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood

As did the fatal brand Althaea burn’d

Unto the prince’s heart of Calydon.

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

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:

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 fits 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,

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 perfumed;

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. GLOUCESTER’S HOUSE.

Enter Gloucester and his Duchess

Duchess

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?

Why are thine eyes fixed to the sullen earth,

Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight?

What seest thou there? King Henry’s diadem,

Enchased with all the honours of the world?

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:

And, having both together heaved 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.

Gloucester

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!

My troublous dream this night doth make me sad.

Duchess

What dream’d my lord? tell me, and I’ll requite it

With sweet rehearsal of my morning’s dream.

Gloucester

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

Were placed 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.

Duchess

Tut, this was nothing but an argument

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

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.

Gloucester

Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright:

Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtured Eleanor,

Art thou not second woman in the realm,

And the protector’s wife, beloved of him?

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

From top of honour to disgrace’s feet?

Away from me, and let me hear no more!

Duchess

What, what, my lord! are you so choleric

With Eleanor, for telling but her dream?

Next time I’ll keep my dreams unto myself,

And not be cheque’d.

Gloucester

Nay, be not angry; I am pleased again.

Enter Messenger

Messenger

My lord protector, ’tis his highness’ pleasure

You do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban’s,

Where as the king and queen do mean to hawk.

Gloucester

I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us?

Duchess

Yes, my good lord, I’ll follow presently.

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,

We are alone; here’s none but thee and I.

Enter Hume

Hume

Jesus preserve your royal majesty!

Duchess

What say’st thou? majesty! I am but grace.

Hume

But, by the grace of God, and Hume’s advice,

Your grace’s title shall be multiplied.

Duchess

What say’st thou, man? hast thou as yet conferr’d

With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch,

With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer?

And will they undertake to do me good?

Hume

This they have promised, to show your highness

A spirit raised from depth of under-ground,

That shall make answer to such questions

As by your grace shall be propounded him.

Duchess

It is enough; I’ll think upon the questions:

When from St. Alban’s we do make return,

We’ll see these things effected to the full.

Here, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man,

With thy confederates in this weighty cause.

Exit

Hume

Hume must make merry with the duchess’ gold;

Marry, and shall. But how now, Sir John Hume!

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.

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,

They, knowing Dame Eleanor’s aspiring humour,

Have hired me to undermine the duchess

And buz these conjurations in her brain.

They say ‘A crafty knave does need no broker;’

Yet am I Suffolk and the cardinal’s broker.

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

Hume’s knavery will be the duchess’ wreck,

And her attainture will be Humphrey’s fall:

Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all.

Exit

SCENE III. THE PALACE.

Enter three or four Petitioners, Peter, the Armourer’s man, being one

First Petitioner

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.

Second Petitioner

Marry, the Lord protect him, for he’s a good man!

Jesu bless him!

Enter Suffolk and Queen Margaret

Peter

Here a’ comes, methinks, and the queen with him.

I’ll be the first, sure.

Second Petitioner

Come back, fool; this is the Duke of Suffolk, and not my lord protector.

Suffolk

How now, fellow! would’st anything with me?

First Petitioner

I pray, my lord, pardon me; I took ye for my lord protector.

Queen Margaret

[Reading] ‘To my Lord Protector!’ Are your supplications to his lordship? Let me see them: what is thine?

First Petitioner

Mine is, an’t please your grace, against John Goodman, my lord cardinal’s man, for keeping my house, and lands, and wife and all, from me.

Suffolk

Thy wife, too! that’s some wrong, indeed. What’s yours? What’s here!

[Reads] ‘Against the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing the commons of Melford.’ How now, sir knave!

Second Petitioner

Alas, sir, I am but a poor petitioner of our whole township.

Peter

[Giving his petition] Against my master, Thomas Horner, for saying that the Duke of York was rightful heir to the crown.

Queen Margaret

What sayst thou? did the Duke of York say he was rightful heir to the crown?

Peter

That my master was? no, forsooth: my master said that he was, and that the king was an usurper.

Suffolk

Who is there?

Enter Servant

Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant presently: we’ll hear more of your matter before the King.

Exit Servant with Peter

Queen Margaret

And as for you, that love to be protected

Under the wings of our protector’s grace,

Begin your suits anew, and sue to him.

Tears the supplication

Away, base cullions! Suffolk, let them go.

All

Come, let’s be gone.

Exeunt

Queen Margaret

My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise,

Is this the fashion in the court of England?

Is this the government of Britain’s isle,

And this the royalty of Albion’s king?

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?

I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours

Thou ran’st a tilt in honour of my love

And stolest away the ladies’ hearts of France,

I thought King Henry had resembled thee

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,

His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves

Are brazen images of canonized saints.

I would the college of the cardinals

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.

Suffolk

Madam, be patient: as I was cause

Your highness came to England, so will I

In England work your grace’s full content.

Queen Margaret

Beside the haughty protector, have we Beaufort,

The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham,

And grumbling York: and not the least of these

But can do more in England than the king.

Suffolk

And he of these that can do most of all

Cannot do more in England than the Nevils:

Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers.

Queen Margaret

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,

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:

Shall I not live to be avenged on her?

Contemptuous base-born callet as she is,

She vaunted ’mongst her minions t’other day,

The very train of her worst wearing gown

Was better worth than all my father’s lands,

Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter.

Suffolk

Madam, myself have limed a bush for her,

And placed a quire of such enticing birds,

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.

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

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 VI, Gloucester, Cardinal, Buckingham, York, Somerset, Salisbury, Warwick, and the Duchess

King Henry VI

For my part, noble lords, I care not which;

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.

Somerset

If Somerset be unworthy of the place,

Let York be regent; I will yield to him.

Warwick

Whether your grace be worthy, yea or no,

Dispute not that: York is the worthier.

Cardinal

Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak.

Warwick

The cardinal’s not my better in the field.

Buckingham

All in this presence are thy betters, Warwick.

Warwick

Warwick may live to be the best of all.

Salisbury

Peace, son! and show some reason, Buckingham,

Why Somerset should be preferred in this.

Queen Margaret

Because the king, forsooth, will have it so.

Gloucester

Madam, the king is old enough himself

To give his censure: these are no women’s matters.

Queen Margaret

If he be old enough, what needs your grace

To be protector of his excellence?

Gloucester

Madam, I am protector of the realm;

And, at his pleasure, will resign my place.

Suffolk

Resign it then and leave thine insolence.

Since thou wert king — as who is king but thou?—

The commonwealth hath daily run to wreck;

The Dauphin hath prevail’d beyond the seas;

And all the peers and nobles of the realm

Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty.

Cardinal

The commons hast thou rack’d; the clergy’s bags

Are lank and lean with thy extortions.

Somerset

Thy sumptuous buildings and thy wife’s attire

Have cost a mass of public treasury.

Buckingham

Thy cruelty in execution

Upon offenders, hath exceeded law,

And left thee to the mercy of the law.

Queen Margaret

They 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. Queen Margaret drops her fan

Give me my fan: what, minion! can ye not?

She gives the Duchess a box on the ear

I cry you mercy, madam; was it you?

Duchess

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.

King Henry VI

Sweet aunt, be quiet; ’twas against her will.

Duchess

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,

She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unrevenged.

Exit

Buckingham

Lord cardinal, I will follow Eleanor,

And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds:

She’s tickled now; her fume needs no spurs,

She’ll gallop far enough to her destruction.

Exit

Re-enter Gloucester

Gloucester

Now, lords, my choler being over-blown

With walking once about the quadrangle,

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,

As I in duty love my king and country!

But, to the matter that we have in hand:

I say, my sovereign, York is meetest man

To be your regent in the realm of France.

Suffolk

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:

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,

Till France be won into the Dauphin’s hands:

Last time, I danced attendance on his will

Till Paris was besieged, famish’d, and lost.

Warwick

That can I witness; and a fouler fact

Did never traitor in the land commit.

Suffolk

Peace, headstrong Warwick!

Warwick

Image of pride, why should I hold my peace?

Enter Horner, the Armourer, and his man Peter, guarded

Suffolk

Because here is a man accused of treason:

Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself!

York

Doth any one accuse York for a traitor?

King Henry VI

What mean’st thou, Suffolk; tell me, what are these?

Suffolk

Please it your majesty, this is the man

That doth accuse his master of high treason:

His words were these: that Richard, Duke of York,

Was rightful heir unto the English crown

And that your majesty was a usurper.

King Henry VI

Say, man, were these thy words?

Horner

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.

Peter

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,

Let him have all the rigor of the law.

Horner

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.

King Henry VI

Uncle, what shall we say to this in law?

Gloucester

This doom, my lord, if I may judge:

Let Somerset be regent over the French,

Because in York this breeds suspicion:

And let these have a day appointed them

For single combat in convenient place,

For he hath witness of his servant’s malice:

This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey’s doom.

Somerset

I humbly thank your royal majesty.

Horner

And I accept the combat willingly.

Peter

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!

Gloucester

Sirrah, or you must fight, or else be hang’d.

King Henry VI

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.

Flourish. Exeunt

SCENE IV. GLOUCESTER’S GARDEN.

Enter Margaret Jourdain, Hume, Southwell, and Bolingbroke

Hume

Come, my masters; the duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your promises.

Bolingbroke

Master Hume, we are therefore provided: will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms?

Hume

Ay, what else? fear you not her courage.

Bolingbroke

I have heard her reported to be a woman of an 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 the Duchess aloft, Hume following

Duchess

Well said, my masters; and welcome all. To this gear the sooner the better.

Bolingbroke

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;

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.

Here they do the ceremonies belonging, and make the circle; Bolingbroke or Southwell reads, Conjuro te, &c. It thunders and lightens terribly; then the Spirit riseth

Spirit

Adsum.

Margaret Jourdain

Asmath,

By the eternal God, whose name and power

Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask;

For, till thou speak, thou shalt not pass from hence.

Spirit

Ask what thou wilt. That I had said and done!

Bolingbroke

[Reading out of a paper] ‘First of the king: what shall of him become?’

Spirit

The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose;

But him outlive, and die a violent death.

As the Spirit speaks, Southwell writes the answer

Bolingbroke

‘What fates await the Duke of Suffolk?’

Spirit

By water shall he die, and take his end.

Bolingbroke

‘What shall befall the Duke of Somerset?’

Spirit

Let him shun castles;

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains

Than where castles mounted stand.

Have done, for more I hardly can endure.

Bolingbroke

Descend to darkness and the burning lake!

False fiend, avoid!

Thunder and lightning. Exit Spirit

Enter York and Buckingham with their Guard and break in

York

Lay hands upon these traitors and their trash.

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,

See you well guerdon’d for these good deserts.

Duchess

Not half so bad as thine to England’s king,

Injurious duke, that threatest where’s no cause.

Buckingham

True, madam, none at all: what call you this?

Away with them! let them be clapp’d up close.

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.

All, away!

Exeunt guard with Margaret Jourdain, Southwell, &c

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.

What have we here?

[Reads] ‘The duke yet lives, that Henry shall depose;

But him outlive, and die a violent death.’

Why, this is just

‘Aio te, Aeacida, 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.

What shall betide the Duke of Somerset?

Let him shun castles;

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains

Than where castles mounted stand.’

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:

Thither go these news, as fast as horse can carry them:

A sorry breakfast for my lord protector.

Buckingham

Your grace shall give me leave, my Lord of York,

To be the post, in hope of his reward.

York

At your pleasure, my good lord. Who’s within there, ho!

Enter a Servingman

Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick

To sup with me to-morrow night. Away!

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. SAINT ALBAN’S.

Enter King Henry VI, Queen Margaret, Gloucester, Cardinal, and Suffolk, with Falconers halloing

Queen Margaret

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.

King Henry VI

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.

Suffolk

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.

Gloucester

My lord, ’tis but a base ignoble mind

That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

Cardinal

I thought as much; he would be above the clouds.

Gloucester

Ay, my lord cardinal? how think you by that?

Were it not good your grace could fly to heaven?

King Henry VI

The treasury of everlasting joy.

Cardinal

Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and thoughts

Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart;

Pernicious protector, dangerous peer,

That smooth’st it so with king and commonweal!

Gloucester

What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory?

Tantaene animis coelestibus irae?

Churchmen so hot? good uncle, hide such malice;

With such holiness can you do it?

Suffolk

No malice, sir; no more than well becomes

So good a quarrel and so bad a peer.

Gloucester

As who, my lord?

Suffolk

Why, as you, my lord,

An’t like your lordly lord-protectorship.

Gloucester

Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence.

Queen Margaret

And thy ambition, Gloucester.

King Henry VI

I prithee, peace, good queen,

And whet not on these furious peers;

For blessed are the peacemakers on earth.

Cardinal

Let me be blessed for the peace I make,

Against this proud protector, with my sword!

Gloucester

[Aside to Cardinal] Faith, holy uncle, would

’twere come to that!

Cardinal

[Aside to Gloucester] Marry, when thou darest.

Gloucester

[Aside to Cardinal] Make up no factious numbers for the matter;

In thine own person answer thy abuse.

Cardinal

[Aside to Gloucester] Ay, where thou darest not peep: an if thou darest,

This evening, on the east side of the grove.

King Henry VI

How now, my lords!

Cardinal

Believe me, cousin Gloucester,

Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly,

We had had more sport.

Aside to Gloucester

Come with thy two-hand sword.

Gloucester

True, uncle.

Cardinal

[Aside to Gloucester] Are ye advised? the east side of the grove?

Gloucester

[Aside to Cardinal] Cardinal, I am with you.

King Henry VI

Why, how now, uncle Gloucester!

Gloucester

Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord.

Aside to Cardinal

Now, by God’s mother, priest, I’ll shave your crown for this,

Or all my fence shall fail.

Cardinal

[Aside to Gloucester] Medice, teipsum —

Protector, see to’t well, protect yourself.

King Henry VI

The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, lords.

How irksome is this music to my heart!

When such strings jar, what hope of harmony?

I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife.

Enter a Townsman of Saint Alban’s, crying ‘A miracle!’

Gloucester

What means this noise?

Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim?

Townsman

A miracle! a miracle!

Suffolk

Come to the king and tell him what miracle.

Townsman

Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban’s shrine,

Within this half-hour, hath received his sight;

A man that ne’er saw in his life before.

King Henry VI

Now, God be praised, that to believing souls

Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair!

Enter the Mayor of Saint Alban’s and his brethren, bearing Simpcox, between two in a chair, Simpcox’s Wife following

Cardinal

Here comes the townsmen on procession,

To present your highness with the man.

King Henry VI

Great is his comfort in this earthly vale,

Although by his sight his sin be multiplied.

Gloucester

Stand by, my masters: bring him near the king;

His highness’ pleasure is to talk with him.

King Henry VI

Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance,

That we for thee may glorify the Lord.

What, hast thou been long blind and now restored?

Simpcox

Born blind, an’t please your grace.

Wife

Ay, indeed, was he.

Suffolk

What woman is this?

Wife

His wife, an’t like your worship.

Gloucester

Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told.

King Henry VI

Where wert thou born?

Simpcox

At Berwick in the north, an’t like your grace.

King Henry VI

Poor soul, God’s goodness hath been great to thee:

Let never day nor night unhallow’d pass,

But still remember what the Lord hath done.

Queen Margaret

Tell me, good fellow, camest thou here by chance,

Or of devotion, to this holy shrine?

Simpcox

God knows, of pure devotion; being call’d

A hundred times and oftener, in my sleep,

By good Saint Alban; who said, ‘simpcox, come,

Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.’

Wife

Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft

Myself have heard a voice to call him so.

Cardinal

What, art thou lame?

Simpcox

Ay, God Almighty help me!

Suffolk

How camest thou so?

Simpcox

A fall off of a tree.

Wife

A plum-tree, master.

Gloucester

How long hast thou been blind?

Simpcox

Born so, master.

Gloucester

What, and wouldst climb a tree?

Simpcox

But that in all my life, when I was a youth.

Wife

Too true; and bought his climbing very dear.

Gloucester

Mass, thou lovedst plums well, that wouldst venture so.

Simpcox

Alas, good master, my wife desired some damsons,

And made me climb, with danger of my life.

Gloucester

A subtle knave! but yet it shall not serve.

Let me see thine eyes: wink now: now open them:

In my opinion yet thou seest not well.

Simpcox

Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and

Saint Alban.

Gloucester

Say’st thou me so? What colour is this cloak of?

Simpcox

Red, master; red as blood.

Gloucester

Why, that’s well said. What colour is my gown of?

Simpcox

Black, forsooth: coal-black as jet.

King Henry VI

Why, then, thou know’st what colour jet is of?

Suffolk

And yet, I think, jet did he never see.

Gloucester

But cloaks and gowns, before this day, a many.

Wife

Never, before this day, in all his life.

Gloucester

Tell me, sirrah, what’s my name?

Simpcox

Alas, master, I know not.

Gloucester

What’s his name?

Simpcox

I know not.

Gloucester

Nor his?

Simpcox

No, indeed, master.

Gloucester

What’s thine own name?

Simpcox

Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, master.

Gloucester

Then, Saunder, sit there, the lyingest knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightest as well have known all our names as thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours, but suddenly to nominate them all, it is impossible. My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a miracle; and would ye not think his cunning to be great, that could restore this cripple to his legs again?

Simpcox

O master, that you could!

Gloucester

My masters of Saint Alban’s, have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips?

Mayor

Yes, my lord, if it please your grace.

Gloucester

Then send for one presently.

Mayor

Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight.

Exit an Attendant

Gloucester

Now fetch me a stool hither by and by. Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool and run away.

Simpcox

Alas, master, I am not able to stand alone:

You go about to torture me in vain.

Enter a Beadle with whips

Gloucester

Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over that same stool.

Beadle

I will, my lord. Come on, sirrah; off with your doublet quickly.

Simpcox

Alas, master, what shall I do? I am not able to stand.

After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps over the stool and runs away; and they follow and cry, ‘A miracle!’

King Henry VI

O God, seest Thou this, and bearest so long?

Queen Margaret

It made me laugh to see the villain run.

Gloucester

Follow the knave; and take this drab away.

Wife

Alas, sir, we did it for pure need.

Gloucester

Let them be whipped through every market-town, till they come to Berwick, from whence they came.

Exeunt Wife, Beadle, Mayor, &c

Cardinal

Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to-day.

Suffolk

True; made the lame to leap and fly away.

Gloucester

But you have done more miracles than I;

You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly.

Enter Buckingham

King Henry VI

What tidings with our cousin Buckingham?

Buckingham

Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold.

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,

Have practised 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,

And other of your highness’ privy-council;

As more at large your grace shall understand.

Cardinal

[Aside to Gloucester] And so, my lord protector, by this means

Your lady is forthcoming yet at London.

This news, I think, hath turn’d your weapon’s edge;

’Tis like, my lord, you will not keep your hour.

Gloucester

Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart:

Sorrow and grief have vanquish’d all my powers;

And, vanquish’d as I am, I yield to thee,

Or to the meanest groom.

King Henry VI

O God, what mischiefs work the wicked ones,

Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby!

Queen Margaret

Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest.

And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best.

Gloucester

Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal,

How I have loved my king and commonweal:

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

Honour and virtue and conversed 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,

That hath dishonour’d Gloucester’s honest name.

King Henry VI

Well, for this night we will repose us here:

To-morrow toward London back again,

To look into this business thoroughly

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. 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,

Which is infallible, to England’s crown.

Salisbury

My lord, I long to hear it at full.

Warwick

Sweet York, begin: and if thy claim be good,

The Nevils are thy subjects to command.

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

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;

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;

Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster,

The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt,

Crown’d by the name of Henry the Fourth,

Seized on the realm, deposed the rightful king,

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.

Warwick

Father, the duke hath told the truth:

Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown.

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.

Salisbury

But William of Hatfield died without an heir.

York

The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line

I claimed the crown, had issue, Philippe, a daughter,

Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March:

Edmund had issue, Roger Earl of March;

Roger had issue, Edmund, Anne and Eleanor.

Salisbury

This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke,

As I have read, laid claim unto the crown;

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

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

Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippe,

Sole daughter unto Lionel Duke of Clarence:

So, if the issue of the elder son

Succeed before the younger, I am king.

Warwick

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:

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

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

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.

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,

Till they have snared 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.

Salisbury

My lord, break we off; we know your mind at full.

Warwick

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:

Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick

The greatest man in England but the king.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A HALL OF JUSTICE.

Sound trumpets. Enter King Henry VI, Queen Margaret, Gloucester, York, Suffolk, and Salisbury; the Duchess, Margaret Jourdain, Southwell, Hume, and Bolingbroke, under guard

King Henry VI

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 adjudged to death.

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,

Despoiled of your honour in your life,

Shall, after three days’ open penance done,

Live in your country here in banishment,

With Sir John Stanley, in the Isle of Man.

Duchess

Welcome is banishment; welcome were my death.

Gloucester

Eleanor, the law, thou see’st, hath judged thee:

I cannot justify whom the law condemns.

Exeunt Duchess and 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;

Sorrow would solace and mine age would ease.

King Henry VI

Stay, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester: ere thou go,

Give up thy staff: Henry will to himself

Protector be; and God shall be my hope,

My stay, my guide and lantern to my feet:

And go in peace, Humphrey, no less beloved

Than when thou wert protector to thy King.

Queen Margaret

I see no reason why a king of years

Should be to be protected like a child.

God and King Henry govern England’s realm.

Give up your staff, sir, and the king his realm.

Gloucester

My staff? here, noble Henry, is my staff:

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.

Farewell, good king: when I am dead and gone,

May honourable peace attend thy throne!

Exit

Queen Margaret

Why, now is Henry king, and Margaret queen;

And Humphrey Duke of Gloucester scarce himself,

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.

Suffolk

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;

And ready are the appellant and defendant,

The armourer and his man, to enter the lists,

So please your highness to behold the fight.

Queen Margaret

Ay, good my lord; for purposely therefore

Left I the court, to see this quarrel tried.

King Henry VI

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,

Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant,

The servant of this armourer, my lords.

Enter at one door, Horner, the Armourer, and his Neighbours, drinking to him so much that he is drunk; and he enters with a drum before him and his staff with a sand-bag fastened to it; and at the other door Peter, his man, with a drum and sand-bag, and ’Prentices drinking to him

First Neighbour

Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you in a cup of sack: and fear not, neighbour, you shall do well enough.

Second Neighbour

And here, neighbour, here’s a cup of charneco.

Third Neighbour

And here’s a pot of good double beer, neighbour: drink, and fear not your man.

Horner

Let it come, i’ faith, and I’ll pledge you all; and a fig for Peter!

First ’Prentice

Here, Peter, I drink to thee: and be not afraid.

Second ’Prentice

Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy master: fight for credit of the ’prentices.

Peter

I thank you all: drink, and pray for me, I pray you; for I think I have taken my last draught in this world. Here, Robin, an if I die, I give thee my apron: and, Will, thou shalt have my hammer: and here, Tom, take all the money that I have. O Lord bless me! I pray God! for I am never able to deal with my master, he hath learnt me so much fence already.

Salisbury

Come, leave your drinking, and fall to blows.

Sirrah, what’s thy name?

Peter

Peter, forsooth.

Salisbury

Peter! what more?

Peter

Thump.

Salisbury

Thump! then see thou thump thy master well.

Horner

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!

York

Dispatch: this knave’s tongue begins to double.

Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants!

Alarum. They fight, and Peter strikes him down

Horner

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.

Peter

O God, have I overcome mine enemy in this presence?

O Peter, thou hast prevailed in right!

King Henry VI

Go, take hence that traitor from our sight;

For his death we do perceive his guilt:

And God in justice hath revealed to us

The truth and innocence of this poor fellow,

Which he had thought to have murder’d wrongfully.

Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward.

Sound a flourish. Exeunt

SCENE IV. A STREET.

Enter Gloucester and his Servingmen, in mourning cloaks

Gloucester

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.

Sirs, what’s o’clock?

Servants

Ten, my lord.

Gloucester

Ten is the hour that was appointed me

To watch the coming of my punish’d duchess:

Uneath may she endure the flinty streets,

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, laughing at thy shame,

That erst did follow thy proud chariot-wheels

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.

Enter the Duchess in a white sheet, and a taper burning in her hand; with Stanley, the Sheriff, and Officers

Servant

So please your grace, we’ll take her from the sheriff.

Gloucester

No, stir not, for your lives; let her pass by.

Duchess

Come you, my lord, to see my open shame?

Now thou dost penance too. Look how they gaze!

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,

And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine!

Gloucester

Be patient, gentle Nell; forget this grief.

Duchess

Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself!

For whilst I think I am thy married wife

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 followed with a rabble that rejoice

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.

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.

Sometime I’ll say, I am Duke Humphrey’s wife,

And he a prince and ruler of the land:

Yet so he ruled and such a prince he was

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

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,

And York and impious Beaufort, that false priest,

Have all limed bushes to betray thy wings,

And, fly thou how thou canst, they’ll tangle thee:

But fear not thou, until thy foot be snared,

Nor never seek prevention of thy foes.

Gloucester

Ah, Nell, forbear! thou aimest all awry;

I must offend before I be attainted;

And had I twenty times so many foes,

And each of them had twenty times their power,

All these could not procure me any scathe,

So long as I am loyal, true and crimeless.

Wouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach?

Why, yet thy scandal were not wiped 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;

These few days’ wonder will be quickly worn.

Enter a Herald

Herald

I summon your grace to his majesty’s parliament,

Holden at Bury the first of this next month.

Gloucester

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.

Sheriff

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.

Gloucester

Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here?

Stanley

So am I given in charge, may’t please your grace.

Gloucester

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

You do it her: and so, Sir John, farewell!

Duchess

What, gone, my lord, and bid me not farewell!

Gloucester

Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak.

Exeunt Gloucester and Servingmen

Duchess

Art thou gone too? all comfort go with thee!

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;

I care not whither, for I beg no favour,

Only convey me where thou art commanded.

Stanley

Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man;

There to be used according to your state.

Duchess

That’s bad enough, for I am but reproach:

And shall I then be used reproachfully?

Stanley

Like to a duchess, and Duke Humphrey’s lady;

According to that state you shall be used.

Duchess

Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare,

Although thou hast been conduct of my shame.

Sheriff

It is my office; and, madam, pardon me.

Duchess

Ay, ay, farewell; thy office is discharged.

Come, Stanley, shall we go?

Stanley

Madam, your penance done, throw off this sheet,

And go we to attire you for our journey.

Duchess

My shame will not be shifted with my sheet:

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 King Henry VI, Queen Margaret, Cardinal, Suffolk, York, Buckingham, Salisbury and Warwick to the Parliament

King Henry VI

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.

Queen Margaret

Can you not see? or will ye not observe

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?

We know the time since he was mild and affable,

And if we did but glance a far-off look,

Immediately he was upon his knee,

That all the court admired him for submission:

But meet him now, and, be it in the morn,

When every one will give the time of day,

He knits his brow and shows an angry eye,

And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee,

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.

First note that he is near you in descent,

And should you fall, he as the next will mount.

Me seemeth then it is no policy,

Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears

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,

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

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;

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;

Or else conclude my words effectual.

Suffolk

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.

The duchess, by his subornation,

Upon my life, began her devilish practises:

Or, if he were not privy to those faults,

Yet, by reputing of his high descent,

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.

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 sovereign; Gloucester is a man

Unsounded yet and full of deep deceit.

Cardinal

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.

Buckingham

Tut, these are petty faults to faults unknown.

Which time will bring to light in smooth

Duke Humphrey.

King Henry VI

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,

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

To dream on evil or to work my downfall.

Queen Margaret

Ah, what’s more dangerous than this fond affiance!

Seems he a dove? his feathers are but borrowed,

For he’s disposed as the hateful raven:

Is he a lamb? his skin is surely lent him,

For he’s inclined as is the ravenous wolf.

Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit?

Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all

Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.

Enter Somerset

Somerset

All health unto my gracious sovereign!

King Henry VI

Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France?

Somerset

That all your interest in those territories

Is utterly bereft you; all is lost.

King Henry VI

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.

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.

Enter Gloucester

Gloucester

All happiness unto my lord the king!

Pardon, my liege, that I have stay’d so long.

Suffolk

Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too soon,

Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art:

I do arrest thee of high treason here.

Gloucester

Well, Suffolk, thou shalt not see me blush

Nor change my countenance for this arrest:

A heart unspotted is not easily daunted.

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,

And, being protector, stayed the soldiers’ pay;

By means whereof his highness hath lost France.

Gloucester

Is it but thought so? what are they that think it?

I never robb’d the soldiers of their pay,

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,

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,

And never ask’d for restitution.

Cardinal

It serves you well, my lord, to say so much.

Gloucester

I say no more than truth, so help me God!

York

In your protectorship you did devise

Strange tortures for offenders never heard of,

That England was defamed by tyranny.

Gloucester

Why, ’tis well known that, whiles I was protector,

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,

Or foul felonious thief that fleeced poor passengers,

I never gave them condign punishment:

Murder indeed, that bloody sin, I tortured

Above the felon or what trespass else.

Suffolk

My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answered:

But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge,

Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself.

I do arrest you in his highness’ name;

And here commit you to my lord cardinal

To keep, until your further time of trial.

King Henry VI

My lord of Gloucester, ’tis my special hope

That you will clear yourself from all suspect:

My conscience tells me you are innocent.

Gloucester

Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous:

Virtue is choked with foul ambition

And charity chased hence by rancour’s hand;

Foul subornation is predominant

And equity exiled 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,

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.

Beaufort’s red sparkling eyes blab his heart’s malice,

And Suffolk’s cloudy brow his stormy hate;

Sharp Buckingham unburthens with his tongue

The envious load that lies upon his heart;

And dogged York, that reaches at the moon,

Whose overweening arm I have pluck’d back,

By false accuse doth level at my life:

And you, my sovereign 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:

Ay, all 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;

The ancient proverb will be well effected:

‘A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.’

Cardinal

My liege, his railing is intolerable:

If those that care to keep your royal person

From treason’s secret knife and traitors’ rage

Be thus upbraided, chid and rated at,

And the offender granted scope of speech,

’Twill make them cool in zeal unto your grace.

Suffolk

Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here

With ignominious words, though clerkly couch’d,

As if she had suborned some to swear

False allegations to o’erthrow his state?

Queen Margaret

But I can give the loser leave to chide.

Gloucester

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.

Buckingham

He’ll wrest the sense and hold us here all day:

Lord cardinal, he is your prisoner.

Cardinal

Sirs, take away the duke, and guard him sure.

Gloucester

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.

Ah, that my fear were false! ah, that it were!

For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear.

Exit, guarded

King Henry VI

My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best,

Do or undo, as if ourself were here.

Queen Margaret

What, will your highness leave the parliament?

King Henry VI

Ay, Margaret; my heart is drown’d with grief,

Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes,

My body round engirt with misery,

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 proved thee false or fear’d thy faith.

What louring star now envies thy estate,

That these great lords and Margaret our queen

Do seek subversion of thy harmless life?

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,

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.

His fortunes I will weep; and, ’twixt each groan

Say ‘Who’s a traitor? Gloucester he is none.’

Exeunt all but Queen Margaret, Cardinal, Suffolk, and York; Somerset remains apart

Queen Margaret

Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun’s hot beams.

Henry my lord is cold in great affairs,

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 flowering bank,

With shining chequer’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 —

This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world,

To rid us of the fear we have of him.

Cardinal

That he should die is worthy policy;

But yet we want a colour for his death:

’Tis meet he be condemn’d by course of law.

Suffolk

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;

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.

Suffolk

Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I!

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

To guard the chicken from a hungry kite,

As place Duke Humphrey for the king’s protector?

Queen Margaret

So the poor chicken should be sure of death.

Suffolk

Madam, ’tis true; and were’t not madness, then,

To make the fox surveyor of the fold?

Who being accused a crafty murderer,

His guilt should be but idly posted over,

Because his purpose is not executed.

No; let him die, in that he is a fox,

By nature proved an enemy to the flock,

Before his chaps be stain’d with crimson blood,

As Humphrey, proved by reasons, to my liege.

And do not stand on quillets how to slay him:

Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety,

Sleeping or waking, ’tis no matter how,

So he be dead; for that is good deceit

Which mates him first that first intends deceit.

Queen Margaret

Thrice-noble Suffolk, ’tis resolutely spoke.

Suffolk

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.

Cardinal

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,

I tender so the safety of my liege.

Suffolk

Here is my hand, the deed is worthy doing.

Queen Margaret

And so say I.

York

And I and now we three have spoke it,

It skills not greatly who impugns our doom.

Enter a Post

Post

Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain,

To signify that rebels there are up

And put the Englishmen unto the sword:

Send succors, lords, and stop the rage betime,

Before the wound do grow uncurable;

For, being green, there is great hope of help.

Cardinal

A breach that craves a quick expedient stop!

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.

Somerset

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:

I rather would have lost my life betimes

Than bring a burthen of dishonour home

By staying there so long till all were lost.

Show me one scar character’d on thy skin:

Men’s flesh preserved so whole do seldom win.

Queen Margaret

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 proved far worse than his.

York

What, worse than nought? nay, then, a shame take all!

Somerset

And, in the number, thee that wishest shame!

Cardinal

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,

Collected choicely, from each county some,

And try your hap against the Irishmen?

York

I will, my lord, so please his majesty.

Suffolk

Why, our authority is his consent,

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.

Suffolk

A charge, Lord York, that I will see perform’d.

But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey.

Cardinal

No more of him; for I will deal with him

That henceforth he shall trouble us no more.

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;

For there I’ll ship them all for Ireland.

Suffolk

I’ll see it truly done, my Lord of York.

Exeunt all but York

York

Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts,

And change misdoubt to resolution:

Be that thou hopest to be, or what thou art

Resign to death; it is not worth the enjoying:

Let pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man,

And find no harbour in a royal heart.

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.

Well, nobles, well, ’tis politicly done,

To send me packing with an host of men:

I fear me you but warm the starved snake,

Who, cherish’d in your breasts, will sting your hearts.

’Twas men I lack’d and you will give them me:

I take it kindly; and yet be well assured

You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands.

Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band,

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,

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 seduced a headstrong Kentishman,

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

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 rescued, I have seen

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,

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,

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,

I know no pain they can inflict upon him

Will make him say I moved him to those arms.

Say that he thrive, as ’tis great like he will,

Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength

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 OF STATE.

Enter certain Murderers, hastily

First Murderer

Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him know

We have dispatch’d the duke, as he commanded.

Second Murderer

O that it were to do! What have we done?

Didst ever hear a man so penitent?

Enter Suffolk

First Murder

Here comes my lord.

Suffolk

Now, sirs, have you dispatch’d this thing?

First Murderer

Ay, my good lord, he’s dead.

Suffolk

Why, that’s well said. Go, get you to my house;

I will reward you for this venturous deed.

The king and all the peers are here at hand.

Have you laid fair the bed? Is all things well,

According as I gave directions?

First Murderer

’Tis, my good lord.

Suffolk

Away! be gone.

Exeunt Murderers

Sound trumpets. Enter King Henry VI, Queen Margaret, Cardinal, Somerset, with Attendants

King Henry VI

Go, call our uncle to our presence straight;

Say we intend to try his grace to-day.

If he be guilty, as ’tis published.

Suffolk

I’ll call him presently, my noble lord.

Exit

King Henry VI

Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all,

Proceed no straiter ’gainst our uncle Gloucester

Than from true evidence of good esteem

He be approved in practise culpable.

Queen Margaret

God forbid any malice should prevail,

That faultless may condemn a nobleman!

Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion!

King Henry VI

I thank thee, Meg; these words content me much.

Re-enter Suffolk

How now! why look’st thou pale? why tremblest thou?

Where is our uncle? what’s the matter, Suffolk?

Suffolk

Dead in his bed, my lord; Gloucester is dead.

Queen Margaret

Marry, God forfend!

Cardinal

God’s secret judgment: I did dream to-night

The duke was dumb and could not speak a word.

King Henry VI swoons

Queen Margaret

How fares my lord? Help, lords! the king is dead.

Somerset

Rear up his body; wring him by the nose.

Queen Margaret

Run, go, help, help! O Henry, ope thine eyes!

Suffolk

He doth revive again: madam, be patient.

King Henry VI

O heavenly God!

Queen Margaret

How fares my gracious lord?

Suffolk

Comfort, my sovereign! gracious Henry, comfort!

King Henry VI

What, doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me?

Came he right now to sing a raven’s note,

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?

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!

Upon thy eye-balls 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,

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.

Queen Margaret

Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus?

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

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.

What know I how the world may deem of me?

For it is known we were but hollow friends:

It may be judged I made the duke away;

So shall my name with slander’s tongue be wounded,

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!

King Henry VI

Ah, woe is me for Gloucester, wretched man!

Queen Margaret

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?

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 statue and worship it,

And make my image but an alehouse sign.

Was I for this nigh wreck’d upon the sea

And twice by awkward wind from England’s bank

Drove back again unto my native clime?

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 cursed the gentle gusts

And he that loosed them forth their brazen caves:

And bid them blow towards England’s blessed shore,

Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock

Yet Aeolus would not be a murderer,

But left that hateful office unto thee:

The pretty-vaulting sea refused to drown me,

Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown’d on shore,

With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness:

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.

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

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 received it,

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,

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

When he to madding Dido would unfold

His father’s acts commenced in burning Troy!

Am I not witch’d like her? or thou not false like him?

Ay me, I can no more! die, Margaret!

For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long.

Noise within. Enter Warwick, Salisbury, and many Commons

Warwick

It is reported, mighty sovereign,

That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murder’d

By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort’s means.

The commons, like an angry hive of bees

That want their leader, scatter up and down

And care not who they sting in his revenge.

Myself have calm’d their spleenful mutiny,

Until they hear the order of his death.

King Henry VI

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.

Warwick

That shall I do, my liege. Stay, Salisbury,

With the rude multitude till I return.

Exit

King Henry VI

O Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts,

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.

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 dumb deaf trunk,

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

Warwick

Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body.

King Henry VI

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.

Warwick

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

Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke.

Suffolk

A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue!

What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow?

Warwick

See how the blood is settled in his face.

Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost,

Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale and bloodless,

Being all descended to the labouring heart;

Who, in the conflict that it holds with death,

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,

His eye-balls further out than when he lived,

Staring full ghastly like a strangled man;

His hair uprear’d, his nostrils stretched with struggling;

His hands abroad display’d, as one that grasp’d

And tugg’d for life and was by strength subdued:

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 lodged.

It cannot be but he was murder’d here;

The least of all these signs were probable.

Suffolk

Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to death?

Myself and Beaufort had him in protection;

And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers.

Warwick

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.

Queen Margaret

Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen

As guilty of Duke Humphrey’s timeless death.

Warwick

Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh

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,

Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak?

Even so suspicious is this tragedy.

Queen Margaret

Are you the butcher, Suffolk? Where’s your knife?

Is Beaufort term’d a kite? Where are his talons?

Suffolk

I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men;

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 darest, proud Lord of Warwick-shire,

That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey’s death.

Exeunt Cardinal, Somerset, and others

Warwick

What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him?

Queen Margaret

He dares not calm his contumelious spirit

Nor cease to be an arrogant controller,

Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times.

Warwick

Madam, be still; with reverence may I say;

For every word you speak in his behalf

Is slander to your royal dignity.

Suffolk

Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanor!

If ever lady wrong’d her lord so much,

Thy mother took into her blameful bed

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.

Warwick

But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee

And I should rob the deathsman of his fee,

Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames,

And that my sovereign’s presence makes me mild,

I would, false murderous coward, on thy knee

Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech,

And say it was thy mother that thou meant’st

That thou thyself was born in bastardy;

And after all this fearful homage done,

Give thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell,

Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men!

Suffolk

Thou shall be waking well I shed thy blood,

If from this presence thou darest go with me.

Warwick

Away even now, or I will drag thee hence:

Unworthy though thou art, I’ll cope with thee

And do some service to Duke Humphrey’s ghost.

Exeunt Suffolk and Warwick

King Henry VI

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted!

Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just,

And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel

Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

A noise within

Queen Margaret

What noise is this?

Re-enter Suffolk and Warwick, with their weapons drawn

King Henry VI

Why, how now, lords! your wrathful weapons drawn

Here in our presence! dare you be so bold?

Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here?

Suffolk

The traitorous Warwick with the men of Bury

Set all upon me, mighty sovereign.

Salisbury

[To the Commons, entering] Sirs, stand apart; the king shall know your mind.

Dread lord, the commons send you word by me,

Unless Lord Suffolk straight be done to death,

Or banished fair England’s territories,

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,

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

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,

It were but necessary you were waked,

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, whether 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,

They say, is shamefully bereft of life.

Commons

[Within] An answer from the king, my

Lord of Salisbury!

Suffolk

’Tis like the commons, rude unpolish’d hinds,

Could send such message to their sovereign:

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

Sent from a sort of tinkers to the king.

Commons

[Within] An answer from the king, or we will all break in!

King Henry VI

Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me.

I thank them for their tender loving care;

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,

Whose far unworthy deputy I am,

He shall not breathe infection in this air

But three days longer, on the pain of death.

Exit Salisbury

Queen Margaret

O Henry, let me plead for gentle Suffolk!

King Henry VI

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.

Had I but said, I would have kept my word,

But when I swear, it is irrevocable.

If, after three days’ space, thou here be’st found

On any ground that I am ruler of,

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 all but Queen Margaret and Suffolk

Queen Margaret

Mischance and sorrow go along with you!

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!

Suffolk

Cease, gentle queen, these execrations,

And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave.

Queen Margaret

Fie, coward woman and soft-hearted wretch!

Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy?

Suffolk

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,

Deliver’d strongly through my fixed teeth,

With full as many signs of deadly hate,

As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave:

My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words;

Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint;

Mine hair be fixed on end, as one distract;

Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban:

And even now my burthen’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!

Their softest touch as smart as lizards’ sting!

Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss,

And boding screech-owls make the concert full!

All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell —

Queen Margaret

Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment’st thyself;

And these dread curses, like the sun ’gainst glass,

Or like an overcharged gun, recoil,

And turn the force of them upon thyself.

Suffolk

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,

Where biting cold would never let grass grow,

And think it but a minute spent in sport.

Queen Margaret

O, let me entreat thee cease. Give me thy hand,

That I may dew it with my mournful tears;

Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place,

To wash away my woful monuments.

O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand,

That thou mightst think upon these by the seal,

Through whom a thousand sighs are breathed for thee!

So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief;

’Tis but surmised whiles thou art standing by,

As one that surfeits thinking on a want.

I will repeal thee, or, be well assured,

Adventure to be banished myself:

And banished I am, if but from thee.

Go; speak not to me; even now be gone.

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!

Suffolk

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,

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.

I can no more: live thou to joy thy life;

Myself no joy in nought but that thou livest.

Enter Vaux

Queen Margaret

Wither goes Vaux so fast? what news, I prithee?

Vaux

To signify unto his majesty

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.

Sometimes 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;

And I am sent to tell his majesty

That even now he cries aloud for him.

Queen Margaret

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?

Now get thee hence: the king, thou know’st, is coming;

If thou be found by me, thou art but dead.

Suffolk

If I depart from thee, I cannot live;

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

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,

Or I should breathe it so into thy body,

And then it lived in sweet Elysium.

To die by thee were but to die in jest;

From thee to die were torture more than death:

O, let me stay, befall what may befall!

Queen Margaret

Away! though parting be a fretful corrosive,

It is applied to a deathful wound.

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.

Suffolk

I go.

Queen Margaret

And take my heart with thee.

Suffolk

A jewel, lock’d into the wofull’st cask

That ever did contain a thing of worth.

Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we

This way fall I to death.

Queen Margaret

This way for me.

Exeunt severally

SCENE III. A BEDCHAMBER.

Enter the King, Salisbury, Warwick, to the Cardinal in bed

King Henry VI

How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign.

Cardinal

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.

King Henry VI

Ah, what a sign it is of evil life,

Where death’s approach is seen so terrible!

Warwick

Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee.

Cardinal

Bring me unto my trial when you will.

Died he not in his bed? where should he die?

Can I make men live, whether they will or no?

O, torture me no more! I will confess.

Alive again? then show me where he is:

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.

Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary

Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

King Henry VI

O thou eternal Mover of the heavens.

Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch!

O, beat away the busy meddling fiend

That lays strong siege unto this wretch’s soul.

And from his bosom purge this black despair!

Warwick

See, how the pangs of death do make him grin!

Salisbury

Disturb him not; let him pass peaceably.

King Henry VI

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.

He dies, and makes no sign. O God, forgive him!

Warwick

So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

King Henry VI

Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.

Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close;

And let us all to meditation.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. THE COAST OF KENT.

Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter a Captain, a Master, a Master’s-mate, Walter Whitmore, and others; with them Suffolk, and others, prisoners

Captain

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;

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;

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;

And thou that art his mate, make boot of this;

The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share.

First Gentleman

What is my ransom, master? let me know.

Master

A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head.

Master’s-Mate

And so much shall you give, or off goes yours.

Captain

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

Be counterpoised with such a petty sum!

First Gentleman

I’ll give it, sir; and therefore spare my life.

Second Gentleman

And so will I and write home for it straight.

Whitmore

I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard,

And therefore to revenge it, shalt thou die;

To Suffolk

And so should these, if I might have my will.

Captain

Be not so rash; take ransom, let him live.

Suffolk

Look on my George; I am a gentleman:

Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.

Whitmore

And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore.

How now! why start’st thou? what, doth death affright?

Suffolk

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;

Thy name is Gaultier, being rightly sounded.

Whitmore

Gaultier or Walter, which it is, I care not:

Never yet did base dishonour blur our name,

But with our sword we wiped away the blot;

Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge,

Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defaced,

And I proclaim’d a coward through the world!

Suffolk

Stay, Whitmore; for thy prisoner is a prince,

The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.

Whitmore

The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags!

Suffolk

Ay, but these rags are no part of the duke:

Jove sometimes went disguised, and why not I?

Captain

But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be.

Suffolk

Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry’s blood,

The honourable blood of Lancaster,

Must not be shed by such a jaded groom.

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,

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;

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.

Whitmore

Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?

Captain

First let my words stab him, as he hath me.

Suffolk

Base slave, thy words are blunt and so art thou.

Captain

Convey him hence and on our longboat’s side

Strike off his head.

Suffolk

Thou darest not, for thy own.

Captain

Yes, Pole.

Suffolk

Pole!

Captain

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

For swallowing the treasure of the realm:

Thy lips that kiss’d the queen shall sweep the ground;

And thou that smiledst at good Duke Humphrey’s death,

Against the senseless winds shalt 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

Unto the daughter of a worthless king,

Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem.

By devilish policy art thou grown great,

And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorged

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

Hath slain their governors, surprised our forts,

And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home.

The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all,

Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain,

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,

Burns with revenging fire; whose hopeful colours

Advance our half-faced sun, striving to shine,

Under the which is writ ‘Invitis nubibus.’

The commons here in Kent are up in arms:

And, to conclude, reproach and beggary

Is crept into the palace of our king.

And all by thee. Away! convey him hence.

Suffolk

O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder

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.

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;

I charge thee waft me safely cross the Channel.

Captain

Walter,—

Whitmore

Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death.

Suffolk

Gelidus timor occupat artus it is thee I fear.

Whitmore

Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee.

What, are ye daunted now? now will ye stoop?

First Gentleman

My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair.

Suffolk

Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stern and rough,

Used to command, untaught to plead for favour.

Far be it we should honour such as these

With humble suit: no, rather let my head

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.

True nobility is exempt from fear:

More can I bear than you dare execute.

Captain

Hale him away, and let him talk no more.

Suffolk

Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can,

That this my death may never be forgot!

Great men oft die by vile bezonians:

A Roman sworder and banditto slave

Murder’d sweet Tully; Brutus’ bastard hand

Stabb’d Julius Caesar; savage islanders

Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.

Exeunt Whitmore and others with Suffolk

Captain

And as for these whose ransom we have set,

It is our pleasure one of them depart;

Therefore come you with us and let him go.

Exeunt all but the First Gentleman

Re-enter Whitmore with Suffolk’s body

Whitmore

There let his head and lifeless body lie,

Until the queen his mistress bury it.

Exit

First Gentleman

O barbarous and bloody spectacle!

His body will I bear unto the king:

If he revenge it not, yet will his friends;

So will the queen, that living held him dear.

Exit with the body

SCENE II. BLACKHEATH.

Enter George Bevis and John Holland

Bevis

Come, and get thee a sword, though made of a lath; they have been up these two days.

Holland

They have the more need to sleep now, then.

Bevis

I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it.

Holland

So he had need, for ’tis threadbare. Well, I say it was never merry world in England since gentlemen came up.

Bevis

O miserable age! virtue is not regarded in handicrafts-men.

Holland

The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons.

Bevis

Nay, more, the king’s council are no good workmen.

Holland

True; and yet it is said, labour in thy vocation; which is as much to say as, let the magistrates be labouring men; and therefore should we be magistrates.

Bevis

Thou hast hit it; for there’s no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand.

Holland

I see them! I see them! there’s Best’s son, the tanner of Wingham,—

Bevis

He shall have the skin of our enemies, to make dog’s-leather of.

Holland

And Dick the Butcher,—

Bevis

Then is sin struck down like an ox, and iniquity’s throat cut like a calf.

Holland

And Smith the weaver,—

Bevis

Argo, their thread of life is spun.

Holland

Come, come, let’s fall in with them.

Drum. Enter Cade, Dick the Butcher, Smith the Weaver, and a Sawyer, with infinite numbers

Cade

We John Cade, so termed of our supposed father,—

Dick

[Aside] Or rather, of stealing a cade of herrings.

Cade

For our enemies shall fall before us, inspired with the spirit of putting down kings and princes, — Command silence.

Dick

Silence!

Cade

My father was a Mortimer,—

Dick

[Aside] He was an honest man, and a good bricklayer.

Cade

My mother a Plantagenet,—

Dick

[Aside] I knew her well; she was a midwife.

Cade

My wife descended of the Lacies,—

Dick

[Aside] She was, indeed, a pedler’s daughter, and sold many laces.

Smith

[Aside] But now of late, notable to travel with her furred pack, she washes bucks here at home.

Cade

Therefore am I of an honourable house.

Dick

[Aside] Ay, by my faith, the field is honourable; and there was he borne, under a hedge, for his father had never a house but the cage.

Cade

Valiant I am.

Smith

[Aside] A’ must needs; for beggary is valiant.

Cade

I am able to endure much.

Dick

[Aside] No question of that; for I have seen him whipped three market-days together.

Cade

I fear neither sword nor fire.

Smith

[Aside] He need not fear the sword; for his coat is of proof.

Dick

[Aside] But methinks he should stand in fear of fire, being burnt i’ the hand for stealing of sheep.

Cade

Be brave, then; for your captain is brave, and vows reformation. There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny: the three-hooped pot; shall have ten hoops and I will make it felony to drink small beer: all the realm shall be in common; and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass: and when I am king, as king I will be,—

All

God save your majesty!

Cade

I thank you, good people: there shall be no money; all shall eat and drink on my score; and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like brothers and worship me their lord.

Dick

The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.

Cade

Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment? that parchment, being scribbled o’er, should undo a man? Some say the bee stings: but I say, ’tis the bee’s wax; for I did but seal once to a thing, and I was never mine own man since. How now! who’s there?

Enter some, bringing forward the Clerk of Chatham

Smith

The clerk of Chatham: he can write and read and cast accompt.

Cade

O monstrous!

Smith

We took him setting of boys’ copies.

Cade

Here’s a villain!

Smith

Has a book in his pocket with red letters in’t.

Cade

Nay, then, he is a conjurer.

Dick

Nay, he can make obligations, and write court-hand.

Cade

I am sorry for’t: the man is a proper man, of mine honour; unless I find him guilty, he shall not die. Come hither, sirrah, I must examine thee: what is thy name?

Clerk

Emmanuel.

Dick

They use to write it on the top of letters: ’twill go hard with you.

Cade

Let me alone. Dost thou use to write thy name? or hast thou a mark to thyself, like an honest plain-dealing man?

Clerk

Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought up that I can write my name.

All

He hath confessed: away with him! he’s a villain and a traitor.

Cade

Away with him, I say! hang him with his pen and ink-horn about his neck.

Exit one with the Clerk

Enter Michael

Michael

Where’s our general?

Cade

Here I am, thou particular fellow.

Michael

Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother are hard by, with the king’s forces.

Cade

Stand, villain, stand, or I’ll fell thee down. He shall be encountered with a man as good as himself: he is but a knight, is a’?

Michael

No.

Cade

To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently.

Kneels

Rise up Sir John Mortimer.

Rises

Now have at him!

Enter Sir Humphrey and William Stafford, with drum and soldiers

Sir Humphrey

Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent,

Mark’d for the gallows, lay your weapons down;

Home to your cottages, forsake this groom:

The king is merciful, if you revolt.

William Stafford

But angry, wrathful, and inclined to blood,

If you go forward; therefore yield, or die.

Cade

As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not:

It is to you, good people, that I speak,

Over whom, in time to come, I hope to reign;

For I am rightful heir unto the crown.

Sir Humphrey

Villain, thy father was a plasterer;

And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not?

Cade

And Adam was a gardener.

William Stafford

And what of that?

Cade

Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March.

Married the Duke of Clarence’ daughter, did he not?

Sir Humphrey

Ay, sir.

Cade

By her he had two children at one birth.

William Stafford

That’s false.

Cade

Ay, there’s the question; but I say, ’tis true:

The elder of them, being put to nurse,

Was by a beggar-woman stolen away;

And, ignorant of his birth and parentage,

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.

Sir Humphrey

And will you credit this base drudge’s words,

That speaks he knows not what?

All

Ay, marry, will we; therefore get ye gone.

William Stafford

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.

Dick

And furthermore, well 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 an eunuch: and more than that, he can speak French; and therefore he is a traitor.

Sir Humphrey

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.

William Stafford

Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail,

Assail them with the army of the king.

Sir Humphrey

Herald, away; and throughout every town

Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade;

That those which fly before the battle ends

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 William Stafford and Sir Humphrey, and soldiers

Cade

And you that love the commons, follow me.

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

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.

Exeunt

SCENE III. ANOTHER PART OF BLACKHEATH.

Alarums to the fight, wherein Sir Humphrey and William Stafford are slain. Enter Cade and the rest

Cade

Where’s Dick, the butcher of Ashford?

Dick

Here, sir.

Cade

They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, and thou behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughter-house: therefore thus will I reward thee, the Lent shall be as long again as it is; and thou shalt have a licence to kill for a hundred lacking one.

Dick

I desire no more.

Cade

And, to speak truth, thou deservest no less. This monument of the victory will I bear;

Putting on Sir Humphrey’s brigandine

and the bodies shall be dragged at my horse’ heels till I do come to London, where we will have the mayor’s sword borne before us.

Dick

If we mean to thrive and do good, break open the gaols and let out the prisoners.

Cade

Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come, let’s march towards London.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Enter King Henry VI with a supplication, and the Queen with Suffolk’s head, Buckingham and Lord Say

Queen Margaret

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?

Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast:

But where’s the body that I should embrace?

Buckingham

What answer makes your grace to the rebels’ supplication?

King Henry VI

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,

Will parley with Jack Cade their general:

But stay, I’ll read it over once again.

Queen Margaret

Ah, barbarous villains! hath this lovely face

Ruled, like a wandering planet, over me,

And could it not enforce them to relent,

That were unworthy to behold the same?

King Henry VI

Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head.

Say

Ay, but I hope your highness shall have his.

King Henry VI

How now, madam!

Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk’s death?

I fear me, love, if that I had been dead,

Thou wouldst not have mourn’d so much for me.

Queen Margaret

No, my love, I should not mourn, but die for thee.

Enter a Messenger

King Henry VI

How now! what news? why comest thou in such haste?

Messenger

The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my lord!

Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer,

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

Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless:

Sir Humphrey Stafford and h is brother’s death

Hath given them heart and courage to proceed:

All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen,

They call false caterpillars, and intend their death.

King Henry VI

O graceless men! they know not what they do.

Buckingham

My gracious lord, return to Killingworth,

Until a power be raised to put them down.

Queen Margaret

Ah, were the Duke of Suffolk now alive,

These Kentish rebels would be soon appeased!

King Henry VI

Lord Say, the traitors hate thee;

Therefore away with us to Killingworth.

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.

Enter another Messenger

Messenger

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

To spoil the city and your royal court.

Buckingham

Then linger not, my lord, away, take horse.

King Henry VI

Come, Margaret; God, our hope, will succor us.

Queen Margaret

My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceased.

King Henry VI

Farewell, my lord: trust not the Kentish rebels.

Buckingham

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. LONDON. THE TOWER.

Enter Scales upon the Tower, walking. Then enter two or three Citizens below

Scales

How now! is Jack Cade slain?

First Citizen

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;

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;

And so, farewell, for I must hence again.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. LONDON. CANNON STREET.

Enter Cade and the rest, and 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

Soldier

Jack Cade! Jack Cade!

Cade

Knock him down there.

They kill him

Smith

If this fellow be wise, he’ll never call ye Jack

Cade more: I think he hath a very fair warning.

Dick

My lord, there’s an army gathered together in

Smithfield.

Cade

Come, then, let’s go fight with them; but first, go and set London bridge on fire; and, if you can, burn down the Tower too. Come, let’s away.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. LONDON. SMITHFIELD.

Alarums. Matthew Goffe is slain, and all the rest. Then enter Cade, with his company.

Cade

So, sirs: now go some and pull down the Savoy; others to the inns of court; down with them all.

Dick

I have a suit unto your lordship.

Cade

Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that word.

Dick

Only that the laws of England may come out of your mouth.

Holland

[Aside] Mass, ’twill be sore law, then; for he was thrust in the mouth with a spear, and ’tis not whole yet.

Smith

[Aside] Nay, John, it will be stinking law for his breath stinks with eating toasted cheese.

Cade

I have thought upon it, it shall be so. Away, burn all the records of the realm: my mouth shall be the parliament of England.

Holland

[Aside] Then we are like to have biting statutes, unless his teeth be pulled out.

Cade

And henceforward all things shall be in common.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

My lord, a prize, a prize! here’s the Lord Say, which sold the towns in France; he that made us pay one and twenty fifteens, and one shilling to the pound, the last subsidy.

Enter Bevis, with Lord Say

Cade

Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times. Ah, thou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord! now art thou within point-blank of our jurisdiction regal. What canst thou answer to my majesty for giving up of Normandy unto Mounsieur Basimecu, the dauphin of France? Be it known unto thee by these presence, even the presence of Lord Mortimer, that I am the besom that must sweep the court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school; and whereas, before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used, and, contrary to the king, his crown and dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to thy face that thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of peace, to call poor men before them about matters they were not able to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison; and because they could not read, thou hast hanged them; when, indeed, only for that cause they have been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride in a foot-cloth, dost thou not?

Say

What of that?

Cade

Marry, thou oughtest not to let thy horse wear a cloak, when honester men than thou go in their hose and doublets.

Dick

And work in their shirt too; as myself, for example, that am a butcher.

Say

You men of Kent,—

Dick

What say you of Kent?

Say

Nothing but this; ’tis ‘bona terra, mala gens.’

Cade

Away with him, away with him! he speaks Latin.

Say

Hear me but speak, and bear me where you will.

Kent, in the Commentaries Caesar writ,

Is term’d the civil’st place of this isle:

Sweet is the country, because full of riches;

The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy;

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;

Prayers and tears have moved 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,

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,

Unless you be possess’d with devilish spirits,

You cannot but forbear to murder me:

This tongue hath parley’d unto foreign kings

For your behoof,—

Cade

Tut, when struck’st thou one blow in the field?

Say

Great men have reaching hands: oft have I struck

Those that I never saw and struck them dead.

Bevis

O monstrous coward! what, to come behind folks?

Say

These cheeks are pale for watching for your good.

Cade

Give him a box o’ the ear and that will make ’em red again.

Say

Long sitting to determine poor men’s causes

Hath made me full of sickness and diseases.

Cade

Ye shall have a hempen caudle, then, and the help of hatchet.

Dick

Why dost thou quiver, man?

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.

Say

Tell me wherein have I offended most?

Have I affected wealth or honour? speak.

Are my chests fill’d up with extorted gold?

Is my apparel sumptuous to behold?

Whom have I injured, that ye seek my death?

These hands are free from guiltless bloodshedding,

This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts.

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.

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.

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.

Dick

My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside and take up commodities upon our bills?

Cade

Marry, presently.

All

O, brave!

Re-enter one with the heads

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!

Exeunt

SCENE VIII. SOUTHWARK.

Alarum and retreat. Enter Cade and all his rabblement

Cade

Up Fish Street! down Saint Magnus’ Corner! Kill and knock down! throw them into Thames!

Sound a parley

What noise is this I hear? Dare any be so bold to sound retreat or parley, when I command them kill?

Enter Buckingham and Clifford, attended

Buckingham

Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb thee:

Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the king

Unto the commons whom thou hast misled;

And here pronounce free pardon to them all

That will forsake thee and go home in peace.

Clifford

What say ye, countrymen? will ye relent,

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!’

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 burthens, 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!

Clifford

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;

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,

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;

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.

Cade

Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude? The name of Henry the Fifth hales them to an 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

Buckingham

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

To reconcile you all unto the king.

Exeunt

SCENE IX. KENILWORTH CASTLE.

Sound Trumpets. Enter King Henry VI, Queen Margaret, and Somerset, on the terrace

King Henry VI

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.

Was never subject long’d to be a king

As I do long and wish to be a subject.

Enter Buckingham and Clifford

Buckingham

Health and glad tidings to your majesty!

King Henry VI

Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade surprised?

Or is he but retired to make him strong?

Enter below, multitudes, with halters about their necks

Clifford

He is 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.

King Henry VI

Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates,

To entertain my vows of thanks and praise!

Soldiers, this day have you redeemed your lives,

And show’d how well you love your prince and country:

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,

I do dismiss you to your several countries.

All

God save the king! God save the king!

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

Please it your grace to be advertised

The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland,

And with a puissant and a mighty power

Of gallowglasses and stout kerns

Is marching hitherward in proud array,

And still proclaimeth, as he comes along,

His arms are only to remove from thee

The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms traitor.

King Henry VI

Thus stands my state, ’twixt Cade and York distress’d.

Like to a ship that, having ’scaped a tempest,

Is straightway calm’d and boarded with a pirate:

But now is Cade driven back, his men dispersed;

And now is York in arms to second him.

I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him,

And ask him what’s the reason of these arms.

Tell him I’ll send Duke Edmund to the Tower;

And, Somerset, we’ll commit thee thither,

Until his army be dismiss’d from him.

Somerset

My lord,

I’ll yield myself to prison willingly,

Or unto death, to do my country good.

King Henry VI

In any case, be not too rough in terms;

For he is fierce and cannot brook hard language.

Buckingham

I will, my lord; and doubt not so to deal

As all things shall redound unto your good.

King Henry VI

Come, wife, let’s in, and learn to govern better;

For yet may England curse my wretched reign.

Flourish. 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 am I 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 brainpan 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.

Enter Iden

Iden

Lord, who would live turmoiled in the court,

And may enjoy such quiet walks as these?

This small inheritance my father left me

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

And sends the poor well pleased from my gate.

Cade

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 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.

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,

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 doornail, I pray God I may never eat grass more.

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,

See if thou canst outface 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;

And if mine arm be heaved in the air,

Thy grave is digg’d already in the earth.

As for words, whose greatness answers words,

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 God on my knees thou mayst be turned to hobnails.

Here 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.

Iden

Is’t Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor?

Sword, I will hollow 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,

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.

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

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,

Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon.

Exit

ACT V

SCENE I. FIELDS BETWEEN DARTFORD AND BLACKHEATH.

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.

Ah! sancta majestas, who would not buy thee dear?

Let them obey that know not how to rule;

This hand was made to handle naught but gold.

I cannot give due action to my words,

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?

The king hath sent him, sure: I must dissemble.

Buckingham

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?

Buckingham

A messenger from Henry, our dread liege,

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,

Should 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,

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,

More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts:

But I must make fair weather yet a while,

Till Henry be more weak and I more strong,—

Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me,

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,

Seditious to his grace and to the state.

Buckingham

That is too much presumption on thy part:

But if thy arms be to no other end,

The king hath yielded unto thy demand:

The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower.

York

Upon thine honour, is he prisoner?

Buckingham

Upon mine honour, he is prisoner.

York

Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers.

Soldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves;

Meet me to-morrow in St. George’s field,

You shall have pay and every thing you wish.

And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry,

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, any thing I have,

Is his to use, so Somerset may die.

Buckingham

York, I commend this kind submission:

We twain will go into his highness’ tent.

Enter King Henry VI and Attendants

King Henry VI

Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to us,

That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm?

York

In all submission and humility

York doth present himself unto your highness.

King Henry VI

Then what intends these forces thou dost bring?

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

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.

King Henry VI

The head of Cade! Great God, how just art Thou!

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.

King Henry VI

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.

Buckingham

So please it you, my lord, ’twere not amiss

He were created knight for his good service.

King Henry VI

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.

Iden

May Iden live to merit such a bounty.

And never live but true unto his liege!

Rises

Enter Queen Margaret and Somerset

King Henry VI

See, Buckingham, Somerset comes with the queen:

Go, bid her hide him quickly from the duke.

Queen Margaret

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,

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?

King did I call thee? no, thou art not king,

Not fit to govern and rule multitudes,

Which darest 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,

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.

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

O’er him whom heaven created for thy ruler.

Somerset

O monstrous traitor! I arrest thee, York,

Of capital treason ’gainst the king and crown;

Obey, audacious traitor; kneel for grace.

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 Attendant

I know, ere they will have me go to ward,

They’ll pawn their swords for my enfranchisement.

Queen Margaret

Call hither Clifford! bid him come amain,

To say if that the bastard boys of York

Shall be the surety for their traitor father.

Exit Buckingham

York

O blood-besotted 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!

Enter Edward and Richard

See where they come: I’ll warrant they’ll make it good.

Enter Clifford and Young Clifford

Queen Margaret

And here comes Clifford to deny their bail.

Clifford

Health and all happiness to my lord the king!

Kneels

York

I thank thee, Clifford: say, what news with thee?

Nay, do not fright us with an angry look;

We are thy sovereign, Clifford, kneel again;

For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee.

Clifford

This is my king, York, I do not mistake;

But thou mistakest me much to think I do:

To Bedlam with him! is the man grown mad?

King Henry VI

Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and ambitious humour

Makes him oppose himself against his king.

Clifford

He is a traitor; let him to the Tower,

And chop away that factious pate of his.

Queen Margaret

He is arrested, but will not obey;

His sons, he says, shall give their words for him.

York

Will you not, sons?

Edward

Ay, noble father, if our words will serve.

Richard

And if words will not, then our weapons shall.

Clifford

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,

That with the very shaking of their chains

They may astonish these fell-lurking curs:

Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me.

Enter the Warwick and Salisbury

Clifford

Are these thy bears? we’ll bait thy bears to death.

And manacle the bear-ward in their chains,

If thou darest bring them to the baiting place.

Richard

Oft have I seen a hot o’erweening cur

Run back and bite, because he was withheld;

Who, being suffer’d with the bear’s fell paw,

Hath clapp’d his tail between his legs and cried:

And such a piece of service will you do,

If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick.

Clifford

Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump,

As crooked in thy manners as thy shape!

York

Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon.

Clifford

Take heed, lest by your heat you burn yourselves.

King Henry VI

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,

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?

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?

For shame! in duty bend thy knee to me

That bows unto the grave with mickle age.

Salisbury

My lord, I have consider’d with myself

The title of this most renowned duke;

And in my conscience do repute his grace

The rightful heir to England’s royal seat.

King Henry VI

Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me?

Salisbury

I have.

King Henry VI

Canst thou dispense with heaven for such an oath?

Salisbury

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

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

But that he was bound by a solemn oath?

Queen Margaret

A subtle traitor needs no sophister.

King Henry VI

Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself.

York

Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou hast,

I am resolved for death or dignity.

Clifford

The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true.

Warwick

You were best to go to bed and dream again,

To keep thee from the tempest of the field.

Clifford

I am resolved to bear a greater storm

Than any thou canst conjure up to-day;

And that I’ll write upon thy burgonet,

Might I but know thee by thy household badge.

Warwick

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,

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.

Clifford

And from thy burgonet I’ll rend thy bear

And tread it under foot with all contempt,

Despite the bear-ward that protects the bear.

Young Clifford

And so to arms, victorious father,

To quell the rebels and their complices.

Richard

Fie! charity, for shame! speak not in spite,

For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night.

Young Clifford

Foul stigmatic, that’s more than thou canst tell.

Richard

If not in heaven, you’ll surely sup in hell.

Exeunt severally

SCENE II. SAINT ALBAN’S.

Alarums to the battle. Enter Warwick

Warwick

Clifford of Cumberland, ’tis Warwick calls:

And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear,

Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum

And dead men’s cries do fill the empty air,

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?

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 loved so well.

Enter Clifford

Warwick

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.

Warwick

Then, nobly, York; ’tis for a crown thou fight’st.

As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day,

It grieves my soul to leave thee unassail’d.

Exit

Clifford

What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou pause?

York

With thy brave bearing should I be in love,

But that thou art so fast mine enemy.

Clifford

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.

Clifford

My soul and body on the action both!

York

A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly.

They fight, and Clifford falls

Clifford

La fin couronne les oeuvres.

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

Young Clifford

Shame and confusion! all is on the rout;

Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds

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.

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 dead father

O, let the vile world end,

And the premised flames of the last day

Knit earth and heaven together!

Now let the general trumpet blow his blast,

Particularities and petty sounds

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

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

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:

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.

Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford’s house:

As did Aeneas old Anchises bear,

So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders;

But then Aeneas bare a living load,

Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine.

Exit, bearing off his father

Enter Richard and Somerset to fight. Somerset is killed

Richard

So, lie thou there;

For underneath an alehouse’ paltry sign,

The Castle in Saint Alban’s, Somerset

Hath made the wizard famous in his death.

Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still:

Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.

Exit

Fight: excursions. Enter King Henry VI, Queen Margaret, and others

Queen Margaret

Away, my lord! you are slow; for shame, away!

King Henry VI

Can we outrun the heavens? good Margaret, stay.

Queen Margaret

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

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,

We shall to London get, where you are loved

And where this breach now in our fortunes made

May readily be stopp’d.

Re-enter Young Clifford

Young Clifford

But that my heart’s on future mischief set,

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

To see their day and them our fortune give:

Away, my lord, away!

Exeunt

SCENE III. FIELDS NEAR ST. ALBAN’S.

Alarum. Retreat. 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,

Repairs him with occasion? This happy day

Is not itself, nor have we won one foot,

If Salisbury be lost.

Richard

My noble father,

Three times to-day I holp him to his horse,

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,

So was his will in his old feeble body.

But, noble as he is, look where he comes.

Enter Salisbury

Salisbury

Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought to-day;

By the mass, so did we all. I thank you, Richard:

God knows how long it is I have to live;

And it hath pleased him that three times to-day

You have defended me from imminent death.

Well, lords, we have not got that which we have:

’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,

To call a present court of parliament.

Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth.

What says Lord Warwick? shall we after them?

Warwick

After them! nay, before them, if we can.

Now, by my faith, lords, ’twas a glorious day:

Saint Alban’s battle won by famous York

Shall be eternized in all age to come.

Sound drums and trumpets, and to London all:

And more such days as these to us befall!

Exeunt

The Third Part of King Henry the Sixth

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PARLIAMENT-HOUSE.

SCENE II. SANDAL CASTLE.

SCENE III. FIELD OF BATTLE BETWIXT SANDAL CASTLE AND WAKEFIELD.

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

ACT II

SCENE I. A PLAIN NEAR MORTIMER’S CROSS IN HEREFORDSHIRE.

SCENE II. BEFORE YORK.

SCENE III. A FIELD OF BATTLE BETWEEN TOWTON AND SAXTON, IN

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE VI. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

ACT III

SCENE I. A FOREST IN THE NORTH OF ENGLAND.

SCENE II. LONDON. THE PALACE.

SCENE III. FRANCE. KING LEWIS XI’S PALACE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PALACE.

SCENE II. A PLAIN IN WARWICKSHIRE.

SCENE III. EDWARD’S CAMP, NEAR WARWICK.

SCENE IV. LONDON. THE PALACE.

SCENE V. A PARK NEAR MIDDLEHAM CASTLE IN YORKSHIRE.

SCENE VI. LONDON. THE TOWER.

SCENE VII. BEFORE YORK.

SCENE VIII. LONDON. THE PALACE.

ACT V

SCENE I. COVENTRY.

SCENE II. A FIELD OF BATTLE NEAR BARNET.

SCENE III. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE IV. PLAINS NEAR TEWKSBURY.

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE VI. LONDON. THE TOWER.

SCENE VII. LONDON. THE PALACE.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

King Henry VI.

Prince Edward, Prince of Wales, his son.

King Lewis XI,

King of France.

Duke of Somerset,

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 IV,

Edmund Earl of Rutland,

George, afterwards Duke of Clarence,

Richard, afterwards Duke of Gloucester,

his sons.

Duke of Norfolk.

Marquess of Montague.

Earl of Warwick.

Earl of Pembroke.

Lord Hastings.

Lord Stafford.

Sir John Mortimer,

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 Elizabeth, Queen to Edward IV.

Bona, sister to the French Queen.

Soldiers, Attendants, Messengers, Watchmen, &c.

Scene: England and France.

ACT I

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PARLIAMENT-HOUSE.

Alarum. Enter York, Edward, Richard, Norfolk, Montague, Warwick, and Soldiers

Warwick

I wonder how the king escaped our hands.

York

While we pursued the horsemen of the north,

He slily stole away and left his men:

Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland,

Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat,

Cheer’d up the drooping army; and himself,

Lord Clifford and Lord Stafford, all abreast,

Charged our main battle’s front, and breaking in

Were by the swords of common soldiers slain.

Edward

Lord Stafford’s father, Duke of Buckingham,

Is either slain or wounded dangerously;

I cleft his beaver with a downright blow:

That this is true, father, behold his blood.

Montague

And, brother, here’s the Earl of Wiltshire’s blood,

Whom I encounter’d as the battles join’d.

Richard

Speak thou for me and tell them what I did.

Throwing down Somerset’s head

York

Richard hath best deserved of all my sons.

But is your grace dead, my Lord of Somerset?

Norfolk

Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt!

Richard

Thus do I hope to shake King Henry’s head.

Warwick

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.

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;

For hither we have broken in by force.

Norfolk

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.

They go up

Warwick

And when the king comes, offer no violence,

Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce.

York

The queen this day here holds her parliament,

But little thinks we shall be of her council:

By words or blows here let us win our right.

Richard

Arm’d as we are, let’s stay within this house.

Warwick

The bloody parliament shall this be call’d,

Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king,

And bashful Henry deposed, 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.

Warwick

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.

Flourish. Enter King Henry VI, Clifford, Northumberland, Westmoreland, Exeter, and the rest

King Henry VI

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.

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.

Northumberland

If I be not, heavens be revenged on me!

Clifford

The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel.

Westmoreland

What, shall we suffer this? let’s pluck him down:

My heart for anger burns; I cannot brook it.

King Henry VI

Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmoreland.

Clifford

Patience is for poltroons, such as he:

He durst not sit there, had your father lived.

My gracious lord, here in the parliament

Let us assail the family of York.

Northumberland

Well hast thou spoken, cousin: be it so.

King Henry VI

Ah, know you not the city favours them,

And they have troops of soldiers at their beck?

Exeter

But when the duke is slain, they’ll quickly fly.

King Henry VI

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

Shall be the war that Henry means to use.

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.

Exeter

For shame, come down: he made thee Duke of York.

York

’Twas my inheritance, as the earldom was.

Exeter

Thy father was a traitor to the crown.

Warwick

Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown

In following this usurping Henry.

Clifford

Whom should he follow but his natural king?

Warwick

True, Clifford; and that’s Richard Duke of York.

King Henry VI

And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne?

York

It must and shall be so: content thyself.

Warwick

Be Duke of Lancaster; let him be king.

Westmoreland

He is both king and Duke of Lancaster;

And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain.

Warwick

And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget

That we are those which chased you from the field

And slew your fathers, and with colours spread

March’d through the city to the palace gates.

Northumberland

Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief;

And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it.

Westmoreland

Plantagenet, of thee and these thy sons,

Thy kinsman and thy friends, I’ll have more lives

Than drops of blood were in my father’s veins.

Clifford

Urge it no more; lest that, instead of words,

I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger

As shall revenge his death before I stir.

Warwick

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.

King Henry VI

What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown?

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 seized upon their towns and provinces.

Warwick

Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all.

King Henry VI

The lord protector lost it, and not I:

When I was crown’d I was but nine months old.

Richard

You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, you lose.

Father, tear the crown from the usurper’s head.

Edward

Sweet father, do so; set it on your head.

Montague

Good brother, as thou lovest and honourest arms,

Let’s fight it out and not stand cavilling thus.

Richard

Sound drums and trumpets, and the king will fly.

York

Sons, peace!

King Henry VI

Peace, thou! and give King Henry leave to speak.

Warwick

Plantagenet shall speak first: hear him, lords;

And be you silent and attentive too,

For he that interrupts him shall not live.

King Henry VI

Think’st thou that I will leave my kingly throne,

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?

My title’s good, and better far than his.

Warwick

Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king.

King Henry VI

Henry the Fourth by conquest got the crown.

York

’Twas by rebellion against his king.

King Henry VI

[Aside] I know not what to say; my title’s weak.—

Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir?

York

What then?

King Henry VI

An if he may, then am I lawful king;

For Richard, in the view of many lords,

Resign’d the crown to Henry the Fourth,

Whose heir my father was, and I am his.

York

He rose against him, being his sovereign,

And made him to resign his crown perforce.

Warwick

Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrain’d,

Think you ’twere prejudicial to his crown?

Exeter

No; for he could not so resign his crown

But that the next heir should succeed and reign.

King Henry VI

Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter?

Exeter

His is the right, and therefore pardon me.

York

Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not?

Exeter

My conscience tells me he is lawful king.

King Henry VI

[Aside] All will revolt from me, and turn to him.

Northumberland

Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay’st,

Think not that Henry shall be so deposed.

Warwick

Deposed he shall be, in despite of all.

Northumberland

Thou art deceived: ’tis not thy southern power,

Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent,

Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud,

Can set the duke up in despite of me.

Clifford

King Henry, be thy title right or wrong,

Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence:

May that ground gape and swallow me alive,

Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father!

King Henry VI

O Clifford, how thy words revive my heart!

York

Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown.

What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords?

Warwick

Do right unto this princely Duke of York,

Or I will fill the house with armed men,

And over the chair of state, where now he sits,

Write up his title with usurping blood.

He stamps with his foot and the soldiers show themselves

King Henry VI

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,

And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou livest.

King Henry VI

I am content: Richard Plantagenet,

Enjoy the kingdom after my decease.

Clifford

What wrong is this unto the prince your son!

Warwick

What good is this to England and himself!

Westmoreland

Base, fearful and despairing Henry!

Clifford

How hast thou injured both thyself and us!

Westmoreland

I cannot stay to hear these articles.

Northumberland

Nor I.

Clifford

Come, cousin, let us tell the queen these news.

Westmoreland

Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate king,

In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides.

Northumberland

Be thou a prey unto the house of York,

And die in bands for this unmanly deed!

Clifford

In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome,

Or live in peace abandon’d and despised!

Exeunt Northumberland, Clifford, and Westmoreland

Warwick

Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not.

Exeter

They seek revenge and therefore will not yield.

King Henry VI

Ah, Exeter!

Warwick

Why should you sigh, my lord?

King Henry VI

Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my son,

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

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.

York

This oath I willingly take and will perform.

Warwick

Long live King Henry! Plantagenet embrace him.

King Henry VI

And long live thou and these thy forward sons!

York

Now York and Lancaster are reconciled.

Exeter

Accursed be he that seeks to make them foes!

Sennet. Here they come down

York

Farewell, my gracious lord; I’ll to my castle.

Warwick

And I’ll keep London with my soldiers.

Norfolk

And I to Norfolk with my followers.

Montague

And I unto the sea from whence I came.

Exeunt York, Edward, Edmund, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, their Soldiers, and Attendants

King Henry VI

And I, with grief and sorrow, to the court.

Enter Queen Margaret and Prince Edward

Exeter

Here comes the queen, whose looks bewray her anger:

I’ll steal away.

King Henry VI

Exeter, so will I.

Queen Margaret

Nay, go not from me; I will follow thee.

King Henry VI

Be patient, gentle queen, and I will stay.

Queen Margaret

Who can be patient in such extremes?

Ah, wretched man! would I had died a maid

And never seen thee, never borne thee son,

Seeing thou hast proved so unnatural a father

Hath he deserved to lose his birthright thus?

Hadst thou but loved him half so well as I,

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 that savage duke thine heir

And disinherited thine only son.

Prince Edward

Father, you cannot disinherit me:

If you be king, why should not I succeed?

King Henry VI

Pardon me, Margaret; pardon me, sweet son:

The Earl of Warwick and the duke enforced me.

Queen Margaret

Enforced thee! art thou king, and wilt be forced?

I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch!

Thou hast undone thyself, thy son and me;

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

And creep into it far before thy time?

Warwick is chancellor and the lord of Calais;

Stern Falconbridge commands the narrow seas;

The duke is made protector of the realm;

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

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,

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.

King Henry VI

Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak.

Queen Margaret

Thou hast spoke too much already: get thee gone.

King Henry VI

Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me?

Queen Margaret

Ay, to be murder’d by his enemies.

Prince Edward

When I return with victory from the field

I’ll see your grace: till then I’ll follow her.

Queen Margaret

Come, son, away; we may not linger thus.

Exeunt Queen Margaret and Prince Edward

King Henry VI

Poor queen! how love to me and to her son

Hath made her break out into terms of rage!

Revenged may she be on that hateful duke,

Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire,

Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle

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.

Exeter

And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all.

Exeunt

SCENE II. SANDAL CASTLE.

Enter Richard, Edward, and Montague

Richard

Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave.

Edward

No, I can better play the orator.

Montague

But I have reasons strong and forcible.

Enter York

York

Why, how now, sons and brother! at a strife?

What is your quarrel? how began it first?

Edward

No quarrel, but a slight contention.

York

About what?

Richard

About that which concerns your grace and us;

The crown of England, father, which is yours.

York

Mine boy? not till King Henry be dead.

Richard

Your right depends not on his life or death.

Edward

Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now:

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.

Edward

But for a kingdom any oath may be broken:

I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year.

Richard

No; God forbid your grace should be forsworn.

York

I shall be, if I claim by open war.

Richard

I’ll prove the contrary, if you’ll hear me speak.

York

Thou canst not, son; it is impossible.

Richard

An oath is of no moment, being not took

Before a true and lawful magistrate,

That hath authority over him that swears:

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

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 finger thus? I cannot rest

Until the white rose that I wear be dyed

Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry’s heart.

York

Richard, enough; I will be king, or die.

Brother, thou shalt to London presently,

And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.

Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk,

And tell him privily of our intent.

You Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham,

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,

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 comest thou in such post?

Messenger

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.

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,

Whom we have left protectors of the king,

With powerful policy strengthen themselves,

And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths.

Montague

Brother, I go; I’ll win them, fear it not:

And thus most humbly I do take my leave.

Exit

Enter John Mortimer and Hugh Mortimer

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.

John Mortimer

She shall not need; we’ll meet her in the field.

York

What, with five thousand men?

Richard

Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need:

A woman’s general; what should we fear?

A march afar off

Edward

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.

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 BETWIXT SANDAL CASTLE AND WAKEFIELD.

Alarums. Enter Rutland and his Tutor

Rutland

Ah, whither shall I fly to ’scape their hands?

Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes!

Enter Clifford and Soldiers

Clifford

Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.

As for the brat of this accursed duke,

Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

Tutor

And I, my lord, will bear him company.

Clifford

Soldiers, away with him!

Tutor

Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child,

Lest thou be hated both of God and man!

Exit, dragged off by Soldiers

Clifford

How now! is he dead already? or is it fear

That makes him close his eyes? I’ll open them.

Rutland

So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch

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,

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 revenged on men, and let me live.

Clifford

In vain thou speak’st, poor boy; my father’s blood

Hath stopp’d the passage where thy words should enter.

Rutland

Then let my father’s blood open it again:

He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

Clifford

Had 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,

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

And leave not one alive, I live in hell.

Therefore —

Lifting his hand

Rutland

O, let me pray before I take my death!

To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me!

Clifford

Such pity as my rapier’s point affords.

Rutland

I never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me?

Clifford

Thy father hath.

Rutland

But ’twas ere I was born.

Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me,

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,

Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.

Clifford

No cause!

Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.

Stabs him

Rutland

Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae!

Dies

Clifford

Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet!

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 FIELD.

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

Or lambs pursued 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.

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

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!

A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!’

With this, we charged again: but, out, alas!

We bodged again; as I have seen a swan

With bootless labour swim against the tide

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:

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, Prince Edward, and Soldiers

Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,

I dare your quenchless fury to more rage:

I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

Northumberland

Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.

Clifford

Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm,

With downright payment, show’d unto my father.

Now Phaethon hath tumbled from his car,

And made an evening at the noontide prick.

York

My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth

A bird that will revenge upon you all:

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?

Clifford

So cowards fight when they can fly no further;

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,

And in thy thought o’er-run my former time;

And, if though 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!

Clifford

I will not bandy with thee word for word,

But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.

Queen Margaret

Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes

I would prolong awhile the traitor’s life.

Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.

Northumberland

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,

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.

They lay hands on York, who struggles

Clifford

Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.

Northumberland

So doth the cony struggle in the net.

York

So triumph thieves upon their conquer’d booty;

So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatch’d.

Northumberland

What would your grace have done unto him now?

Queen Margaret

Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,

Come, make him stand upon this molehill here,

That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,

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?

The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?

And where’s that valiant crook-back prodigy,

Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice

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,

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,

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?

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.

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!

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

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,

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.

Clifford

That is my office, for my father’s sake.

Queen Margaret

Nay, stay; lets 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!

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, vizard-like, unchanging,

Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush.

To tell thee whence thou camest, of whom derived,

Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless.

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,

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 admired;

The contrary doth make thee wonder’d at:

’Tis government that makes them seem divine;

The want thereof makes thee abominable:

Thou art as opposite to every good

As the Antipodes are unto us,

Or as the south to the septentrion.

O tiger’s heart wrapt 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?

Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible;

Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

Bids’t thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:

Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will:

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.

Northumberland

Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so

That hardly can I cheque my eyes from tears.

York

That face of his the hungry cannibals

Would not have touch’d, would not have stain’d with blood:

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,

O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania.

See, ruthless queen, a hapless father’s tears:

This cloth thou dip’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:

And if thou tell’st the heavy story right,

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;

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!

Northumberland

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.

Queen Margaret

What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland?

Think but upon the wrong he did us all,

And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.

Clifford

Here’s for my oath, here’s for my father’s death.

Stabbing him

Queen Margaret

And here’s to right our gentle-hearted king.

Stabbing him

York

Open Thy gate of mercy, gracious God!

My soul flies through these wounds to seek out Thee.

Dies

Queen Margaret

Off with his head, and set it on York gates;

So York may overlook the town of York.

Flourish. Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. A PLAIN NEAR MORTIMER’S CROSS IN HEREFORDSHIRE.

A march. Enter Edward, Richard, and their power

Edward

I wonder how our princely father ’scaped,

Or whether he be ’scaped away or no

From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s pursuit:

Had he been ta’en, we should have heard the news;

Had he been slain, we should have heard the news;

Or had he ’scaped, methinks we should have heard

The happy tidings of his good escape.

How fares my brother? why is he so sad?

Richard

I cannot joy, until I be resolved

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

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.

So fared our father with his enemies;

So fled his enemies my warlike father:

Methinks, ’tis prize enough to be his son.

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!

Edward

Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

Richard

Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;

Not separated with the racking clouds,

But sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky.

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.

Edward

’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,

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.

Richard

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?

Messenger

Ah, one that was a woful looker-on

When as the noble Duke of York was slain,

Your princely father and my loving lord!

Edward

O, speak no more, for I have heard too much.

Richard

Say how he died, for I will hear it all.

Messenger

Environed he was with many foes,

And stood against them, as the hope of Troy

Against the Greeks that would have enter’d Troy.

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 subdued;

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,

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,

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.

Edward

Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,

Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.

O Clifford, boisterous Clifford! thou hast slain

The flower of Europe for his chivalry;

And treacherously hast thou vanquish’d him,

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!

For never henceforth shall I joy again,

Never, O never shall I see more joy!

Richard

I cannot weep; for all my body’s moisture

Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart:

Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great burthen;

For selfsame wind that I should speak withal

Is kindling coals that fires all my breast,

And burns me up with flames that tears would quench.

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.

Edward

His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;

His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Richard

Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird,

Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun:

For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say;

Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.

March. Enter Warwick, Montague, and their army

Warwick

How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad?

Richard

Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount

Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliverance

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!

Edward

O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet,

Which held three dearly as his soul’s redemption,

Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

Warwick

Ten days ago I drown’d these news in tears;

And now, to add more measure to your woes,

I come to tell you things sith then befall’n.

After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,

Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp,

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,

March’d toward Saint Alban’s to intercept the queen,

Bearing the king in my behalf along;

For by my scouts I was advertised

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

Our battles join’d, and both sides fiercely fought:

But whether ’twas the coldness of the king,

Who look’d full gently on his warlike queen,

That robb’d my soldiers of their heated spleen;

Or whether ’twas report of her success;

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,

Their weapons like to lightning came and went;

Our soldiers’, like the night-owl’s lazy flight,

Or like an idle thresher with a flail,

Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.

I cheer’d them up with justice of our cause,

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;

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,

Making another head to fight again.

Edward

Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick?

And when came George from Burgundy to England?

Warwick

Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers;

And for your brother, he was lately sent

From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,

With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

Richard

’Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled:

Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,

But ne’er till now his scandal of retire.

Warwick

Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear;

For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine

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 famed for mildness, peace, and prayer.

Richard

I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not:

’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,

And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,

Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads?

Or shall we on the helmets of our foes

Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?

If for the last, say ay, and to it, lords.

Warwick

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,

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.

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!’

But never once again turn back and fly.

Richard

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.

Edward

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!

Warwick

No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York:

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

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.

Richard

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.

Edward

Then strike up drums: God and Saint George for us!

Enter a Messenger

Warwick

How now! what news?

Messenger

The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,

The queen is coming with a puissant host;

And craves your company for speedy counsel.

Warwick

Why then it sorts, brave warriors, let’s away.

Exeunt

SCENE II. BEFORE YORK.

Flourish. Enter King Henry VI, Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, Clifford, and Northumberland, with drum and trumpets

Queen Margaret

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?

King Henry VI

Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wreck:

To see this sight, it irks my very soul.

Withhold revenge, dear God! ’tis not my fault,

Nor wittingly have I infringed my vow.

Clifford

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.

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.

The smallest worm will turn being trodden on,

And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.

Ambitious York doth level at thy crown,

Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows:

He, but a duke, would have his son a king,

And raise his issue, like a loving sire;

Thou, being a king, blest with a goodly son,

Didst yield consent to disinherit him,

Which argued 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,

Who hath not seen them, even with those wings

Which sometime they have used with fearful flight,

Make war with him that climb’d unto their nest,

Offer 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,

‘What my great-grandfather and his 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

Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart

To hold thine own and leave thine own with him.

King Henry VI

Full well hath Clifford play’d the orator,

Inferring arguments of mighty force.

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?

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

Than in possession and jot of pleasure.

Ah, cousin York! would thy best friends did know

How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

Queen Margaret

My lord, cheer up your spirits: our foes are nigh,

And this soft courage makes your followers faint.

You promised knighthood to our forward son:

Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently.

Edward, kneel down.

King Henry VI

Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;

And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right.

Prince Edward

My gracious father, by your kingly leave,

I’ll draw it as apparent to the crown,

And in that quarrel use it to the death.

Clifford

Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

Royal commanders, be in readiness:

For with a band of thirty thousand men

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.

Clifford

I would your highness would depart the field:

The queen hath best success when you are absent.

Queen Margaret

Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

King Henry VI

Why, that’s my fortune too; therefore I’ll stay.

Northumberland

Be it with resolution then to fight.

Prince Edward

My royal father, cheer these noble lords

And hearten those that fight in your defence:

Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry ‘Saint George!’

March. Enter Edward, George, Richard, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, and Soldiers

Edward

Now, perjured Henry! wilt thou kneel for grace,

And set thy diadem upon my head;

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Queen Margaret

Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!

Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms

Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?

Edward

I am his king, and he should bow his knee;

I was adopted heir by his consent:

Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,

You, that are king, though he do wear the crown,

Have caused him, by new act of parliament,

To blot out me, and put his own son in.

Clifford

And reason too:

Who should succeed the father but the son?

Richard

Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak!

Clifford

Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee,

Or any he the proudest of thy sort.

Richard

’Twas you that kill’d young Rutland, was it not?

Clifford

Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.

Richard

For God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight.

Warwick

What say’st thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?

Queen Margaret

Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick! dare you speak?

When you and I met at Saint Alban’s last,

Your legs did better service than your hands.

Warwick

Then ’twas my turn to fly, and now ’tis thine.

Clifford

You said so much before, and yet you fled.

Warwick

’Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

Northumberland

No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.

Richard

Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.

Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain

The execution of my big-swoln heart

Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

Clifford

I slew thy father, call’st thou him a child?

Richard

Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,

As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;

But ere sunset I’ll make thee curse the deed.

King Henry VI

Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.

Queen Margaret

Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips.

King Henry VI

I prithee, give no limits to my tongue:

I am a king, and privileged to speak.

Clifford

My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here

Cannot be cured by words; therefore be still.

Richard

Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword:

By him that made us all, I am resolved

That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.

Edward

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.

Warwick

If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;

For York in justice puts his armour on.

Prince Edward

If that be right which Warwick says is right,

There is no wrong, but every thing is right.

Richard

Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;

For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother’s tongue.

Queen Margaret

But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam;

But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatic,

Mark’d by the destinies to be avoided,

As venom toads, or lizards’ dreadful stings.

Richard

Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,

Whose father bears the title of a king,—

As if a channel should be call’d the sea,—

Shamest thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,

To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

Edward

A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns,

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.

His father revell’d in the heart of France,

And tamed the king, and made the dauphin stoop;

And had he match’d according to his state,

He might have kept that glory to this day;

But when he took a beggar to his bed,

And graced thy poor sire with his bridal-day,

Even then that sunshine brew’d a shower for him,

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,

Had slipp’d our claim until another age.

George

But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,

And that thy summer bred us no increase,

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 bathed thy growing with our heated bloods.

Edward

And, in this resolution, I defy thee;

Not willing any longer conference,

Since thou deniest the gentle king to speak.

Sound trumpets! let our bloody colours wave!

And either victory, or else a grave.

Queen Margaret

Stay, Edward.

Edward

No, wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay:

These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A FIELD OF BATTLE BETWEEN TOWTON AND SAXTON, IN

Yorkshire.

Alarum. Excursions. Enter Warwick

Warwick

Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,

I lay me down a little while to breathe;

For strokes received, and many blows repaid,

Have robb’d my strong-knit sinews of their strength,

And spite of spite needs must I rest awhile.

Enter Edward, running

Edward

Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death!

For this world frowns, and Edward’s sun is clouded.

Warwick

How now, my lord! what hap? what hope of good?

Enter George

George

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?

Edward

Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings;

And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit.

Enter Richard

Richard

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,

Like to a dismal clangour heard from far,

‘Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!’

So, underneath the belly of their steeds,

That stain’d their fetlocks in his smoking blood,

The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

Warwick

Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:

I’ll kill my horse, because I will not fly.

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?

Here on my knee I vow to God above,

I’ll never pause again, never stand still,

Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine

Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

Edward

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,

Beseeching thee, if with they will it stands

That to my foes this body must be prey,

Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope,

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.

Richard

Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick,

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.

Warwick

Away, away! Once more, sweet lords farewell.

George

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

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.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Excursions. Enter Richard and Clifford

Richard

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.

Clifford

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

And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother

To execute the like upon thyself;

And so, have at thee!

They fight. Warwick comes; Clifford flies

Richard

Nay Warwick, single out some other chase;

For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

Exeunt

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Alarum. Enter King Henry VI alone

King Henry VI

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.

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea

Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;

Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea

Forced to retire by fury of the wind:

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:

So is the equal 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,

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?

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,

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;

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;

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:

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.

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

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.

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,

His body couched in a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his father, dragging in the dead body

Son

Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.

This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,

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.

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;

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 received my life, him

Have by my hands of life bereaved him.

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.

King Henry VI

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,

Be blind with tears, and break o’ercharged with grief.

Enter a Father that has killed his son, bringing in the body

Father

Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me,

Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold:

For I have bought it with an 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,

Throw up thine eye! see, see what showers arise,

Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,

Upon thy words, that kill mine eye and heart!

O, pity, God, this miserable age!

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,

And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!

King Henry VI

Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!

O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!

O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!

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;

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!

Father

How will my wife for slaughter of my son

Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied!

King Henry VI

How will the country for these woful chances

Misthink the king and not be satisfied!

Son

Was ever son so rued a father’s death?

Father

Was ever father so bemoan’d his son?

King Henry VI

Was ever king so grieved 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

Father

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;

And so obsequious will thy father be,

Even for the loss of thee, having no more,

As Priam was for all his valiant sons.

I’ll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will,

For I have murdered where I should not kill.

Exit with the body

King Henry VI

Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,

Here sits a king more woful than you are.

Alarums: excursions. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Exeter

Prince Edward

Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled,

And Warwick rages like a chafed bull:

Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.

Queen Margaret

Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain:

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.

Exeter

Away! for vengeance comes along with them:

Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed;

Or else come after: I’ll away before.

King Henry VI

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. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

A loud alarum. Enter Clifford, wounded

Clifford

Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,

Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light.

O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow

More than my body’s parting with my soul!

My love and fear glued many friends to thee;

And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts.

Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York,

The common people swarm like summer flies;

And whither fly the gnats but to the sun?

And who shines now but Henry’s enemies?

O Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent

That Phaethon should cheque thy fiery steeds,

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,

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?

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:

The foe is merciless, and will not pity;

For at their hands I have deserved 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

Edward

Now breathe we, lords: good fortune bids us pause,

And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.

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 stem the waves.

But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?

Warwick

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.

Clifford groans, and dies

Edward

Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?

Richard

A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.

Edward

See who it is: and, now the battle’s ended,

If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

Richard

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,

But set his murdering knife unto the root

From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,

I mean our princely father, Duke of York.

Warwick

From off the gates of York fetch down the head,

Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there;

Instead whereof let this supply the room:

Measure for measure must be answered.

Edward

Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,

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.

Warwick

I think his understanding is bereft.

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.

Richard

O, would he did! and so perhaps he doth:

’Tis but his policy to counterfeit,

Because he would avoid such bitter taunts

Which in the time of death he gave our father.

George

If so thou think’st, vex him with eager words.

Richard

Clifford, ask mercy and obtain no grace.

Edward

Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.

Warwick

Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.

George

While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.

Richard

Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.

Edward

Thou pitied’st Rutland; I will pity thee.

George

Where’s Captain Margaret, to fence you now?

Warwick

They mock thee, Clifford: swear as thou wast wont.

Richard

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 hour’s life,

That I in all despite might rail at him,

This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood

Stifle the villain whose unstanched thirst

York and young Rutland could not satisfy.

Warwick

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:

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

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;

And then to Brittany I’ll cross the sea,

To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

Edward

Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;

For in thy shoulder do I build my seat,

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.

Richard

Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester;

For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous.

Warwick

Tut, that’s a foolish observation:

Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London,

To see these honours in possession.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. A FOREST IN THE NORTH OF ENGLAND.

Enter two Keepers, with cross-bows in their hands

First Keeper

Under this thick-grown brake 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.

Second Keeper

I’ll stay above the hill, so both may shoot.

First Keeper

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:

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.

Second Keeper

Here comes a man; let’s stay till he be past.

Enter King Henry VI, disguised, with a prayerbook

King Henry VI

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:

No bending knee will call thee Caesar now,

No humble suitors press to speak for right,

No, not a man comes for redress of thee;

For how can I help them, and not myself?

First Keeper

Ay, here’s a deer whose skin’s a keeper’s fee:

This is the quondam king; let’s seize upon him.

King Henry VI

Let me embrace thee, sour adversity,

For wise men say it is the wisest course.

Second Keeper

Why linger we? let us lay hands upon him.

First Keeper

Forbear awhile; we’ll hear a little more.

King Henry VI

My queen and son are gone to France for aid;

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;

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:

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,

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.

She weeps, and says her Henry is deposed;

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,

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,

Art then forsaken, as thou went’st forlorn!

Second Keeper

Say, what art thou that talk’st of kings and queens?

King Henry VI

More than I seem, and less than I was born to:

A man at least, for less I should not be;

And men may talk of kings, and why not I?

Second Keeper

Ay, but thou talk’st as if thou wert a king.

King Henry VI

Why, so I am, in mind; and that’s enough.

Second Keeper

But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown?

King Henry VI

My crown is in my heart, not on my head;

Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,

Nor to be seen: my crown is called content:

A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.

Second Keeper

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,

You are the king King Edward hath deposed;

And we his subjects sworn in all allegiance

Will apprehend you as his enemy.

King Henry VI

But did you never swear, and break an oath?

Second Keeper

No, never such an oath; nor will not now.

King Henry VI

Where did you dwell when I was King of England?

Second Keeper

Here in this country, where we now remain.

King Henry VI

I was anointed king at nine months old;

My father and my grandfather were kings,

And you were sworn true subjects unto me:

And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths?

First Keeper

No;

For we were subjects but while you were king.

King Henry VI

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,

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;

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.

First Keeper

We are true subjects to the king, King Edward.

King Henry VI

So would you be again to Henry,

If he were seated as King Edward is.

First Keeper

We charge you, in God’s name, and the king’s,

To go with us unto the officers.

King Henry VI

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. THE PALACE.

Enter King Edward IV, Gloucester, Clarence, and Lady Grey

King Edward IV

Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Alban’s field

This lady’s husband, Sir Richard Grey, was slain,

His lands then seized on by the conqueror:

Her suit is now to repossess those lands;

Which we in justice cannot well deny,

Because in quarrel of the house of York

The worthy gentleman did lose his life.

Gloucester

Your highness shall do well to grant her suit;

It were dishonour to deny it her.

King Edward IV

It were no less; but yet I’ll make a pause.

Gloucester

[Aside to Clarence] Yea, is it so?

I see the lady hath a thing to grant,

Before the king will grant her humble suit.

Clarence

[Aside to Gloucester] He knows the game: how true he keeps the wind!

Gloucester

[Aside to Clarence] Silence!

King Edward IV

Widow, we will consider of your suit;

And come some other time to know our mind.

Lady Grey

Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay:

May it please your highness to resolve me now;

And what your pleasure is, shall satisfy me.

Gloucester

[Aside to Clarence] Ay, widow? then I’ll warrant you all your lands,

An if what pleases him shall pleasure you.

Fight closer, or, good faith, you’ll catch a blow.

Clarence

[Aside to Gloucester] I fear her not, unless she chance to fall.

Gloucester

[Aside to Clarence] God forbid that! for he’ll take vantages.

King Edward IV

How many children hast thou, widow? tell me.

Clarence

[Aside to Gloucester] I think he means to beg a child of her.

Gloucester

[Aside to Clarence] Nay, whip me then: he’ll rather give her two.

Lady Grey

Three, my most gracious lord.

Gloucester

[Aside to Clarence] You shall have four, if you’ll be ruled by him.

King Edward IV

’Twere pity they should lose their father’s lands.

Lady Grey

Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it then.

King Edward IV

Lords, give us leave: I’ll try this widow’s wit.

Gloucester

[Aside to Clarence] Ay, good leave have you; for you will have leave,

Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch.

Gloucester and Clarence retire

King Edward IV

Now tell me, madam, do you love your children?

Lady Grey

Ay, full as dearly as I love myself.

King Edward IV

And would you not do much to do them good?

Lady Grey

To do them good, I would sustain some harm.

King Edward IV

Then get your husband’s lands, to do them good.

Lady Grey

Therefore I came unto your majesty.

King Edward IV

I’ll tell you how these lands are to be got.

Lady Grey

So shall you bind me to your highness’ service.

King Edward IV

What service wilt thou do me, if I give them?

Lady Grey

What you command, that rests in me to do.

King Edward IV

But you will take exceptions to my boon.

Lady Grey

No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it.

King Edward IV

Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to ask.

Lady Grey

Why, then I will do what your grace commands.

Gloucester

[Aside to Clarence] He plies her hard; and much rain wears the marble.

Clarence

[Aside to Gloucester] As red as fire! nay, then her wax must melt.

Lady Grey

Why stops my lord, shall I not hear my task?

King Edward IV

An easy task; ’tis but to love a king.

Lady Grey

That’s soon perform’d, because I am a subject.

King Edward IV

Why, then, thy husband’s lands I freely give thee.

Lady Grey

I take my leave with many thousand thanks.

Gloucester

[Aside to Clarence] The match is made; she seals it with a curtsy.

King Edward IV

But stay thee, ’tis the fruits of love I mean.

Lady Grey

The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege.

King Edward IV

Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense.

What love, think’st thou, I sue so much to get?

Lady Grey

My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers;

That love which virtue begs and virtue grants.

King Edward IV

No, by my troth, I did not mean such love.

Lady Grey

Why, then you mean not as I thought you did.

King Edward IV

But now you partly may perceive my mind.

Lady Grey

My mind will never grant what I perceive

Your highness aims at, if I aim aright.

King Edward IV

To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee.

Lady Grey

To tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison.

King Edward IV

Why, then thou shalt not have thy husband’s lands.

Lady Grey

Why, then mine honesty shall be my dower;

For by that loss I will not purchase them.

King Edward IV

Therein thou wrong’st thy children mightily.

Lady Grey

Herein your highness wrongs both them and me.

But, mighty lord, this merry inclination

Accords not with the sadness of my suit:

Please you dismiss me either with ‘ay’ or ‘no.’

King Edward IV

Ay, if thou wilt say ‘ay’ to my request;

No if thou dost say ‘no’ to my demand.

Lady Grey

Then, no, my lord. My suit is at an end.

Gloucester

[Aside to Clarence] The widow likes him not, she knits her brows.

Clarence

[Aside to Gloucester] He is the bluntest wooer in

Christendom.

King Edward IV

[Aside] Her looks do argue her replete with modesty;

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.—

Say that King Edward take thee for his queen?

Lady Grey

’Tis better said than done, my gracious lord:

I am a subject fit to jest withal,

But far unfit to be a sovereign.

King Edward IV

Sweet widow, by my state I swear to thee

I speak no more than what my soul intends;

And that is, to enjoy thee for my love.

Lady Grey

And that is more than I will yield unto:

I know I am too mean to be your queen,

And yet too good to be your concubine.

King Edward IV

You cavil, widow: I did mean, my queen.

Lady Grey

’Twill grieve your grace my sons should call you father.

King Edward IV

No more than when my daughters call thee mother.

Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children;

And, by God’s mother, I, being but a bachelor,

Have other some: why, ’tis a happy thing

To be the father unto many sons.

Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen.

Gloucester

[Aside to Clarence] The ghostly father now hath done his shrift.

Clarence

[Aside to Gloucester] When he was made a shriver,

’twas for shift.

King Edward IV

Brothers, you muse what chat we two have had.

Gloucester

The widow likes it not, for she looks very sad.

King Edward IV

You’ll think it strange if I should marry her.

Clarence

To whom, my lord?

King Edward IV

Why, Clarence, to myself.

Gloucester

That would be ten days’ wonder at the least.

Clarence

That’s a day longer than a wonder lasts.

Gloucester

By so much is the wonder in extremes.

King Edward IV

Well, jest on, brothers: I can tell you both

Her suit is granted for her husband’s lands.

Enter a Nobleman

Nobleman

My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken,

And brought your prisoner to your palace gate.

King Edward IV

See that he be convey’d unto the Tower:

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

Gloucester

Ay, Edward will use women honourably.

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 —

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:

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,

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;

And so I chide the means that keeps 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.

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,

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!

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,

Where sits deformity to mock my body;

To shape my legs of an unequal size;

To disproportion me in every part,

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 beloved?

O monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought!

Then, since this earth affords no joy to me,

But to command, to cheque, 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-shaped trunk that bears this head

Be round impaled with a glorious crown.

And yet I know not how to get the crown,

For many lives stand between me and home:

And I,— like one lost in a thorny wood,

That rends the thorns and is rent with the thorns,

Seeking a way and straying from the way;

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,

Or hew my way out with a bloody axe.

Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile,

And cry ‘Content’ to that which grieves my heart,

And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,

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,

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,

And set the murderous Machiavel to school.

Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?

Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down.

Exit

SCENE III. FRANCE. KING LEWIS XI’S PALACE.

Flourish. Enter King Lewis XI, his sister Bona, his Admiral, called Bourbon, Prince Edward, Queen Margaret, and Oxford. King Lewis XI sits, and riseth up again

King Lewis XI

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.

Queen Margaret

No, mighty King of France: now Margaret

Must strike her sail and learn awhile 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,

And with dishonour laid me on the ground;

Where I must take like seat unto my fortune,

And to my humble seat conform myself.

King Lewis XI

Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this deep despair?

Queen Margaret

From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears

And stops my tongue, while heart is drown’d in cares.

King Lewis XI

Whate’er it be, be thou still like thyself,

And sit thee by our side:

Seats her by him

Yield not thy neck

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 eased, if France can yield relief.

Queen Margaret

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,

Is of a king become a banish’d man,

And forced to live in Scotland a forlorn;

While proud ambitious Edward Duke of York

Usurps the regal title and the seat

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;

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 treasures seized, our soldiers put to flight,

And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight.

King Lewis XI

Renowned queen, with patience calm the storm,

While we bethink a means to break it off.

Queen Margaret

The more we stay, the stronger grows our foe.

King Lewis XI

The more I stay, the more I’ll succor thee.

Queen Margaret

O, but impatience waiteth on true sorrow.

And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow!

Enter Warwick

King Lewis XI

What’s he approacheth boldly to our presence?

Queen Margaret

Our Earl of Warwick, Edward’s greatest friend.

King Lewis XI

Welcome, brave Warwick! What brings thee to France?

He descends. She ariseth

Queen Margaret

Ay, now begins a second storm to rise;

For this is he that moves both wind and tide.

Warwick

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;

And then to crave a league of amity;

And lastly, to confirm that amity

With a nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant

That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister,

To England’s king in lawful marriage.

Queen Margaret

[Aside] If that go forward, Henry’s hope is done.

Warwick

[To Bona] And, gracious madam, in our king’s behalf,

I am commanded, with your leave and favour,

Humbly to kiss your hand, and with my tongue

To tell the passion of my sovereign’s heart;

Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears,

Hath placed thy beauty’s image and thy virtue.

Queen Margaret

King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me speak,

Before you answer Warwick. His demand

Springs not from Edward’s well-meant honest love,

But from deceit bred by necessity;

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,

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,

Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs.

Warwick

Injurious Margaret!

Prince Edward

And why not queen?

Warwick

Because thy father Henry did usurp;

And thou no more are prince than she is queen.

Oxford

Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt,

Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain;

And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth,

Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest;

And, after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth,

Who by his prowess conquered all France:

From these our Henry lineally descends.

Warwick

Oxford, how haps it, in this smooth discourse,

You told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost

All that which Henry Fifth had gotten?

Methinks these peers of France should smile at that.

But for the rest, you tell a pedigree

Of threescore and two years; a silly time

To make prescription for a kingdom’s worth.

Oxford

Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy liege,

Whom thou obeyed’st thirty and six years,

And not bewray thy treason with a blush?

Warwick

Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right,

Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree?

For shame! leave Henry, and call Edward king.

Oxford

Call him my king by whose injurious doom

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,

When nature brought him to the door of death?

No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm,

This arm upholds the house of Lancaster.

Warwick

And I the house of York.

King Lewis XI

Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Oxford,

Vouchsafe, at our request, to stand aside,

While I use further conference with Warwick.

They stand aloof

Queen Margaret

Heavens grant that Warwick’s words bewitch him not!

King Lewis XI

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.

Warwick

Thereon I pawn my credit and mine honour.

King Lewis XI

But is he gracious in the people’s eye?

Warwick

The more that Henry was unfortunate.

King Lewis XI

Then further, all dissembling set aside,

Tell me for truth the measure of his love

Unto our sister Bona.

Warwick

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,

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.

King Lewis XI

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.

King Lewis XI

Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shall be Edward’s;

And now forthwith shall articles be drawn

Touching the jointure that your king must make,

Which with her dowry shall be counterpoised.

Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness

That Bona shall be wife to the English king.

Prince Edward

To Edward, but not to the English king.

Queen Margaret

Deceitful Warwick! it was thy device

By this alliance to make void my suit:

Before thy coming Lewis was Henry’s friend.

King Lewis XI

And still is friend to him and Margaret:

But if your title to the crown be weak,

As may appear by Edward’s good success,

Then ’tis but reason that I be released

From giving aid which late I promised.

Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand

That your estate requires and mine can yield.

Warwick

Henry now lives in Scotland at his ease,

Where having nothing, nothing can he lose.

And as for you yourself, our quondam queen,

You have a father able to maintain you;

And better ’twere you troubled him than France.

Queen Margaret

Peace, impudent and shameless Warwick, peace,

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;

For both of you are birds of selfsame feather.

Post blows a horn within

King Lewis XI

Warwick, this is some post to us or thee.

Enter a Post

Post

[To Warwick] My lord ambassador, these letters are for you,

Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague:

To King Lewis XI

These from our king unto your majesty:

To Queen Margaret

And, madam, these for you; from whom I know not.

They all read their letters

Oxford

I like it well that our fair queen and mistress

Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at his.

Prince Edward

Nay, mark how Lewis stamps, as he were nettled:

I hope all’s for the best.

King Lewis XI

Warwick, what are thy news? and yours, fair queen?

Queen Margaret

Mine, such as fill my heart with unhoped joys.

Warwick

Mine, full of sorrow and heart’s discontent.

King Lewis XI

What! has your king married the Lady Grey!

And now, to soothe your forgery and his,

Sends me a paper to persuade me patience?

Is this the alliance that he seeks with France?

Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner?

Queen Margaret

I told your majesty as much before:

This proveth Edward’s love and Warwick’s honesty.

Warwick

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,

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?

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:

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:

I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona,

And replant Henry in his former state.

Queen Margaret

Warwick, these words have turn’d my hate to love;

And I forgive and quite forget old faults,

And joy that thou becomest King Henry’s friend.

Warwick

So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend,

That, if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us

With some few bands of chosen soldiers,

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 succor him:

And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me,

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 revenged

But by thy help to this distressed queen?

Queen Margaret

Renowned prince, how shall poor Henry live,

Unless thou rescue him from foul despair?

Bona

My quarrel and this English queen’s are one.

Warwick

And mine, fair lady Bona, joins with yours.

King Lewis XI

And mine with hers, and thine, and Margaret’s.

Therefore at last I firmly am resolved

You shall have aid.

Queen Margaret

Let me give humble thanks for all at once.

King Lewis XI

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:

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.

Queen Margaret

Tell him, my mourning weeds are laid aside,

And I am ready to put armour on.

Warwick

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 Post

King Lewis XI

But, Warwick,

Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men,

Shall cross the seas, and bid false Edward battle;

And, as occasion serves, this noble queen

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?

Warwick

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.

Queen Margaret

Yes, I agree, and thank you for your motion.

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 Edward

Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves it;

And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand.

He gives his hand to Warwick

King Lewis XI

Why stay we now? These soldiers shall be levied,

And thou, Lord Bourbon, our high admiral,

Shalt 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 but Warwick

Warwick

I came from Edward as ambassador,

But I return his sworn and mortal foe:

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?

Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow.

I was the chief that raised him to the crown,

And I’ll be chief to bring him down again:

Not that I pity Henry’s misery,

But seek revenge on Edward’s mockery.

Exit

ACT IV

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Enter Gloucester, Clarence, Somerset, and Montague

Gloucester

Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think you

Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey?

Hath not our brother made a worthy choice?

Clarence

Alas, you know, ’tis far from hence to France;

How could he stay till Warwick made return?

Somerset

My lords, forbear this talk; here comes the king.

Gloucester

And his well-chosen bride.

Clarence

I mind to tell him plainly what I think.

Flourish. Enter King Edward IV, attended; Queen Elizabeth, Pembroke, Stafford, Hastings, and others

King Edward IV

Now, brother of Clarence, how like you our choice,

That you stand pensive, as half malcontent?

Clarence

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.

King Edward IV

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.

Gloucester

And shall have your will, because our king:

Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well.

King Edward IV

Yea, brother Richard, are you offended too?

Gloucester

Not I:

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.

King Edward IV

Setting your scorns and your mislike aside,

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.

Clarence

Then this is mine opinion: that King Lewis

Becomes your enemy, for mocking him

About the marriage of the Lady Bona.

Gloucester

And Warwick, doing what you gave in charge,

Is now dishonoured by this new marriage.

King Edward IV

What if both Lewis and Warwick be appeased

By such invention as I can devise?

Montague

Yet, to have join’d with France in such alliance

Would more have strengthen’d this our commonwealth

’Gainst foreign storms than any home-bred marriage.

Hastings

Why, knows not Montague that of itself

England is safe, if true within itself?

Montague

But the safer when ’tis back’d with France.

Hastings

’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,

And with their helps only defend ourselves;

In them and in ourselves our safety lies.

Clarence

For this one speech Lord Hastings well deserves

To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford.

King Edward IV

Ay, what of that? it was my will and grant;

And for this once my will shall stand for law.

Gloucester

And yet methinks your grace hath not done well,

To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales

Unto the brother of your loving bride;

She better would have fitted me or Clarence:

But in your bride you bury brotherhood.

Clarence

Or else you would not have bestow’d the heir

Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife’s son,

And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere.

King Edward IV

Alas, poor Clarence! is it for a wife

That thou art malcontent? I will provide thee.

Clarence

In choosing for yourself, you show’d your judgment,

Which being shallow, you give me leave

To play the broker in mine own behalf;

And to that end I shortly mind to leave you.

King Edward IV

Leave me, or tarry, Edward will be king,

And not be tied unto his brother’s will.

Queen Elizabeth

My lords, before it pleased his majesty

To raise my state to title of a queen,

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,

So your dislike, to whom I would be pleasing,

Doth cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow.

King Edward IV

My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns:

What danger or what sorrow can befall thee,

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;

Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe,

And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath.

Gloucester

[Aside] I hear, yet say not much, but think the more.

Enter a Post

King Edward IV

Now, messenger, what letters or what news

From France?

Post

My sovereign liege, no letters; and few words,

But such as I, without your special pardon,

Dare not relate.

King Edward IV

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?

Post

At my depart, these were his very words:

‘Go tell false Edward, thy supposed king,

That Lewis of France is sending over masquers

To revel it with him and his new bride.’

King Edward IV

Is Lewis so brave? belike he thinks me Henry.

But what said Lady Bona to my marriage?

Post

These were her words, utter’d with mad disdain:

‘Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower shortly,

I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.’

King Edward IV

I blame not her, she could say little less;

She had the wrong. But what said Henry’s queen?

For I have heard that she was there in place.

Post

‘Tell him,’ quoth she, ‘my mourning weeds are done,

And I am ready to put armour on.’

King Edward IV

Belike she minds to play the Amazon.

But what said Warwick to these injuries?

Post

He, more incensed against your majesty

Than all the rest, discharged me with these words:

‘Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong,

And therefore I’ll uncrown him ere’t be long.’

King Edward IV

Ha! durst the traitor breathe out so proud words?

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?

Post

Ay, gracious sovereign; they are so link’d in friendship That young Prince Edward marries Warwick’s daughter.

Clarence

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

Gloucester

[Aside] Not I:

My thoughts aim at a further matter; I

Stay not for the love of Edward, but the crown.

King Edward IV

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.

Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf

Go levy men, and make prepare for war;

They are already, or quickly will be landed:

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?

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,

That I may never have you in suspect.

Montague

So God help Montague as he proves true!

Hastings

And Hastings as he favours Edward’s cause!

King Edward IV

Now, brother Richard, will you stand by us?

Gloucester

Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand you.

King Edward IV

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 soldiers

Warwick

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?

Clarence

Fear not that, my lord.

Warwick

Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick;

And welcome, Somerset: I hold it cowardice

To rest mistrustful where a noble heart

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.

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,

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,

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,

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:

For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George!

Exeunt

SCENE III. EDWARD’S CAMP, NEAR WARWICK.

Enter three Watchmen, to guard King Edward IV’s tent

First Watchman

Come on, my masters, each man take his stand:

The king by this is set him down to sleep.

Second Watchman

What, will he not to bed?

First Watchman

Why, no; for he hath made a solemn vow

Never to lie and take his natural rest

Till Warwick or himself be quite suppress’d.

Second Watchman

To-morrow then belike shall be the day,

If Warwick be so near as men report.

Third Watchman

But say, I pray, what nobleman is that

That with the king here resteth in his tent?

First Watchman

’Tis the Lord Hastings, the king’s chiefest friend.

Third Watchman

O, is it so? But why commands the king

That his chief followers lodge in towns about him,

While he himself keeps in the cold field?

Second Watchman

’Tis the more honour, because more dangerous.

Third Watchman

Ay, but give me worship and quietness;

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 Watchman

Unless our halberds did shut up his passage.

Second Watchman

Ay, wherefore else guard we his royal tent,

But to defend his person from night-foes?

Enter Warwick, Clarence, Oxford, Somerset, and French soldiers, silent all

Warwick

This is his tent; and see where stand his guard.

Courage, my masters! honour now or never!

But follow me, and Edward shall be ours.

First Watchman

Who goes there?

Second Watchman

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

The drum playing and trumpet sounding, reenter Warwick, Somerset, and the rest, bringing King Edward IV out in his gown, sitting in a chair. Richard and Hastings fly over the stage

Somerset

What are they that fly there?

Warwick

Richard and Hastings: let them go; here is The duke.

King Edward IV

The duke! Why, Warwick, when we parted,

Thou call’dst me king.

Warwick

Ay, but the case is alter’d:

When you disgraced me in my embassade,

Then I degraded you from being king,

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,

Nor how to use your brothers brotherly,

Nor how to study for the people’s welfare,

Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies?

King Edward IV

Yea, brother of Clarence, are thou here too?

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:

Though fortune’s malice overthrow my state,

My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.

Warwick

Then, for his mind, be Edward England’s king:

Takes off his crown

But Henry now shall wear the English crown,

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.

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.

They lead him out forcibly

King Edward IV

What fates impose, that men must needs abide;

It boots not to resist both wind and tide.

Exit, guarded

Oxford

What now remains, my lords, for us to do

But march to London with our soldiers?

Warwick

Ay, that’s the first thing that we have to do;

To free King Henry from imprisonment

And see him seated in the regal throne.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Enter Queen Elizabeth and Rivers

Rivers

Madam, what makes you in this sudden change?

Queen Elizabeth

Why brother Rivers, are you yet to learn

What late misfortune is befall’n King Edward?

Rivers

What! loss of some pitch’d battle against Warwick?

Queen Elizabeth

No, but the loss of his own royal person.

Rivers

Then is my sovereign slain?

Queen Elizabeth

Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner,

Either betray’d by falsehood of his guard

Or by his foe surprised at unawares:

And, as I further have to understand,

Is new committed to the Bishop of York,

Fell Warwick’s brother and by that our foe.

Rivers

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.

Queen Elizabeth

Till then fair hope must hinder life’s decay.

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

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.

Rivers

But, madam, where is Warwick then become?

Queen Elizabeth

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,

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:

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, and Stanley

Gloucester

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,

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.

I have advertised him by secret means

That if about this hour he make his 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.

Enter King Edward IV and a Huntsman with him

Huntsman

This way, my lord; for this way lies the game.

King Edward IV

Nay, this way, man: see where the huntsmen stand.

Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the rest,

Stand you thus close, to steal the bishop’s deer?

Gloucester

Brother, the time and case requireth haste:

Your horse stands ready at the park-corner.

King Edward IV

But whither shall we then?

Hastings

To Lynn, my lord,

And ship from thence to Flanders.

Gloucester

Well guess’d, believe me; for that was my meaning.

King Edward IV

Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness.

Gloucester

But wherefore stay we? ’tis no time to talk.

King Edward IV

Huntsman, what say’st thou? wilt thou go along?

Huntsman

Better do so than tarry and be hang’d.

Gloucester

Come then, away; let’s ha’ no more ado.

King Edward IV

Bishop, farewell: shield thee from Warwick’s frown;

And pray that I may repossess the crown.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. LONDON. THE TOWER.

Flourish. Enter King Henry VI, Clarence, Warwick, Somerset, Henry Of Richmond, Oxford, Montague, and Lieutenant of the Tower

King Henry VI

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,

At our enlargement what are thy due fees?

Lieutenant

Subjects may challenge nothing of their sovereigns;

But if an humble prayer may prevail,

I then crave pardon of your majesty.

King Henry VI

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 incaged birds

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,

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,

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,

For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds.

Warwick

Your grace hath still been famed for virtuous;

And now may seem as wise as virtuous,

By spying and avoiding fortune’s malice,

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.

Clarence

No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway,

To whom the heavens in thy nativity

Adjudged an olive branch and laurel crown,

As likely to be blest in peace and war;

And therefore I yield thee my free consent.

Warwick

And I choose Clarence only for protector.

King Henry VI

Warwick and Clarence give me both your hands:

Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts,

That no dissension hinder government:

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.

Warwick

What answers Clarence to his sovereign’s will?

Clarence

That he consents, if Warwick yield consent;

For on thy fortune I repose myself.

Warwick

Why, then, though loath, yet must I be content:

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.

And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful

Forthwith that Edward be pronounced a traitor,

And all his lands and goods be confiscate.

Clarence

What else? and that succession be determined.

Warwick

Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his part.

King Henry VI

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 eclipsed.

Clarence

It shall be done, my sovereign, with all speed.

King Henry VI

My Lord of Somerset, what youth is that,

Of whom you seem to have so tender care?

Somerset

My liege, it is young Henry, earl of Richmond.

King Henry VI

Come hither, England’s hope.

Lays his hand on his head

If secret powers

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 framed to wear a crown,

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

Warwick

What news, my friend?

Post

That Edward is escaped from your brother,

And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy.

Warwick

Unsavoury news! but how made he escape?

Post

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 rescued him;

For hunting was his daily exercise.

Warwick

My brother was too careless of his charge.

But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide

A salve for any sore that may betide.

Exeunt all but Somerset, Henry Of Richmond, and Oxford

Somerset

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

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,

Forthwith we’ll send him hence to Brittany,

Till storms be past of civil enmity.

Oxford

Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown,

’Tis like that Richmond with the rest shall down.

Somerset

It shall be so; he shall to Brittany.

Come, therefore, let’s about it speedily.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. BEFORE YORK.

Flourish. Enter King Edward IV, Gloucester, Hastings, and Soldiers

King Edward IV

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.

Well have we pass’d and now repass’d the seas

And brought desired help from Burgundy:

What then remains, we being thus arrived

From Ravenspurgh haven before the gates of York,

But that we enter, as into our dukedom?

Gloucester

The gates made fast! Brother, I like not this;

For many men that stumble at the threshold

Are well foretold that danger lurks within.

King Edward IV

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.

Hastings

My liege, I’ll knock once more to summon them.

Enter, on the walls, the Mayor of York, and his Brethren

Mayor

My lords, we were forewarned of your coming,

And shut the gates for safety of ourselves;

For now we owe allegiance unto Henry.

King Edward IV

But, master mayor, if Henry be your king,

Yet Edward at the least is Duke of York.

Mayor

True, my good lord; I know you for no less.

King Edward IV

Why, and I challenge nothing but my dukedom,

As being well content with that alone.

Gloucester

[Aside] But when the fox hath once got in his nose,

He’ll soon find means to make the body follow.

Hastings

Why, master mayor, why stand you in a doubt?

Open the gates; we are King Henry’s friends.

Mayor

Ay, say you so? the gates shall then be open’d.

They descend

Gloucester

A wise stout captain, and soon persuaded!

Hastings

The good old man would fain that all were well,

So ’twere not ’long of him; but being enter’d,

I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade

Both him and all his brothers unto reason.

Enter the Mayor and two Aldermen, below

King Edward IV

So, master mayor: these gates must not be shut

But in the night or in the time of war.

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.

March. Enter Montgomery, with drum and soldiers

Gloucester

Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery,

Our trusty friend, unless I be deceived.

King Edward IV

Welcome, Sir John! But why come you in arms?

Montague

To help King Edward in his time of storm,

As every loyal subject ought to do.

King Edward IV

Thanks, good Montgomery; but we now forget

Our title to the crown and only claim

Our dukedom till God please to send the rest.

Montague

Then fare you well, for I will hence again:

I came to serve a king and not a duke.

Drummer, strike up, and let us march away.

The drum begins to march

King Edward IV

Nay, stay, Sir John, awhi le, and we’ll debate

By what safe means the crown may be recover’d.

Montague

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 succor you:

Why shall we fight, if you pretend no title?

Gloucester

Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice points?

King Edward IV

When we grow stronger, then we’ll make our claim:

Till then, ’tis wisdom to conceal our meaning.

Hastings

Away with scrupulous wit! now arms must rule.

Gloucester

And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns.

Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand:

The bruit thereof will bring you many friends.

King Edward IV

Then be it as you will; for ’tis my right,

And Henry but usurps the diadem.

Montague

Ay, now my sovereign speaketh like himself;

And now will I be Edward’s champion.

Hastings

Sound trumpet; Edward shall be here proclaim’d:

Come, fellow-soldier, make thou proclamation.

Flourish

Soldier

Edward the Fourth, by the grace of God, king of

England and France, and lord of Ireland, & c.

Montague

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!

King Edward IV

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,

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!

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. THE PALACE.

Flourish. Enter King Henry VI, Warwick, Montague, Clarence, Exeter, and Oxford

Warwick

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;

And many giddy people flock to him.

King Henry VI

Let’s levy men, and beat him back again.

Clarence

A little fire is quickly trodden out;

Which, being suffer’d, rivers cannot quench.

Warwick

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,

The knights and gentlemen to come with thee:

Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham,

Northampton and in Leicestershire, shalt find

Men well inclined to hear what thou command’st:

And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved,

In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends.

My sovereign, with the loving citizens,

Like to his island girt in with the ocean,

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.

Farewell, my sovereign.

King Henry VI

Farewell, my Hector, and my Troy’s true hope.

Clarence

In sign of truth, I kiss your highness’ hand.

King Henry VI

Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate!

Montague

Comfort, my lord; and so I take my leave.

Oxford

And thus I seal my truth, and bid adieu.

King Henry VI

Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague,

And all at once, once more a happy farewell.

Warwick

Farewell, sweet lords: let’s meet at Coventry.

Exeunt all but King Henry VI and Exeter

King Henry VI

Here at the palace I will rest awhile.

Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship?

Methinks the power that Edward hath in field

Should not be able to encounter mine.

Exeter

The doubt is that he will seduce the rest.

King Henry VI

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;

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,

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:

And when the lion fawns upon the lamb,

The lamb will never cease to follow him.

Shout within. ‘A Lancaster! A Lancaster!’

Exeter

Hark, hark, my lord! what shouts are these?

Enter King Edward IV, Gloucester, and soldiers

King Edward IV

Seize on the shame-faced Henry, bear him hence;

And once again proclaim us King of England.

You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow:

Now stops thy spring; my sea sha$l suck them dry,

And swell so much the higher by their ebb.

Hence with him to the Tower; let him not speak.

Exeunt some with King Henry VI

And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course

Where peremptory Warwick now remains:

The sun shines hot; and, if we use delay,

Cold biting winter mars our hoped-for hay.

Gloucester

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 Warwick, the Mayor of Coventry, two Messengers, and others upon the walls

Warwick

Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford?

How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow?

First Messenger

By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward.

Warwick

How far off is our brother Montague?

Where is the post that came from Montague?

Second Messenger

By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop.

Enter Sir John Somerville

Warwick

Say, Somerville, what says my loving son?

And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now?

Somerset

At Southam I did leave him with his forces,

And do expect him here some two hours hence.

Drum heard

Warwick

Then Clarence is at hand, I hear his drum.

Somerset

It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies:

The drum your honour hears marcheth from Warwick.

Warwick

Who should that be? belike, unlook’d-for friends.

Somerset

They are at hand, and you shall quickly know.

March: flourish. Enter King Edward IV, Gloucester, and soldiers

King Edward IV

Go, trumpet, to the walls, and sound a parle.

Gloucester

See how the surly Warwick mans the wall!

Warwick

O unbid spite! is sportful Edward come?

Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduced,

That we could hear no news of his repair?

King Edward IV

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.

Warwick

Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence,

Confess who set thee up and pluck’d thee own,

Call Warwick patron and be penitent?

And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York.

Gloucester

I thought, at least, he would have said the king;

Or did he make the jest against his will?

Warwick

Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift?

Gloucester

Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give:

I’ll do thee service for so good a gift.

Warwick

’Twas I that gave the kingdom to thy brother.

King Edward IV

Why then ’tis mine, if but by Warwick’s gift.

Warwick

Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight:

And weakling, Warwick takes his gift again;

And Henry is my king, Warwick his subject.

King Edward IV

But Warwick’s king is Edward’s prisoner:

And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this:

What is the body when the head is off?

Gloucester

Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast,

But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten,

The king was slily finger’d from the deck!

You left poor Henry at the Bishop’s palace,

And, ten to one, you’ll meet him in the Tower.

Edward

’Tis even so; yet you are Warwick still.

Gloucester

Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down:

Nay, when? strike now, or else the iron cools.

Warwick

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.

King Edward IV

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.’

Enter Oxford, with drum and colours

Warwick

O cheerful colours! see where Oxford comes!

Oxford

Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster!

He and his forces enter the city

Gloucester

The gates are open, let us enter too.

King Edward IV

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,

We’ll quickly rouse the traitors in the same.

Warwick

O, welcome, Oxford! for we want thy help.

Enter Montague with drum and colours

Montague

Montague, Montague, for Lancaster!

He and his forces enter the city

Gloucester

Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason

Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear.

King Edward IV

The harder match’d, the greater victory:

My mind presageth happy gain and conquest.

Enter Somerset, with drum and colours

Somerset

Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster!

He and his forces enter the city

Gloucester

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 drum and colours

Warwick

And lo, where George of Clarence sweeps along,

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.

Clarence

Father of Warwick, know you what this means?

Taking his 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,

That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural,

To bend the fatal instruments of war

Against his brother and his lawful king?

Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath:

To keep that oath were more impiety

Than Jephthah’s, when he sacrificed his daughter.

I am so sorry for my trespass made

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 —

To plague thee for thy foul misleading me.

And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee,

And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks.

Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends:

And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults,

For I will henceforth be no more unconstant.

King Edward IV

Now welcome more, and ten times more beloved,

Than if thou never hadst deserved our hate.

Gloucester

Welcome, good Clarence; this is brotherlike.

Warwick

O passing traitor, perjured and unjust!

King Edward IV

What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the town and fight?

Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears?

Warwick

Alas, I am not coop’d here for defence!

I will away towards Barnet presently,

And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou darest.

King Edward IV

Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads the way.

Lords, to the field; Saint George and victory!

Exeunt King Edward and his company. March. Warwick and his company follow

SCENE II. A FIELD OF BATTLE NEAR BARNET.

Alarum and excursions. Enter King Edward IV, bringing forth Warwick wounded

King Edward IV

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

Warwick

Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe,

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.

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,

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,

Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun,

To search the secret treasons of the world:

The wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood,

Were liken’d oft to kingly sepulchres;

For who lived king, but I could dig his grave?

And who durst mine when Warwick bent his brow?

Lo, now my glory smear’d in dust and blood!

My parks, my walks, my manors that I had.

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.

Enter Oxford and Somerset

Somerset

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, could’st thou fly!

Warwick

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 lovest 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.

Somerset

Ah, Warwick! Montague hath breathed his last;

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,

That mought not be distinguished; but at last

I well might hear, delivered with a groan,

‘O, farewell, Warwick!’

Warwick

Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves;

For Warwick bids you all farewell to meet in heaven.

Dies

Oxford

Away, away, to meet the queen’s great power!

Here they bear away his body. Exeunt

SCENE III. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Flourish. Enter King Edward IV in triumph; with Gloucester, Clarence, and the rest

King Edward IV

Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course,

And we are graced with wreaths of victory.

But, in the midst of this bright-shining day,

I spy a black, suspicious, threatening cloud,

That will encounter with our glorious sun,

Ere he attain his easeful western bed:

I mean, my lords, those powers that the queen

Hath raised in Gallia have arrived our coast

And, as we hear, march on to fight with us.

Clarence

A little gale will soon disperse that cloud

And blow it to the source from whence it came:

The very beams will dry those vapours up,

For every cloud engenders not a storm.

Gloucester

The queen is valued thirty thousand strong,

And Somerset, with Oxford fled to her:

If she have time to breathe be well assured

Her faction will be full as strong as ours.

King Edward IV

We are advertised by our loving friends

That they do hold their course toward Tewksbury:

We, having now the best at Barnet field,

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.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. PLAINS NEAR TEWKSBURY.

March. Enter Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, Somerset, Oxford, and soldiers

Queen Margaret

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 overboard,

The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost,

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

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 saved?

Ah, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this!

Say Warwick was our anchor; what of that?

And Montague our topmost; what of him?

Our slaughter’d friends the tackles; what of these?

Why, is not Oxford here another anchor?

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?

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 wreck.

As good to chide the waves as speak them fair.

And what is Edward but ruthless sea?

What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit?

And Richard but a ragged fatal rock?

All these the enemies to our poor bark.

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.

This speak I, lords, to let you understand,

If case some one of you would fly from us,

That there’s no hoped-for mercy with the brothers

More than with ruthless waves, with sands and rocks.

Why, courage then! what cannot be avoided

’Twere childish weakness to lament or fear.

Prince Edward

Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit

Should, if a coward heard her speak these words,

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

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!—

Let him depart before we need his help.

Oxford

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!

Somerset

And he that will not fight for such a hope.

Go home to bed, and like the owl by day,

If he arise, be mock’d and wonder’d at.

Queen Margaret

Thanks, gentle Somerset; sweet Oxford, thanks.

Prince Edward

And take his thanks that yet hath nothing else.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand.

Ready to fight; therefore be resolute.

Oxford

I thought no less: it is his policy

To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided.

Somerset

But he’s deceived; we are in readiness.

Queen Margaret

This cheers my heart, to see your forwardness.

Oxford

Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge.

Flourish and march. Enter King Edward IV, Gloucester, Clarence, and soldiers

King Edward IV

Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood,

Which, by the heavens’ assistance and your strength,

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!

Queen Margaret

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,

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.

You fight in justice: then, in God’s name, lords,

Be valiant and give signal to the fight.

Alarum. Retreat. Excursions. Exeunt

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Flourish. Enter King Edward IV, Gloucester, Clarence, and soldiers; with Queen Margaret, Oxford, and Somerset, prisoners

King Edward IV

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.

Oxford

For my part, I’ll not trouble thee with words.

Somerset

Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune.

Exeunt Oxford and Somerset, guarded

Queen Margaret

So part we sadly in this troublous world,

To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem.

King Edward IV

Is proclamation made, that who finds Edward

Shall have a high reward, and he his life?

Gloucester

It is: and lo, where youthful Edward comes!

Enter soldiers, with Prince Edward

King Edward IV

Bring forth the gallant, let us hear him speak.

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?

Prince Edward

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,

Whilst I propose the selfsame words to thee,

Which traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to.

Queen Margaret

Ah, that thy father had been so resolved!

Gloucester

That you might still have worn the petticoat,

And ne’er have stol’n the breech from Lancaster.

Prince Edward

Let Aesop fable in a winter’s night;

His currish riddles sort not with this place.

Gloucester

By heaven, brat, I’ll plague ye for that word.

Queen Margaret

Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to men.

Gloucester

For God’s sake, take away this captive scold.

Prince Edward

Nay, take away this scolding crookback rather.

King Edward IV

Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your tongue.

Clarence

Untutor’d lad, thou art too malapert.

Prince Edward

I know my duty; you are all undutiful:

Lascivious Edward, and thou perjured George,

And thou mis-shapen Dick, I tell ye all

I am your better, traitors as ye are:

And thou usurp’st my father’s right and mine.

King Edward IV

Take that, thou likeness of this railer here.

Stabs him

Gloucester

Sprawl’st thou? take that, to end thy agony.

Stabs him

Clarence

And there’s for twitting me with perjury.

Stabs him

Queen Margaret

O, kill me too!

Gloucester

Marry, and shall.

Offers to kill her

King Edward IV

Hold, Richard, hold; for we have done too much.

Gloucester

Why should she live, to fill the world with words?

King Edward IV

What, doth she swoon? use means for her recovery.

Gloucester

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.

Clarence

What? what?

Gloucester

The Tower, the Tower.

Exit

Queen Margaret

O Ned, sweet Ned! speak to thy mother, boy!

Canst thou not speak? O traitors! murderers!

They that stabb’d Caesar 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:

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, and if I speak:

And I will speak, that so my heart may burst.

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:

But if you ever chance to have a child,

Look in his youth to have him so cut off

As, deathmen, you have rid this sweet young prince!

King Edward IV

Away with her; go, bear her hence perforce.

Queen Margaret

Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me here,

Here sheathe thy sword, I’ll pardon thee my death:

What, wilt thou not? then, Clarence, do it thou.

Clarence

By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease.

Queen Margaret

Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it.

Clarence

Didst thou not hear me swear I would not do it?

Queen Margaret

Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself:

’Twas sin before, but now ’tis charity.

What, wilt thou not? Where is that devil’s butcher,

Hard-favour’d Richard? Richard, where art thou?

Thou art not here: murder is thy alms-deed;

Petitioners for blood thou ne’er put’st back.

King Edward IV

Away, I say; I charge ye, bear her hence.

Queen Margaret

So come to you and yours, as to this Prince!

Exit, led out forcibly

King Edward IV

Where’s Richard gone?

Clarence

To London, all in post; and, as I guess,

To make a bloody supper in the Tower.

King Edward IV

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:

By this, I hope, she hath a son for me.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. LONDON. THE TOWER.

Enter King Henry VI and Gloucester, with the Lieutenant, on the walls

Gloucester

Good day, my lord. What, at your book so hard?

King Henry VI

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,

And both preposterous; therefore, not ‘good lord.’

Gloucester

Sirrah, leave us to ourselves: we must confer.

Exit Lieutenant

King Henry VI

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.

What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?

Gloucester

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;

The thief doth fear each bush an officer.

King Henry VI

The bird that hath been limed in a bush,

With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush;

And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird,

Have now the fatal object in my eye

Where my poor young was limed, was caught and kill’d.

Gloucester

Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete,

That taught his son the office of a fowl!

An yet, for all his wings, the fool was drown’d.

King Henry VI

I, Daedalus; my poor boy, Icarus;

Thy father, Minos, that denied our course;

The sun that sear’d the wings of my sweet boy

Thy brother Edward, and thyself the sea

Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life.

Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words!

My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point

Than can my ears that tragic history.

But wherefore dost thou come? is’t for my life?

Gloucester

Think’st thou I am an executioner?

King Henry VI

A persecutor, I am sure, thou art:

If murdering innocents be executing,

Why, then thou art an executioner.

Gloucester

Thy son I kill’d for his presumption.

King Henry VI

Hadst thou been kill’d when first thou didst presume,

Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine.

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 —

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;

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.

Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain,

And, yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope,

To wit, an indigested and deformed lump,

Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree.

Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born,

To signify thou camest to bite the world:

And, if the rest be true which I have heard,

Thou camest —

Gloucester

I’ll hear no more: die, prophet in thy speech:

Stabs him

For this amongst the rest, was I ordain’d.

King Henry VI

Ay, and for much more slaughter after this.

God forgive my sins, and pardon thee!

Dies

Gloucester

What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster

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 alway shed

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.

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,

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

That I should snarl and bite and play the dog.

Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so,

Let hell make crook’d my mind to answer it.

I have no brother, I am like no brother;

And this word ‘love,’ which graybeards 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:

But I will sort a pitchy day for thee;

For I will buz abroad such prophecies

That Edward shall be fearful of his life,

And then, to purge his fear, I’ll be thy death.

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

And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom.

Exit, with the body

SCENE VII. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Flourish. Enter King Edward IV, Queen Elizabeth, Clarence, Gloucester, Hastings, a Nurse with the young Prince, and Attendants

King Edward IV

Once more we sit in England’s royal throne,

Re-purchased with the blood of enemies.

What valiant foemen, like to autumn’s corn,

Have we mow’d down, in tops of all their pride!

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

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.

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

Have in our armours watch’d the winter’s night,

Went all afoot in summer’s scalding heat,

That thou mightst repossess the crown in peace;

And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain.

Gloucester

[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:

Work thou the way,— and thou shalt execute.

King Edward IV

Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely queen;

And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both.

Clarence

The duty that I owe unto your majesty

I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe.

Queen Elizabeth

Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother, thanks.

Gloucester

And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprang’st,

Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit.

Aside

And cried ‘all hail!’ when as he meant all harm.

King Edward IV

Now am I seated as my soul delights,

Having my country’s peace and brothers’ loves.

Clarence

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.

King Edward IV

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 befits the pleasure of the court?

Sound drums and trumpets! farewell sour annoy!

For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.

Exeunt

The Life of King Henry the Eighth

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

PROLOGUE

ACT I

SCENE I. LONDON. AN ANTE-CHAMBER IN THE PALACE.

SCENE II. THE SAME. THE COUNCIL-CHAMBER.

SCENE III. AN ANTE-CHAMBER IN THE PALACE.

SCENE IV. A HALL IN YORK PLACE.

ACT II

SCENE I. WESTMINSTER. A STREET.

SCENE II. AN ANTE-CHAMBER IN THE PALACE.

SCENE III. AN ANTE-CHAMBER OF THE QUEEN’S APARTMENTS.

SCENE IV. A HALL IN BLACK-FRIARS.

ACT III

SCENE I. LONDON. QUEEN KATHARINE’S APARTMENTS.

SCENE II. ANTE-CHAMBER TO KING HENRY VIII’S APARTMENT.

ACT IV

SCENE I. A STREET IN WESTMINSTER.

SCENE II. KIMBOLTON.

ACT V

SCENE I. LONDON. A GALLERY IN THE PALACE.

SCENE II. BEFORE THE COUNCIL-CHAMBER. PURSUIVANTS, PAGES, & C.

SCENE III. THE COUNCIL-CHAMBER.

SCENE IV. THE PALACE YARD.

SCENE V. THE PALACE.

EPILOGUE

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Abergavenny,

All,

Anne,

Both,

Boy,

Brandon,

Buckingham,

Capucius,

Cardinal Campeius,

Cardinal Wolsey,

Chamberlain,

Chancellor,

Cranmer,

Crier,

Cromwell,

Denny,

Doctor Butts,

First Gentleman,

First Secretary,

Gardiner,

Garter,

Gentleman,

Griffith,

Guildford,

Katharine,

Keeper,

King Henry VIII,

Lincoln,

Lovell,

Man,

Messenger,

Norfolk,

Old Lady,

Patience,

Porter,

Queen Katharine,

Sands,

Scribe,

Second Gentleman,

Sergeant,

Servant,

Suffolk,

Surrey,

Surveyor,

Third Gentleman,

Vaux,

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,

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,

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

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 motley coat guarded with yellow,

Will be deceived; for, gentle hearers, know,

To rank our chosen truth with such a show

As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting

Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring,

To make that only true we now intend,

Will leave us never an understanding friend.

Therefore, for goodness’ sake, and as you are known

The first and happiest hearers of the town,

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

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.

ACT I

SCENE I. LONDON. AN ANTE-CHAMBER IN THE PALACE.

Enter Norfolk at one door; at the other, Buckingham and Abergavenny

Buckingham

Good morrow, and well met. How have ye done

Since last we saw in France?

Norfolk

I thank your grace,

Healthful; and ever since a fresh admirer

Of what I saw there.

Buckingham

An untimely ague

Stay’d me a prisoner in my chamber when

Those suns of glory, those two lights of men,

Met in the vale of Andren.

Norfolk

’Twixt Guynes and Arde:

I was then present, saw them salute on horseback;

Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung

In their embracement, as they grew together;

Which had they, what four throned ones could have weigh’d

Such a compounded one?

Buckingham

All the whole time

I was my chamber’s prisoner.

Norfolk

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

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

Show’d like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were

As cherubins, all guilt: the madams too,

Not used to toil, did almost sweat to bear

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,

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 —

For so they phrase ’em — by their heralds challenged

The noble spirits to arms, they did perform

Beyond thought’s compass; that former fabulous story,

Being now seen possible enough, got credit,

That Bevis was believed.

Buckingham

O, you go far.

Norfolk

As I belong to worship and affect

In honour honesty, the tract of every thing

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

Distinctly his full function.

Buckingham

Who did guide,

I mean, who set the body and the limbs

Of this great sport together, as you guess?

Norfolk

One, certes, that promises no element

In such a business.

Buckingham

I pray you, who, my lord?

Norfolk

All this was order’d by the good discretion

Of the right reverend Cardinal of York.

Buckingham

The devil speed him! no man’s pie is freed

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

And keep it from the earth.

Norfolk

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

For high feats done to the crown; neither allied

For eminent assistants; but, spider-like,

Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note,

The force of his own merit makes his way

A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys

A place next to the king.

Abergavenny

I cannot tell

What heaven hath given him,— let some graver eye

Pierce into that; but I can see his pride

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.

Buckingham

Why the devil,

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

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 the papers.

Abergavenny

I do know

Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have

By this so sickened their estates, that never

They shall abound as formerly.

Buckingham

O, many

Have broke their backs with laying manors on ’em

For this great journey. What did this vanity

But minister communication of

A most poor issue?

Norfolk

Grievingly I think,

The peace between the French and us not values

The cost that did conclude it.

Buckingham

Every man,

After the hideous storm that follow’d, was

A thing inspired; and, not consulting, broke

Into a general prophecy; That this tempest,

Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded

The sudden breach on’t.

Norfolk

Which is budded out;

For France hath flaw’d the league, and hath attach’d

Our merchants’ goods at Bourdeaux.

Abergavenny

Is it therefore

The ambassador is silenced?

Norfolk

Marry, is’t.

Abergavenny

A proper title of a peace; and purchased

At a superfluous rate!

Buckingham

Why, all this business

Our reverend cardinal carried.

Norfolk

Like it your grace,

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

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

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,

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. Cardinal Wolsey in his passage fixeth his eye on Buckingham, and Buckingham on him, both full of disdain

Cardinal Wolsey

The Duke of Buckingham’s surveyor, ha?

Where’s his examination?

First Secretary

Here, so please you.

Cardinal Wolsey

Is he in person ready?

First Secretary

Ay, please your grace.

Cardinal Wolsey

Well, we shall then know more; and Buckingham

Shall lessen this big look.

Exeunt Cardinal Wolsey and his Train

Buckingham

This butcher’s cur is venom-mouth’d, and I

Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore best

Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar’s book

Outworths a noble’s blood.

Norfolk

What, are you chafed?

Ask God for temperance; that’s the appliance only

Which your disease requires.

Buckingham

I read in’s looks

Matter against me; and his eye reviled

Me, as his abject object: at this instant

He bores me with some trick: he’s gone to the king;

I’ll follow and outstare him.

Norfolk

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

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.

Buckingham

I’ll to the king;

And from a mouth of honour quite cry down

This Ipswich fellow’s insolence; or proclaim

There’s difference in no persons.

Norfolk

Be advised;

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot

That it do singe yourself: we may outrun,

By violent swiftness, that which we run at,

And lose by over-running. Know you not,

The fire that mounts the liquor til run o’er,

In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advised:

I say again, there is no English soul

More stronger to direct you than yourself,

If with the sap of reason you would quench,

Or but allay, the fire of passion.

Buckingham

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

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.

Norfolk

Say not ‘treasonous.’

Buckingham

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

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,

That swallow’d so much treasure, and like a glass

Did break i’ the rinsing.

Norfolk

Faith, and so it did.

Buckingham

Pray, give me favour, sir. This cunning cardinal

The articles o’ the combination drew

As himself pleased; 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

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 —

For ’twas indeed his colour, but he came

To whisper Wolsey,— here makes visitation:

His fears were, that the interview betwixt

England and France might, through their amity,

Breed him some prejudice; for from this league

Peep’d harms that menaced him: he privily

Deals with our cardinal; and, as I trow,—

Which I do well; for I am sure the emperor

Paid ere he promised; whereby his suit was granted

Ere it was ask’d; but when the way was made,

And paved with gold, the emperor thus desired,

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,

And for his own advantage.

Norfolk

I am sorry

To hear this of him; and could wish he were

Something mistaken in’t.

Buckingham

No, not a syllable:

I do pronounce him in that very shape

He shall appear in proof.

Enter Brandon, a Sergeant-at-arms before him, and two or three of the Guard

Brandon

Your office, sergeant; execute it.

Sergeant

Sir,

My lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl

Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I

Arrest thee of high treason, in the name

Of our most sovereign king.

Buckingham

Lo, you, my lord,

The net has fall’n upon me! I shall perish

Under device and practise.

Brandon

I am sorry

To see you ta’en from liberty, to look on

The business present: ’tis his highness’ pleasure

You shall to the Tower.

Buckingham

It will help me nothing

To plead mine innocence; for that dye is on me

Which makes my whitest part black. The will of heaven

Be done in this and all things! I obey.

O my Lord Abergavenny, fare you well!

Brandon

Nay, he must bear you company. The king

To Abergavenny

Is pleased you shall to the Tower, till you know

How he determines further.

Abergavenny

As the duke said,

The will of heaven be done, and the king’s pleasure

By me obey’d!

Brandon

Here is a warrant from

The king to attach Lord Montacute; and the bodies

Of the duke’s confessor, John de la Car,

One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor —

Buckingham

So, so;

These are the limbs o’ the plot: no more, I hope.

Brandon

A monk o’ the Chartreux.

Buckingham

O, Nicholas Hopkins?

Brandon

He.

Buckingham

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,

Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on,

By darkening my clear sun. My lord, farewell.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME. THE COUNCIL-CHAMBER.

Cornets. Enter King Henry VIII, leaning on Cardinal Wolsey’s shoulder, the Nobles, and Lovell; Cardinal Wolsey places himself under King Henry VIII’s feet on his right side

King Henry VIII

My life itself, and the best heart of it,

Thanks you for this great care: I stood i’ the level

Of a full-charged confederacy, and give thanks

To you that choked it. Let be call’d before us

That gentleman of Buckingham’s; in person

I’ll hear him his confessions justify;

And point by point the treasons of his master

He shall again relate.

A noise within, crying ‘Room for the Queen!’ Enter Queen Katharine, ushered by Norfolk, and Suffolk: she kneels. King Henry VIII riseth from his state, takes her up, kisses and placeth her by him

Queen Katharine

Nay, we must longer kneel: I am a suitor.

King Henry VIII

Arise, and take place by us: half your suit

Never name to us; you have half our power:

The other moiety, ere you ask, is given;

Repeat your will and take it.

Queen Katharine

Thank your majesty.

That you would love yourself, and in that love

Not unconsider’d leave your honour, nor

The dignity of your office, is the point

Of my petition.

King Henry VIII

Lady mine, proceed.

Queen Katharine

I am solicited, not by a few,

And those of true condition, that your subjects

Are in great grievance: there have been commissions

Sent down among ’em, which hath flaw’d the heart

Of all their loyalties: wherein, although,

My good lord cardinal, they vent reproaches

Most bitterly on you, as putter on

Of these exactions, yet the king our master —

Whose honour heaven shield from soil!— even he escapes not

Language unmannerly, yea, such which breaks

The sides of loyalty, and almost appears

In loud rebellion.

Norfolk

Not almost appears,

It doth appear; for, upon these taxations,

The clothiers all, not able to maintain

The many to them longing, have put off

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,

And danger serves among then!

King Henry VIII

Taxation!

Wherein? and what taxation? My lord cardinal,

You that are blamed for it alike with us,

Know you of this taxation?

Cardinal Wolsey

Please you, sir,

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.

Queen Katharine

No, my lord,

You know no more than others; but you frame

Things that are known alike; which are not wholesome

To those which would not know them, and yet must

Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions,

Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are

Most pestilent to the bearing; and, to bear ’em,

The back is sacrifice to the load. They say

They are devised by you; or else you suffer

Too hard an exclamation.

King Henry VIII

Still exaction!

The nature of it? in what kind, let’s know,

Is this exaction?

Queen Katharine

I am much too venturous

In tempting of your patience; but am bolden’d

Under your promised pardon. The subjects’ grief

Comes through commissions, which compel from each

The sixth part of his substance, to be levied

Without delay; and the pretence for this

Is named, your wars in France: this makes bold mouths:

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

To each incensed will. I would your highness

Would give it quick consideration, for

There is no primer business.

King Henry VIII

By my life,

This is against our pleasure.

Cardinal Wolsey

And for me,

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

Traduced by ignorant tongues, which neither know

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

Our necessary actions, in the fear

To cope malicious censurers; which ever,

As ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow

That is new-trimm’d, but benefit no further

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

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.

King Henry VIII

Things done well,

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.

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;

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

The force of this commission: pray, look to’t;

I put it to your care.

Cardinal Wolsey

A word with you.

To the Secretary

Let there be letters writ to every shire,

Of the king’s grace and pardon. The grieved commons

Hardly conceive of me; let it be noised

That through our intercession this revokement

And pardon comes: I shall anon advise you

Further in the proceeding.

Exit Secretary

Enter Surveyor

Queen Katharine

I am sorry that the Duke of Buckingham

Is run in your displeasure.

King Henry VIII

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 disposed, the mind growing once corrupt,

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,

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 —

This was his gentleman in trust — of him

Things to strike honour sad. Bid him recount

The fore-recited practises; whereof

We cannot feel too little, hear too much.

Cardinal Wolsey

Stand forth, and with bold spirit relate what you,

Most like a careful subject, have collected

Out of the Duke of Buckingham.

King Henry VIII

Speak freely.

Surveyor

First, it was usual with him, every day

It would infect his speech, that if the king

Should without issue die, he’ll carry it so

To make the sceptre his: these very words

I’ve heard him utter to his son-in-law,

Lord Abergavenny; to whom by oath he menaced

Revenge upon the cardinal.

Cardinal Wolsey

Please your highness, note

This dangerous conception in this point.

Not friended by by his wish, to your high person

His will is most malignant; and it stretches

Beyond you, to your friends.

Queen Katharine

My learn’d lord cardinal,

Deliver all with charity.

King Henry VIII

Speak on:

How grounded he his title to the crown,

Upon our fail? to this point hast thou heard him

At any time speak aught?

Surveyor

He was brought to this

By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Hopkins.

King Henry VIII

What was that Hopkins?

Surveyor

Sir, a Chartreux friar,

His confessor, who fed him every minute

With words of sovereignty.

King Henry VIII

How know’st thou this?

Surveyor

Not long before your highness sped to France,

The duke being at the Rose, within the parish

Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand

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

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,

‘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

He solemnly had sworn, that what he spoke

My chaplain to no creature living, but

To me, should utter, with demure confidence

This pausingly ensued: neither the king nor’s heirs,

Tell you the duke, shall prosper: bid him strive

To gain the love o’ the commonalty: the duke

Shall govern England.’

Queen Katharine

If I know you well,

You were the duke’s surveyor, and lost your office

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.

King Henry VIII

Let him on.

Go forward.

Surveyor

On my soul, I’ll speak but truth.

I told my lord the duke, by the devil’s illusions

The monk might be deceived; and that ’twas dangerous for him

To ruminate on this so far, until

It forged him some design, which, being believed,

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,

The cardinal’s and Sir Thomas Lovell’s heads

Should have gone off.

King Henry VIII

Ha! what, so rank? Ah ha!

There’s mischief in this man: canst thou say further?

Surveyor

I can, my liege.

King Henry VIII

Proceed.

Surveyor

Being at Greenwich,

After your highness had reproved the duke

About Sir William Blomer,—

King Henry VIII

I remember

Of such a time: being my sworn servant,

The duke retain’d him his. But on; what hence?

Surveyor

‘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,

As he made semblance of his duty, would

Have put his knife to him.’

King Henry VIII

A giant traitor!

Cardinal Wolsey

Now, madam, may his highness live in freedom, and this man out of prison?

Queen Katharine

God mend all!

King Henry VIII

There’s something more would out of thee; what say’st?

Surveyor

After ‘the duke his father,’ with ‘the knife,’

He stretch’d him, and, with one hand on his dagger,

Another spread on’s breast, mounting his eyes

He did discharge a horrible oath; whose tenor

Was,— were he evil used, he would outgo

His father by as much as a performance

Does an irresolute purpose.

King Henry VIII

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,

Let him not seek ’t of us: by day and night,

He’s traitor to the height.

Exeunt

SCENE III. AN ANTE-CHAMBER IN THE PALACE.

Enter Chamberlain and Sands

Chamberlain

Is’t possible the spells of France should juggle

Men into such strange mysteries?

Sands

New customs,

Though they be never so ridiculous,

Nay, let ’em be unmanly, yet are follow’d.

Chamberlain

As far as I see, all the good our English

Have got by the late voyage is but merely

A fit or two o’ the face; but they are shrewd ones;

For when they hold ’em, you would swear directly

Their very noses had been counsellors

To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so.

Sands

They have all new legs, and lame ones: one would take it,

That never saw ’em pace before, the spavin

Or springhalt reign’d among ’em.

Chamberlain

Death! my lord,

Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too,

That, sure, they’ve worn out Christendom.

Enter Lovell

How now!

What news, Sir Thomas Lovell?

Lovell

Faith, my lord,

I hear of none, but the new proclamation

That’s clapp’d upon the court-gate.

Chamberlain

What is’t for?

Lovell

The reformation of our travell’d gallants,

That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors.

Chamberlain

I’m glad ’tis there: now I would pray our monsieurs

To think an English courtier may be wise,

And never see the Louvre.

Lovell

They must either,

For so run the conditions, leave those remnants

Of fool and feather that they got in France,

With all their honourable point of ignorance

Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks,

Abusing better men than they can be,

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;

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

Are grown so catching.

Chamberlain

What a loss our ladies

Will have of these trim vanities!

Lovell

Ay, marry,

There will be woe indeed, lords: the sly whoresons

Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies;

A French song and a fiddle has no fellow.

Sands

The devil fiddle ’em! I am glad they are going,

For, sure, there’s no converting of ’em: now

An honest country lord, as I am, beaten

A long time out of play, may bring his plainsong

And have an hour of hearing; and, by’r lady,

Held current music too.

Chamberlain

Well said, Lord Sands;

Your colt’s tooth is not cast yet.

Sands

No, my lord;

Nor shall not, while I have a stump.

Chamberlain

Sir Thomas,

Whither were you a-going?

Lovell

To the cardinal’s:

Your lordship is a guest too.

Chamberlain

O, ’tis true:

This night he makes a supper, and a great one,

To many lords and ladies; there will be

The beauty of this kingdom, I’ll assure you.

Lovell

That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed,

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us;

His dews fall every where.

Chamberlain

No doubt he’s noble;

He had a black mouth that said other of him.

Sands

He may, my lord; has wherewithal: in him

Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine:

Men of his way should be most liberal;

They are set here for examples.

Chamberlain

True, they are so:

But few now give so great ones. My barge stays;

Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas,

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. A HALL IN YORK PLACE.

Hautboys. A small table under a state for Cardinal Wolsey, a longer table for the guests. Then enter Anne and divers other Ladies and Gentlemen as guests, at one door; at another door, enter Guildford

Guildford

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

One care abroad; he would have all as merry

As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome,

Can make good people. O, my lord, you’re tardy:

Enter Chamberlain, Sands, and Lovell

The very thought of this fair company

Clapp’d wings to me.

Chamberlain

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,

They are a sweet society of fair ones.

Lovell

O, that your lordship were but now confessor

To one or two of these!

Sands

I would I were;

They should find easy penance.

Lovell

Faith, how easy?

Sands

As easy as a down-bed would afford it.

Chamberlain

Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir Harry,

Place you that side; I’ll take the charge of this:

His grace is entering. Nay, you must not freeze;

Two women placed together makes cold weather:

My Lord Sands, you are one will keep ’em waking;

Pray, sit between these ladies.

Sands

By my faith,

And thank your lordship. By your leave, sweet ladies:

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:

But he would bite none; just as I do now,

He would kiss you twenty with a breath.

Kisses her

Chamberlain

Well said, my lord.

So, now you’re fairly seated. Gentlemen,

The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies

Pass away frowning.

Sands

For my little cure,

Let me alone.

Hautboys. Enter Cardinal Wolsey, and takes his state

Cardinal Wolsey

You’re welcome, my fair guests: that noble lady,

Or gentleman, that is not freely merry,

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.

Cardinal Wolsey

My Lord Sands,

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

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.

Sands

I told your grace they would talk anon.

Drum and trumpet, chambers discharged

Cardinal Wolsey

What’s that?

Chamberlain

Look out there, some of ye.

Exit Servant

Cardinal Wolsey

What warlike voice,

And to what end is this? Nay, ladies, fear not;

By all the laws of war you’re privileged.

Re-enter Servant

Chamberlain

How now! what is’t?

Servant

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.

Cardinal Wolsey

Good lord chamberlain,

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 Chamberlain, attended. All rise, and tables removed

You have now a broken banquet; but we’ll mend it.

A good digestion to you all: and once more

I shower a welcome on ye; welcome all.

Hautboys. Enter King Henry VIII and others, as masquers, habited like shepherds, ushered by the Chamberlain. They pass directly before Cardinal Wolsey, and gracefully salute him

A noble company! what are their pleasures?

Chamberlain

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,

But leave their flocks; and, under your fair conduct,

Crave leave to view these ladies and entreat

An hour of revels with ’em.

Cardinal Wolsey

Say, lord chamberlain,

They have done my poor house grace; for which I pay ’em

A thousand thanks, and pray ’em take their pleasures.

They choose Ladies for the dance. King Henry VIII chooses Anne

King Henry VIII

The fairest hand I ever touch’d! O beauty,

Till now I never knew thee!

Music. Dance

Cardinal Wolsey

My lord!

Chamberlain

Your grace?

Cardinal Wolsey

Pray, tell ’em 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

I would surrender it.

Chamberlain

I will, my lord.

Whispers the Masquers

Cardinal Wolsey

What say they?

Chamberlain

Such a one, they all confess,

There is indeed; which they would have your grace

Find out, and he will take it.

Cardinal Wolsey

Let me see, then.

By all your good leaves, gentlemen; here I’ll make

My royal choice.

King Henry VIII

Ye have found him, cardinal:

Unmasking

You hold a fair assembly; you do well, lord:

You are a churchman, or, I’ll tell you, cardinal,

I should judge now unhappily.

Cardinal Wolsey

I am glad

Your grace is grown so pleasant.

King Henry VIII

My lord chamberlain,

Prithee, come hither: what fair lady’s that?

Chamberlain

An’t please your grace, Sir Thomas Bullen’s daughter —

The Viscount Rochford,— one of her highness’ women.

King Henry VIII

By heaven, she is a dainty one. Sweetheart,

I were unmannerly, to take you out,

And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen!

Let it go round.

Cardinal Wolsey

Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready

I’ the privy chamber?

Lovell

Yes, my lord.

Cardinal Wolsey

Your grace,

I fear, with dancing is a little heated.

King Henry VIII

I fear, too much.

Cardinal Wolsey

There’s fresher air, my lord,

In the next chamber.

King Henry VIII

Lead in your ladies, every one: sweet partner,

I must not yet forsake you: let’s be merry:

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 Gentleman

Whither away so fast?

Second Gentleman

O, God save ye!

Even to the hall, to hear what shall become

Of the great Duke of Buckingham.

First Gentleman

I’ll save you

That labour, sir. All’s now done, but the ceremony

Of bringing back the prisoner.

Second Gentleman

Were you there?

First Gentleman

Yes, indeed, was I.

Second Gentleman

Pray, speak what has happen’d.

First Gentleman

You may guess quickly what.

Second Gentleman

Is he found guilty?

First Gentleman

Yes, truly is he, and condemn’d upon’t.

Second Gentleman

I am sorry for’t.

First Gentleman

So are a number more.

Second Gentleman

But, pray, how pass’d it?

First Gentleman

I’ll tell you in a little. The great duke

Came to the bar; where to his accusations

He pleaded still not guilty and alleged

Many sharp reasons to defeat the law.

The king’s attorney on the contrary

Urged on the examinations, proofs, confessions

Of divers witnesses; which the duke desired

To have brought viva 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,

Hopkins, that made this mischief.

Second Gentleman

That was he

That fed him with his prophecies?

First Gentleman

The same.

All these accused him strongly; which he fain

Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he could not:

And so his peers, upon this evidence,

Have found him guilty of high treason. Much

He spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all

Was either pitied in him or forgotten.

Second Gentleman

After all this, how did he bear himself?

First Gentleman

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,

And something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty:

But he fell to himself again, and sweetly

In all the rest show’d a most noble patience.

Second Gentleman

I do not think he fears death.

First Gentleman

Sure, he does not:

He never was so womanish; the cause

He may a little grieve at.

Second Gentleman

Certainly

The cardinal is the end of this.

First Gentleman

’Tis likely,

By all conjectures: first, Kildare’s attainder,

Then deputy of Ireland; who removed,

Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too,

Lest he should help his father.

Second Gentleman

That trick of state

Was a deep envious one.

First Gentleman

At his return

No doubt he will requite it. This is noted,

And generally, whoever the king favours,

The cardinal instantly will find employment,

And far enough from court too.

Second Gentleman

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,

The mirror of all courtesy;—

First Gentleman

Stay there, sir,

And see the noble ruin’d man you speak of.

Enter Buckingham from his arraignment; tip-staves before him; the axe with the edge towards him; halberds on each side: accompanied with Lovell, Vaux, Sands, and common people

Second Gentleman

Let’s stand close, and behold him.

Buckingham

All good people,

You that thus far have come to pity me,

Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me.

I have this day received a traitor’s judgment,

And by that name must die: yet, heaven bear witness,

And if I have a co nscience, let it sink me,

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:

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.

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 loved me,

And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham,

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,

Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice,

And lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, o’ God’s name.

Lovell

I do beseech your grace, for charity,

If ever any malice in your heart

Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly.

Buckingham

Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you

As I would be forgiven: I forgive all;

There cannot be those numberless offences

’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

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 beloved and loving may his rule be!

And when old time shall lead him to his end,

Goodness and he fill up one monument!

Lovell

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,

The duke is coming: see the barge be ready;

And fit it with such furniture as suits

The greatness of his person.

Buckingham

Nay, Sir Nicholas,

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,

That never knew what truth meant: I now seal it;

And with that blood will make ’em one day groan for’t.

My noble father, Henry of Buckingham,

Who first raised head against usurping Richard,

Flying for succor to his servant Banister,

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

My father’s loss, like a most royal prince,

Restored 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

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:

Yet thus far we are one in fortunes: both

Fell by our servants, by those men we loved 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:

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

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

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 Gentleman

O, this is full of pity! Sir, it calls,

I fear, too many curses on their beads

That were the authors.

Second Gentleman

If the duke be guiltless,

’Tis full of woe: yet I can give you inkling

Of an ensuing evil, if it fall,

Greater than this.

First Gentleman

Good angels keep it from us!

What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir?

Second Gentleman

This secret is so weighty, ’twill require

A strong faith to conceal it.

First Gentleman

Let me have it;

I do not talk much.

Second Gentleman

I am confident,

You shall, sir: did you not of late days hear

A buzzing of a separation

Between the king and Katharine?

First Gentleman

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 rumor, and allay those tongues

That durst disperse it.

Second Gentleman

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

To the good queen, possess’d him with a scruple

That will undo her: to confirm this too,

Cardinal Campeius is arrived, and lately;

As all think, for this business.

First Gentleman

’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 purposed.

Second Gentleman

I think you have hit the mark: but is’t not cruel

That she should feel the smart of this? The cardinal

Will have his will, and she must fall.

First Gentleman

’Tis woful.

We are too open here to argue this;

Let’s think in private more.

Exeunt

SCENE II. AN ANTE-CHAMBER IN THE PALACE.

Enter Chamberlain, reading a letter

Chamberlain

‘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 ’em 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.

Enter, to Chamberlain, Norfolk and Suffolk

Norfolk

Well met, my lord chamberlain.

Chamberlain

Good day to both your graces.

Suffolk

How is the king employ’d?

Chamberlain

I left him private,

Full of sad thoughts and troubles.

Norfolk

What’s the cause?

Chamberlain

It seems the marriage with his brother’s wife

Has crept too near his conscience.

Suffolk

No, his conscience

Has crept too near another lady.

Norfolk

’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.

Suffolk

Pray God he do! he’ll never know himself else.

Norfolk

How holily he works in all his business!

And with what zeal! for, now he has crack’d the league

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,

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

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?

Chamberlain

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,

The French king’s sister. Heaven will one day open

The king’s eyes, that so long have slept upon

This bold bad man.

Suffolk

And free us from his slavery.

Norfolk

We had need pray,

And heartily, for our deliverance;

Or this imperious man will work us all

From princes into pages: all men’s honours

Lie like one lump before him, to be fashion’d

Into what pitch he please.

Suffolk

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,

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.

Norfolk

Let’s in;

And with some other business put the king

From these sad thoughts, that work too much upon him:

My lord, you’ll bear us company?

Chamberlain

Excuse me;

The king has sent me otherwhere: besides,

You’ll find a most unfit time to disturb him:

Health to your lordships.

Norfolk

Thanks, my good lord chamberlain.

Exit Chamberlain; and King Henry VIII draws the curtain, and sits reading pensively

Suffolk

How sad he looks! sure, he is much afflicted.

King Henry VIII

Who’s there, ha?

Norfolk

Pray God he be not angry.

King Henry VIII

Who’s there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves

Into my private meditations?

Who am I? ha?

Norfolk

A gracious king that pardons all offences

Malice ne’er meant: our breach of duty this way

Is business of estate; in which we come

To know your royal pleasure.

King Henry VIII

Ye are too bold:

Go to; I’ll make ye know your times of business:

Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha?

Enter Cardinal Wolsey and Cardinal Campeius, with a commission

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 Cardinal Campeius

You’re welcome,

Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom:

Use us and it.

To Cardinal Wolsey

My good lord, have great care

I be not found a talker.

Cardinal Wolsey

Sir, you cannot.

I would your grace would give us but an hour

Of private conference.

King Henry VIII

[To Norfolk and Suffolk]

We are busy; go.

Norfolk

[Aside to Suffolk]

This priest has no pride in him?

Suffolk

[Aside to Norfolk] Not to speak of:

I would not be so sick though for his place:

But this cannot continue.

Norfolk

[Aside to Suffolk] If it do,

I’ll venture one have-at-him.

Suffolk

[Aside to Norfolk] I another.

Exeunt Norfolk and Suffolk

Cardinal Wolsey

Your grace has given a precedent of wisdom

Above all princes, in committing freely

Your scruple to the voice of Christendom:

Who can be angry now? what envy reach you?

The Spaniard, tied blood and favour to her,

Must now confess, if they have any goodness,

The trial just and noble. All the clerks,

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,

This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius;

Whom once more I present unto your highness.

King Henry VIII

And once more in mine 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.

Cardinal Campeius

Your grace must needs deserve all strangers’ loves,

You are so noble. To your highness’ hand

I tender my commission; by whose virtue,

The court of Rome commanding, you, my lord

Cardinal of York, are join’d with me their servant

In the unpartial judging of this business.

King Henry VIII

Two equal men. The queen shall be acquainted

Forthwith for what you come. Where’s Gardiner?

Cardinal Wolsey

I know your majesty has always loved her

So dear in heart, not to deny her that

A woman of less place might ask by law:

Scholars allow’d freely to argue for her.

King Henry VIII

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 Cardinal Wolsey

Re-enter Cardinal Wolsey, with Gardiner

Cardinal Wolsey

[Aside to Gardiner] Give me your hand much joy and favour to you;

You are the king’s now.

Gardiner

[Aside to Cardinal Wolsey]

But to be commanded

For ever by your grace, whose hand has raised me.

King Henry VIII

Come hither, Gardiner.

Walks and whispers

Cardinal Campeius

My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace

In this man’s place before him?

Cardinal Wolsey

Yes, he was.

Cardinal Campeius

Was he not held a learned man?

Cardinal Wolsey

Yes, surely.

Cardinal Campeius

Believe me, there’s an ill opinion spread then

Even of yourself, lord cardinal.

Cardinal Wolsey

How! of me?

Cardinal Campeius

They will not stick to say you envied him,

And fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous,

Kept him a foreign man still; which so grieved him,

That he ran mad and died.

Cardinal Wolsey

Heaven’s peace be with him!

That’s Christian care enough: for living murmurers

There’s places of rebuke. He was a fool;

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.

King Henry VIII

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,

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.

Exeunt

SCENE III. AN ANTE-CHAMBER OF THE QUEEN’S APARTMENTS.

Enter Anne and an Old Lady

Anne

Not for that neither: here’s the pang that pinches:

His highness having lived so long with her, and she

So good a lady that no tongue could ever

Pronounce dishonour of her; by my life,

She never knew harm-doing: O, now, after

So many courses of the sun enthroned,

Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which

To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than

’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

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!

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,

Than to be perk’d up in a glistering 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,

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

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.

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,

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;

I would not be a young count in your way,

For more than blushing comes to: if your back

Cannot vouchsafe this burthen,’tis too weak

Ever to get a boy.

Anne

How you do talk!

I swear again, I would not be a queen

For all the world.

Old Lady

In faith, for little England

You’ld venture an emballing: I myself

Would for Carnarvonshire, although there long’d

No more to the crown but that. Lo, who comes here?

Enter Chamberlain

Chamberlain

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:

Our mistress’ sorrows we were pitying.

Chamberlain

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!

Chamberlain

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

Does purpose honour to you no less flowing

Than Marchioness of Pembroke: to which title

A thousand pound a year, annual support,

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

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.

Chamberlain

Lady,

I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit

The king hath of you.

Aside

I have perused her well;

Beauty and honour in her are so mingled

That they have caught the king: and who knows yet

But from this lady may proceed a gem

To lighten all this isle? I’ll to the king,

And say I spoke with you.

Exit Chamberlain

Anne

My honour’d lord.

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

For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate!

A very fresh-fish here — fie, fie, fie upon

This compell’d fortune!— have your mouth fill’d up

Before you open it.

Anne

This is strange to me.

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,

That promises moe 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,

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.

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, Canterbury alone; after him, Lincoln, Ely, Rochester, and Saint Asaph; next them, with 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, Cardinal Wolsey and Cardinal Campeius; two Noblemen with the sword and mace. King Henry VIII takes place under the cloth of state; Cardinal Wolsey and Cardinal Campeius sit under him as judges. Queen Katharine takes place some distance from King Henry VIII. 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 rest of the Attendants stand in convenient order about the stage

Cardinal Wolsey

Whilst our commission from Rome is read,

Let silence be commanded.

King Henry VIII

What’s the need?

It hath already publicly been read,

And on all sides the authority allow’d;

You may, then, spare that time.

Cardinal Wolsey

Be’t so. Proceed.

Scribe

Say, Henry King of England, come into the court.

Crier

Henry King of England, & c.

King Henry VIII

Here.

Scribe

Say, Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.

Crier

Katharine Queen of England, & c.

Queen Katharine makes no answer, rises out of her chair, goes about the court, comes to King Henry VIII, and kneels at his feet; then speaks

Queen Katharine

Sir, I desire you do me right and justice;

And to bestow your pity on me: for

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

Hath my behavior given to your displeasure,

That thus you should proceed to put me off,

And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness,

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 inclined: when was the hour

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

He were mine enemy? what friend of mine

That had to him derived your anger, did I

Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice

He was from thence discharged. Sir, call to mind

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,

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

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

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

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

Be by my friends in Spain advised; whose counsel

I will implore: if not, i’ the name of God,

Your pleasure be fulfill’d!

Cardinal Wolsey

You have here, lady,

And of your choice, these reverend fathers; men

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

For your own quiet, as to rectify

What is unsettled in the king.

Cardinal Campeius

His grace

Hath spoken well and justly: therefore, madam,

It’s fit this royal session do proceed;

And that, without delay, their arguments

Be now produced and heard.

Queen Katharine

Lord cardinal,

To you I speak.

Cardinal Wolsey

Your pleasure, madam?

Queen Katharine

Sir,

I am about to weep; but, thinking that

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.

Cardinal Wolsey

Be patient yet.

Queen Katharine

I will, when you are humble; nay, before,

Or God will punish me. I do believe,

Induced by potent circumstances, that

You are mine enemy, and make my challenge

You shall not be my judge: for it is you

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

At all a friend to truth.

Cardinal Wolsey

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

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,

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:

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

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

His highness shall speak in, I do beseech

You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking

And to say so no more.

Queen Katharine

My lord, my lord,

I am a simple woman, much too weak

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

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,

Before you all, appeal unto the pope,

To bring my whole cause ’fore his holiness,

And to be judged by him.

She curtsies to King Henry VIII, and offers to depart

Cardinal Campeius

The queen is obstinate,

Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and

Disdainful to be tried by’t: ’tis not well.

She’s going away.

King Henry VIII

Call her again.

Crier

Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.

Griffith

Madam, you are call’d back.

Queen Katharine

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:

I will not tarry; no, nor ever more

Upon this business my appearance make

In any of their courts.

Exeunt Queen Katharine and her Attendants

King Henry VIII

Go thy ways, Kate:

That man i’ the world who shall report he has

A better wife, let him in nought be trusted,

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

Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out,

The queen of earthly queens: she’s noble born;

And, like her true nobility, she has

Carried herself towards me.

Cardinal Wolsey

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,

There must I be unloosed, 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

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,

Or touch of her good person?

King Henry VIII

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

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 excused:

But will you be more justified? You ever

Have wish’d the sleeping of this business; never desired

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 moved me to’t,

I will be bold with time and your attention:

Then mark the inducement. Thus it came; give heed to’t:

My conscience first received a tenderness,

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

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

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,

Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble

The region of my breast; which forced such way,

That many mazed considerings did throng

And press’d in with this caution. First, methought

I stood not in the smile of heaven; who had

Commanded nature, that my lady’s womb,

If it conceived a male child by me, should

Do no more offices of life to’t than

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

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

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,

I meant to rectify my conscience,— which

I then did feel full sick, and yet not well,—

By all the reverend 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,

When I first moved you.

Lincoln

Very well, my liege.

King Henry VIII

I have spoke long: be pleased yourself to say

How far you satisfied me.

Lincoln

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

The daring’st counsel which I had to doubt;

And did entreat your highness to this course

Which you are running here.

King Henry VIII

I then moved you,

My Lord of Canterbury; and got your leave

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

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.

Cardinal Campeius

So please your highness,

The queen being absent, ’tis a needful fitness

That we adjourn this court till further day:

Meanwhile must be an earnest motion

Made to the queen, to call back her appeal

She intends unto his holiness.

King Henry VIII

[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,

My comfort comes along. Break up the court:

I say, set on.

Exeunt in manner as they entered

ACT III

SCENE I. LONDON. QUEEN KATHARINE’S APARTMENTS.

Enter Queen Katharine and her Women, as at work

Queen Katharine

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,

Bow themselves when he did sing:

To his music plants and flowers

Ever sprung; as sun and showers

There had made a lasting spring.

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,

Killing care and grief of heart

Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

Enter a Gentleman

Queen Katharine

How now!

Gentleman

An’t please your grace, the two great cardinals

Wait in the presence.

Queen Katharine

Would they speak with me?

Gentleman

They will’d me say so, madam.

Queen Katharine

Pray their graces

To come near.

Exit Gentleman

What can be their business

With me, a poor weak woman, fall’n from favour?

I do not like their coming. Now I think on’t,

They should be good men; their affairs as righteous:

But all hoods make not monks.

Enter Cardinal Wolsey and Cardinal Campeius

Cardinal Wolsey

Peace to your highness!

Queen Katharine

Your graces find me here part of a housewife,

I would be all, against the worst may happen.

What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords?

Cardinal Wolsey

May it please you noble madam, to withdraw

Into your private chamber, we shall give you

The full cause of our coming.

Queen Katharine

Speak it here:

There’s nothing I have done yet, o’ my conscience,

Deserves a corner: would all other women

Could speak this with as free a soul as I do!

My lords, I care not, so much I am happy

Above a number, if my actions

Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw ’em,

Envy and base opinion set against ’em,

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.

Cardinal Wolsey

Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenissima,—

Queen Katharine

O, good my lord, no Latin;

I am not such a truant since my coming,

As not to know the language I have lived in:

A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious;

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

May be absolved in English.

Cardinal Wolsey

Noble lady,

I am sorry my integrity should breed,

And service to his majesty and you,

So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant.

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

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.

Cardinal Campeius

Most honour’d madam,

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 a sign of peace,

His service and his counsel.

Queen Katharine

[Aside] To betray me.—

My lords, I thank you both for your good wills;

Ye speak like honest men; pray God, ye prove so!

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,

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

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!

Cardinal Wolsey

Madam, you wrong the king’s love with these fears:

Your hopes and friends are infinite.

Queen Katharine

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,

Though he be grown so desperate to be honest,

And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends,

They that must weigh out my afflictions,

They that my trust must grow to, live not here:

They are, as all my other comforts, far hence

In mine own country, lords.

Cardinal Campeius

I would your grace

Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel.

Queen Katharine

How, sir?

Cardinal Campeius

Put your main cause into the king’s protection;

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 disgraced.

Cardinal Wolsey

He tells you rightly.

Queen Katharine

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.

Cardinal Campeius

Your rage mistakes us.

Queen Katharine

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?

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;

Take heed, for heaven’s sake, take heed, lest at once

The burthen of my sorrows fall upon ye.

Cardinal Wolsey

Madam, this is a mere distraction;

You turn the good we offer into envy.

Queen Katharine

Ye turn me into nothing: woe upon ye

And all such false professors! would you have me —

If you have any justice, any pity;

If ye be any thing but churchmen’s habits —

Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me?

Alas, 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

Is only my obedience. What can happen

To me above this wretchedness? all your studies

Make me a curse like this.

Cardinal Campeius

Your fears are worse.

Queen Katharine

Have I lived thus long — let me speak myself,

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

Still met the king? loved 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.

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.

Cardinal Wolsey

Madam, you wander from the good we aim at.

Queen Katharine

My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty,

To give up willingly that noble title

Your master wed me to: nothing but death

Shall e’er divorce my dignities.

Cardinal Wolsey

Pray, hear me.

Queen Katharine

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.

What will become of me now, wretched lady!

I am the most unhappy woman living.

Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes!

Shipwreck’d upon a kingdom, where no pity,

No friend, 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.

Cardinal Wolsey

If your grace

Could but be brought to know our ends are honest,

You’ld feel more comfort: why should we, good lady,

Upon what cause, wrong you? alas, our places,

The way of our profession is against it:

We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow ’em.

For goodness’ sake, consider what you do;

How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly

Grow from the king’s acquaintance, by this carriage.

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,

A soul as even as a calm: pray, think us

Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants.

Cardinal Campeius

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

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

To use our utmost studies in your service.

Queen Katharine

Do what ye will, my lords: and, pray, forgive me,

If I have used myself unmannerly;

You know I am a woman, lacking wit

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,

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. ANTE-CHAMBER TO KING HENRY VIII’S APARTMENT.

Enter Norfolk, Suffolk, Surrey, and Chamberlain

Norfolk

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

But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces,

With these you bear already.

Surrey

I am joyful

To meet the least occasion that may give me

Remembrance of my father-in-law, the duke,

To be revenged on him.

Suffolk

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

Out of himself?

Chamberlain

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

Bar his access to the king, never attempt

Any thing on him; for he hath a witchcraft

Over the king in’s tongue.

Norfolk

O, fear him not;

His spell in that is out: the king hath found

Matter against him that for ever mars

The honey of his language. No, he’s settled,

Not to come off, in his displeasure.

Surrey

Sir,

I should be glad to hear such news as this

Once every hour.

Norfolk

Believe it, this is true:

In the divorce his contrary proceedings

Are all unfolded wherein he appears

As I would wish mine enemy.

Surrey

How came

His practises to light?

Suffolk

Most strangely.

Surrey

O, how, how?

Suffolk

The cardinal’s letters to the pope miscarried,

And came to the eye o’ the king: wherein was read,

How that the cardinal did entreat his holiness

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.’

Surrey

Has the king this?

Suffolk

Believe it.

Surrey

Will this work?

Chamberlain

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

After his patient’s death: the king already

Hath married the fair lady.

Surrey

Would he had!

Suffolk

May you be happy in your wish, my lord

For, I profess, you have it.

Surrey

Now, all my joy

Trace the conjunction!

Suffolk

My amen to’t!

Norfolk

All men’s!

Suffolk

There’s order given for her coronation:

Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left

To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords,

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 memorised.

Surrey

But, will the king

Digest this letter of the cardinal’s?

The Lord forbid!

Norfolk

Marry, amen!

Suffolk

No, no;

There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose

Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius

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

The king cried Ha! at this.

Chamberlain

Now, God incense him,

And let him cry Ha! louder!

Norfolk

But, my lord,

When returns Cranmer?

Suffolk

He is return’d in his opinions; which

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

Her coronation. Katharine no more

Shall be call’d queen, but princess dowager

And widow to Prince Arthur.

Norfolk

This same Cranmer’s

A worthy fellow, and hath ta’en much pain

In the king’s business.

Suffolk

He has; and we shall see him

For it an archbishop.

Norfolk

So I hear.

Suffolk

’Tis so.

The cardinal!

Enter Cardinal Wolsey and Cromwell

Norfolk

Observe, observe, he’s moody.

Cardinal Wolsey

The packet, Cromwell.

Gave’t you the king?

Cromwell

To his own hand, in’s bedchamber.

Cardinal Wolsey

Look’d he o’ the inside of the paper?

Cromwell

Presently

He did unseal them: and the first he view’d,

He did it with a serious mind; a heed

Was in his countenance. You he bade

Attend him here this morning.

Cardinal Wolsey

Is he ready

To come abroad?

Cromwell

I think, by this he is.

Cardinal Wolsey

Leave me awhile.

Exit Cromwell

Aside

It shall be to the Duchess of Alencon,

The French king’s sister: he shall marry her.

Anne Bullen! No; I’ll no Anne Bullens for him:

There’s more in’t than fair visage. Bullen!

No, we’ll no Bullens. Speedily I wish

To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke!

Norfolk

He’s discontented.

Suffolk

May be, he hears the king

Does whet his anger to him.

Surrey

Sharp enough,

Lord, for thy justice!

Cardinal Wolsey

[Aside] The late queen’s gentlewoman, a knight’s daughter,

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

Our cause, that she should lie i’ the bosom of

Our hard-ruled king. Again, there is sprung up

An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one

Hath crawl’d into the favour of the king,

And is his oracle.

Norfolk

He is vex’d at something.

Surrey

I would ’twere something that would fret the string,

The master-cord on’s heart!

Enter King Henry VIII, reading of a schedule, and Lovell

Suffolk

The king, the king!

King Henry VIII

What piles of wealth hath he accumulated

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?

Norfolk

My lord, we have

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

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.

King Henry VIII

It may well be;

There is a mutiny in’s mind. This morning

Papers of state he sent me to peruse,

As I required: and wot you what I found

There,— on my conscience, put unwittingly?

Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing;

The several parcels of his plate, his treasure,

Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household; which

I find at such proud rate, that it out-speaks

Possession of a subject.

Norfolk

It’s heaven’s will:

Some spirit put this paper in the packet,

To bless your eye withal.

King Henry VIII

If we did think

His contemplation were above the earth,

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.

King Henry VIII takes his seat; whispers Lovell, who goes to Cardinal Wolsey

Cardinal Wolsey

Heaven forgive me!

Ever God bless your highness!

King Henry VIII

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

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.

Cardinal Wolsey

Sir,

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

I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal,

Must give my tendence to.

King Henry VIII

You have said well.

Cardinal Wolsey

And ever may your highness yoke together,

As I will lend you cause, my doing well

With my well saying!

King Henry VIII

’Tis well said again;

And ’tis a kind of good deed to say well:

And yet words are no deeds. My father loved you:

His said he did; and with his deed did crown

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 pared my present havings, to bestow

My bounties upon you.

Cardinal Wolsey

[Aside] What should this mean?

Surrey

[Aside] The Lord increase this business!

King Henry VIII

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,

If you are bound to us or no. What say you?

Cardinal Wolsey

My sovereign, I confess your royal graces,

Shower’d on me daily, have been more than could

My studied purposes requite; which went

Beyond all man’s endeavours: my endeavours

Have ever come too short of my desires,

Yet filed with my abilities: mine own ends

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

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.

King Henry VIII

Fairly answer’d;

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

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.

Cardinal Wolsey

I do profess

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,

As doth a rock against the chiding flood,

Should the approach of this wild river break,

And stand unshaken yours.

King Henry VIII

’Tis nobly spoken:

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 Henry VIII, frowning upon Cardinal Wolsey: the Nobles throng after him, smiling and whispering

Cardinal Wolsey

What should this mean?

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;

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

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

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;

And, from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall

Like a bright exhalation m the evening,

And no man see me more.

Re-enter to Cardinal Wolsey, Norfolk and Suffolk, Surrey, and the Chamberlain

Norfolk

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,

Till you hear further from his highness.

Cardinal Wolsey

Stay:

Where’s your commission, lords? words cannot carry

Authority so weighty.

Suffolk

Who dare cross ’em,

Bearing the king’s will from his mouth expressly?

Cardinal Wolsey

Till I find more than will or words to do it,

I mean your malice, know, officious lords,

I dare and must deny it. Now I feel

Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy:

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;

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;

Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours,

During my life; and, to confirm his goodness,

Tied it by letters-patents: now, who’ll take it?

Surrey

The king, that gave it.

Cardinal Wolsey

It must be himself, then.

Surrey

Thou art a proud traitor, priest.

Cardinal Wolsey

Proud lord, thou liest:

Within these forty hours Surrey durst better

Have burnt that tongue than said so.

Surrey

Thy ambition,

Thou scarlet sin, robb’d this bewailing land

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!

You sent me deputy for Ireland;

Far from his succor, from the king, from all

That might have mercy on the fault thou gavest him;

Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity,

Absolved him with an axe.

Cardinal Wolsey

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

From any private malice in his end,

His noble jury and foul cause can witness.

If I loved many words, lord, I should tell you

You have as little honesty as honour,

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.

Surrey

By my soul,

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,

Farewell nobility; let his grace go forward,

And dare us with his cap like larks.

Cardinal Wolsey

All goodness

Is poison to thy stomach.

Surrey

Yes, that goodness

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,

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 despised nobility, our issues,

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 scaring bell, when the brown wench

Lay kissing in your arms, lord cardinal.

Cardinal Wolsey

How much, methinks, I could despise this man,

But that I am bound in charity against it!

Norfolk

Those articles, my lord, are in the king’s hand:

But, thus much, they are foul ones.

Cardinal Wolsey

So much fairer

And spotless shall mine innocence arise,

When the king knows my truth.

Surrey

This cannot save you:

I thank my memory, I yet remember

Some of these articles; and out they shall.

Now, if you can blush and cry ‘guilty,’ cardinal,

You’ll show a little honesty.

Cardinal Wolsey

Speak on, sir;

I dare your worst objections: if I blush,

It is to see a nobleman want manners.

Surrey

I had rather want those than my head. Have at you!

First, that, without the king’s assent or knowledge,

You wrought to be a legate; by which power

You maim’d the jurisdiction of all bishops.

Norfolk

Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else

To foreign princes, ‘Ego et Rex meus’

Was still inscribed; in which you brought the king

To be your servant.

Suffolk

Then that, without the knowledge

Either of king or council, when you went

Ambassador to the emperor, you made bold

To carry into Flanders the great seal.

Surrey

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.

Suffolk

That, out of mere ambition, you have caused

Your holy hat to be stamp’d on the king’s coin.

Surrey

Then that you have sent innumerable substance —

By what means got, I leave to your own conscience —

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,

I will not taint my mouth with.

Chamberlain

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

So little of his great self.

Surrey

I forgive him.

Suffolk

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 praemunire,

That therefore such a writ be sued against you;

To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,

Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be

Out of the king’s protection. This is my charge.

Norfolk

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,

The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you.

So fare you well, my little good lord cardinal.

Exeunt all but Cardinal Wolsey

Cardinal Wolsey

So farewell to the little good you bear me.

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he 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,

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 ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory,

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

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:

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,

Never to hope again.

Enter Cromwell, and stands amazed

Why, how now, Cromwell!

Cromwell

I have no power to speak, sir.

Cardinal Wolsey

What, amazed

At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder

A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,

I am fall’n indeed.

Cromwell

How does your grace?

Cardinal Wolsey

Why, well;

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.

I know myself now; and I feel within me

A peace above all earthly dignities,

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured 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:

O, ’tis a burthen, Cromwell, ’tis a burthen

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!

Cromwell

I am glad your grace has made that right use of it.

Cardinal Wolsey

I hope I have: I am able now, methinks,

Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,

To endure more miseries and greater far

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.

What news abroad?

Cromwell

The heaviest and the worst

Is your displeasure with the king.

Cardinal Wolsey

God bless him!

Cromwell

The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen

Lord chancellor in your place.

Cardinal Wolsey

That’s somewhat sudden:

But he’s a learned man. May he continue

Long in his highness’ favour, and do justice

For truth’s sake and his conscience; that his bones,

When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings,

May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on em! What more?

Cromwell

That Cranmer is return’d with welcome,

Install’d lord archbishop of Canterbury.

Cardinal Wolsey

That’s news indeed.

Cromwell

Last, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,

This day was view’d in open as his queen,

Going to chapel; and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

Cardinal Wolsey

There was the weight that pull’d me down. O Cromwell,

The king has gone beyond me: all my glories

In that one woman I have lost for ever:

No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours,

Or gild again the noble troops that waited

Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;

I am a poor fall’n man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master: seek the king;

That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him

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.

Cromwell

O my lord,

Must I, then, leave you? must I needs forego

So good, so noble and so true a master?

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.

Cardinal Wolsey

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

Let’s dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;

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,

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d it.

Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me.

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 it?

Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;

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,

Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;

And,— prithee, lead me in:

There take an inventory of all I have,

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 served my God with half the zeal

I served my king, he would not in mine age

Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Cromwell

Good sir, have patience.

Cardinal Wolsey

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 one another

First Gentleman

You’re well met once again.

Second Gentleman

So are you.

First Gentleman

You come to take your stand here, and behold

The Lady Anne pass from her coronation?

Second Gentleman

’Tis all my business. At our last encounter,

The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial.

First Gentleman

’Tis very true: but that time offer’d sorrow;

This, general joy.

Second Gentleman

’Tis well: the citizens,

I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds —

As, let ’em have their rights, they are ever forward —

In celebration of this day with shows,

Pageants and sights of honour.

First Gentleman

Never greater,

Nor, I’ll assure you, better taken, sir.

Second Gentleman

May I be bold to ask at what that contains,

That paper in your hand?

First Gentleman

Yes; ’tis the list

Of those that claim their offices this day

By custom of the coronation.

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.

Second Gentleman

I thank you, sir: had I not known those customs,

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 Gentleman

That I can tell you too. The Archbishop

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

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 divorced,

And the late marriage made of none effect

Since which she was removed to Kimbolton,

Where she remains now sick.

Second Gentleman

Alas, good lady!

Trumpets

The trumpets sound: stand close, the queen is coming.

Hautboys

The Order Of The Coronation

1. A lively flourish of Trumpets.

2. Then, two Judges.

3. Lord Chancellor, with the purse and mace before him.

4. Choristers, singing.

Music

5. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then Garter, in his coat of arms, and on his head a gilt copper crown.

6. Marquess Dorset, bearing a sceptre of gold, on his head a demi-coronal of gold. With him, Surrey, bearing the rod of silver with the dove, crowned with an earl’s coronet. Collars of Ss.

7. Suffolk, in his robe of estate, his coronet on his head, bearing a long white wand, as high-steward. With him, Norfolk, with the rod of marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of Ss.

8. A canopy borne by four of the Cinque-ports; under it, Queen Anne in her robe; in her hair richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each side her, the Bishops of London and Winchester.

9. The old Duchess of Norfolk, in a coronal of gold, wrought with flowers, bearing Queen Anne’s train.

10. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain circlets of gold without flowers.

They pass over the stage in order and state

Second Gentleman

A royal train, believe me. These I know:

Who’s that that bears the sceptre?

First Gentleman

Marquess Dorset:

And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod.

Second Gentleman

A bold brave gentleman. That should be

The Duke of Suffolk?

First Gentleman

’Tis the same: high-steward.

Second Gentleman

And that my Lord of Norfolk?

First Gentleman

Yes;

Second Gentleman

Heaven bless thee!

Looking on Queen Anne

Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look’d on.

Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel;

Our king has all the Indies in his arms,

And more and richer, when he strains that lady:

I cannot blame his conscience.

First Gentleman

They that bear

The cloth of honour over her, are four barons

Of the Cinque-ports.

Second Gentleman

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.

First Gentleman

It is; and all the rest are countesses.

Second Gentleman

Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed;

And sometimes falling ones.

First Gentleman

No more of that.

Exit procession, and then a great flourish of trumpets

Enter a third Gentleman

First Gentleman

God save you, sir! where have you been broiling?

Third Gentleman

Among the crowd i’ the Abbey; where a finger

Could not be wedged in more: I am stifled

With the mere rankness of their joy.

Second Gentleman

You saw

The ceremony?

Third Gentleman

That I did.

First Gentleman

How was it?

Third Gentleman

Well worth the seeing.

Second Gentleman

Good sir, speak it to us.

Third Gentleman

As well as I am able. The rich stream

Of lords and ladies, having brought the queen

To a prepared place in the choir, fell off

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.

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,

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,

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 ’em. No man living

Could say ‘This is my wife’ there; all were woven

So strangely in one piece.

Second Gentleman

But, what follow’d?

Third Gentleman

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.

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,

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,

And with the same full state paced back again

To York-place, where the feast is held.

First Gentleman

Sir,

You must no more call it York-place, that’s past;

For, since the cardinal fell, that title’s lost:

’Tis now the king’s, and call’d Whitehall.

Third Gentleman

I know it;

But ’tis so lately alter’d, that the old name

Is fresh about me.

Second Gentleman

What two reverend bishops

Were those that went on each side of the queen?

Third Gentleman

Stokesly and Gardiner; the one of Winchester,

Newly preferr’d from the king’s secretary,

The other, London.

Second Gentleman

He of Winchester

Is held no great good lover of the archbishop’s,

The virtuous Cranmer.

Third Gentleman

All the land knows that:

However, yet there is no great breach; when it comes,

Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.

Second Gentleman

Who may that be, I pray you?

Third Gentleman

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.

Second Gentleman

He will deserve more.

Third Gentleman

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.

Exeunt

SCENE II. KIMBOLTON.

Enter Katharine, Dowager, sick; led between Griffith, her gentleman usher, and Patience, her woman

Griffith

How does your grace?

Katharine

O Griffith, sick to death!

My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth,

Willing to leave their burthen. Reach a chair:

So; now, methinks, I feel a little ease.

Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led’st me,

That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, Was dead?

Griffith

Yes, madam; but I think your grace,

Out of the pain you suffer’d, gave no ear to’t.

Katharine

Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died:

If well, he stepp’d before me, happily

For my example.

Griffith

Well, the voice goes, madam:

For after the stout Earl Northumberland

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.

Katharine

Alas, poor man!

Griffith

At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,

Lodged in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,

With all his covent, honourably received him;

To whom he gave these words, ‘O, father abbot,

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

Pursued 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,

He gave his honours to the world again,

His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

Katharine

So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!

Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,

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;

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:

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 in example.

Griffith

Noble madam,

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?

Katharine

Yes, good Griffith;

I were malicious else.

Griffith

This cardinal,

Though from an 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:

Lofty and sour to them that loved 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,

He was most princely: ever witness for him

Those twins Of learning that he raised in you,

Ipswich and Oxford! one of which fell with him,

Unwilling to outlive the good that did it;

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;

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.

Katharine

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.

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:

I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith,

Cause the musicians play me that sad note

I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating

On that celestial harmony I go to.

Sad and solemn music

Griffith

She is asleep: good wench, let’s sit down quiet,

For fear we wake her: softly, gentle Patience.

The vision. Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six personages, clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces; branches of bays or palm in their hands. They first congee unto her, then dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head; at which the other four make reverent curtsies; then the two that held the garland deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their changes, and holding the garland over her head: which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order: at which, as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven: and so in their dancing vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues

Katharine

Spirits of peace, where are ye? are ye all gone,

And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?

Griffith

Madam, we are here.

Katharine

It is not you I call for:

Saw ye none enter since I slept?

Griffith

None, madam.

Katharine

No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop

Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces

Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun?

They promised me eternal happiness;

And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel

I am not worthy yet to wear: I shall, assuredly.

Griffith

I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams

Possess your fancy.

Katharine

Bid the music leave,

They are harsh and heavy to me.

Music ceases

Patience

Do you note

How much her grace is alter’d on the sudden?

How long her face is drawn? how pale she looks,

And of an earthy cold? Mark her eyes!

Griffith

She is going, wench: pray, pray.

Patience

Heaven comfort her!

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

An’t like your grace,—

Katharine

You are a saucy fellow:

Deserve we no more reverence?

Griffith

You are to blame,

Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness,

To use so rude behavior; go to, kneel.

Messenger

I humbly do entreat your highness’ pardon;

My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying

A gentleman, sent from the king, to see you.

Katharine

Admit him entrance, Griffith: but this fellow

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.

Capucius

Madam, the same; your servant.

Katharine

O, my lord,

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?

Capucius

Noble lady,

First mine own service to your grace; the next,

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.

Katharine

O my good lord, that comfort comes too late;

’Tis like a pardon after execution:

That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me;

But now I am past an comforts here, but prayers.

How does his highness?

Capucius

Madam, in good health.

Katharine

So may he ever do! and ever flourish,

When I shal l dwell with worms, and my poor name

Banish’d the kingdom! Patience, is that letter,

I caused you write, yet sent away?

Patience

No, madam.

Giving it to Katharine

Katharine

Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver

This to my lord the king.

Capucius

Most willing, madam.

Katharine

In which I have commended to his goodness

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,

I hope she will deserve well,— and a little

To love her for her mother’s sake, that loved 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

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

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.

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:

If heaven had pleased 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,

As you wish Christian peace to souls departed,

Stand these poor people’s friend, and urge the king

To do me this last right.

Capucius

By heaven, I will,

Or let me lose the fashion of a man!

Katharine

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,

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,

Let me be used 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

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 Lovell

Gardiner

It’s one o’clock, boy, is’t not?

Boy

It hath struck.

Gardiner

These should be hours for necessities,

Not for delights; times to repair our nature

With comforting repose, and not for us

To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas!

Whither so late?

Lovell

Came you from the king, my lord

Gardiner

I did, Sir Thomas: and left him at primero

With the Duke of Suffolk.

Lovell

I must to him too,

Before he go to bed. I’ll take my leave.

Gardiner

Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What’s the matter?

It seems you are in haste: an if there be

No great offence belongs to’t, give your friend

Some touch of your late business: affairs, that walk,

As they say spirits do, at midnight, have

In them a wilder nature than the business

That seeks dispatch by day.

Lovell

My lord, I love you;

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.

Gardiner

The fruit she goes with

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.

Lovell

Methinks I could

Cry the amen; and yet my conscience says

She’s a good creature, and, sweet lady, does

Deserve our better wishes.

Gardiner

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,

’Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take’t of me,

Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,

Sleep in their graves.

Lovell

Now, sir, you speak of two

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

Is the king’s hand and tongue; and who dare speak

One syllable against him?

Gardiner

Yes, yes, Sir Thomas,

There are that dare; and I myself have ventured

To speak my mind of him: and indeed this day,

Sir, I may tell it you, I think I have

Incensed the lords o’ the council, that he is,

For so I know he is, they know he is,

A most arch heretic, a pestilence

That does infect the land: with which they moved

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

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.

Lovell

Many good nights, my lord: I rest your servant.

Exeunt Gardiner and Page

Enter King Henry VIII and Suffolk

King Henry VIII

Charles, I will play no more tonight;

My mind’s not on’t; you are too hard for me.

Suffolk

Sir, I did never win of you before.

King Henry VIII

But little, Charles;

Nor shall not, when my fancy’s on my play.

Now, Lovell, from the queen what is the news?

Lovell

I could not personally deliver to her

What you commanded me, but by her woman

I sent your message; who return’d her thanks

In the great’st humbleness, and desired your highness

Most heartily to pray for her.

King Henry VIII

What say’st thou, ha?

To pray for her? what, is she crying out?

Lovell

So said her woman; and that her sufferance made

Almost each pang a death.

King Henry VIII

Alas, good lady!

Suffolk

God safely quit her of her burthen, and

With gentle travail, to the gladding of

Your highness with an heir!

King Henry VIII

’Tis midnight, Charles;

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.

Suffolk

I wish your highness

A quiet night; and my good mistress will

Remember in my prayers.

King Henry VIII

Charles, good night.

Exit Suffolk

Enter Denny

Well, sir, what follows?

Denny

Sir, I have brought my lord the archbishop,

As you commanded me.

King Henry VIII

Ha! Canterbury?

Denny

Ay, my good lord.

King Henry VIII

’Tis true: where is he, Denny?

Denny

He attends your highness’ pleasure.

Exit Denny

Lovell

[Aside] This is about that which the bishop spake:

I am happily come hither.

Re-enter Denny, with Cranmer

King Henry VIII

Avoid the gallery.

Lovell seems to stay

Ha! I have said. Be gone. What!

Exeunt Lovell and Denny

Cranmer

[Aside]

I am fearful: wherefore frowns he thus?

’Tis his aspect of terror. All’s not well.

King Henry VIII

How now, my lord! you desire to know

Wherefore I sent for you.

Cranmer

[Kneeling] It is my duty

To attend your highness’ pleasure.

King Henry VIII

Pray you, arise,

My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury.

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,

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,

Have moved 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

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

Would come against you.

Cranmer

[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,

There’s none stands under more calumnious tongues

Than I myself, poor man.

King Henry VIII

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.

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

Yourself and your accusers; and to have heard you,

Without indurance, further.

Cranmer

Most dread liege,

The good I stand on is my truth and honesty:

If they shall fail, I, with mine enemies,

Will triumph o’er my person; which I weigh not,

Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing

What can be said against me.

King Henry VIII

Know you not

How your state stands i’ the world, with the whole world?

Your enemies are many, and not small; their practises

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

Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt

To swear against you? such things have been done.

You are potently opposed; and with a malice

Of as great size. Ween you of better luck,

I mean, in perjured witness, than your master,

Whose minister you are, whiles here he lived

Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to;

You take a precipice for no leap of danger,

And woo your own destruction.

Cranmer

God and your majesty

Protect mine innocence, or I fall into

The trap is laid for me!

King Henry VIII

Be of good cheer;

They shall no more prevail than we give way to.

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

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

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,

And do as I have bid you.

Exit Cranmer

He has strangled

His language in his tears.

Enter Old Lady, Lovell following

Gentleman

[Within] Come back: what mean you?

Old Lady

I’ll not come back; the tidings that I bring

Will make my boldness manners. Now, good angels

Fly o’er thy royal head, and shade thy person

Under their blessed wings!

King Henry VIII

Now, by thy looks

I guess thy message. Is the queen deliver’d?

Say, ay; and of a boy.

Old Lady

Ay, ay, my liege;

And of a lovely boy: the God of heaven

Both now and ever bless her! ’tis a girl,

Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen

Desires your visitation, and to be

Acquainted with this stranger ’tis as like you

As cherry is to cherry.

King Henry VIII

Lovell!

Lovell

Sir?

King Henry VIII

Give her an hundred marks. I’ll to the queen.

Exit

Old Lady

An hundred marks! By this light, I’ll ha’ more.

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?

I will have more, or else unsay’t; and now,

While it is hot, I’ll put it to the issue.

Exeunt

SCENE II. BEFORE THE COUNCIL-CHAMBER. PURSUIVANTS, PAGES, & C.

attending.

Enter Cranmer

Cranmer

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? Sure, you know me?

Enter Keeper

Keeper

Yes, my lord;

But yet I cannot help you.

Cranmer

Why?

Enter Doctor Butts

Keeper

Your grace must wait till you be call’d for.

Cranmer

So.

Doctor Butts

[Aside] This is a piece of malice. I am glad

I came this way so happily: the king

Shall understand it presently.

Exit

Cranmer

[Aside] ’Tis Butts,

The king’s physician: as he pass’d along,

How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me!

Pray heaven, he sound not my disgrace! For certain,

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,

’Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures

Must be fulfill’d, and I attend with patience.

Enter the King Henry VIII and Doctor Butts at a window above

Doctor Butts

I’ll show your grace the strangest sight —

King Henry VIII

What’s that, Butts?

Doctor Butts

I think your highness saw this many a day.

King Henry VIII

Body o’ me, where is it?

Doctor Butts

There, my lord:

The high promotion of his grace of Canterbury;

Who holds his state at door, ’mongst pursuivants,

Pages, and footboys.

King Henry VIII

Ha! ’tis he, indeed:

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

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:

Let ’em alone, and draw the curtain close:

We shall hear more anon.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE COUNCIL-CHAMBER.

Enter Chancellor; places himself at the upper end of the table on the left hand; a seat being left void above him, as for Cranmer’s seat. Suffolk, Norfolk, Surrey, Chamberlain, Gardiner, seat themselves in order on each side. Cromwell at lower end, as secretary. Keeper at the door

Chancellor

Speak to the business, master-secretary:

Why are we met in council?

Cromwell

Please your honours,

The chief cause concerns his grace of Canterbury.

Gardiner

Has he had knowledge of it?

Cromwell

Yes.

Norfolk

Who waits there?

Keeper

Without, my noble lords?

Gardiner

Yes.

Keeper

My lord archbishop;

And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures.

Chancellor

Let him come in.

Keeper

Your grace may enter now.

Cranmer enters and approaches the council-table

Chancellor

My good lord archbishop, I’m very sorry

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,

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,

For so we are inform’d, with new opinions,

Divers and dangerous; which are heresies,

And, not reform’d, may prove pernicious.

Gardiner

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,

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

Of the whole state: as, of late days, our neighbours,

The upper Germany, can dearly witness,

Yet freshly pitied in our memories.

Cranmer

My good lords, hitherto, in all the progress

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

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,

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

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.

Suffolk

Nay, my lord,

That cannot be: you are a counsellor,

And, by that virtue, no man dare accuse you.

Gardiner

My lord, because we have business of more moment,

We will be short with you. ’Tis his highness’ pleasure,

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.

Cranmer

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;

’Tis my undoing: love and meekness, lord,

Become a churchman better than ambition:

Win straying souls with modesty again,

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,

But reverence to your calling makes me modest.

Gardiner

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.

Cromwell

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

To load a falling man.

Gardiner

Good master secretary,

I cry your honour mercy; you may, worst

Of all this table, say so.

Cromwell

Why, my lord?

Gardiner

Do not I know you for a favourer

Of this new sect? ye are not sound.

Cromwell

Not sound?

Gardiner

Not sound, I say.

Cromwell

Would you were half so honest!

Men’s prayers then would seek you, not their fears.

Gardiner

I shall remember this bold language.

Cromwell

Do.

Remember your bold life too.

Chancellor

This is too much;

Forbear, for shame, my lords.

Gardiner

I have done.

Cromwell

And I.

Chancellor

Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed,

I take it, by all voices, that forthwith

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.

Cranmer

Is there no other way of mercy,

But I must needs to the Tower, my lords?

Gardiner

What other

Would you expect? you are strangely troublesome.

Let some o’ the guard be ready there.

Enter Guard

Cranmer

For me?

Must I go like a traitor thither?

Gardiner

Receive him,

And see him safe i’ the Tower.

Cranmer

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

To a most noble judge, the king my master.

Chamberlain

This is the king’s ring.

Surrey

’Tis no counterfeit.

Suffolk

’Tis the right ring, by heaven: I told ye all,

When ye first put this dangerous stone a-rolling,

’Twould fall upon ourselves.

Norfolk

Do you think, my lords,

The king will suffer but the little finger

Of this man to be vex’d?

Chancellor

’Tis now too certain:

How much more is his life in value with him?

Would I were fairly out on’t!

Cromwell

My mind gave me,

In seeking tales and informations

Against this man, whose honesty the devil

And his disciples only envy at,

Ye blew the fire that burns ye: now have at ye!

Enter King, frowning on them; takes his seat

Gardiner

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:

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

The cause betwixt her and this great offender.

King Henry VIII

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.

To me you cannot reach, you play the spaniel,

And think with wagging of your tongue to win me;

But, whatsoe’er thou takest me for, I’m sure

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

Than but once think this place becomes thee not.

Surrey

May it please your grace,—

King Henry VIII

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.

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

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,

More out of malice than integrity,

Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean;

Which ye shall never have while I live.

Chancellor

Thus far,

My most dread sovereign, may it like your grace

To let my tongue excuse all. What was purposed

Concerning his imprisonment, was rather,

If there be faith in men, meant for his trial,

And fair purgation to the world, than malice,

I’m sure, in me.

King Henry VIII

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

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;

That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism,

You must be godfather, and answer for her.

Cranmer

The greatest monarch now alive may glory

In such an honour: how may I deserve it

That am a poor and humble subject to you?

King Henry VIII

Come, come, my lord, you’ld spare your spoons: you shall have two noble partners with you; the old Duchess of Norfolk, and Lady Marquess Dorset: will these please you? Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you, Embrace and love this man.

Gardiner

With a true heart

And brother-love I do it.

Cranmer

And let heaven

Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation.

King Henry VIII

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

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.

As I have made ye one, lords, one remain;

So I grow stronger, you more honour gain.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. THE PALACE YARD.

Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man

Porter

You’ll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: do you take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.

Within

Good master porter, I belong to the larder.

Porter

Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! is this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones: these are but switches to ’em. I’ll scratch your heads: you must be seeing christenings? do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?

Man

Pray, sir, be patient: ’tis as much impossible —

Unless we sweep ’em from the door with cannons —

To scatter ’em, as ’tis to make ’em sleep

On May-day morning; which will never be:

We may as well push against Powle’s, as stir em.

Porter

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 —

You see the poor remainder — could distribute,

I made no spare, sir.

Porter

You did nothing, sir.

Man

I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,

To mow ’em down before me: but if I spared any

That had a head to hit, either young or old,

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?

Porter

I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.

Keep the door close, sirrah.

Man

What would you have me do?

Porter

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.

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 succor, 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 broom-staff 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.

Porter

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.

Enter Chamberlain

Chamberlain

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:

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.

Porter

An’t please your honour,

We are but men; and what so many may do,

Not being torn a-pieces, we have done:

An army cannot rule ’em.

Chamberlain

As I live,

If the king blame me for’t, I’ll lay ye all

By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads

Clap round fines for neglect: ye are lazy knaves;

And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when

Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound;

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.

Porter

Make way there for the princess.

Man

You great fellow,

Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache.

Porter

You i’ the camlet, get up o’ the rail;

I’ll peck you o’er the pales else.

Exeunt

SCENE V. THE PALACE.

Enter trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Norfolk with his marshal’s staff, 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 Dorset, the other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once about the stage, and Garter speaks

Garter

Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long, and ever happy, to the high and mighty princess of England, Elizabeth!

Flourish. Enter King Henry VIII and Guard

Cranmer

[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,

May hourly fall upon ye!

King Henry VIII

Thank you, good lord archbishop:

What is her name?

Cranmer

Elizabeth.

King Henry VIII

Stand up, lord.

King Henry VIII kisses the child

With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee!

Into whose hand I give thy life.

Cranmer

Amen.

King Henry VIII

My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal:

I thank ye heartily; so shall this lady,

When she has so much English.

Cranmer

Let me speak, sir,

For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter

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

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,

Shall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her,

Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her:

She shall be loved and fear’d: her own shall bless her;

Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,

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 phoenix,

Her ashes new create another heir,

As great in admiration as herself;

So shall she leave her blessedness to one,

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,

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

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.

King Henry VIII

Thou speakest wonders.

Cranmer

She shall be, to the happiness of England,

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.

King Henry VIII

O lord archbishop,

Thou hast made me now a man! never, before

This happy child, did I get any thing:

This oracle of comfort has so pleased me,

That when I am in heaven I shall desire

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 received much honour by your presence,

And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords:

Ye must all see the queen, and she must thank ye,

She will be sick else. This day, no man think

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 have frighted with our trumpets; so, ’tis clear,

They’ll say ’tis naught: others, to hear the city

Abused 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

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

All the best men are ours; for ’tis ill hap,

If they hold when their ladies bid ’em clap.

The Life and Death of Richard the Third

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. LONDON. A STREET.

SCENE II. THE SAME. ANOTHER STREET.

SCENE III. THE PALACE.

SCENE IV. LONDON. THE TOWER.

ACT II

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PALACE.

SCENE II. THE PALACE.

SCENE III. LONDON. A STREET.

SCENE IV. LONDON. THE PALACE.

ACT III

SCENE I. LONDON. A STREET.

SCENE II. BEFORE LORD HASTINGS’ HOUSE.

SCENE III. POMFRET CASTLE.

SCENE IV. THE TOWER OF LONDON.

SCENE V. THE TOWER-WALLS.

SCENE VI. THE SAME.

SCENE VII. BAYNARD’S CASTLE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. BEFORE THE TOWER.

SCENE II. LONDON. THE PALACE.

SCENE III. THE SAME.

SCENE IV. BEFORE THE PALACE.

SCENE V. LORD DERBY’S HOUSE.

ACT V

SCENE I. SALISBURY. AN OPEN PLACE.

SCENE II. THE CAMP NEAR TAMWORTH.

SCENE III. BOSWORTH FIELD.

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Edward The Fourth.

Edward, Prince Of Wales afterwards King Edward V, and

Richard, Duke Of York, sons to the King.

George, Duke Of Clarence, and

Richard, Duke Of Gloucester, afterwards King Richard III, brothers to the King.

A Young Son Of Clarence (Edward, Earl of Warwick).

Henry, Earl Of Richmond, afterwards King Henry VII.

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.

Marquis Of Dorset and Lord Grey, her sons.

Earl Of Oxford.

Lord Hastings.

Lord Lovel.

Lord Stanley, called also Earl Of Derby.

Sir Thomas Vaughan.

Sir Richard Ratcliff.

Sir William Catesby.

Sir James Tyrrel.

Sir James Blount.

Sir Walter Herbert.

Sir William Brandon.

Sir Robert Brakenbury, Lieutenant of the Tower.

Christopher Urswick, a priest.

Lord Mayor Of London.

Sheriff Of Wiltshire.

Hastings, a pursuivant.

Tressel and Berkeley, gentlemen attending on Lady Anne.

Elizabeth, Queen to King Edward IV.

Margaret, widow of King Henry VI.

Duchess Of York, mother to King Edward IV.

Lady Anne, widow of Edward, Prince of Wales, son to King Henry VI; afterwards married to the Duke of Gloucester.

A Young Daughter Of Clarence (Margaret Plantagenet, Countess of Salisbury).

Ghosts, of Richard's victims.

Lords, Gentlemen, and Attendants; Priest, Scrivener, Page, Bishops, Aldermen, Citizens, Soldiers, Messengers, Murderers, Keeper.

Scene: England.

ACT I

SCENE I. LONDON. A STREET.

Enter Gloucester, solus

Gloucester

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.

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.

Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front;

And now, instead of mounting barded steeds

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deformed, unfinish’d, sent before my time

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,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun

And descant on mine own deformity:

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,

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,

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

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.

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?

Clarence

His majesty

Tendering my person’s safety, hath appointed

This conduct to convey me to the Tower.

Gloucester

Upon what cause?

Clarence

Because my name is George.

Gloucester

Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours;

He should, for that, commit your godfathers:

O, belike his majesty hath some intent

That you shall be new-christen’d in the Tower.

But what’s the matter, Clarence? may I know?

Clarence

Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest

As yet I do not: but, as I can learn,

He hearkens after prophecies and dreams;

And from the cross-row plucks the letter G.

And says a wizard told him that by G

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

Have moved his highness to commit me now.

Gloucester

Why, this it is, when men are ruled by women:

’Tis not the king that sends you to the Tower:

My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, ’tis she

That tempers him to this extremity.

Was it not she and that good man of worship,

Anthony Woodville, her brother there,

That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,

From whence this present day he is deliver’d?

We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.

Clarence

By heaven, I think there’s no man is secure

But the queen’s kindred and night-walking heralds

That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore.

Heard ye not what an humble suppliant

Lord hastings was to her for his delivery?

Gloucester

Humbly complaining to her deity

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:

The jealous o’erworn widow and herself,

Since that our brother dubb’d them gentlewomen.

Are mighty gossips in this monarchy.

Brakenbury

I beseech your graces both to pardon me;

His majesty hath straitly given in charge

That no man shall have private conference,

Of what degree soever, with his brother.

Gloucester

Even so; an’t please your worship, Brakenbury,

You may partake of any thing 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;

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 gentle-folks:

How say you sir? Can you deny all this?

Brakenbury

With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.

Gloucester

Naught to do with mistress Shore! I tell thee, fellow,

He that doth naught with her, excepting one,

Were best he do it secretly, alone.

Brakenbury

What one, my lord?

Gloucester

Her husband, knave: wouldst thou betray me?

Brakenbury

I beseech your grace to pardon me, and withal

Forbear your conference with the noble duke.

Clarence

We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.

Gloucester

We are the queen’s abjects, and must obey.

Brother, farewell: I will unto the king;

And whatsoever you will employ me in,

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.

Clarence

I know it pleaseth neither of us well.

Gloucester

Well, your imprisonment shall not be long;

Meantime, have patience.

Clarence

I must perforce. Farewell.

Exeunt Clarence, Brakenbury, and Guard

Gloucester

Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne’er return.

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.

But who comes here? the new-deliver’d Hastings?

Enter Hastings

Hastings

Good time of day unto my gracious lord!

Gloucester

As much unto my good lord chamberlain!

Well are you welcome to the open air.

How hath your lordship brook’d imprisonment?

Hastings

With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must:

But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks

That were the cause of my imprisonment.

Gloucester

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.

Hastings

More pity that the eagle should be mew’d,

While kites and buzzards prey at liberty.

Gloucester

What news abroad?

Hastings

No news so bad abroad as this at home;

The King is sickly, weak and melancholy,

And his physicians fear him mightily.

Gloucester

Now, by Saint Paul, this news is bad indeed.

O, he hath kept an evil diet long,

And overmuch consumed his royal person:

’Tis very grievous to be thought upon.

What, is he in his bed?

Hastings

He is.

Gloucester

Go you before, and I will follow you.

Exit Hastings

He cannot live, I hope; and must not die

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 fall not in my deep intent,

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.

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

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:

When they are gone, then must I count my gains.

Exit

SCENE II. THE SAME. ANOTHER STREET.

Enter the corpse of King Henry the Sixth, Gentlemen with halberds to guard it; Lady Anne being the mourner

Lady Anne

Set down, set down your honourable load,

If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,

Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament

The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.

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,

To hear the lamentations of Poor Anne,

Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter’d son,

Stabb’d by the selfsame hand that made these wounds!

Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life,

I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.

Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes!

Cursed be the heart that had the heart to do it!

Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence!

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!

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;

And that be heir to his unhappiness!

If ever he have wife, let her he made

A miserable by the death of him

As I am made by my poor lord and thee!

Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load,

Taken from Paul’s to be interred there;

And still, as you are weary of the weight,

Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry’s corse.

Enter Gloucester

Gloucester

Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.

Lady Anne

What black magician conjures up this fiend,

To stop devoted charitable deeds?

Gloucester

Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul,

I’ll make a corse of him that disobeys.

Gentleman

My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.

Gloucester

Unmanner’d dog! stand thou, when I command:

Advance thy halbert higher than my breast,

Or, by Saint Paul, I’ll strike thee to my foot,

And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.

Lady Anne

What, do you tremble? are you all afraid?

Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal,

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.

Gloucester

Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.

Lady 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.

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;

For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood

From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells;

Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural,

Provokes this deluge most unnatural.

O God, which this blood madest, revenge his death!

O earth, which this blood drink’st revenge his death!

Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead,

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!

Gloucester

Lady, you know no rules of charity,

Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

Lady Anne

Villain, thou know’st no law of God nor man:

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

Gloucester

But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

Lady Anne

O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!

Gloucester

More wonderful, when angels are so angry.

Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,

Of these supposed-evils, to give me leave,

By circumstance, but to acquit myself.

Lady Anne

Vouchsafe, defused infection of a man,

For these known evils, but to give me leave,

By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self.

Gloucester

Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have

Some patient leisure to excuse myself.

Lady Anne

Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make

No excuse current, but to hang thyself.

Gloucester

By such despair, I should accuse myself.

Lady Anne

And, by despairing, shouldst thou stand excused;

For doing worthy vengeance on thyself,

Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others.

Gloucester

Say that I slew them not?

Lady Anne

Why, then they are not dead:

But dead they are, and devilish slave, by thee.

Gloucester

I did not kill your husband.

Lady Anne

Why, then he is alive.

Gloucester

Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward’s hand.

Lady 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.

Gloucester

I was provoked by her slanderous tongue, which laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.

Lady Anne

Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind.

Which never dreamt on aught but butcheries:

Didst thou not kill this king?

Gloucester

I grant ye.

Lady Anne

Dost grant me, hedgehog? then, God grant me too

Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed!

O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous!

Gloucester

The fitter for the King of heaven, that hath him.

Lady Anne

He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come.

Gloucester

Let him thank me, that holp to send him thither;

For he was fitter for that place than earth.

Lady Anne

And thou unfit for any place but hell.

Gloucester

Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.

Lady Anne

Some dungeon.

Gloucester

Your bed-chamber.

Lady Anne

I’ll rest betide the chamber where thou liest!

Gloucester

So will it, madam till I lie with you.

Lady Anne

I hope so.

Gloucester

I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne,

To leave this keen encounter of our wits,

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?

Lady Anne

Thou art the cause, and most accursed effect.

Gloucester

Your beauty was the cause of that effect;

Your beauty: which did haunt me in my sleep

To undertake the death of all the world,

So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.

Lady Anne

If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide,

These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.

Gloucester

These eyes could never endure sweet beauty’s wreck;

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.

Lady Anne

Black night o’ershade thy day, and death thy life!

Gloucester

Curse not thyself, fair creature thou art both.

Lady Anne

I would I were, to be revenged on thee.

Gloucester

It is a quarrel most unnatural,

To be revenged on him that loveth you.

Lady Anne

It is a quarrel just and reasonable,

To be revenged on him that slew my husband.

Gloucester

He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband,

Did it to help thee to a better husband.

Lady Anne

His better doth not breathe upon the earth.

Gloucester

He lives that loves thee better than he could.

Lady Anne

Name him.

Gloucester

Plantagenet.

Lady Anne

Why, that was he.

Gloucester

The selfsame name, but one of better nature.

Lady Anne

Where is he?

Gloucester

Here.

She spitteth at him

Why dost thou spit at me?

Lady Anne

Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake!

Gloucester

Never came poison from so sweet a place.

Lady Anne

Never hung poison on a fouler toad.

Out of my sight! thou dost infect my eyes.

Gloucester

Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.

Lady Anne

Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead!

Gloucester

I would they were, that I might die at once;

For now they kill me with a living death.

Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears,

Shamed their aspect with store of childish drops:

These eyes that never shed remorseful tear,

No, when my father York and Edward wept,

To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made

When black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him;

Nor when thy warlike father, like a child,

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;

And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,

Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.

I never sued to friend nor enemy;

My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word;

But now thy beauty is proposed my fee,

My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.

She looks scornfully at him

Teach not thy lips such scorn, for they were made

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 bosom.

And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,

I lay it naked 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.

Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabb’d young Edward,

But ’twas thy heavenly face that set me on.

Here she lets fall the sword

Take up the sword again, or take up me.

Lady Anne

Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death,

I will not be the executioner.

Gloucester

Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.

Lady Anne

I have already.

Gloucester

Tush, that was in thy rage:

Speak it again, and, even with the word,

That hand, which, for thy love, did kill thy love,

Shall, for thy love, kill a far truer love;

To both their deaths thou shalt be accessary.

Lady Anne

I would I knew thy heart.

Gloucester

’Tis figured in my tongue.

Lady Anne

I fear me both are false.

Gloucester

Then never man was true.

Lady Anne

Well, well, put up your sword.

Gloucester

Say, then, my peace is made.

Lady Anne

That shall you know hereafter.

Gloucester

But shall I live in hope?

Lady Anne

All men, I hope, live so.

Gloucester

Vouchsafe to wear this ring.

Lady Anne

To take is not to give.

Gloucester

Look, how this ring encompasseth finger.

Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;

Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

And if thy poor devoted suppliant may

But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,

Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.

Lady Anne

What is it?

Gloucester

That it would please thee leave these sad designs

To him that hath more cause to be a mourner,

And presently repair to Crosby Place;

Where, after I have solemnly interr’d

At Chertsey monastery this noble king,

And wet his grave with my repentant tears,

I will with all expedient duty see you:

For divers unknown reasons. I beseech you,

Grant me this boon.

Lady Anne

With all my heart; and much it joys me too,

To see you are become so penitent.

Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me.

Gloucester

Bid me farewell.

Lady Anne

’Tis more than you deserve;

But since you teach me how to flatter you,

Imagine I have said farewell already.

Exeunt Lady Anne, Tressel, and Berkeley

Gloucester

Sirs, take up the corse.

Gentlemen

Towards Chertsey, noble lord?

Gloucester

No, to White-Friars; there attend my coining.

Exeunt all but Gloucester

Was ever woman in this humour woo’d?

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,

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,

And I nothing to back my suit at all,

But the plain devil and dissembling looks,

And yet to win her, all the world to nothing! Ha!

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,

Framed in the prodigality of nature,

Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,

The spacious world cannot again afford

And will she yet debase her eyes on me,

That cropp’d the golden prime of this sweet prince,

And made her widow to a woful bed?

On me, whose all not equals Edward’s moiety?

On me, that halt and am unshapen thus?

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.

I’ll be at charges for a looking-glass,

And entertain some score or two of tailors,

To study fashions to adorn my body:

Since I am crept in favour with myself,

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,

That I may see my shadow as I pass.

Exit

SCENE III. THE PALACE.

Enter Queen Elizabeth, Rivers, and Grey

Rivers

Have patience, madam: there’s no doubt his majesty

Will soon recover his accustom’d health.

Grey

In that you brook it in, it makes him worse:

Therefore, for God’s sake, entertain good comfort,

And cheer his grace with quick and merry words.

Queen Elizabeth

If he were dead, what would betide of me?

Rivers

No other harm but loss of such a lord.

Queen Elizabeth

The loss of such a lord includes all harm.

Grey

The heavens have bless’d you with a goodly son,

To be your comforter when he is gone.

Queen Elizabeth

Oh, he is young and his minority

Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester,

A man that loves not me, nor none of you.

Rivers

Is it concluded that he shall be protector?

Queen Elizabeth

It is determined, not concluded yet:

But so it must be, if the king miscarry.

Enter Buckingham and Derby

Grey

Here come the lords of Buckingham and Derby.

Buckingham

Good time of day unto your royal grace!

Derby

God make your majesty joyful as you have been!

Queen Elizabeth

The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Derby.

To your good prayers will scarcely say amen.

Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she’s your wife,

And loves not me, be you, good lord, assured

I hate not you for her proud arrogance.

Derby

I do beseech you, either not believe

The envious slanders of her false accusers;

Or, if she be accused in true report,

Bear with her weakness, which, I think proceeds

From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice.

Rivers

Saw you the king to-day, my Lord of Derby?

Derby

But now the Duke of Buckingham and I

Are come from visiting his majesty.

Queen Elizabeth

What likelihood of his amendment, lords?

Buckingham

Madam, good hope; his grace speaks cheerfully.

Queen Elizabeth

God grant him health! Did you confer with him?

Buckingham

Madam, we did: he desires to make atonement

Betwixt the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers,

And betwixt them and my lord chamberlain;

And sent to warn them to his royal presence.

Queen Elizabeth

Would all were well! but that will never be

I fear our happiness is at the highest.

Enter Gloucester, Hastings, and Dorset

Gloucester

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?

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,

I must be held a rancorous enemy.

Cannot a plain man live and think no harm,

But thus his simple truth must be abused

By silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?

Rivers

To whom in all this presence speaks your grace?

Gloucester

To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace.

When have I injured thee? when done thee wrong?

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,

But you must trouble him with lewd complaints.

Queen Elizabeth

Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter.

The king, of his own royal disposition,

And not provoked by any suitor else;

Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred,

Which in your outward actions shows itself

Against my kindred, brothers, and myself,

Makes him to send; that thereby he may gather

The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it.

Gloucester

I cannot tell: the world is grown so bad,

That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch:

Since every Jack became a gentleman

There’s many a gentle person made a Jack.

Queen Elizabeth

Come, come, we know your meaning, brother

Gloucester;

You envy my advancement and my friends’:

God grant we never may have need of you!

Gloucester

Meantime, God grants that we have need of you:

Your brother is imprison’d by your means,

Myself disgraced, and the nobility

Held in contempt; whilst many fair promotions

Are daily given to ennoble those

That scarce, some two days since, were worth a noble.

Queen Elizabeth

By Him that raised me to this careful height

From that contented hap which I enjoy’d,

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,

Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects.

Gloucester

You may deny that you were not the cause

Of my Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment.

Rivers

She may, my lord, for —

Gloucester

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,

And lay those honours on your high deserts.

What may she not? She may, yea, marry, may she —

Rivers

What, marry, may she?

Gloucester

What, marry, may she! marry with a king,

A bachelor, a handsome stripling too:

I wis your grandam had a worser match.

Queen Elizabeth

My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long borne

Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs:

By heaven, I will acquaint his majesty

With those gross taunts I often have endured.

I had rather be a country servant-maid

Than a great queen, with this condition,

To be thus taunted, scorn’d, and baited at:

Enter Queen Margaret, behind

Small joy have I in being England’s queen.

Queen Margaret

And lessen’d be that small, God, I beseech thee!

Thy honour, state and seat is due to me.

Gloucester

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.

’Tis time to speak; my pains are quite forgot.

Queen Margaret

Out, devil! I remember them too well:

Thou slewest my husband Henry in the Tower,

And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury.

Gloucester

Ere you were queen, yea, 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:

To royalize his blood I spilt mine own.

Queen Margaret

Yea, and much better blood than his or thine.

Gloucester

In all which time you and your husband Grey

Were factious for the house of Lancaster;

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.

Queen Margaret

A murderous villain, and so still thou art.

Gloucester

Poor Clarence did forsake his father, Warwick;

Yea, and forswore himself,— which Jesu pardon!—

Queen Margaret

Which God revenge!

Gloucester

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;

Or Edward’s soft and pitiful, like mine

I am too childish-foolish for this world.

Queen Margaret

Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave the world,

Thou cacodemon! there thy kingdom is.

Rivers

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.

Gloucester

If I should be! I had rather be a pedlar:

Far be it from my heart, the thought of it!

Queen Elizabeth

As little joy, my lord, as you suppose

You should enjoy, were you this country’s king,

As little joy may you suppose in me.

That I enjoy, being the queen thereof.

Queen Margaret

A little joy enjoys the queen thereof;

For I am she, and altogether joyless.

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,

Yet that, by you deposed, you quake like rebels?

O gentle villain, do not turn away!

Gloucester

Foul wrinkled witch, what makest thou in my sight?

Queen Margaret

But repetition of what thou hast marr’d;

That will I make before I let thee go.

Gloucester

Wert thou not banished on pain of death?

Queen Margaret

I was; but I do find more pain in banishment

Than death can yield me here by my abode.

A husband and a son thou owest to me;

And thou a kingdom; all of you allegiance:

The sorrow that I have, by right is yours,

And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.

Gloucester

The curse my noble father laid on thee,

When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper

And with thy scorns drew’st rivers from his eyes,

And then, to dry them, gavest the duke a clout

Steep’d in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland —

His curses, then from bitterness of soul

Denounced against thee, are all fall’n upon thee;

And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed.

Queen Elizabeth

So just is God, to right the innocent.

Hastings

O, ’twas the foulest deed to slay that babe,

And the most merciless that e’er was heard of!

Rivers

Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported.

Dorset

No man but prophesied revenge for it.

Buckingham

Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.

Queen Margaret

What were you snarling all before I came,

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 woful banishment,

Could 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!

If not by war, by surfeit die your king,

As ours by murder, to make him a king!

Edward thy son, which now is Prince of Wales,

For Edward my son, which was Prince of Wales,

Die in his youth by like untimely violence!

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;

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,

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,

That none of you may live your natural age,

But by some unlook’d accident cut off!

Gloucester

Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither’d hag!

Queen Margaret

And leave out thee? stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me.

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

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 livest,

And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!

No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,

Unless it be whilst some tormenting dream

Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!

Thou elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog!

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!

Thou rag of honour! thou detested —

Gloucester

Margaret.

Queen Margaret

Richard!

Gloucester

Ha!

Queen Margaret

I call thee not.

Gloucester

I cry thee mercy then, for I had thought

That thou hadst call’d me all these bitter names.

Queen Margaret

Why, so I did; but look’d for no reply.

O, let me make the period to my curse!

Gloucester

’Tis done by me, and ends in ‘Margaret.’

Queen Elizabeth

Thus have you breathed your curse against yourself.

Queen Margaret

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 time will come when thou shalt wish for me

To help thee curse that poisonous bunchback’d toad.

Hastings

False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse,

Lest to thy harm thou move our patience.

Queen Margaret

Foul shame upon you! you have all moved mine.

Rivers

Were you well served, you would be taught your duty.

Queen Margaret

To serve me well, you all should do me duty,

Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects:

O, serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty!

Dorset

Dispute not with her; she is lunatic.

Queen Margaret

Peace, master marquess, you are malapert:

Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current.

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.

Gloucester

Good counsel, marry: learn it, learn it, marquess.

Dorset

It toucheth you, my lord, as much as me.

Gloucester

Yea, and much more: but I was born so high,

Our aery buildeth in the cedar’s top,

And dallies with the wind and scorns the sun.

Queen Margaret

And turns the sun to shade; alas! alas!

Witness my son, now in the shade of death;

Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath

Hath in eternal darkness folded up.

Your aery buildeth in our aery’s nest.

O God, that seest it, do not suffer it!

As it was won with blood, lost be it so!

Buckingham

Have done! for shame, if not for charity.

Queen Margaret

Urge neither charity nor shame to me:

Uncharitably with me have you dealt,

And shamefully by you my hopes are butcher’d.

My charity is outrage, life my shame

And in that shame still live my sorrow’s rage.

Buckingham

Have done, have done.

Queen Margaret

O princely Buckingham I’ll kiss thy hand,

In sign of league and amity with thee:

Now fair befal thee and thy noble house!

Thy garments are not spotted with our blood,

Nor thou within the compass of my curse.

Buckingham

Nor no one here; for curses never pass

The lips of those that breathe them in the air.

Queen Margaret

I’ll not believe but they ascend the sky,

And there awake God’s gentle-sleeping peace.

O Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog!

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;

Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him,

And all their ministers attend on him.

Gloucester

What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham?

Buckingham

Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord.

Queen Margaret

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,

And say poor Margaret was a prophetess!

Live each of you the subjects to his hate,

And he to yours, and all of you to God’s!

Exit

Hastings

My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses.

Rivers

And so doth mine: I muse why she’s at liberty.

Gloucester

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.

Queen Elizabeth

I never did her any, to my knowledge.

Gloucester

But 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.

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 of it!

Rivers

A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion,

To pray for them that have done scathe to us.

Gloucester

So do I ever:

Aside

being well-advised.

For had I cursed now, I had cursed myself.

Enter Catesby

Catesby

Madam, his majesty doth call for you,

And for your grace; and you, my noble lords.

Queen Elizabeth

Catesby, we come. Lords, will you go with us?

Rivers

Madam, we will attend your grace.

Exeunt all but Gloucester

Gloucester

I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.

The secret mischiefs that I set abroach

I lay unto the grievous charge of others.

Clarence, whom I, indeed, have laid in darkness,

I do beweep to many simple gulls

Namely, to Hastings, Derby, Buckingham;

And say it is the queen and her allies

That stir the king against the duke my brother.

Now, they believe it; and withal whet me

To be revenged 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

With old odd ends stolen out 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!

Are you now going to dispatch this deed?

First Murderer

We are, my lord; and come to have the warrant

That we may be admitted where he is.

Gloucester

Well thought upon; I have it here about me.

Gives the warrant

When you have done, repair to Crosby Place.

But, sirs, be sudden in the execution,

Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead;

For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps

May move your hearts to pity if you mark him.

First Murderer

Tush!

Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate;

Talkers are no good doers: be assured

We come to use our hands and not our tongues.

Gloucester

Your eyes drop millstones, when fools’ eyes drop tears:

I like you, lads; about your business straight;

Go, go, dispatch.

First Murderer

We will, my noble lord.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. LONDON. THE TOWER.

Enter Clarence and Brakenbury

Brakenbury

Why looks your grace so heavily today?

Clarence

O, I have pass’d a miserable night,

So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,

That, as I am a Christian faithful man,

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!

Brakenbury

What was your dream? I long to hear you tell it.

Clarence

Methoughts 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

Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward England,

And cited up a thousand fearful times,

During the wars of York and Lancaster

That had befall’n us. As we paced along

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.

Lord, Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!

What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears!

What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!

Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;

Ten thousand men that fishes gnaw’d upon;

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scatter’d in the bottom of the sea:

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,

Which woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep,

And mock’d the dead bones that lay scatter’d by.

Brakenbury

Had you such leisure in the time of death

To gaze upon the secrets of the deep?

Clarence

Methought I had; and often did I strive

To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood

Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth

To seek the empty, vast and wandering air;

But smother’d it within my panting bulk,

Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brakenbury

Awaked you not with this sore agony?

Clarence

O, no, my dream was lengthen’d after life;

O, then began the tempest to my soul,

Who 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

A shadow like an angel, with bright hair

Dabbled in blood; and he squeak’d out aloud,

‘Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,

That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury;

Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!’

With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends

Environ’d me about, and howled in mine ears

Such hideous cries, that with the very noise

I trembling waked, and for a season after

Could not believe but that I was in hell,

Such terrible impression made the dream.

Brakenbury

No marvel, my lord, though it affrighted you;

I promise, I am afraid to hear you tell it.

Clarence

O Brakenbury, I have done those things,

Which now bear 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 avenged on my misdeeds,

Yet execute thy wrath in me alone,

O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!

I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

Brakenbury

I will, my lord: God give your grace good rest!

Clarence sleeps

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,

Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.

Princes have but their tides for their glories,

An outward honour for an inward toil;

And, for unfelt imagination,

They often feel a world of restless cares:

So that, betwixt their tides and low names,

There’s nothing differs but the outward fame.

Enter the two Murderers

First Murderer

Ho! who’s here?

Brakenbury

In God’s name what are you, and how came you hither?

First Murderer

I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

Brakenbury

Yea, are you so brief?

Second Murderer

O sir, it is better to be brief than tedious. Show him our commission; talk no more.

Brakenbury reads it

Brakenbury

I am, in this, commanded to deliver

The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands:

I will not reason what is meant hereby,

Because I will be guiltless of the meaning.

Here are the keys, there sits the duke asleep:

I’ll to the king; and signify to him

That thus I have resign’d my charge to you.

First Murderer

Do so, it is a point of wisdom: fare you well.

Exit Brakenbury

Second Murderer

What, shall we stab him as he sleeps?

First Murderer

No; then he will say ’twas done cowardly, when he wakes.

Second Murderer

When he wakes! why, fool, he shall never wake till the judgment-day.

First Murderer

Why, then he will say we stabbed him sleeping.

Second Murderer

The urging of that word ‘judgment’ hath bred a kind of remorse in me.

First Murderer

What, art thou afraid?

Second Murderer

Not to kill him, having a warrant for it; but to be damned for killing him, from which no warrant can defend us.

First Murderer

I thought thou hadst been resolute.

Second Murderer

So I am, to let him live.

First Murderer

Back to the Duke of Gloucester, tell him so.

Second Murderer

I pray thee, stay a while: I hope my holy humour will change; ’twas wont to hold me but while one would tell twenty.

First Murderer

How dost thou feel thyself now?

Second Murderer

’Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me.

First Murderer

Remember our reward, when the deed is done.

Second Murderer

’Zounds, he dies: I had forgot the reward.

First Murderer

Where is thy conscience now?

Second Murderer

In the Duke of Gloucester’s purse.

First Murderer

So when he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out.

Second Murderer

Let it go; there’s few or none will entertain it.

First Murderer

How if it come to thee again?

Second Murderer

I’ll not meddle with it: it is a dangerous thing: it makes a man a coward: a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; he cannot swear, but it cheques him; he cannot lie with his neighbour’s wife, but it detects him: ’tis a blushing shamefast spirit that mutinies in a man’s bosom; it fills one full of obstacles: it made me once restore a purse of gold that I found; it beggars any man that keeps it: it is turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well endeavours to trust to himself and to live without it.

First Murderer

’Zounds, it is even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the duke.

Second Murderer

Take the devil in thy mind, and relieve him not: he would insinuate with thee but to make thee sigh.

First Murderer

Tut, I am strong-framed, he cannot prevail with me,

I warrant thee.

Second Murderer

Spoke like a tail fellow that respects his reputation. Come, shall we to this gear?

First Murderer

Take him over the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then we will chop him in the malmsey-butt in the next room.

Second Murderer

O excellent devise! make a sop of him.

First Murderer

Hark! he stirs: shall I strike?

Second Murderer

No, first let’s reason with him.

Clarence

Where art thou, keeper? give me a cup of wine.

Second murderer

You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon.

Clarence

In God’s name, what art thou?

Second Murderer

A man, as you are.

Clarence

But not, as I am, royal.

Second Murderer

Nor you, as we are, loyal.

Clarence

Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble.

Second Murderer

My voice is now the king’s, my looks mine own.

Clarence

How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak!

Your eyes do menace me: why look you pale?

Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?

Both

To, to, to —

Clarence

To murder me?

Both

Ay, ay.

Clarence

You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so,

And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it.

Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

First Murderer

Offended us you have not, but the king.

Clarence

I shall be reconciled to him again.

Second Murderer

Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die.

Clarence

Are you call’d forth from out a world of men

To slay the innocent? What is my offence?

Where are the evidence that do accuse me?

What lawful quest have given their verdict up

Unto the frowning judge? or who pronounced

The bitter sentence of poor Clarence’ death?

Before I be convict by course of law,

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

The deed you undertake is damnable.

First Murderer

What we will do, we do upon command.

Second Murderer

And he that hath commanded is the king.

Clarence

Erroneous vassal! the great King of kings

Hath in the tables of his law commanded

That thou shalt do no murder: and wilt thou, then,

Spurn at his edict and fulfil a man’s?

Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hands,

To hurl upon their heads that break his law.

Second Murderer

And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee,

For false forswearing and for murder too:

Thou didst receive the holy sacrament,

To fight in quarrel of the house of Lancaster.

First Murderer

And, like a traitor to the name of God,

Didst break that vow; and with thy treacherous blade

Unrip’dst the bowels of thy sovereign’s son.

Second Murderer

Whom thou wert sworn to cherish and defend.

First Murderer

How canst thou urge God’s dreadful law to us,

When thou hast broke it in so dear degree?

Clarence

Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed?

For Edward, for my brother, for his sake: Why, sirs,

He sends ye not to murder me for this

For in this sin he is as deep as I.

If God will be revenged for this deed.

O, know you yet, he doth it publicly,

Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm;

He needs no indirect nor lawless course

To cut off those that have offended him.

First Murderer

Who made thee, then, a bloody minister,

When gallant-springing brave Plantagenet,

That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?

Clarence

My brother’s love, the devil, and my rage.

First Murderer

Thy brother’s love, our duty, and thy fault,

Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.

Clarence

Oh, if you love my brother, hate not me;

I am his brother, and I love him well.

If you be hired 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.

Second Murderer

You are deceived, your brother Gloucester hates you.

Clarence

O, no, he loves me, and he holds me dear:

Go you to him from me.

Both

Ay, so we will.

Clarence

Tell him, when that our princely father York

Bless’d his three sons with his victorious arm,

And charged us from his soul to love each other,

He little thought of this divided friendship:

Bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep.

First Murderer

Ay, millstones; as be lesson’d us to weep.

Clarence

O, do not slander him, for he is kind.

First Murderer

Right,

As snow in harvest. Thou deceivest thyself:

’Tis he that sent us hither now to slaughter thee.

Clarence

It cannot be; for when I parted with him,

He hugg’d me in his arms, and swore, with sobs,

That he would labour my delivery.

Second Murderer

Why, so he doth, now he delivers thee

From this world’s thraldom to the joys of heaven.

First Murderer

Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord.

Clarence

Hast thou that holy feeling in thy soul,

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?

Ah, sirs, consider, he that set you on

To do this deed will hate you for the deed.

Second Murderer

What shall we do?

Clarence

Relent, and save your souls.

First Murderer

Relent! ’tis cowardly and womanish.

Clarence

Not to relent is beastly, savage, devilish.

Which of you, if you were a prince’s son,

Being pent from liberty, as I am now,

If two such murderers as yourselves came to you,

Would not entreat for life?

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

A begging prince what beggar pities not?

Second Murderer

Look behind you, my lord.

First Murderer

Take that, and that: if all this will not do,

Stabs him

I’ll drown you in the malmsey-butt within.

Exit, with the body

Second Murderer

A bloody deed, and desperately dispatch’d!

How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands

Of this most grievous guilty murder done!

Re-enter First Murderer

First Murderer

How now! what mean’st thou, that thou help’st me not?

By heavens, the duke shall know how slack thou art!

Second Murderer

I would he knew that I had saved his brother!

Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say;

For I repent me that the duke is slain.

Exit

First Murderer

So do not I: go, coward as thou art.

Now must I hide his body in some hole,

Until the duke take order for his burial:

And when I have my meed, I must away;

For this will out, and here I must not stay.

ACT II

SCENE I. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Flourish. Enter King Edward IV sick, Queen Elizabeth, Dorset, Rivers, Hastings, Buckingham, Grey, and others

King Edward IV

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;

And now in peace my soul shall part to heaven,

Since I have set my friends at peace on earth.

Rivers and Hastings, take each other’s hand;

Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love.

Rivers

By heaven, my heart is purged from grudging hate:

And with my hand I seal my true heart’s love.

Hastings

So thrive I, as I truly swear the like!

King Edward IV

Take heed you dally not before your king;

Lest he that is the supreme King of kings

Confound your hidden falsehood, and award

Either of you to be the other’s end.

Hastings

So prosper I, as I swear perfect love!

Rivers

And I, as I love Hastings with my heart!

King Edward IV

Madam, yourself are not exempt in this,

Nor your son Dorset, Buckingham, nor you;

You have been factious one against the other,

Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand;

And what you do, do it unfeignedly.

Queen Elizabeth

Here, Hastings; I will never more remember

Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine!

King Edward IV

Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love lord marquess.

Dorset

This interchange of love, I here protest,

Upon my part shall be unviolable.

Hastings

And so swear I, my lord

They embrace

King Edward IV

Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league

With thy embracements to my wife’s allies,

And make me happy in your unity.

Buckingham

Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate

On you or yours,

To the Queen

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,

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 zeal to yours.

King Edward IV

A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham,

Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart.

There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here,

To make the perfect period of this peace.

Buckingham

And, in good time, here comes the noble duke.

Enter Gloucester

Gloucester

Good morrow to my sovereign king and queen:

And, princely peers, a happy time of day!

King Edward IV

Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day.

Brother, we done deeds of charity;

Made peace enmity, fair love of hate,

Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.

Gloucester

A blessed labour, my most sovereign liege:

Amongst this princely heap, if any here,

By false intelligence, or wrong surmise,

Hold me a foe;

If I unwittingly, or in my rage,

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;

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,

If ever any grudge were lodged between us;

Of you, Lord Rivers, and, Lord Grey, of you;

That without desert have frown’d on me;

Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all.

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

I thank my God for my humility.

Queen Elizabeth

A holy day shall this be kept hereafter:

I would to God all strifes were well compounded.

My sovereign liege, I do beseech your majesty

To take our brother Clarence to your grace.

Gloucester

Why, madam, have I offer’d love for this

To be so bouted in this royal presence?

Who knows not that the noble duke is dead?

They all start

You do him injury to scorn his corse.

Rivers

Who knows not he is dead! who knows he is?

Queen Elizabeth

All seeing heaven, what a world is this!

Buckingham

Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest?

Dorset

Ay, my good lord; and no one in this presence

But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks.

King Edward IV

Is Clarence dead? the order was reversed.

Gloucester

But he, poor soul, by your first order died,

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,

Nearer in bloody thoughts, but not in blood,

Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did,

And yet go current from suspicion!

Enter Derby

Dorset

A boon, my sovereign, for my service done!

King Edward IV

I pray thee, peace: my soul is full of sorrow.

Dorset

I will not rise, unless your highness grant.

King Edward IV

Then speak at once what is it thou demand’st.

Dorset

The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant’s life;

Who slew to-day a righteous gentleman

Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk.

King Edward IV

Have a tongue to doom my brother’s death,

And shall the same give pardon to a slave?

My brother slew no man; his fault was thought,

And yet his punishment was cruel death.

Who sued to me for him? who, in my rage,

Kneel’d at my feet, and bade me be advised

Who spake of brotherhood? who spake 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 by Tewksbury

When Oxford had me down, he rescued 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

Even in his own garments, and gave 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

Had so much grace to put it in my mind.

But when your carters or your waiting-vassals

Have done a drunken slaughter, and defaced

The precious image of our dear Redeemer,

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

For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all

Have been beholding to him in his life;

Yet none of you would once plead for his life.

O God, I fear thy justice will take hold

On me, and you, and mine, and yours for this!

Come, Hastings, help me to my closet.

Oh, poor Clarence!

Exeunt some with King Edward IV and Queen Margaret

Gloucester

This is the fruit of rashness! Mark’d you not

How that the guilty kindred of the queen

Look’d pale when they did hear of Clarence’ death?

O, they did urge it still unto the king!

God will revenge it. But come, let us in,

To comfort Edward with our company.

Buckingham

We wait upon your grace.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE PALACE.

Enter the Duchess Of York, with the two children of Clarence

Boy

Tell me, good grandam, is our father dead?

Duchess Of York

No, boy.

Boy

Why do you wring your hands, and beat your breast,

And cry ‘O Clarence, my unhappy son!’

Girl

Why do you look on us, and shake your head,

And call us wretches, orphans, castaways

If that our noble father be alive?

Duchess Of York

My pretty cousins, you mistake me much;

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.

The king my uncle is to blame for this:

God will revenge it; whom I will importune

With daily prayers all to that effect.

Girl

And so will I.

Duchess Of York

Peace, children, peace! the king doth love you well:

Incapable and shallow innocents,

You cannot guess who caused your father’s death.

Boy

Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloucester

Told me, the king, provoked by the queen,

Devised impeachments to imprison him :

And when my uncle told me so, he wept,

And hugg’d me in his arm, and kindly kiss’d my cheek;

Bade me rely on him as on my father,

And he would love me dearly as his child.

Duchess Of York

Oh, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes,

And with a virtuous vizard hide foul guile!

He is my son; yea, and therein my shame;

Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.

Boy

Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam?

Duchess Of York

Ay, boy.

Boy

I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this?

Enter Queen Elizabeth, with her hair about her ears; Rivers, and Dorset after her

Queen Elizabeth

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,

And to myself become an enemy.

Duchess Of York

What means this scene of rude impatience?

Queen Elizabeth

To make an act of tragic violence:

Edward, my lord, your son, our king, is dead.

Why grow the branches now the root is wither’d?

Why wither not the leaves the sap being gone?

If you will live, lament; if die, be brief,

That our swift-winged souls may catch the king’s;

Or, like obedient subjects, follow him

To his new kingdom of perpetual rest.

Duchess Of York

Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow

As I had title in thy noble husband!

I have bewept a worthy husband’s death,

And lived by looking on his images:

But now two mirrors of his princely semblance

Are crack’d in pieces by malignant death,

And I for comfort have but one false glass,

Which 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,

And pluck’d two crutches from my feeble limbs,

Edward and Clarence. O, what cause have I,

Thine being but a moiety of my grief,

To overgo thy plaints and drown thy cries!

Boy

Good aunt, you wept not for our father’s death;

How can we aid you with our kindred tears?

Girl

Our fatherless distress was left unmoan’d;

Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept!

Queen Elizabeth

Give me no help in lamentation;

I am not barren to bring forth complaints

All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,

That I, being govern’d by the watery moon,

May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world!

Oh for my husband, for my dear lord Edward!

Children

Oh for our father, for our dear lord Clarence!

Duchess Of York

Alas for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence!

Queen Elizabeth

What stay had I but Edward? and he’s gone.

Children

What stay had we but Clarence? and he’s gone.

Duchess Of York

What stays had I but they? and they are gone.

Queen Elizabeth

Was never widow had so dear a loss!

Children

Were never orphans had so dear a loss!

Duchess Of York

Was never mother had so dear a loss!

Alas, I am the mother of these moans!

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;

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 lamentations.

Dorset

Comfort, dear mother: God is much displeased

That you take with unthankfulness, his doing:

In common worldly things, ’tis call’d ungrateful,

With dull unwilligness to repay a debt

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.

Rivers

Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother,

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, Derby, Hastings, and Ratcliff

Gloucester

Madam, 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;

I did not see your grace: humbly on my knee

I crave your blessing.

Duchess Of York

God bless thee; and put meekness in thy mind,

Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!

Gloucester

[Aside] Amen; and make me die a good old man!

That is the butt-end of a mother’s blessing:

I marvel why her grace did leave it out.

Buckingham

You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing peers,

That bear this mutual heavy 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.

The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts,

But lately splinter’d, knit, and join’d together,

Must gently be preserved, cherish’d, and kept:

Me seemeth good, that, with some little train,

Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fetch’d

Hither to London, to be crown’d our king.

Rivers

Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham?

Buckingham

Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude,

The new-heal’d wound of malice should break out,

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,

As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent,

In my opinion, ought to be prevented.

Gloucester

I hope the king made peace with all of us

And the compact is firm and true in me.

Rivers

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,

Which haply by much company might be urged:

Therefore I say with noble Buckingham,

That it is meet so few should fetch the prince.

Hastings

And so say I.

Gloucester

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 weighty business?

Queen Elizabeth

Duchess Of York

With all our harts.

Exeunt all but Buckingham and Gloucester

Buckingham

My lord, whoever journeys to the Prince,

For God’s sake, let not us two be behind;

For, by the way, I’ll sort occasion,

As index to the story we late talk’d of,

To part the queen’s proud kindred from the king.

Gloucester

My other self, my counsel’s consistory,

My oracle, my prophet! My dear cousin,

I, like a child, will go by thy direction.

Towards Ludlow then, for we’ll not stay behind.

Exeunt

SCENE III. LONDON. A STREET.

Enter two Citizens meeting

First Citizen

Neighbour, well met: whither away so fast?

Second Citizen

I promise you, I scarcely know myself:

Hear you the news abroad?

First Citizen

Ay, that the king is dead.

Second Citizen

Bad news, by’r lady; seldom comes the better:

I fear, I fear ’twill prove a troublous world.

Enter another Citizen

Third Citizen

Neighbours, God speed!

First Citizen

Give you good morrow, sir.

Third Citizen

Doth this news hold of good King Edward’s death?

Second Citizen

Ay, sir, it is too true; God help the while!

Third Citizen

Then, masters, look to see a troublous world.

First Citizen

No, no; by God’s good grace his son shall reign.

Third Citizen

Woe to the land that’s govern’d by a child!

Second Citizen

In him there is a hope of government,

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 Citizen

So stood the state when Henry the Sixth

Was crown’d in Paris but at nine months old.

Third Citizen

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

Had virtuous uncles to protect his grace.

First Citizen

Why, so hath this, both by the father and mother.

Third Citizen

Better it were they all came by the father,

Or by the father there were none at all;

For emulation now, who shall 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:

And were they to be ruled, and not to rule,

This sickly land might solace as before.

First Citizen

Come, come, we fear the worst; all shall be well.

Third Citizen

When clouds appear, wise men put on their cloaks;

When great leaves fall, the 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,

’Tis more than we deserve, or I expect.

Second Citizen

Truly, the souls of men are full of dread:

Ye cannot reason almost with a man

That looks not heavily and full of fear.

Third Citizen

Before the times of change, still is it so:

By a divine instinct men’s minds mistrust

Ensuing dangers; as by proof, we see

The waters swell before a boisterous storm.

But leave it all to God. whither away?

Second Citizen

Marry, we were sent for to the justices.

Third Citizen

And so was I: I’ll bear you company.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Enter the Archbishop Of York, young York, Queen Elizabeth, and the Duchess Of York

Archbishop Of York

Last night, I hear, they lay at Northampton;

At Stony-Stratford will they be to-night:

To-morrow, or next day, they will be here.

Duchess Of York

I long with all my heart to see the prince:

I hope he is much grown since last I saw him.

Queen Elizabeth

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.

Duchess Of York

Why, my young cousin, it is good to grow.

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,

‘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.

Duchess Of York

Good faith, good faith, the saying did not hold

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 this rule were true, he should be gracious.

Archbishop Of York

Why, madam, so, no doubt, he is.

Duchess Of York

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,

To touch his growth nearer than he touch’d mine.

Duchess Of York

How, my pretty York? I pray thee, let me hear it.

York

Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast

That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old

’Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth.

Grandam, this would have been a biting jest.

Duchess Of York

I pray thee, pretty York, who told thee this?

York

Grandam, his nurse.

Duchess Of York

His nurse! why, she was dead ere thou wert born.

York

If ’twere not she, I cannot tell who told me.

Queen Elizabeth

A parlous boy: go to, you are too shrewd.

Archbishop Of York

Good madam, be not angry with the child.

Queen Elizabeth

Pitchers have ears.

Enter a Messenger

Archbishop Of York

Here comes a messenger. What news?

Messenger

Such news, my lord, as grieves me to unfold.

Queen Elizabeth

How fares the prince?

Messenger

Well, madam, and in health.

Duchess Of York

What is thy news then?

Messenger

Lord Rivers and Lord Grey are sent to Pomfret,

With them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners.

Duchess Of York

Who hath committed them?

Messenger

The mighty dukes

Gloucester and Buckingham.

Queen Elizabeth

For what offence?

Messenger

The sum of all I can, I have disclosed;

Why or for what these nobles were committed

Is all unknown to me, my gracious lady.

Queen Elizabeth

Ay me, I see the downfall of our house!

The tiger now hath seized the gentle hind;

Insulting tyranny begins to jet

Upon the innocent and aweless throne:

Welcome, destruction, death, and massacre!

I see, as in a map, the end of all.

Duchess Of York

Accursed and unquiet wrangling days,

How many of you have mine eyes beheld!

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

Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors.

Make war upon themselves; blood against blood,

Self against self: O, preposterous

And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen;

Or let me die, to look on death no more!

Queen Elizabeth

Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary.

Madam, farewell.

Duchess Of York

I’ll go along with you.

Queen Elizabeth

You have no cause.

Archbishop Of York

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!

Come, I’ll conduct you to the sanctuary.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. LONDON. A STREET.

The trumpets sound. Enter the young Prince Edward, Gloucester, Buckingham, Cardinal, Catesby, and others

Buckingham

Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber.

Gloucester

Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts’ sovereign

The weary way hath made you melancholy.

Prince Edward

No, uncle; but our crosses on the way

Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy

I want more uncles here to welcome me.

Gloucester

Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years

Hath not yet dived into the world’s deceit

Nor 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,

But look’d not on the poison of their hearts :

God keep you from them, and from such false friends!

Prince Edward

God keep me from false friends! but they were none.

Gloucester

My lord, the mayor of London comes to greet you.

Enter the Lord Mayor and his train

Lord Mayor

God bless your grace with health and happy days!

Prince Edward

I thank you, good my lord; and thank you all.

I thought my mother, and my brother York,

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

Buckingham

And, in good time, here comes the sweating lord.

Prince Edward

Welcome, my lord: what, will our mother come?

Hastings

On what occasion, God he knows, not I,

The queen your mother, and your brother York,

Have taken sanctuary: the tender prince

Would fain have come with me to meet your grace,

But by his mother was perforce withheld.

Buckingham

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.

Cardinal

My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory

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

We should infringe the holy privilege

Of blessed sanctuary! not for all this land

Would I be guilty of so deep a sin.

Buckingham

You are too senseless — obstinate, my lord,

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

To those whose dealings have deserved the place,

And those who have the wit to claim the place:

This prince hath neither claim’d it nor deserved 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.

Cardinal

My lord, you shall o’er-rule my mind for once.

Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me?

Hastings

I go, my lord.

Prince Edward

Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may.

Exeunt Cardinal and Hastings

Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come,

Where shall we sojourn till our coronation?

Gloucester

Where it seems best unto your royal self.

If I may counsel you, some day or two

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 Edward

I do not like the Tower, of any place.

Did Julius Caesar build that place, my lord?

Buckingham

He did, my gracious lord, begin that place;

Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified.

Prince Edward

Is it upon record, or else reported

Successively from age to age, he built it?

Buckingham

Upon record, my gracious lord.

Prince Edward

But say, my lord, it were not register’d,

Methinks the truth should live from age to age,

As ’twere retail’d to all posterity,

Even to the general all-ending day.

Gloucester

[Aside] So wise so young, they say, do never live long.

Prince Edward

What say you, uncle?

Gloucester

I say, without characters, fame lives long.

Aside

Thus, like the formal vice, Iniquity,

I moralize two meanings in one word.

Prince Edward

That Julius Caesar was a famous man;

With what his valour did enrich his wit,

His wit set down to make his valour live

Death makes no conquest of this conqueror;

For now he lives in fame, though not in life.

I’ll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham,—

Buckingham

What, my gracious lord?

Prince Edward

An if I live until I be a man,

I’ll win our ancient right in France again,

Or die a soldier, as I lived a king.

Gloucester

[Aside] Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

Enter young York, Hastings, and the Cardinal

Buckingham

Now, in good time, here comes the Duke of York.

Prince Edward

Richard of York! how fares our loving brother?

York

Well, my dread lord; so must I call you now.

Prince Edward

Ay, brother, to our grief, as it is yours:

Too late he died that might have kept that title,

Which by his death hath lost much majesty.

Gloucester

How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York?

York

I thank you, gentle uncle. O, my lord,

You said that idle weeds are fast in growth

The prince my brother hath outgrown me far.

Gloucester

He hath, my lord.

York

And therefore is he idle?

Gloucester

O, my fair cousin, I must not say so.

York

Then is he more beholding to you than I.

Gloucester

He may command me as my sovereign;

But you have power in me as in a kinsman.

York

I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger.

Gloucester

My dagger, little cousin? with all my heart.

Prince Edward

A beggar, brother?

York

Of my kind uncle, that I know will give;

And being but a toy, which is no grief to give.

Gloucester

A greater gift than that I’ll give my cousin.

York

A greater gift! O, that’s the sword to it.

Gloucester

A gentle cousin, were it light enough.

York

O, then, I see, you will part but with light gifts;

In weightier things you’ll say a beggar nay.

Gloucester

It is too heavy for your grace to wear.

York

I weigh it lightly, were it heavier.

Gloucester

What, would you have my weapon, little lord?

York

I would, that I might thank you as you call me.

Gloucester

How?

York

Little.

Prince Edward

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:

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.

Buckingham

With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons!

To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle,

He prettily and aptly taunts himself:

So cunning and so young is wonderful.

Gloucester

My lord, will’t please you pass along?

Myself and my good cousin Buckingham

Will to your mother, to entreat of her

To meet you at the Tower and welcome you.

York

What, will you go unto the Tower, my lord?

Prince Edward

My lord protector needs will have it so.

York

I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower.

Gloucester

Why, what should you fear?

York

Marry, my uncle Clarence’ angry ghost:

My grandam told me he was murdered there.

Prince Edward

I fear no uncles dead.

Gloucester

Nor none that live, I hope.

Prince Edward

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.

A Sennet. Exeunt all but Gloucester, Buckingham and Catesby

Buckingham

Think you, my lord, this little prating York

Was not incensed by his subtle mother

To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously?

Gloucester

No doubt, no doubt; O, ’tis a parlous boy;

Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable

He is all the mother’s, from the top to toe.

Buckingham

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 urged upon the way;

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?

Catesby

He for his father’s sake so loves the prince,

That he will not be won to aught against him.

Buckingham

What think’st thou, then, of Stanley? what will he?

Catesby

He will do all in all as Hastings doth.

Buckingham

Well, then, no more but this: go, gentle Catesby,

And, as it were far off sound thou Lord Hastings,

How doth he stand affected to our purpose;

And summon him to-morrow to the Tower,

To sit about the coronation.

If thou dost find him tractable to us,

Encourage him, and show him all our reasons:

If he be leaden, icy-cold, unwilling,

Be thou so too; and so break off your talk,

And give us notice of his inclination:

For we to-morrow hold divided councils,

Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ’d.

Gloucester

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 friend, for joy of this good news,

Give mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more.

Buckingham

Good Catesby, go, effect this business soundly.

Catesby

My good lords both, with all the heed I may.

Gloucester

Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep?

Catesby

You shall, my lord.

Gloucester

At Crosby Place, there shall you find us both.

Exit Catesby

Buckingham

Now, my lord, what shall we do, if we perceive

Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots?

Gloucester

Chop off his head, man; somewhat we will do:

And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me

The earldom of Hereford, and the moveables

Whereof the king my brother stood possess’d.

Buckingham

I’ll claim that promise at your grace’s hands.

Gloucester

And look to have it yielded with all willingness.

Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards

We may digest our complots in some form.

Exeunt

SCENE II. BEFORE LORD HASTINGS’ HOUSE.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

What, ho! my lord!

Hastings

[Within] Who knocks at the door?

Messenger

A messenger from the Lord Stanley.

Enter Hastings

Hastings

What is’t o’clock?

Messenger

Upon the stroke of four.

Hastings

Cannot thy master sleep these tedious nights?

Messenger

So it should seem by that I have to say.

First, he commends him to your noble lordship.

Hastings

And then?

Messenger

And then he sends you word

He dreamt to-night the boar had razed his helm:

Besides, he says there are two councils held;

And that may be determined at the one

Which may make you and him to rue at the other.

Therefore he sends to know your lordship’s pleasure,

If presently you will take horse with him,

And with all speed post with him toward the north,

To shun the danger that his soul divines.

Hastings

Go, fellow, go, return unto thy lord;

Bid him not fear the separated councils

His honour and myself are at the one,

And at the other is my servant Catesby

Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us

Whereof I shall not have intelligence.

Tell him his fears are shallow, wanting instance:

And for his dreams, I wonder he is so fond

To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers

To fly the boar before the boar pursues,

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,

Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly.

Messenger

My gracious lord, I’ll tell him what you say.

Exit

Enter Catesby

Catesby

Many good morrows to my noble lord!

Hastings

Good morrow, Catesby; you are early stirring

What news, what news, in this our tottering state?

Catesby

It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord;

And I believe twill never stand upright

Till Richard wear the garland of the realm.

Hastings

How! wear the garland! dost thou mean the crown?

Catesby

Ay, my good lord.

Hastings

I’ll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders

Ere I will see the crown so foul misplaced.

But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?

Catesby

Ay, on my life; and hopes to find forward

Upon his party for the gain thereof:

And thereupon he sends you this good news,

That this same very day your enemies,

The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret.

Hastings

Indeed, I am no mourner for that news,

Because they have been still mine enemies:

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.

Catesby

God keep your lordship in that gracious mind!

Hastings

But I shall laugh at this a twelve-month hence,

That they who brought me in my master’s hate

I live to look upon their tragedy.

I tell thee, Catesby —

Catesby

What, my lord?

Hastings

Ere a fortnight make me elder,

I’ll send some packing that yet think not on it.

Catesby

’Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord,

When men are unprepared and look not for it.

Hastings

O monstrous, monstrous! and so falls it out

With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey: and so ’twill do

With some men else, who think themselves as safe

As thou and I; who, as thou know’st, are dear

To princely Richard and to Buckingham.

Catesby

The princes both make high account of you;

Aside

For they account his head upon the bridge.

Hastings

I know they do; and I have well deserved it.

Enter Stanley

Come on, come on; where is your boar-spear, man?

Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided?

Stanley

My lord, good morrow; good morrow, Catesby:

You may jest on, but, by the holy rood,

I do not like these several councils, I.

Hastings

My lord,

I hold my life as dear as you do yours;

And never in my life, I do protest,

Was it more precious to me than ’tis now:

Think you, but that I know our state secure,

I would be so triumphant as I am?

Stanley

The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from London,

Were jocund, and supposed their state was sure,

And they indeed had no cause to mistrust;

But yet, you see how soon the day o’ercast.

This sudden stag of rancour I misdoubt:

Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward!

What, shall we toward the Tower? the day is spent.

Hastings

Come, come, have with you. Wot you what, my lord?

To-day the lords you talk of are beheaded.

Lord Stanley

They, for their truth, might better wear their heads

Than some that have accused them wear their hats.

But come, my lord, let us away.

Enter a Pursuivant

Hastings

Go on before; I’ll talk with this good fellow.

Exeunt Stanley and Catesby

How now, sirrah! how goes the world with thee?

Pursuivant

The better that your lordship please to ask.

Hastings

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;

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.

Pursuivant

God hold it, to your honour’s good content!

Hastings

Gramercy, fellow: there, drink that for me.

Throws him his purse

Pursuivant

God save your lordship!

Exit

Enter a Priest

Priest

Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour.

Hastings

I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my heart.

I am in your debt for your last exercise;

Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you.

He whispers in his ear

Enter Buckingham

Buckingham

What, talking with a priest, lord chamberlain?

Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest;

Your honour hath no shriving work in hand.

Hastings

Good faith, and when I met this holy man,

Those men you talk of came into my mind.

What, go you toward the Tower?

Buckingham

I do, my lord; but long I shall not stay

I shall return before your lordship thence.

Hastings

’Tis like enough, for I stay dinner there.

Buckingham

[Aside] And supper too, although thou know’st it not.

Come, will you go?

Hastings

I’ll wait upon your lordship.

Exeunt

SCENE III. POMFRET CASTLE.

Enter Ratcliff, with halberds, carrying Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan to death

Ratcliff

Come, bring forth the prisoners.

Rivers

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 keep the prince from all the pack of you!

A knot you are of damned blood-suckers!

Vaughan

You live that shall cry woe for this after.

Ratcliff

Dispatch; the limit of your lives is out.

Rivers

O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison,

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,

We give thee up our guiltless blood to drink.

Grey

Now Margaret’s curse is fall’n upon our heads,

For standing by when Richard stabb’d her son.

Rivers

Then cursed she Hastings, then cursed she Buckingham,

Then cursed she Richard. O, remember, God

To hear her prayers for them, as now for us

And for my sister and her princely sons,

Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood,

Which, as thou know’st, unjustly must be spilt.

Ratcliff

Make haste; the hour of death is expiate.

Rivers

Come, Grey, come, Vaughan, let us all embrace:

And take our leave, until we meet in heaven.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. THE TOWER OF LONDON.

Enter Buckingham, Derby, Hastings, the Bishop Of Ely, Ratcliff, Lovel, with others, and take their seats at a table

Hastings

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?

Buckingham

Are all things fitting for that royal time?

Derby

It is, and wants but nomination.

Bishop Of Ely

To-morrow, then, I judge a happy day.

Buckingham

Who knows the lord protector’s mind herein?

Who is most inward with the royal duke?

Bishop Of Ely

Your grace, we think, should soonest know his mind.

Buckingham

Who, I, my lord I we know each other’s faces,

But for our hearts, he knows no more of mine,

Than I of yours;

Nor I no more of his, than you of mine.

Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love.

Hastings

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

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.

Enter Gloucester

Bishop Of Ely

Now in good time, here comes the duke himself.

Gloucester

My noble lords and cousins all, good morrow.

I have been long a sleeper; but, I hope,

My absence doth neglect no great designs,

Which by my presence might have been concluded.

Buckingham

Had not you come upon your cue, my lord

William Lord Hastings had pronounced your part,—

I mean, your voice,— for crowning of the king.

Gloucester

Than my Lord Hastings no man might be bolder;

His lordship knows me well, and loves me well.

Hastings

I thank your grace.

Gloucester

My lord of Ely!

Bishop Of Ely

My lord?

Gloucester

When I was last in Holborn,

I saw good strawberries in your garden there

I do beseech you send for some of them.

Bishop Of Ely

Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart.

Exit

Gloucester

Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.

Drawing him aside

Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business,

And finds the testy gentleman so hot,

As he will lose his head ere give consent

His master’s son, as worshipful as he terms it,

Shall lose the royalty of England’s throne.

Buckingham

Withdraw you hence, my lord, I’ll follow you.

Exit Gloucester, Buckingham following

Derby

We have not yet set down this day of triumph.

To-morrow, in mine opinion, is too sudden;

For I myself am not so well provided

As else I would be, were the day prolong’d.

Re-enter Bishop Of Ely

Bishop Of Ely

Where is my lord protector? I have sent for these strawberries.

Hastings

His grace looks cheerfully and smooth to-day;

There’s some conceit or other likes him well,

When he doth bid good morrow with such a spirit.

I think there’s never a man in Christendom

That can less hide his love or hate than he;

For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

Derby

What of his heart perceive you in his face

By any likelihood he show’d to-day?

Hastings

Marry, that with no man here he is offended;

For, were he, he had shown it in his looks.

Derby

I pray God he be not, I say.

Re-enter Gloucester and Buckingham

Gloucester

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

Upon my body with their hellish charms?

Hastings

The tender love I bear your grace, my lord,

Makes me most forward in this noble presence

To doom the offenders, whatsoever they be

I say, my lord, they have deserved death.

Gloucester

Then be your eyes the witness of this ill:

See how I am bewitch’d; behold mine arm

Is, like a blasted sapling, wither’d up:

And this is Edward’s wife, that monstrous witch,

Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore,

That by their witchcraft thus have marked me.

Hastings

If they have done this thing, my gracious lord —

Gloucester

If I thou protector of this damned strumpet —

Tellest thou 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.

Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done:

The rest, that love me, rise and follow me.

Exeunt all but Hastings, Ratcliff, and Lovel

Hastings

Woe, woe for England! not a whit for me;

For I, too fond, might have prevented this.

Stanley did dream the boar did raze his helm;

But I disdain’d it, and did scorn to fly:

Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble,

And startled, when he look’d upon the Tower,

As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house.

O, now I want the priest that spake to me:

I now repent I told the pursuivant

As ’twere triumphing at mine enemies,

How they 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!

Ratcliff

Dispatch, my lord; the duke would be at dinner:

Make a short shrift; he longs to see your head.

Hastings

O momentary grace of mortal men,

Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!

Who builds his hopes 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.

Lovel

Come, come, dispatch; ’tis bootless to exclaim.

Hastings

O bloody Richard! miserable England!

I prophesy the fearful’st time to thee

That ever wretched age hath look’d upon.

Come, lead me to the block; bear him my head.

They smile at me that shortly shall be dead.

Exeunt

SCENE V. THE TOWER-WALLS.

Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, in rotten armour, marvellous ill-favoured

Gloucester

Come, cousin, canst thou quake, and change thy colour,

Murder thy breath in the middle of a word,

And then begin again, and stop again,

As if thou wert distraught and mad with terror?

Buckingham

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

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?

Gloucester

He is; and, see, he brings the mayor along.

Enter the Lord Mayor and Catesby

Buckingham

Lord mayor,—

Gloucester

Look to the drawbridge there!

Buckingham

Hark! a drum.

Gloucester

Catesby, o’erlook the walls.

Buckingham

Lord mayor, the reason we have sent —

Gloucester

Look back, defend thee, here are enemies.

Buckingham

God and our innocency defend and guard us!

Gloucester

Be patient, they are friends, Ratcliff and Lovel.

Enter Lovel and Ratcliff, with Hastings’ head

Lovel

Here is the head of that ignoble traitor,

The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings.

Gloucester

So dear I loved the man, that I must weep.

I took him for the plainest harmless creature

That breathed upon this 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,

That, his apparent open guilt omitted,

I mean, his conversation with Shore’s wife,

He lived from all attainder of suspect.

Buckingham

Well, well, he was the covert’st shelter’d traitor

That ever lived.

Would you imagine, or almost believe,

Were’t not that, by great preservation,

We live to tell it you, the subtle traitor

This day had plotted, in the council-house

To murder me and my good Lord of Gloucester?

Lord Mayor

What, had he so?

Gloucester

What, think You we are Turks or infidels?

Or that we would, against the form of law,

Proceed thus rashly to the villain’s death,

But that the extreme peril of the case,

The peace of England and our persons’ safety,

Enforced us to this execution?

Lord Mayor

Now, fair befall you! he deserved his death;

And you my good lords, both have well proceeded,

To warn false traitors from the like attempts.

I never look’d for better at his hands,

After he once fell in with Mistress Shore.

Gloucester

Yet had not we determined he should die,

Until your lordship came to see his death;

Which now the loving haste of these our friends,

Somewhat against our meaning, have prevented:

Because, my lord, we would have had you heard

The traitor speak, and timorously confess

The manner and the purpose of his treason;

That you might well have signified the same

Unto the citizens, who haply may

Misconstrue us in him and wail his death.

Lord Mayor

But, my good lord, your grace’s word shall serve,

As well as I had seen and heard him speak

And doubt you not, right noble princes both,

But I’ll acquaint our duteous citizens

With all your just proceedings in this cause.

Gloucester

And to that end we wish’d your lord-ship here,

To avoid the carping censures of the world.

Buckingham

But since you come too late of our intents,

Yet witness what you hear we did intend:

And so, my good lord mayor, we bid farewell.

Exit Lord Mayor

Gloucester

Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham.

The mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post:

There, at your meet’st advantage 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

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;

Which stretched to their servants, daughters, wives,

Even where his lustful eye or savage heart,

Without control, listed to make his prey.

Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person:

Tell them, when that my mother went with child

Of that unsatiate Edward, noble York

My princely father then had wars in France

And, by just computation of the time,

Found that the issue was not his begot;

Which well appeared in his lineaments,

Being nothing like the noble duke my father:

But touch this sparingly, as ’twere far off,

Because you know, my lord, my mother lives.

Buckingham

Fear 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.

Gloucester

If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard’s Castle;

Where you shall find me well accompanied

With reverend fathers and well-learned bishops.

Buckingham

I go: and towards three or four o’clock

Look for the news that the Guildhall affords.

Exit Buckingham

Gloucester

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 all but Gloucester

Now will I in, to take some privy order,

To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight;

And to give notice, that no manner of person

At any time have recourse unto the princes.

Exit

SCENE VI. THE SAME.

Enter a Scrivener, with a paper in his hand

Scrivener

This is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings;

Which in a set hand fairly is engross’d,

That it may be this day read over in Paul’s.

And mark how well the sequel hangs together:

Eleven hours I spent to write it over,

For yesternight by Catesby was it brought me;

The precedent was full as long a-doing:

And yet within these five hours lived Lord Hastings,

Untainted, unexamined, free, at liberty

Here’s a good world the while! Why who’s so gross,

That seeth not this palpable device?

Yet who’s so blind, but says he sees it not?

Bad is the world; and all will come to nought,

When such bad dealings must be seen in thought.

Exit

SCENE VII. BAYNARD’S CASTLE.

Enter Gloucester and Buckingham, at several doors

Gloucester

How now, my lord, what say the citizens?

Buckingham

Now, by the holy mother of our Lord,

The citizens are mum and speak not a word.

Gloucester

Touch’d you the bastardy of Edward’s children?

Buckingham

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;

His tyranny for trifles; his own bastardy,

As being got, your father then in France,

His resemblance, being not like the duke;

Withal I did infer your lineaments,

Being the right idea of your father,

Both in your form and nobleness of mind;

Laid open all your victories in Scotland,

Your dicipline in war, wisdom in peace,

Your bounty, virtue, fair humility:

Indeed, left nothing fitting for the purpose

Untouch’d, or slightly handled, in discourse

And when mine oratory grew to an end

I bid them that did love their country’s good

Cry ‘God save Richard, England’s royal king!’

Gloucester

Ah! and did they so?

Buckingham

No, so God help me, they spake not a word;

But, like dumb statues or breathing stones,

Gazed 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:

His answer was, the people were not wont

To be spoke to but by the recorder.

Then he was urged to tell my tale again,

‘Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferr’d;’

But nothing spake in warrant from himself.

When he had done, some followers of mine own,

At the lower end of the hall, hurl’d up their caps,

And some ten voices cried ‘God save King Richard!’

And thus I took the vantage of those few,

‘Thanks, gentle citizens and friends,’ quoth I;

‘This general applause and loving shout

Argues your wisdoms and your love to Richard:’

And even here brake off, and came away.

Gloucester

What tongueless blocks were they! would not they speak?

Buckingham

No, by my troth, my lord.

Gloucester

Will not the mayor then and his brethren come?

Buckingham

The mayor is here at hand: intend some fear;

Be not you spoke with, but by mighty suit:

And look you get a prayer-book in your hand,

And stand betwixt two churchmen, good my lord;

For on that ground I’ll build a holy descant:

And be not easily won to our request:

Play the maid’s part, still answer nay, and take it.

Gloucester

I go; and if you plead as well for them

As I can say nay to thee for myself,

No doubt well bring it to a happy issue.

Buckingham

Go, go, up to the leads; the lord mayor knocks.

Exit Gloucester

Enter the Lord Mayor and Citizens

Welcome my lord; I dance attendance here;

I think the duke will not be spoke withal.

Enter Catesby

Here comes his servant: how now, Catesby,

What says he?

Catesby

My lord: he doth entreat your grace;

To visit him to-morrow or next day:

He is within, with two right reverend fathers,

Divinely bent to meditation;

And no worldly suit would he be moved,

To draw him from his holy exercise.

Buckingham

Return, good Catesby, to thy lord again;

Tell him, myself, the mayor and citizens,

In deep designs and matters of great moment,

No less importing than our general good,

Are come to have some conference with his grace.

Catesby

I’ll tell him what you say, my lord.

Exit

Buckingham

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;

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:

Happy were England, would this gracious prince

Take on himself the sovereignty thereof:

But, sure, I fear, we shall ne’er win him to it.

Lord Mayor

Marry, God forbid his grace should say us nay!

Buckingham

I fear he will.

Re-enter Catesby

How now, Catesby, what says your lord?

Catesby

My lord,

He wonders to what end you have assembled

Such troops of citizens to speak with him,

His grace not being warn’d thereof before:

My lord, he fears you mean no good to him.

Buckingham

Sorry I am my noble cousin should

Suspect me, that I mean no good to him:

By heaven, I come in perfect love to him;

And so once more return and tell his grace.

Exit Catesby

When holy and devout religious men

Are at their beads, ’tis hard to draw them thence,

So sweet is zealous contemplation.

Enter Gloucester aloft, between two Bishops. Catesby returns

Lord Mayor

See, where he stands between two clergymen!

Buckingham

Two props of virtue for a Christian prince,

To stay him from the fall of vanity:

And, see, a book of prayer in his hand,

True ornaments to know a holy man.

Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince,

Lend favourable ears to our request;

And pardon us the interruption

Of thy devotion and right Christian zeal.

Gloucester

My lord, there needs no such apology:

I rather do beseech you pardon me,

Who, earnest in the service of my God,

Neglect the visitation of my friends.

But, leaving this, what is your grace’s pleasure?

Buckingham

Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above,

And all good men of this ungovern’d isle.

Gloucester

I do suspect I have done some offence

That seems disgracious in the city’s eyes,

And that you come to reprehend my ignorance.

Buckingham

You have, my lord: would it might please your grace,

At our entreaties, to amend that fault!

Gloucester

Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land?

Buckingham

Then know, it is your fault that you resign

The supreme seat, the throne majestical,

The scepter’d office of your ancestors,

Your state of fortune and your due of birth,

The lineal glory of your royal house,

To the corruption of a blemished stock:

Whilst, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts,

Which here we waken to our country’s good,

This noble isle doth want her proper limbs;

Her face defaced with scars of infamy,

Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants,

And almost shoulder’d in the swallowing gulf

Of blind forgetfulness and dark oblivion.

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,

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,

Your very worshipful and loving friends,

And by their vehement instigation,

In this just suit come I to move your grace.

Gloucester

I know not whether to depart in silence,

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

To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty,

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.

Then, on the other side, I cheque’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.

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,

As my ripe revenue and due by birth

Yet so much is my poverty of spirit,

So mighty and so many my defects,

As I had rather hide me from my greatness,

Being a bark to brook no mighty sea,

Than in my greatness covet to be hid,

And in the vapour of my glory smother’d.

But, God be thank’d, there’s no need of me,

And much I need to help you, if need were;

The royal tree hath left us royal fruit,

Which, mellow’d by the stealing hours of time,

Will well become the seat of majesty,

And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign.

On him I lay what you would lay on me,

The right and fortune of his happy stars;

Which God defend that I should wring from him!

Buckingham

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:

So say we too, but not by Edward’s wife;

For first he was contract to Lady Lucy —

Your mother lives a witness to that vow —

And afterward by substitute betroth’d

To Bona, sister to the King of France.

These both put by a poor petitioner,

A care-crazed mother of a many children,

A beauty-waning and distressed widow,

Even in the afternoon of her best days,

Made prize and purchase of his lustful eye,

Seduced the pitch and height of all his thoughts

To base declension and loathed bigamy

By her, in his unlawful bed, he got

This Edward, whom our manners term the prince.

More bitterly could I expostulate,

Save that, for reverence to some alive,

I give a sparing limit to my tongue.

Then, good my lord, take to your royal self

This proffer’d benefit of dignity;

If non to bless us and the land withal,

Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry

From the corruption of abusing times,

Unto a lineal true-derived course.

Lord Mayor

Do, good my lord, your citizens entreat you.

Buckingham

Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer’d love.

Catesby

O, make them joyful, grant their lawful suit!

Gloucester

Alas, why would you heap these cares on me?

I am unfit for state and majesty;

I do beseech you, take it not amiss;

I cannot nor I will not yield to you.

Buckingham

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

And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse,

Which we have noted in you to your kin,

And egally indeed to all estates,—

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:

And in this resolution here we leave you.—

Come, citizens: ’zounds! I’ll entreat no more.

Gloucester

O, do not swear, my lord of Buckingham.

Exit Buckingham with the Citizens

Catesby

Call them again, my lord, and accept their suit.

Another

Do, good my lord, lest all the land do rue it.

Gloucester

Would you enforce me to a world of care?

Well, call them again. I am not made of stone,

But penetrable to your. kind entreats,

Albeit against my conscience and my soul.

Re-enter Buckingham and the rest

Cousin of Buckingham, and you sage, grave men,

Since you will buckle fortune on my back,

To bear her burthen, whether I will or no,

I must have patience to endure the load:

But if black scandal or foul-faced reproach

Attend the sequel of your imposition,

Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me

From all the impure blots and stains thereof;

For God he knows, and you may partly see,

How far I am from the desire thereof.

Lord Mayor

God bless your grace! we see it, and will say it.

Gloucester

In saying so, you shall but say the truth.

Buckingham

Then I salute you with this kingly title:

Long live Richard, England’s royal king!

Lord Mayor

Citizens

Amen.

Buckingham

To-morrow will it please you to be crown’d?

Gloucester

Even when you please, since you will have it so.

Buckingham

To-morrow, then, we will attend your grace:

And so most joyfully we take our leave.

Gloucester

Come, let us to our holy task again.

Farewell, good cousin; farewell, gentle friends.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. BEFORE THE TOWER.

Enter, on one side, Queen Elizabeth, Duchess Of York, and Dorset; on the other, Anne, Duchess of Gloucester, leading Lady Margaret Plantagenet, Clarence’s young Daughter

Duchess Of York

Who m eets us here? my niece Plantagenet

Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester?

Now, for my life, she’s wandering to the Tower,

On pure heart’s love to greet the tender princes.

Daughter, well met.

Lady Anne

God give your graces both

A happy and a joyful time of day!

Queen Elizabeth

As much to you, good sister! Whither away?

Lady Anne

No farther than the Tower; and, as I guess,

Upon the like devotion as yourselves,

To gratulate the gentle princes there.

Queen Elizabeth

Kind sister, thanks: we’ll enter all together.

Enter Brakenbury

And, in good time, here the lieutenant comes.

Master lieutenant, pray you, by your leave,

How doth the prince, and my young son of York?

Brakenbury

Right well, dear madam. By your patience,

I may not suffer you to visit them;

The king hath straitly charged the contrary.

Queen Elizabeth

The king! why, who’s that?

Brakenbury

I cry you mercy: I mean the lord protector.

Queen Elizabeth

The Lord protect him from that kingly title!

Hath he set bounds betwixt their love and me?

I am their mother; who should keep me from them?

Duchess Of York

I am their fathers mother; I will see them.

Lady Anne

Their aunt I am in law, in love their mother:

Then bring me to their sights; I’ll bear thy blame

And take thy office from thee, on my peril.

Brakenbury

No, madam, no; I may not leave it so:

I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me.

Exit

Enter Lord Stanley

Lord Stanley

Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence,

And I’ll salute your grace of York as mother,

And reverend looker on, of two fair queens.

To Lady Anne

Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster,

There to be crowned Richard’s royal queen.

Queen Elizabeth

O, cut my lace in sunder, that my pent heart

May have some scope to beat, or else I swoon

With this dead-killing news!

Lady Anne

Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing news!

Dorset

Be of good cheer: mother, how fares your grace?

Queen Elizabeth

O Dorset, speak not to me, get thee hence!

Death and destruction dog thee at the heels;

Thy mother’s name is ominous to children.

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;

And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse,

Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted queen.

Lord Stanley

Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam.

Take all the swift advantage of the hours;

You shall have letters from me to my son

To meet you on the way, and welcome you.

Be not ta’en tardy by unwise delay.

Duchess Of York

O ill-dispersing wind of misery!

O my accursed womb, the bed of death!

A cockatrice hast thou hatch’d to the world,

Whose unavoided eye is murderous.

Lord Stanley

Come, madam, come; I in all haste was sent.

Lady Anne

And I in all unwillingness will go.

I 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!

Anointed let me be with deadly venom,

And die, ere men can say, God save the queen!

Queen Elizabeth

Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory

To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm.

Lady 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 issued from my other angel husband

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, ‘accursed,

For making me, so young, so old a widow!

And, when thou wed’st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;

And be thy wife — if any be so mad —

As miserable by the life of thee

As thou hast made me by my dear lord’s death!

Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again,

Even in so short a space, my woman’s heart

Grossly grew captive to his honey words

And proved the subject of my own soul’s curse,

Which ever since hath kept my eyes from rest;

For never yet one hour in his bed

Have I enjoy’d the golden dew of sleep,

But have been waked by his timorous dreams.

Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick;

And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.

Queen Elizabeth

Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complaining.

Lady Anne

No more than from my soul I mourn for yours.

Queen Elizabeth

Farewell, thou woful welcomer of glory!

Lady Anne

Adieu, poor soul, that takest thy leave of it!

Duchess Of York

[To Dorset]

Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee!

To Lady Anne

Go thou to Richard, and good angels guard thee!

To Queen 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 wrecked with a week of teen.

Queen Elizabeth

Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower.

Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes

Whom envy hath immured within your walls!

Rough cradle for such little pretty ones!

Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow

For tender princes, use my babies well!

So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell.

Exeunt

SCENE II. LONDON. THE PALACE.

Sennet. Enter King Richard III, in pomp, crowned; Buckingham, Catesby, a page, and others

King Richard III

Stand all apart Cousin of Buckingham!

Buckingham

My gracious sovereign?

King Richard III

Give me thy hand.

Here he ascendeth his throne

Thus high, by thy advice

And thy assistance, is King Richard seated;

But shall we wear these honours for a day?

Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

Buckingham

Still live they and for ever may they last!

King Richard III

O Buckingham, now do I play the touch,

To try if thou be current gold indeed

Young Edward lives: think now what I would say.

Buckingham

Say on, my loving lord.

King Richard III

Why, Buckingham, I say, I would be king,

Buckingham

Why, so you are, my thrice renowned liege.

King Richard III

Ha! am I king? ’tis so: but Edward lives.

Buckingham

True, noble prince.

King Richard III

O bitter consequence,

That Edward still should live! ‘True, noble prince!’

Cousin, thou wert not wont to be so dull:

Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead;

And I would have it suddenly perform’d.

What sayest thou? speak suddenly; be brief.

Buckingham

Your grace may do your pleasure.

King Richard III

Tut, tut, thou art all ice, thy kindness freezeth:

Say, have I thy consent that they shall die?

Buckingham

Give me some breath, some little pause, my lord

Before I positively herein:

I will resolve your grace immediately.

Exit

Catesby

[Aside to a stander by]

The king is angry: see, he bites the lip.

King Richard III

I will converse with iron-witted fools

And unrespective boys: none are for me

That look into me with considerate eyes:

High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.

Boy!

Page

My lord?

King Richard III

Know’st thou not any whom corrupting gold

Would tempt unto a close exploit of death?

Page

My lord, I know a discontented gentleman,

Whose humble means match not his haughty mind:

Gold were as good as twenty orators,

And will, no doubt, tempt him to any thing.

King Richard III

What is his name?

Page

His name, my lord, is Tyrrel.

King Richard III

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 untired,

And stops he now for breath?

Enter Stanley

How now! what news with you?

Stanley

My lord, I hear the Marquis Dorset’s fled

To Richmond, in those parts beyond the sea

Where he abides.

Stands apart

King Richard III

Catesby!

Catesby

My lord?

King Richard III

Rumour it abroad

That Anne, my wife, is sick and like to die:

I will take order for her keeping close.

Inquire me out some mean-born 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

That Anne my wife 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,

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:

Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.

Re-enter Page, with Tyrrel

Is thy name Tyrrel?

Tyrrel

James Tyrrel, and your most obedient subject.

King Richard III

Art thou, indeed?

Tyrrel

Prove me, my gracious sovereign.

King Richard III

Darest thou resolve to kill a friend of mine?

Tyrrel

Ay, my lord;

But I had rather kill two enemies.

King Richard III

Why, there 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:

Tyrrel, I mean those bastards in the Tower.

Tyrrel

Let me have open means to come to them,

And soon I’ll rid you from the fear of them.

King Richard III

Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrel

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 too.

Tyrrel

’Tis done, my gracious lord.

King Richard III

Shall we hear from thee, Tyrrel, ere we sleep?

Tyrrel

Ye shall, my Lord.

Exit

Re-enter Buckingham

Buckingham

My Lord, I have consider’d in my mind

The late demand that you did sound me in.

King Richard III

Well, let that pass. Dorset is fled to Richmond.

Buckingham

I hear that news, my lord.

King Richard III

Stanley, he is your wife’s son well, look to it.

Buckingham

My lord, I claim your gift, my due by promise,

For which your honour and your faith is pawn’d;

The earldom of Hereford and the moveables

The which you promised I should possess.

King Richard III

Stanley, look to your wife; if she convey

Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it.

Buckingham

What says your highness to my just demand?

King Richard III

As I remember, Henry the Sixth

Did prophesy that Richmond should be king,

When Richmond was a little peevish boy.

A king, perhaps, perhaps,—

Buckingham

My lord!

King Richard III

How chance the prophet could not at that time

Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him?

Buckingham

My lord, your promise for the earldom,—

King Richard III

Richmond! When last I was at Exeter,

The mayor in courtesy show’d me the castle,

And call’d it Rougemont: at which name I started,

Because a bard of Ireland told me once

I should not live long after I saw Richmond.

Buckingham

My Lord!

King Richard III

Ay, what’s o’clock?

Buckingham

I am thus bold to put your grace in mind

Of what you promised me.

King Richard III

Well, but what’s o’clock?

Buckingham

Upon the stroke of ten.

King Richard III

Well, let it strike.

Buckingham

Why let it strike?

King Richard III

Because that, like a Jack, thou keep’st the stroke

Betwixt thy begging and my meditation.

I am not in the giving vein to-day.

Buckingham

Why, then resolve me whether you will or no.

King Richard III

Tut, tut,

Thou troublest me; am not in the vein.

Exeunt all but Buckingham

Buckingham

Is it even so? rewards he my true service

With such deep contempt made I him king for this?

O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone

To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on!

Exit

SCENE III. THE SAME.

Enter Tyrrel

Tyrrel

The tyrannous and bloody deed is done.

The most arch of piteous massacre

That ever yet this land was guilty of.

Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn

To do this ruthless piece of butchery,

Although they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs,

Melting with tenderness and kind compassion

Wept like two children in their deaths’ sad stories.

‘Lo, thus’ quoth Dighton, ‘lay those tender babes:’

‘Thus, thus,’ quoth Forrest, ‘girdling one another

Within their innocent alabaster arms:

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,

Which in their summer beauty kiss’d each other.

A book of prayers on their pillow lay;

Which once,’ quoth Forrest, ‘almost changed my mind;

But O! the devil’— there the villain stopp’d

Whilst Dighton thus told on: ‘We smothered

The most replenished sweet work of nature,

That from the prime creation e’er she framed.’

Thus both are gone with conscience and remorse;

They could not speak; and so I left them both,

To bring this tidings to the bloody king.

And here he comes.

Enter King Richard III

All hail, my sovereign liege!

King Richard III

Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news?

Tyrrel

If to have done the thing you gave in charge

Beget your happiness, be happy then,

For it is done, my lord.

King Richard III

But didst thou see them dead?

Tyrrel

I did, my lord.

King Richard III

And buried, gentle Tyrrel?

Tyrrel

The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them;

But how or in what place I do not know.

King Richard III

Come to me, Tyrrel, soon at after supper,

And thou shalt tell the process of their death.

Meantime, but think how I may do thee good,

And be inheritor of thy desire.

Farewell till soon.

Exit Tyrrel

The son of Clarence have I pent up close;

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

At young Elizabeth, my brother’s daughter,

And, by that knot, looks proudly o’er the crown,

To her I go, a jolly thriving wooer.

Enter Catesby

Catesby

My lord!

King Richard III

Good news or bad, that thou comest in so bluntly?

Catesby

Bad news, my lord: Ely is fled to Richmond;

And Buckingham, back’d with the hardy Welshmen,

Is in the field, and still his power increaseth.

King Richard III

Ely with Richmond troubles me more near

Than Buckingham and his rash-levied army.

Come, I have heard that fearful commenting

Is leaden servitor to dull delay;

Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary

Then fiery expedition be my wing,

Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king!

Come, muster men: my counsel is my shield;

We must be brief when traitors brave the field.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. BEFORE THE PALACE.

Enter Queen Margaret

Queen Margaret

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 adversaries.

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?

Enter Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess Of York

Queen Elizabeth

Ah, my young 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,

Hover about me with your airy wings

And hear your mother’s lamentation!

Queen Margaret

Hover about her; say, that right for right

Hath dimm’d your infant morn to aged night.

Duchess Of York

So many miseries have crazed my voice,

That my woe-wearied tongue is mute and dumb,

Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?

Queen Margaret

Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet.

Edward for Edward pays a dying debt.

Queen Elizabeth

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?

Queen Margaret

When holy Harry died, and my sweet son.

Duchess Of York

Blind sight, dead life, poor mortal living ghost,

Woe’s scene, world’s shame, grave’s due by life usurp’d,

Brief abstract and record of tedious days,

Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth,

Sitting down

Unlawfully made drunk with innocents’ blood!

Queen Elizabeth

O, that thou wouldst as well afford a grave

As thou canst yield a melancholy seat!

Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here.

O, who hath any cause to mourn but I?

Sitting down by her

Queen Margaret

If ancient sorrow be most reverend,

Give mine the benefit of seniory,

And let my woes 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;

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 killed him;

Duchess Of York

I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him;

I had a Rutland too, thou holp’st to kill him.

Queen Margaret

Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill’d him.

From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept

A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death:

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,

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

Preys on the issue of his mother’s body,

And makes her pew-fellow with others’ moan!

Duchess Of York

O Harry’s wife, triumph not in my woes!

God witness with me, I have wept for thine.

Queen Margaret

Bear with me; I am hungry for revenge,

And now I cloy me with beholding it.

Thy Edward he is dead, that stabb’d my Edward:

Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward;

Young York he is but boot, because both they

Match not the high perfection of my loss:

Thy Clarence he is dead that kill’d my Edward;

And the beholders of this tragic play,

The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey,

Untimely smother’d in their dusky graves.

Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer,

Only reserved their factor, to buy souls

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 away.

Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I prey,

That I may live to say, The dog is dead!

Queen Elizabeth

O, thou didst prophesy the time would come

That I should wish for thee to help me curse

That bottled spider, that foul bunch-back’d toad!

Queen Margaret

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;

The flattering index of a direful pageant;

One heaved a-high, to be hurl’d down below;

A mother only mock’d with two sweet babes;

A dream of what thou wert, a breath, a bubble,

A sign of dignity, a garish flag,

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?

Where are thy children? wherein dost thou, joy?

Who sues to thee and cries ‘God save the queen’?

Where be the bending peers that flatter’d thee?

Where be the thronging troops that follow’d thee?

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 queen, a very caitiff crown’d with care;

For one being sued to, one that humbly sues;

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.

Thus hath the course of justice wheel’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?

Now thy proud neck bears half my burthen’d yoke;

From which even here I slip my weary neck,

And leave the burthen of it all on thee.

Farewell, York’s wife, and queen of sad mischance:

These English woes will make me smile in France.

Queen Elizabeth

O thou well skill’d in curses, stay awhile,

And teach me how to curse mine enemies!

Queen Margaret

Forbear to sleep the nights, and fast the days;

Compare dead happiness with living woe;

Think that thy babes were fairer than they were,

And he that slew them fouler than he is:

Bettering thy loss makes the bad causer worse:

Revolving this will teach thee how to curse.

Queen Elizabeth

My words are dull; O, quicken them with thine!

Queen Margaret

Thy woes will make them sharp, and pierce like mine.

Exit

Duchess Of York

Why should calamity be full of words?

Queen Elizabeth

Windy attorneys to their client woes,

Airy succeeders of intestate joys,

Poor breathing orators of miseries!

Let them have scope: though what they do impart

Help not all, yet do they ease the heart.

Duchess Of York

If so, then be not tongue-tied: go with me.

And in the breath of bitter words let’s smother

My damned son, which thy two sweet sons smother’d.

I hear his drum: be copious in exclaims.

Enter King Richard III, marching, with drums and trumpets

King Richard III

Who intercepts my expedition?

Duchess Of York

O, she that might have intercepted thee,

By strangling thee in her accursed womb

From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done!

Queen Elizabeth

Hidest thou that forehead with a golden crown,

Where should be graven, if that right were right,

The slaughter of the prince that owed that crown,

And the dire death of my two sons and brothers?

Tell me, thou villain slave, where are my children?

Duchess Of York

Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence?

And little Ned Plantagenet, his son?

Queen Elizabeth

Where is kind Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey?

King Richard III

A flourish, trumpets! strike alarum, drums!

Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women

Rail on the Lord’s enointed: strike, I say!

Flourish. Alarums

Either be patient, and entreat me fair,

Or with the clamorous report of war

Thus will I drown your exclamations.

Duchess Of York

Art thou my son?

King Richard III

Ay, I thank God, my father, and yourself.

Duchess Of York

Then patiently hear my impatience.

King Richard III

Madam, I have a touch of your condition,

Which cannot brook the accent of reproof.

Duchess Of York

O, let me speak!

King Richard III

Do then: but I’ll not hear.

Duchess Of York

I will be mild and gentle in my speech.

King Richard III

And brief, good mother; for I am in haste.

Duchess Of York

Art thou so hasty? I have stay’d for thee,

God knows, in anguish, pain and agony.

King Richard III

And came I not at last to comfort you?

Duchess Of York

No, by the holy rood, thou know’st it well,

Thou camest on earth to make the earth my hell.

A grievous burthen was thy birth to me;

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, subdued, bloody, treacherous,

More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred:

What comfortable hour canst thou name,

That ever graced me in thy company?

King Richard III

Faith, none, but Humphrey Hour, that call’d your grace

To breakfast once forth of my company.

If I be so disgracious in your sight,

Let me march on, and not offend your grace.

Strike the drum.

Duchess Of York

I prithee, hear me speak.

King Richard III

You speak too bitterly.

Duchess Of York

Hear me a word;

For I shall never speak to thee again.

King Richard III

So.

Duchess Of York

Either thou wilt die, by God’s just ordinance,

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 heavy curse;

Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more

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

And promise them success and victory.

Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end;

Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend.

Exit

Queen Elizabeth

Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse

Abides in me; I say amen to all.

King Richard III

Stay, madam; I must speak a word with you.

Queen Elizabeth

I have no more sons of the royal blood

For thee to murder: for my daughters, Richard,

They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens;

And therefore level not to hit their lives.

King Richard III

You have a daughter call’d Elizabeth,

Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.

Queen Elizabeth

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;

Throw over her the veil of infamy:

So she may live unscarr’d of bleeding slaughter,

I will confess she was not Edward’s daughter.

King Richard III

Wrong not her birth, she is of royal blood.

Queen Elizabeth

To save her life, I’ll say she is not so.

King Richard III

Her life is only safest in her birth.

Queen Elizabeth

And only in that safety died her brothers.

King Richard III

Lo, at their births good stars were opposite.

Queen Elizabeth

No, to their lives bad friends were contrary.

King Richard III

All unavoided is the doom of destiny.

Queen Elizabeth

True, when avoided grace makes destiny:

My babes were destined to a fairer death,

If grace had bless’d thee with a fairer life.

King Richard III

You speak as if that I had slain my cousins.

Queen Elizabeth

Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle cozen’d

Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life.

Whose hand soever lanced 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,

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,

Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft,

Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom.

King Richard III

Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise

And dangerous success of bloody wars,

As I intend more good to you and yours,

Than ever you or yours were by me wrong’d!

Queen Elizabeth

What good is cover’d with the face of heaven,

To be discover’d, that can do me good?

King Richard III

The advancement of your children, gentle lady.

Queen Elizabeth

Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads?

King Richard III

No, to the dignity and height of honour

The high imperial type of this earth’s glory.

Queen Elizabeth

Flatter my sorrows with report of it;

Tell me what state, what dignity, what honour,

Canst thou demise to any child of mine?

King Richard III

Even all I have; yea, and myself and all,

Will I withal endow a child of thine;

So in the Lethe of thy angry soul

Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs

Which thou supposest I have done to thee.

Queen Elizabeth

Be brief, lest that be process of thy kindness

Last longer telling than thy kindness’ date.

King Richard III

Then know, that from my soul I love thy daughter.

Queen Elizabeth

My daughter’s mother thinks it with her soul.

King Richard III

What do you think?

Queen Elizabeth

That thou dost love my daughter from thy soul:

So from thy soul’s love didst thou love her brothers;

And from my heart’s love I do thank thee for it.

King Richard III

Be not so hasty to confound my meaning:

I mean, that with my soul I love thy daughter,

And mean to make her queen of England.

Queen Elizabeth

Say then, who dost thou mean shall be her king?

King Richard III

Even he that makes her queen who should be else?

Queen Elizabeth

What, thou?

King Richard III

I, even I: what think you of it, madam?

Queen Elizabeth

How canst thou woo her?

King Richard III

That would I learn of you,

As one that are best acquainted with her humour.

Queen Elizabeth

And wilt thou learn of me?

King Richard III

Madam, with all my heart.

Queen Elizabeth

Send to her, by the man that slew her brothers,

A pair of bleeding-hearts; thereon engrave

Edward and York; then haply she will weep:

Therefore present to her — as sometime Margaret

Did to thy father, steep’d in Rutland’s blood,—

A handkerchief; which, say to her, did drain

The purple sap from her sweet brother’s body

And bid her dry her weeping eyes therewith.

If this inducement force her not to love,

Send her a story of thy noble acts;

Tell her thou madest away her uncle Clarence,

Her uncle Rivers; yea, and, for her sake,

Madest quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne.

King Richard III

Come, come, you mock me; this is not the way

To win our daughter.

Queen Elizabeth

There is no other way

Unless thou couldst put on some other shape,

And not be Richard that hath done all this.

King Richard III

Say that I did all this for love of her.

Queen Elizabeth

Nay, then indeed she cannot choose but hate thee,

Having bought love with such a bloody spoil.

King Richard III

Look, what is done cannot be now amended:

Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes,

Which after hours give leisure to repent.

If I did take the kingdom from your sons,

To make amends, Ill give it to your daughter.

If I have kill’d the issue of your womb,

To quicken your increase, I will beget

Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter

A grandam’s name is little less in love

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 an one pain, save for a night of groans

Endured 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,

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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,

And she shall be sole victress, Caesar’s Caesar.

Queen Elizabeth

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?

Under what title shall I woo for thee,

That God, the law, my honour and her love,

Can make seem pleasing to her tender years?

King Richard III

Infer fair England’s peace by this alliance.

Queen Elizabeth

Which she shall purchase with still lasting war.

King Richard III

Say that the king, which may command, entreats.

Queen Elizabeth

That at her hands which the king’s King forbids.

King Richard III

Say, she shall be a high and mighty queen.

Queen Elizabeth

To wail the tide, as her mother doth.

King Richard III

Say, I will love her everlastingly.

Queen Elizabeth

But how long shall that title ‘ever’ last?

King Richard III

Sweetly in force unto her fair life’s end.

Queen Elizabeth

But how long fairly shall her sweet lie last?

King Richard III

So long as heaven and nature lengthens it.

Queen Elizabeth

So long as hell and Richard likes of it.

King Richard III

Say, I, her sovereign, am her subject love.

Queen Elizabeth

But she, your subject, loathes such sovereignty.

King Richard III

Be eloquent in my behalf to her.

Queen Elizabeth

An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.

King Richard III

Then in plain terms tell her my loving tale.

Queen Elizabeth

Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.

King Richard III

Your reasons are too shallow and too quick.

Queen Elizabeth

O no, my reasons are too deep and dead;

Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their grave.

King Richard III

Harp not on that string, madam; that is past.

Queen Elizabeth

Harp on it still shall I till heart-strings break.

King Richard III

Now, by my George, my garter, and my crown,—

Queen Elizabeth

Profaned, dishonour’d, and the third usurp’d.

King Richard III

I swear —

Queen Elizabeth

By nothing; for this is no oath:

The George, profaned, hath lost his holy honour;

The garter, blemish’d, pawn’d his knightly virtue;

The crown, usurp’d, disgraced his kingly glory.

If something thou wilt swear to be believed,

Swear then by something that thou hast not wrong’d.

King Richard III

Now, by the world —

Queen Elizabeth

’Tis full of thy foul wrongs.

King Richard III

My father’s death —

Queen Elizabeth

Thy life hath that dishonour’d.

King Richard III

Then, by myself —

Queen Elizabeth

Thyself thyself misusest.

King Richard III

Why then, by God —

Queen Elizabeth

God’s wrong is most of all.

If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by Him,

The unity the king thy brother made

Had not been broken, nor my brother slain:

If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by Him,

The imperial metal, circling now thy brow,

Had graced the tender temples of my child,

And both the princes had been breathing here,

Which now, two tender playfellows to dust,

Thy broken faith hath made a prey for worms.

What canst thou swear by now?

King Richard III

The time to come.

Queen Elizabeth

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,

Ungovern’d youth, to wail it in their age;

The parents live, whose children thou hast butcher’d,

Old wither’d plants, to wail it with their age.

Swear not by time to come; for that thou hast

Misused ere used, by time misused o’erpast.

King Richard III

As I intend to prosper and repent,

So thrive I in my dangerous attempt

Of hostile arms! myself myself confound!

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 proceedings, if, with pure heart’s love,

Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts,

I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter!

In her consists my happiness and thine;

Without her, follows to this land and me,

To thee, herself, 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.

Therefore, good mother,— I must can 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:

Urge the necessity and state of times,

And be not peevish-fond in great designs.

Queen Elizabeth

Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?

King Richard III

Ay, if the devil tempt thee to do good.

Queen Elizabeth

Shall I forget myself to be myself?

King Richard III

Ay, if yourself’s remembrance wrong yourself.

Queen Elizabeth

But thou didst kill my children.

King Richard III

But in your daughter’s womb I bury them:

Where in that nest of spicery they shall breed

Selves of themselves, to your recomforture.

Queen Elizabeth

Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?

King Richard III

And be a happy mother by the deed.

Queen Elizabeth

I go. Write to me very shortly.

And you shall understand from me her mind.

King Richard III

Bear her my true love’s kiss; and so, farewell.

Exit Queen Elizabeth

Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman!

Enter Ratcliff; Catesby following

How now! what news?

Ratcliff

My gracious sovereign, on the western coast

Rideth a puissant navy; to the shore

Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends,

Unarm’d, and unresolved to beat them back:

’Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral;

And there they hull, expecting but the aid

Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore.

King Richard III

Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Norfolk:

Ratcliff, thyself, or Catesby; where is he?

Catesby

Here, my lord.

King Richard III

Fly to the duke:

To Ratcliff

Post thou to Salisbury

When thou comest thither —

To Catesby

Dull, unmindful villain,

Why stand’st thou still, and go’st not to the duke?

Catesby

First, mighty sovereign, let me know your mind,

What from your grace I shall deliver to him.

King Richard III

O, true, good Catesby: bid him levy straight

The greatest strength and power he can make,

And meet me presently at Salisbury.

Catesby

I go.

Exit

Ratcliff

What is’t your highness’ pleasure I shall do at

Salisbury?

King Richard III

Why, what wouldst thou do there before I go?

Ratcliff

Your highness told me I should post before.

King Richard III

My mind is changed, sir, my mind is changed.

Enter Stanley

How now, what news with you?

Stanley

None good, my lord, to please you with the hearing;

Nor none so bad, but it may well be told.

King Richard III

Hoyday, a riddle! neither good nor bad!

Why dost thou run so many mile about,

When thou mayst tell thy tale a nearer way?

Once more, what news?

Stanley

Richmond is on the seas.

King Richard III

There let him sink, and be the seas on him!

White-liver’d runagate, what doth he there?

Stanley

I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess.

King Richard III

Well, sir, as you guess, as you guess?

Stanley

Stirr’d up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Ely,

He makes for England, there to claim the crown.

King Richard III

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?

And who is England’s king but great York’s heir?

Then, tell me, what doth he upon the sea?

Stanley

Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess.

King Richard III

Unless for that he comes to be your liege,

You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes.

Thou wilt revolt, and fly to him, I fear.

Stanley

No, mighty liege; therefore mistrust me not.

King Richard III

Where is thy power, then, to beat him back?

Where are thy tenants and thy followers?

Are they not now upon the western shore.

Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships!

Stanley

No, my good lord, my friends are in the north.

King Richard III

Cold friends to Richard: what do they in the north,

When they should serve their sovereign in the west?

Stanley

They have not been commanded, mighty sovereign:

Please it your majesty to give me leave,

I’ll muster up my friends, and meet your grace

Where and what time your majesty shall please.

King Richard III

Ay, ay. thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond:

I will not trust you, sir.

Stanley

Most mighty sovereign,

You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful:

I never was nor never will be false.

King Richard III

Well,

Go muster men; but, hear you, leave behind

Your son, George Stanley: look your faith be firm.

Or else his head’s assurance is but frail.

Stanley

So deal with him as I prove true to you.

Exit

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire,

As I by friends am well advertised,

Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate

Bishop of Exeter, his brother there,

With many more confederates, are in arms.

Enter another Messenger

Second Messenger

My liege, in Kent the Guildfords are in arms;

And every hour more competitors

Flock to their aid, and still their power increaseth.

Enter another Messenger

Third Messenger

My lord, the army of the Duke of Buckingham —

King Richard III

Out on you, owls! nothing but songs of death?

He striketh him

Take that, until thou bring me better news.

Third Messenger

The news I have to tell your majesty

Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters,

Buckingham’s army is dispersed and scatter’d;

And he himself wander’d away alone,

No man knows whither.

King Richard III

I cry thee mercy:

There is my purse to cure that blow of thine.

Hath any well-advised friend proclaim’d

Reward to him that brings the traitor in?

Third Messenger

Such proclamation hath been made, my liege.

Enter another Messenger

Fourth Messenger

Sir Thomas Lovel and Lord Marquis Dorset,

’Tis said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms.

Yet this good comfort bring I to your grace,

The Breton navy is dispersed by tempest:

Richmond, in Yorkshire, sent out a boat

Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks

If they were his assistants, yea or no;

Who answer’d him, they came from Buckingham.

Upon his party: he, mistrusting them,

Hoisted sail and made away for Brittany.

King Richard III

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

Catesby

My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken;

That is the best news: that the Earl of Richmond

Is with a mighty power landed at Milford,

Is colder tidings, yet they must be told.

King Richard III

Away towards Salisbury! while we reason here,

A royal battle might be won and lost

Some one take order Buckingham be brought

To Salisbury; the rest march on with me.

Flourish. Exeunt

SCENE V. LORD DERBY’S HOUSE.

Enter Derby and Sir Christopher Urswick

Derby

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;

The fear of that withholds my present aid.

But, tell me, where is princely Richmond now?

Christopher

At Pembroke, or at Harford-west, in Wales.

Derby

What men of name resort to him?

Christopher

Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier;

Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley;

Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt,

And Rice ap Thomas with a valiant crew;

And many more of noble fame and worth:

And towards London they do bend their course,

If by the way they be not fought withal.

Derby

Return unto thy lord; commend me to him:

Tell him the queen hath heartily consented

He shall espouse Elizabeth her daughter.

These letters will resolve him of my mind. Farewell.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. SALISBURY. AN OPEN PLACE.

Enter the Sheriff, and Buckingham, with halberds, led to execution

Buckingham

Will not King Richard let me speak with him?

Sheriff

No, my good lord; therefore be patient.

Buckingham

Hastings, and Edward’s children, Rivers, Grey,

Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward,

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!

This is All-Souls’ day, fellows, is it not?

Sheriff

It is, my lord.

Buckingham

Why, then All-Souls’ day is my body’s doomsday.

This is the day that, in King Edward’s time,

I wish’t 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

By the false faith of him I trusted most;

This, this All-Souls’ day to my fearful soul

Is the determined respite of my wrongs:

That high All-Seer that I dallied with

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:

Now Margaret’s curse is fallen upon my head;

‘When he,’ quoth she, ‘shall split thy heart with sorrow,

Remember Margaret was a prophetess.’

Come, sirs, convey me to the block of shame;

Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE CAMP NEAR TAMWORTH.

Enter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Herbert, and others, with drum and colours

Richmond

Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends,

Bruised underneath the yoke of tyranny,

Thus far into the bowels of the land

Have we march’d on without impediment;

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,

Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough

In your embowell’d bosoms, this foul swine

Lies now even in the centre of this isle,

Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn

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.

Oxford

Every man’s conscience is a thousand swords,

To fight against that bloody homicide.

Herbert

I doubt not but his friends will fly to us.

Blunt

He hath no friends but who are friends for fear.

Which in his greatest need will shrink from him.

Richmond

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 III in arms, with Norfolk, Surrey, and others

King Richard III

Here pitch our tents, even here in Bosworth field.

My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad?

Surrey

My heart is ten times lighter than my looks.

King Richard III

My Lord of Norfolk,—

Norfolk

Here, most gracious liege.

King Richard III

Norfolk, we must have knocks; ha! must we not?

Norfolk

We must both give and take, my gracious lord.

King Richard III

Up with my tent there! here will I lie tonight;

But where to-morrow? Well, all’s one for that.

Who hath descried the number of the foe?

Norfolk

Six or seven thousand is their utmost power.

King Richard III

Why, our battalion trebles that account:

Besides, the king’s name is a tower of strength,

Which they upon the adverse party want.

Up with my tent there! Valiant gentlemen,

Let us survey the vantage of the field

Call for some men of sound direction

Let’s want 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 others. Some of the Soldiers pitch Richmond’s tent

Richmond

The weary sun hath made a golden set,

And by the bright track of his fiery car,

Gives signal, 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,

Limit each leader to his several charge,

And part in just proportion our small strength.

My Lord of Oxford, you, Sir William Brandon,

And you, Sir Walter Herbert, stay with me.

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:

Yet one thing more, good Blunt, before thou go’st,

Where is Lord Stanley quarter’d, dost thou know?

Blunt

Unless I have mista’en his colours much,

Which well I am assured I have not done,

His regiment lies half a mile at least

South from the mighty power of the king.

Richmond

If without peril it be possible,

Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to him,

And give him from me this most needful scroll.

Blunt

Upon my life, my lord, I’ll under-take it;

And so, God give you quiet rest to-night!

Richmond

Good night, good Captain Blunt. Come gentlemen,

Let us consult upon to-morrow’s business

In to our tent; the air is raw and cold.

They withdraw into the tent

Enter, to his tent, King Richard III, Norfolk, Ratcliff, Catesby, and others

King Richard III

What is’t o’clock?

Catesby

It’s supper-time, my lord;

It’s nine o’clock.

King Richard III

I will not sup to-night.

Give me some ink and paper.

What, is my beaver easier than it was?

And all my armour laid into my tent?

Catesby

If is, my liege; and all things are in readiness.

King Richard III

Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge;

Use careful watch, choose trusty sentinels.

Norfolk

I go, my lord.

King Richard III

Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle Norfolk.

Norfolk

I warrant you, my lord.

Exit

King Richard III

Catesby!

Catesby

My lord?

King Richard III

Send out a pursuivant at arms

To Stanley’s regiment; bid him bring his power

Before sunrising, lest his son George fall

Into the blind cave of eternal night.

Exit Catesby

Fill me a bowl of wine. Give me a watch.

Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow.

Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy.

Ratcliff!

Ratcliff

My lord?

King Richard III

Saw’st thou the melancholy Lord Northumberland?

Ratcliff

Thomas the Earl of Surrey, and himself,

Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop

Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers.

King Richard III

So, I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of wine:

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?

Ratcliff

It is, my lord.

King Richard III

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.

Exeunt Ratcliff and the other Attendants

Enter Derby to Richmond in his tent, Lords and others attending

Derby

Fortune and victory sit on thy helm!

Richmond

All comfort that the dark night can afford

Be to thy person, noble father-in-law!

Tell me, how fares our loving mother?

Derby

I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother

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,—

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,—

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,

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,

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!

Richmond

Good lords, conduct him to his regiment:

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,

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

The usurping helmets of our adversaries!

Make us thy ministers of chastisement,

That we may praise thee in the victory!

To thee I do commend my watchful soul,

Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes:

Sleeping and waking, O, defend me still!

Sleeps

Enter the Ghost of Prince Edward, son to King Henry VI

Ghost of Prince Edward

[To King Richard III]

Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow!

Think, how thou stab’dst me in my prime of youth

At Tewksbury: despair, therefore, and die!

To Richmond

Be cheerful, Richmond; for the wronged souls

Of butcher’d princes fight in thy behalf

King Henry’s issue, Richmond, comforts thee.

Enter the Ghost of King Henry VI

Ghost of King Henry VI

[To King Richard III]

When I was mortal, my anointed body

By thee was punched full of deadly holes

Think on the Tower and me: despair, and die!

Harry the Sixth bids thee despair, and die!

To Richmond

Virtuous and holy, be thou conqueror!

Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be king,

Doth comfort thee in thy sleep: live, and flourish!

Enter the Ghost of Clarence

Ghost of Clarence

[To King Richard III]

Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow!

I, that was wash’d to death with fulsome wine,

Poor Clarence, by thy guile betrayed 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

The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee

Good angels guard thy battle! live, and flourish!

Enter the Ghosts of Rivers, Gray, and Vaughan

Ghost of Rivers

[To King Richard III]

Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow,

Rivers. that died at Pomfret! despair, and die!

Ghost of Grey

[To King Richard III]

Think upon Grey, and let thy soul despair!

Ghost of Vaughan

[To King Richard III]

Think upon Vaughan, and, with guilty fear,

Let fall thy lance: despair, and die!

All

[To Richmond]

Awake, and think our wrongs in Richard’s bosom

Will conquer him! awake, and win the day!

Enter the Ghost of Hastings

Ghost of Hastings

[To King Richard III]

Bloody and guilty, guiltily awake,

And in a bloody battle end thy days!

Think on Lord Hastings: despair, and die!

To Richmond

Quiet untroubled soul, awake, awake!

Arm, fight, and conquer, for fair England’s sake!

Enter the Ghosts of the two young Princes

Ghosts of young Princes

[To King Richard III]

Dream on thy cousins smother’d in the Tower:

Let us be led within thy bosom, Richard,

And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death!

Thy nephews’ souls bid thee despair and die!

To Richmond

Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, and wake in joy;

Good angels guard thee from the boar’s annoy!

Live, and beget a happy race of kings!

Edward’s unhappy sons do bid thee flourish.

Enter the Ghost of Lady Anne

Ghost of Lady Anne

[To King Richard III]

Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife,

That never slept a quiet hour with thee,

Now fills thy sleep with perturbations

To-morrow in the battle think on me,

And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die!

To Richmond

Thou quiet soul, sleep thou a quiet sleep

Dream of success and happy victory!

Thy adversary’s wife doth pray for thee.

Enter the Ghost of Buckingham

Ghost of Buckingham

[To King Richard III]

The last was I that helped thee to the crown;

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:

But cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismay’d:

God and good angel fight on Richmond’s side;

And Richard falls in height of all his pride.

The Ghosts vanish

King Richard III starts out of his dream

King Richard III

Give me another horse: bind up my wounds.

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.

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?

O, no! alas, I rather hate myself

For hateful deeds committed by myself!

I am a villain: yet I lie. I am not.

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.

Perjury, perjury, in the high’st degree

Murder, stem murder, in the direst degree;

All several sins, all used 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 shall pity me:

Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself

Find in myself no pity to myself?

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

Ratcliff

My lord!

King Richard III

’Zounds! who is there?

Ratcliff

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.

King Richard III

O Ratcliff, I have dream’d a fearful dream!

What thinkest thou, will our friends prove all true?

Ratcliff

No doubt, my lord.

King Richard III

O Ratcliff, I fear, I fear,—

Ratcliff

Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows.

King Richard III

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;

Under our tents I’ll play the eaves-dropper,

To see if any mean to shrink from me.

Exeunt

Enter the Lords to Richmond, sitting in his tent

Lords

Good morrow, Richmond!

Richmond

Cry mercy, lords and watchful gentlemen,

That you have ta’en a tardy sluggard here.

Lords

How have you slept, my lord?

Richmond

The sweetest sleep, and fairest-boding dreams

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:

I promise you, my soul 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.

Richmond

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 upon: yet remember this,

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

Had rather have us win than him they follow:

For what is he they follow? truly, gentlemen,

A bloody tyrant and a homicide;

One raised in blood, and one in blood establish’d;

One that made means to come by what he hath,

And slaughter’d those that were the means to help him;

Abase foul stone, made precious by the foil

Of England’s chair, where he is falsely set;

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,

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,

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.

For me, the ransom of my bold attempt

Shall be this cold corpse on the earth’s cold face;

But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt

The least of you shall share his part thereof.

Sound drums and trumpets boldly and cheerfully;

God and Saint George! Richmond and victory!

Exeunt

Re-enter King Richard, Ratcliff, Attendants and Forces

King Richard III

What said Northumberland as touching Richmond?

Ratcliff

That he was never trained up in arms.

King Richard III

He said the truth: and what said Surrey then?

Ratcliff

He smiled and said ‘The better for our purpose.’

King Richard III

He was in the right; and so indeed it is.

Clock striketh

Ten the clock there. Give me a calendar.

Who saw the sun to-day?

Ratcliff

Not I, my lord.

King Richard III

Then he disdains to shine; for by the book

He should have braved the east an hour ago

A black day will it be to somebody. Ratcliff!

Ratcliff

My lord?

King Richard III

The sun will not be seen to-day;

The sky doth frown and lour 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 selfsame heaven

That frowns on me looks sadly upon him.

Enter Norfolk

Norfolk

Arm, arm, my lord; the foe vaunts in the field.

King Richard III

Come, bustle, bustle; caparison my horse.

Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power:

I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain,

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

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

Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse.

This, and Saint George to boot! What think’st thou, Norfolk?

Norfolk

A good direction, warlike sovereign.

This found I on my tent this morning.

He sheweth him a paper

King Richard III

[Reads]

‘Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold,

For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.’

A thing devised by the enemy.

Go, gentleman, every man unto his charge

Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls:

Conscience is but a word that cowards use,

Devised at first to keep the strong in awe:

Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law.

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;

A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways,

A scum of Bretons, and base lackey peasants,

Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth

To desperate ventures and assured destruction.

You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest;

You having lands, and blest with beauteous wives,

They would restrain the one, distain the other.

And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow,

Long kept in Bretagne at our mother’s cost?

A milk-sop, one that never in his life

Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow?

Let’s whip these stragglers o’er the seas 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:

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 in record, left them the heirs of shame.

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 yoemen!

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?

Messenger

My lord, he doth deny to come.

King Richard III

Off with his son George’s head!

Norfolk

My lord, the enemy is past the marsh

After the battle let George Stanley die.

King Richard III

A thousand hearts are great within my bosom:

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 on our helms.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Alarum: excursions. Enter Norfolk and forces fighting; to him Catesby

Catesby

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,

Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.

Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost!

Alarums. Enter King Richard III

King Richard III

A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

Catesby

Withdraw, my lord; I’ll help you to a horse.

King Richard III

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.

A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

Exeunt

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Alarum. Enter King Richard III and Richmond; they fight. King Richard III is slain. Retreat and flourish. Re-enter Richmond, Derby bearing the crown, with divers other Lords

Richmond

God and your arms be praised, victorious friends,

The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead.

Derby

Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit thee.

Lo, here, this long-usurped royalty

From the dead temples of this bloody wretch

Have I pluck’d off, to grace thy brows withal:

Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it.

Richmond

Great God of heaven, say Amen to all!

But, tell me, is young George Stanley living?

Derby

He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town;

Whither, if it please you, we may now withdraw us.

Richmond

What men of name are slain on either side?

Derby

John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers,

Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon.

Richmond

Inter their bodies as becomes their births:

Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled

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:

Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction,

That long have frown’d upon their enmity!

What traitor hears me, and says not amen?

England hath long been mad, and scarr’d herself;

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,

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!

And let their heirs, God, if thy will be so.

Enrich the time to come with smooth-faced peace,

With smiling plenty and fair prosperous days!

Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord,

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!

Now civil wounds are stopp’d, peace lives again:

That she may long live here, God say amen!

Exeunt

The Complete Comedies

By

William Shakespeare

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

AS YOU LIKE IT

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

LOVE’S LABOUR ’S LOST

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

TWELFTH NIGHT OR, WHAT YOU WILL

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

All’s Well That Ends Well

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

SCENE II. PARIS. THE KING’S PALACE.

SCENE III. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

ACT II

SCENE I. PARIS. THE KING’S PALACE.

SCENE II. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

SCENE III. PARIS. THE KING’S PALACE.

SCENE IV. PARIS. THE KING’S PALACE.

SCENE V. PARIS. THE KING’S PALACE.

ACT III

SCENE I. FLORENCE. THE DUKE’S PALACE.

SCENE II. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

SCENE III. FLORENCE. BEFORE THE DUKE’S PALACE.

SCENE IV. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

SCENE V. FLORENCE. WITHOUT THE WALLS. A TUCKET AFAR OFF.

SCENE VI. CAMP BEFORE FLORENCE.

SCENE VII. FLORENCE. THE WIDOW’S HOUSE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. WITHOUT THE FLORENTINE CAMP.

SCENE II. FLORENCE. THE WIDOW’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. THE FLORENTINE CAMP.

SCENE IV. FLORENCE. THE WIDOW’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

ACT V

SCENE I. MARSEILLES. A STREET.

SCENE II. ROUSILLON. BEFORE THE COUNT’S PALACE.

SCENE III. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

EPILOGUE

THE CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

King of France.

The Duke of Florence.

Bertram, Count of Rousillon.

Lafeu, an old Lord.

Parolles, a follower of Bertram.

Several young French Lords, that serve with Bertram in the Florentine War.

Steward, Servant to the Countess of Rousillon.

Clown, Servant to the Countess of Rousillon.

A Page, Servant to the Countess of Rousillon.

Countess of Rousillon, Mother to Bertram.

Helena, a Gentlewoman protected by the Countess.

An old Widow of Florence.

Diana, daughter to the Widow.

Violenta, neighbour and friend to the Widow.

Mariana, neighbour and friend to the Widow.

Lords attending on the King; Officers; Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine.

ACT I

SCENE I. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

Enter Bertram, the Countess of Rousillon, Helena, and Lafeu, all in black

Countess

In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.

Bertram

And I in going, madam, weep o’er my father’s death anew: but I must attend his majesty’s command, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in subjection.

Lafeu

You shall find of the king a husband, madam; you, sir, a father: he that so generally is at all times good must of necessity hold his virtue to you; whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted rather than lack it where there is such abundance.

Countess

What hope is there of his majesty’s amendment?

Lafeu

He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose practises he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other advantage in the process but only the losing of hope by time.

Countess

This young gentlewoman had a father,— O, that ‘had’! how sad a passage ’tis!— whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so far, would have made nature immortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would, for the king’s sake, he were living! I think it would be the death of the king’s disease.

Lafeu

How called you the man you speak of, madam?

Countess

He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so: Gerard de Narbon.

Lafeu

He was excellent indeed, madam: the king very lately spoke of him admiringly and mourningly: he was skilful enough to have lived still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality.

Bertram

What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?

Lafeu

A fistula, my lord.

Bertram

I heard not of it before.

Lafeu

I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?

Countess

His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education promises; her dispositions she inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity; they are virtues and traitors too; in her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty and achieves her goodness.

Lafeu

Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.

Countess

’Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena; go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than have it.

Helena

I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.

Lafeu

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

Countess

If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal.

Bertram

Madam, I desire your holy wishes.

Lafeu

How understand we that?

Countess

Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father

In manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtue

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

Under thy own life’s key: be cheque’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;

’Tis an unseason’d courtier; good my lord,

Advise him.

Lafeu

He cannot want the best

That shall attend his love.

Countess

Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram.

Exit

Bertram

[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.

Lafeu

Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of your father.

Exeunt Bertram and Lafeu

Helena

O, were that all! I think not on my father;

And these great tears grace his remembrance more

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,

If Bertram be away. ’Twere 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

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 plague,

To see him every hour; to sit and draw

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:

But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy

Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here?

Enter Parolles

[Aside] One that goes with him: I love him for his sake;

And yet I know him a notorious liar,

Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;

Yet these fixed evils sit so fit in him,

That they take place, when virtue’s steely bones

Look bleak i’ the cold wind: withal, full oft we see

Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.

Parolles

Save you, fair queen!

Helena

And you, monarch!

Parolles

No.

Helena

And no.

Parolles

Are you meditating on virginity?

Helena

Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you: let me ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity; how may we barricado it against him?

Parolles

Keep him out.

Helena

But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant, in the defence yet is weak: unfold to us some warlike resistance.

Parolles

There is none: man, sitting down before you, will undermine you and blow you up.

Helena

Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers up! Is there no military policy, how virgins might blow up men?

Parolles

Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase and there was never virgin got till virginity was first lost. That you were made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost may be ten times found; by being ever kept, it is ever lost: ’tis too cold a companion; away with ’t!

Helena

I will stand for ’t a little, though therefore I die a virgin.

Parolles

There’s little can be said in ’t; ’tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity, is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity murders itself and should be buried in highways out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but loose by’t: out with ’t! within ten year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the principal itself not much the worse: away with ’t!

Helena

How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?

Parolles

Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne’er it likes. ’Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with ’t while ’tis vendible; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion: richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and the tooth-pick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek; and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French withered pears, it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, ’tis a withered pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet ’tis a withered pear: will you anything with it?

Helena

Not my virginity yet.

There shall your master have a thousand loves,

A mother and a mistress and a friend,

A phoenix, captain and an enemy,

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,

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 —

Parolles

What one, i’ faith?

Helena

That I wish well. ’Tis pity —

Parolles

What’s pity?

Helena

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,

And show what we alone must think, which never

Return us thanks.

Enter Page

Page

Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.

Exit

Parolles

Little Helen, farewell; if I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court.

Helena

Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.

Parolles

Under Mars, I.

Helena

I especially think, under Mars.

Parolles

Why under Mars?

Helena

The wars have so kept you under that you must needs be born under Mars.

Parolles

When he was predominant.

Helena

When he was retrograde, I think, rather.

Parolles

Why think you so?

Helena

You go so much backward when you fight.

Parolles

That’s for advantage.

Helena

So is running away, when fear proposes the safety; but the composition that your valour and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well.

Parolles

I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier’s counsel and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away: farewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends; get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee; so, farewell.

Exit

Helena

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,

Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky

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

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

So 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. THE KING’S PALACE.

Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of France, with letters, and divers Attendants

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 received it

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

To have us make denial.

First Lord

His love and wisdom,

Approved so to your majesty, may plead

For amplest credence.

King

He hath arm’d our answer,

And Florence is denied before he comes:

Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see

The Tuscan service, freely have they leave

To stand on either part.

Second Lord

It well may serve

A nursery to our gentry, who are sick

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 Bertram.

King

Youth, thou bear’st thy father’s face;

Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,

Hath well composed thee. Thy father’s moral parts

Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

Bertram

My thanks and duty are your majesty’s.

King

I would I had that corporal soundness now,

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;

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

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

Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,

His equal had awaked them, and his honour,

Clock to itself, knew the true minute when

Exception bid him speak, and at this time

His tongue obey’d his hand: who were below him

He used as creatures of another place

And bow’d his eminent top to their low ranks,

Making them proud of his humility,

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.

Bertram

His good remembrance, sir,

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 —

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,’—

This his good melancholy oft began,

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

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,

Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,

I quickly were dissolved from my hive,

To give some labourers room.

Second Lord

You are loved, sir:

They that least lend it you shall lack you first.

King

I fill a place, I know’t. How long is’t, count,

Since the physician at your father’s died?

He was much famed.

Bertram

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

With several applications; nature and sickness

Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count;

My son’s no dearer.

Bertram

Thank your majesty.

Exeunt. Flourish

SCENE III. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown

Countess

I will now hear; what say you of this gentlewoman?

Steward

Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

Countess

What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah: the complaints I have heard of you I do not all believe: ’tis my slowness that I do not; for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.

Clown

’Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.

Countess

Well, sir.

Clown

No, madam, ’tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned: but, if I may have your ladyship’s good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.

Countess

Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

Clown

I do beg your good will in this case.

Countess

In what case?

Clown

In Isbel’s case and mine own. Service is no heritage: and I think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue o’ my body; for they say barnes are blessings.

Countess

Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.

Clown

My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.

Countess

Is this all your worship’s reason?

Clown

Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons such as they are.

Countess

May the world know them?

Clown

I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent.

Countess

Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.

Clown

I am out o’ friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for my wife’s sake.

Countess

Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

Clown

You’re shallow, madam, in great friends; for the knaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of. He that ears my land spares my team and gives me leave to in the crop; if I be his cuckold, he’s my drudge: he that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the Puritan and old Poysam the Papist, howsome’er their hearts are severed in religion, their heads are both one; they may jowl horns together, like any deer i’ the herd.

Countess

Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave?

Clown

A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way:

For I the ballad will repeat,

Which men full true shall find;

Your marriage comes by destiny,

Your cuckoo sings by kind.

Countess

Get you gone, sir; I’ll talk with you more anon.

Steward

May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you: of her I am to speak.

Countess

Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen, I mean.

Clown

Was this fair face the cause, quoth she,

Why the Grecians sacked Troy?

Fond done, done fond,

Was this King Priam’s joy?

With that she sighed as she stood,

With that she sighed as she stood,

And gave this sentence then;

Among nine bad if one be good,

Among nine bad if one be good,

There’s yet one good in ten.

Countess

What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah.

Clown

One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying o’ the song: would God would serve the world so all the year! we’ld find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth a’! An we might have a good woman born but one every blazing star, or at an earthquake, ’twould mend the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out, ere a’ pluck one.

Countess

You’ll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you.

Clown

That man should be at woman’s command, and yet no hurt done! Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. I am going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither.

Exit

Countess

Well, now.

Steward

I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

Countess

Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there is more owing her than is paid; and more shall be paid her than she’ll demand.

Steward

Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god, that would not extend his might, only where qualities were level; Dian no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surprised, without rescue in the first assault or ransom afterward. This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e’er I heard virgin exclaim in: which I held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.

Countess

You have discharged this honestly; keep it to yourself: many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you, leave me: stall this in your bosom; and I thank you for your honest care: I will speak with you further anon.

Exit Steward

Enter Helena

Even so it was with me when I was young:

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,

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.

Helena

What is your pleasure, madam?

Countess

You know, Helen, I am a mother to you.

Helena

Mine honourable mistress.

Countess

Nay, a mother:

Why not a mother? When I said ‘a mother,’

Methought you saw a serpent: what’s in ’mother,’

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

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:

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?

Why? that you are my daughter?

Helena

That I am not.

Countess

I say, I am your mother.

Helena

Pardon, madam;

The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:

I am from humble, he from honour’d name;

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.

Countess

Nor I your mother?

Helena

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,

So I were not his sister. Can’t no other,

But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?

Countess

Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law:

God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother

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 ashamed,

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

Confess it, th’ one to th’ other; and thine eyes

See it so grossly shown in thy behaviors

That in their kind they speak it: only sin

And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,

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,

Tell me truly.

Helena

Good madam, pardon me!

Countess

Do you love my son?

Helena

Your pardon, noble mistress!

Countess

Love you my son?

Helena

Do not you love him, madam?

Countess

Go not about; my love hath in’t a bond,

Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose

The state of your affection; for your passions

Have to the full appeach’d.

Helena

Then, I confess,

Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,

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

That he is loved 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.

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,

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

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!

Countess

Had you not lately an intent,— speak truly,—

To go to Paris?

Helena

Madam, I had.

Countess

Wherefore? tell true.

Helena

I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.

You know my father left me some prescriptions

Of rare and proved 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,

As notes whose faculties inclusive were

More than they were in note: amongst the rest,

There is a remedy, approved, set down,

To cure the desperate languishings whereof

The king is render’d lost.

Countess

This was your motive

For Paris, was it? speak.

Helena

My lord your son made me to think of this;

Else Paris and the medicine and the king

Had from the conversation of my thoughts

Haply been absent then.

Countess

But think you, Helen,

If you should tender your supposed aid,

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,

Embowell’d of their doctrine, have left off

The danger to itself?

Helena

There’s something in’t,

More than my father’s skill, which was the greatest

Of his profession, that his good receipt

Shall for my legacy be sanctified

By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour

But give me leave to try success, I’ld venture

The well-lost life of mine on his grace’s cure

By such a day and hour.

Countess

Dost thou believe’t?

Helena

Ay, madam, knowingly.

Countess

Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,

Means and attendants and my loving greetings

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.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. PARIS. THE KING’S PALACE.

Flourish of cornets. Enter the King, attended with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war; Bertram, and Parolles

King

Farewell, young lords; these warlike 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 received,

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

That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;

Whether I live or die, be you the sons

Of worthy Frenchmen: let higher Italy,—

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.

Second 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,

If they demand: beware of being captives,

Before you serve.

Both

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!

Parolles

’Tis not his fault, the spark.

Second Lord

O, ’tis brave wars!

Parolles

Most admirable: I have seen those wars.

Bertram

I am commanded here, and kept a coil with

‘Too young’ and ’the next year’ and ’’tis too early.’

Parolles

An thy mind stand to’t, boy, steal away bravely.

Bertram

I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,

Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,

Till honour be bought up and no sword worn

But one to dance with! By heaven, I’ll steal away.

First Lord

There’s honour in the theft.

Parolles

Commit it, count.

Second Lord

I am your accessary; and so, farewell.

Bertram

I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured body.

First Lord

Farewell, captain.

Second Lord

Sweet Monsieur Parolles!

Parolles

Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals: you shall find in the regiment of the Spinii one Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek; it was this very sword entrenched it: say to him, I live; and observe his reports for me.

First Lord

We shall, noble captain.

Exeunt Lords

Parolles

Mars dote on you for his novices! what will ye do?

Bertram

Stay: the king.

Re-enter King. Bertram and Parolles retire

Parolles

[To Bertram] Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrained yourself within the list of too cold an adieu: be more expressive to them: for they wear themselves in the cap of the time, there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and move under the influence of the most received star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell.

Bertram

And I will do so.

Parolles

Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy sword-men.

Exeunt Bertram and Parolles

Enter Lafeu

Lafeu

[Kneeling] Pardon, my lord, for me and for my tidings.

King

I’ll fee thee to stand up.

Lafeu

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.

Lafeu

Good faith, across: but, my good lord ’tis thus;

Will you be cured of your infirmity?

King

No.

Lafeu

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,

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,

And write to her a love-line.

King

What ‘her’ is this?

Lafeu

Why, Doctor She: my lord, there’s one arrived,

If you will see her: now, by my faith and honour,

If seriously I may convey my thoughts

In this my light deliverance, I have spoke

With one that, in her sex, her years, profession,

Wisdom and constancy, hath amazed me more

Than I dare blame my weakness: will you see her

For that is her demand, and know her business?

That done, laugh well at me.

King

Now, good Lafeu,

Bring in the admiration; that we with thee

May spend our wonder too, or take off thine

By wondering how thou took’st it.

Lafeu

Nay, I’ll fit you,

And not be all day neither.

Exit

King

Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.

Re-enter Lafeu, with Helena

Lafeu

Nay, come your ways.

King

This haste hath wings indeed.

Lafeu

Nay, come your ways:

This is his majesty; say your mind to him:

A traitor you do look like; but such traitors

His majesty seldom fears: I am Cressid’s uncle,

That dare leave two together; fare you well.

Exit

King

Now, fair one, does your business follow us?

Helena

Ay, my good lord.

Gerard de Narbon was my father;

In what he did profess, well found.

King

I knew him.

Helena

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.

Which, as the dearest issue of his practise,

And of his old experience the oily 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

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

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

That labouring art can never ransom nature

From her inaidible estate; I say we must not

So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,

To prostitute our past-cure malady

To empirics, or to dissever so

Our great self and our credit, to esteem

A senseless help when help past sense we deem.

Helena

My duty then shall pay me for my pains:

I will no more enforce mine office on you.

Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts

A modest one, to bear me back a again.

King

I cannot give thee less, to be call’d grateful:

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.

Helena

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:

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

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;

Thy pains not used must by thyself be paid:

Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward.

Helena

Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d:

It is not so with Him that all things knows

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;

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

My art is not past power nor you past cure.

King

Are thou so confident? within what space

Hopest thou my cure?

Helena

The great’st grace lending grace

Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring

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

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 darest thou venture?

Helena

Tax of impudence,

A strumpet’s boldness, a divulged shame

Traduced by odious ballads: my maiden’s name

Sear’d otherwise; nay, worse — if worse — extended

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

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, all

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,

That ministers thine own death if I die.

Helena

If I break time, or flinch in property

Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die,

And well deserved: not helping, death’s my fee;

But, if I help, what do you promise me?

King

Make thy demand.

Helena

But will you make it even?

King

Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of heaven.

Helena

Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand

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

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 observed,

Thy will by my performance shall be served:

So make the choice of thy own time, for I,

Thy resolved patient, on thee still rely.

More should I question thee, and more I must,

Though more to know could not be more to trust,

From whence thou camest, how tended on: but rest

Unquestion’d welcome and undoubted blest.

Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed

As high as word, my deed shall match thy meed.

Flourish. Exeunt

SCENE II. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

Enter Countess and Clown

Countess

Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of your breeding.

Clown

I will show myself highly fed and lowly taught: I know my business is but to the court.

Countess

To the court! why, what place make you special, when you put off that with such contempt? But to the court!

Clown

Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he may easily put it off at court: he that cannot make a leg, put off’s cap, kiss his hand and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court; but for me, I have an answer will serve all men.

Countess

Marry, that’s a bountiful answer that fits all questions.

Clown

It is like a barber’s chair that fits all buttocks, the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn buttock, or any buttock.

Countess

Will your answer serve fit to all questions?

Clown

As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your French crown for your taffeta punk, as Tib’s rush for Tom’s forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove Tuesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding queen to a wrangling knave, as the nun’s lip to the friar’s mouth, nay, as the pudding to his skin.

Countess

Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all questions?

Clown

From below your duke to beneath your constable, it will fit any question.

Countess

It must be an answer of most monstrous size that must fit all demands.

Clown

But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned should speak truth of it: here it is, and all that belongs to’t. Ask me if I am a courtier: it shall do you no harm to learn.

Countess

To be young again, if we could: I will be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I pray you, sir, are you a courtier?

Clown

O Lord, sir! There’s a simple putting off. More, more, a hundred of them.

Countess

Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you.

Clown

O Lord, sir! Thick, thick, spare not me.

Countess

I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat.

Clown

O Lord, sir! Nay, put me to’t, I warrant you.

Countess

You were lately whipped, sir, as I think.

Clown

O Lord, sir! spare not me.

Countess

Do you cry, ‘O Lord, sir!’ at your whipping, and ‘spare not me?’ Indeed your ‘O Lord, sir!’ is very sequent to your whipping: you would answer very well to a whipping, if you were but bound to’t.

Clown

I ne’er had worse luck in my life in my ‘O Lord, sir!’ I see things may serve long, but not serve ever.

Countess

I play the noble housewife with the time

To entertain’t so merrily with a fool.

Clown

O Lord, sir! why, there’t serves well again.

Countess

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.

Clown

Not much commendation to them.

Countess

Not much employment for you: you understand me?

Clown

Most fruitfully: I am there before my legs.

Countess

Haste you again.

Exeunt severally

SCENE III. PARIS. THE KING’S PALACE.

Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles

Lafeu

They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons, to make modern and familiar, things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear.

Parolles

Why, ’tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath shot out in our latter times.

Bertram

And so ’tis.

Lafeu

To be relinquish’d of the artists,—

Parolles

So I say.

Lafeu

Both of Galen and Paracelsus.

Parolles

So I say.

Lafeu

Of all the learned and authentic fellows,—

Parolles

Right; so I say.

Lafeu

That gave him out incurable,—

Parolles

Why, there ’tis; so say I too.

Lafeu

Not to be helped,—

Parolles

Right; as ’twere, a man assured of a —

Lafeu

Uncertain life, and sure death.

Parolles

Just, you say well; so would I have said.

Lafeu

I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world.

Parolles

It is, indeed: if you will have it in showing, you shall read it in — what do you call there?

Lafeu

A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor.

Parolles

That’s it; I would have said the very same.

Lafeu

Why, your dolphin is not lustier: ’fore me, I speak in respect —

Parolles

Nay, ’tis strange, ’tis very strange, that is the brief and the tedious of it; and he’s of a most facinerious spirit that will not acknowledge it to be the —

Lafeu

Very hand of heaven.

Parolles

Ay, so I say.

Lafeu

In a most weak —

pausing

and debile minister, great power, great transcendence: which should, indeed, give us a further use to be made than alone the recovery of the king, as to be —

pausing

generally thankful.

Parolles

I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the king.

Enter King, Helena, and Attendants. Lafeu and Parolles retire

Lafeu

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.

Parolles

Mort du vinaigre! is not this Helen?

Lafeu

’Fore God, I think so.

King

Go, call before me all the lords in court.

Sit, my preserver, by thy patient’s side;

And with this healthful hand, whose banish’d sense

Thou hast repeal’d, a second time receive

The confirmation of my promised gift,

Which but attends thy naming.

Enter three or four Lords

Fair maid, send forth thine eye: this youthful parcel

Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing,

O’er whom both sovereign power and father’s voice

I have to use: thy frank election make;

Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.

Helena

To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress

Fall, when Love please! marry, to each, but one!

Lafeu

I’ld give bay Curtal and his furniture,

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.

Helena

Gentlemen,

Heaven hath through me restored the king to health.

All

We understand it, and thank heaven for you.

Helena

I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest,

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 refused,

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.

Helena

Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly,

And to imperial Love, that god most high,

Do my sighs stream. Sir, will you hear my suit?

First Lord

And grant it.

Helena

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

Lafeu

I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace for my life.

Helena

The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes,

Before I speak, too threateningly replies:

Love make your fortunes twenty times above

Her that so wishes and her humble love!

Second Lord

No better, if you please.

Helena

My wish receive,

Which great Love grant! and so, I take my leave.

Lafeu

Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine,

I’d have them whipped; or I would send them to the

Turk, to make eunuchs of.

Helena

Be not afraid that I your hand should take;

I’ll never do you wrong for your own sake:

Blessing upon your vows! and in your bed

Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!

Lafeu

These boys are boys of ice, they’ll none have her: sure, they are bastards to the English; the French ne’er got ’em.

Helena

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.

Lafeu

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.

Helena

[To Bertram] I dare not say I take you; but I give

Me and my service, ever whilst I live,

Into your guiding power. This is the man.

King

Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she’s thy wife.

Bertram

My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness,

In such a business give me leave to use

The help of mine own eyes.

King

Know’st thou not, Bertram,

What she has done for me?

Bertram

Yes, my good lord;

But never hope to know why I should marry her.

King

Thou know’st she has raised me from my sickly bed.

Bertram

But follows it, my lord, to bring me down

Must answer for your raising? I know her well:

She had her breeding at my father’s charge.

A poor physician’s daughter my wife! Disdain

Rather corrupt me ever!

King

’Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the which

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

All that is virtuous, save what thou dislikest,

A poor physician’s daughter, thou dislikest

Of virtue for the name: but do not so:

From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,

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:

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

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

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,

I can create the rest: virtue and she

Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.

Bertram

I cannot love her, nor will strive to do’t.

King

Thou wrong’st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose.

Helena

That you are well restored, my lord, I’m glad:

Let the rest go.

King

My honour’s at the stake; which to defeat,

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; that canst not dream,

We, poising us in her defective scale,

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. Cheque thy contempt:

Obey our will, which travails in thy good:

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

Into the staggers and the careless lapse

Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate

Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice,

Without all terms of pity. Speak; thine answer.

Bertram

Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit

My fancy to your eyes: when I consider

What great creation and what dole of honour

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,

And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise

A counterpoise, if not to thy estate

A balance more replete.

Bertram

I take her hand.

King

Good fortune and the favour of the king

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,

Expecting absent friends. As thou lovest her,

Thy love’s to me religious; else, does err.

Exeunt all but Lafeu and Parolles

Lafeu

[Advancing] Do you hear, monsieur? a word with you.

Parolles

Your pleasure, sir?

Lafeu

Your lord and master did well to make his recantation.

Parolles

Recantation! My lord! my master!

Lafeu

Ay; is it not a language I speak?

Parolles

A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody succeeding. My master!

Lafeu

Are you companion to the Count Rousillon?

Parolles

To any count, to all counts, to what is man.

Lafeu

To what is count’s man: count’s master is of another style.

Parolles

You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old.

Lafeu

I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age cannot bring thee.

Parolles

What I dare too well do, I dare not do.

Lafeu

I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel; it might pass: yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a burthen. I have now found thee; when I lose thee again, I care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking up; and that thou’t scarce worth.

Parolles

Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee,—

Lafeu

Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou hasten thy trial; which if — Lord have mercy on thee for a hen! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee well: thy casement I need not open, for I look through thee. Give me thy hand.

Parolles

My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.

Lafeu

Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.

Parolles

I have not, my lord, deserved it.

Lafeu

Yes, good faith, every dram of it; and I will not bate thee a scruple.

Parolles

Well, I shall be wiser.

Lafeu

Even as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack o’ the contrary. If ever thou be’st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, he is a man I know.

Parolles

My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.

Lafeu

I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor doing eternal: for doing I am past: as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me leave.

Exit

Parolles

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 of — I’ll beat him, an if I could but meet him again.

Re-enter Lafeu

Lafeu

Sirrah, your lord and master’s married; there’s news for you: you have a new mistress.

Parolles

I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make some reservation of your wrongs: he is my good lord: whom I serve above is my master.

Lafeu

Who? God?

Parolles

Ay, sir.

Lafeu

The devil it is that’s thy master. Why dost thou garter up thy arms o’ this fashion? dost make hose of sleeves? do other servants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I’ld beat thee: methinks, thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee: I think thou wast created for men to breathe themselves upon thee.

Parolles

This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.

Lafeu

Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond and no true traveller: you are more saucy with lords and honourable personages than the commission of your birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I’ld call you knave. I leave you.

Exit

Parolles

Good, very good; it is so then: good, very good; let it be concealed awhile.

Re-enter Bertram

Bertram

Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!

Parolles

What’s the matter, sweet-heart?

Bertram

Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,

I will not bed her.

Parolles

What, what, sweet-heart?

Bertram

O my Parolles, they have married me!

I’ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.

Parolles

France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits

The tread of a man’s foot: to the wars!

Bertram

There’s letters from my mother: what the import is, I know not yet.

Parolles

Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy, to the wars!

He wears his honour in a box unseen,

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

France is a stable; we that dwell in’t jades;

Therefore, to the war!

Bertram

It shall be so: I’ll send her to my house,

Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,

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

To the dark house and the detested wife.

Parolles

Will this capriccio hold in thee? art sure?

Bertram

Go with me to my chamber, and advise me.

I’ll send her straight away: to-morrow

I’ll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.

Parolles

Why, these balls bound; there’s noise in it. ’Tis hard:

A young man married is a man that’s marr’d:

Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go:

The king has done you wrong: but, hush, ’tis so.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. PARIS. THE KING’S PALACE.

Enter Helena and Clown

Helena

My mother greets me kindly; is she well?

Clown

She is not well; but yet she has her health: she’s very merry; but yet she is not well: but thanks be given, she’s very well and wants nothing i’, the world; but yet she is not well.

Helena

If she be very well, what does she ail, that she’s not very well?

Clown

Truly, she’s very well indeed, but for two things.

Helena

What two things?

Clown

One, that she’s not in heaven, whither God send her quickly! the other that she’s in earth, from whence God send her quickly!

Enter Parolles

Parolles

Bless you, my fortunate lady!

Helena

I hope, sir, I have your good will to have mine own good fortunes.

Parolles

You had my prayers to lead them on; and to keep them on, have them still. O, my knave, how does my old lady?

Clown

So that you had her wrinkles and I her money, I would she did as you say.

Parolles

Why, I say nothing.

Clown

Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man’s tongue shakes out his master’s undoing: to say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to have nothing, is to be a great part of your title; which is within a very little of nothing.

Parolles

Away! thou’rt a knave.

Clown

You should have said, sir, before a knave thou’rt a knave; that’s, before me thou’rt a knave: this had been truth, sir.

Parolles

Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have found thee.

Clown

Did you find me in yourself, sir? or were you taught to find me? The search, sir, was profitable; and much fool may you find in you, even to the world’s pleasure and the increase of laughter.

Parolles

A good knave, i’ faith, and well fed.

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;

But puts it off to a compell’d restraint;

Whose want, and whose delay, is strew’d with sweets,

Which they distil now in the curbed time,

To make the coming hour o’erflow with joy

And pleasure drown the brim.

Helena

What’s his will else?

Parolles

That you will take your instant leave o’ the king

And make this haste as your own good proceeding,

Strengthen’d with what apology you think

May make it probable need.

Helena

What more commands he?

Parolles

That, having this obtain’d, you presently

Attend his further pleasure.

Helena

In every thing I wait upon his will.

Parolles

I shall report it so.

Helena

I pray you.

Exit Parolles

Come, sirrah.

Exeunt

SCENE V. PARIS. THE KING’S PALACE.

Enter Lafeu and Bertram

Lafeu

But I hope your lordship thinks not him a soldier.

Bertram

Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof.

Lafeu

You have it from his own deliverance.

Bertram

And by other warranted testimony.

Lafeu

Then my dial goes not true: I took this lark for a bunting.

Bertram

I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in knowledge and accordingly valiant.

Lafeu

I have then sinned against his experience and transgressed against his valour; and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent. Here he comes: I pray you, make us friends; I will pursue the amity.

Enter Parolles

Parolles

[To Bertram] These things shall be done, sir.

Lafeu

Pray you, sir, who’s his tailor?

Parolles

Sir?

Lafeu

O, I know him well, I, sir; he, sir, ’s a good workman, a very good tailor.

Bertram

[Aside to Parolles] Is she gone to the king?

Parolles

She is.

Bertram

Will she away to-night?

Parolles

As you’ll have her.

Bertram

I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,

Given order for our horses; and to-night,

When I should take possession of the bride,

End ere I do begin.

Lafeu

A good traveller is something at the latter end of a dinner; but one that lies three thirds and uses a known truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should be once heard and thrice beaten. God save you, captain.

Bertram

Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur?

Parolles

I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord’s displeasure.

Lafeu

You have made shift to run into ’t, boots and spurs and all, like him that leaped into the custard; and out of it you’ll run again, rather than suffer question for your residence.

Bertram

It may be you have mistaken him, my lord.

Lafeu

And shall do so ever, though I took him at ’s 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

Parolles

An idle lord. I swear.

Bertram

I think so.

Parolles

Why, do you not know him?

Bertram

Yes, I do know him well, and common speech

Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.

Enter Helena

Helena

I have, sir, as I was commanded from you,

Spoke with the king and have procured his leave

For present parting; only he desires

Some private speech with you.

Bertram

I shall obey his will.

You must not marvel, Helen, at my course,

Which holds not colour with the time, nor does

The ministration and required office

On my particular. Prepared I was not

For such a business; therefore am I found

So much unsettled: this drives me to entreat you

That presently you take our way for home;

And rather muse than ask why I entreat you,

For my respects are better than they seem

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 I leave you to your wisdom.

Helena

Sir, I can nothing say,

But that I am your most obedient servant.

Bertram

Come, come, no more of that.

Helena

And ever shall

With true observance seek to eke out that

Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail’d

To equal my great fortune.

Bertram

Let that go:

My haste is very great: farewell; hie home.

Helena

Pray, sir, your pardon.

Bertram

Well, what would you say?

Helena

I am not worthy of the wealth I owe,

Nor dare I say ’tis mine, and yet it is;

But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal

What law does vouch mine own.

Bertram

What would you have?

Helena

Something; and scarce so much: nothing, indeed.

I would not tell you what I would, my lord:

Faith yes;

Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss.

Bertram

I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.

Helena

I shall not break your bidding, good my lord.

Bertram

Where are my other men, monsieur? Farewell.

Exit Helena

Go thou toward home; where I will never come

Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum.

Away, and for our flight.

Parolles

Bravely, coragio!

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. FLORENCE. THE DUKE’S PALACE.

Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence attended; the two Frenchmen, with a troop of 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

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

Against our borrowing prayers.

Second 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

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.

First 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

Shall on them settle. You know your places well;

When better fall, for your avails they fell:

To-morrow to the field.

Flourish. Exeunt

SCENE II. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

Enter Countess and Clown

Countess

It hath happened all as I would have had it, save that he comes not along with her.

Clown

By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very melancholy man.

Countess

By what observance, I pray you?

Clown

Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the ruff and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his teeth and sing. I know a man that had this trick of melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.

Countess

Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come.

Opening a letter

Clown

I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court: our old ling and our Isbels o’ the country are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels o’ the court: the brains of my Cupid’s knocked out, and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.

Countess

What have we here?

Clown

E’en that you have there.

Exit

Countess

[Reads] 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 run 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, 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

By the misprising of a maid too virtuous

For the contempt of empire.

Re-enter Clown

Clown

O madam, yonder is heavy news within between two soldiers and my young lady!

Countess

What is the matter?

Clown

Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort; your son will not be killed so soon as I thought he would.

Countess

Why should he be killed?

Clown

So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does: the danger is in standing to’t; that’s the loss of men, though it be the getting of children. Here they come will tell you more: for my part, I only hear your son was run away.

Exit

Enter Helena, and two Gentlemen

First Gentleman

Save you, good madam.

Helena

Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.

Second Gentleman

Do not say so.

Countess

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,

Can woman me unto’t: where is my son, I pray you?

Second Gentleman

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,

Thither we bend again.

Helena

Look on his letter, madam; here’s my passport.

[Reads] 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.

Countess

Brought you this letter, gentlemen?

First Gentleman

Ay, madam;

And for the contents’ sake are sorry for our pain.

Countess

I prithee, lady, have a better cheer;

If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,

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?

Second Gentleman

Ay, madam.

Countess

And to be a soldier?

Second Gentleman

Such is his noble purpose; and believe ’t,

The duke will lay upon him all the honour

That good convenience claims.

Countess

Return you thither?

First Gentleman

Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.

Helena

[Reads] Till I have no wife I have nothing in France.

’Tis bitter.

Countess

Find you that there?

Helena

Ay, madam.

First Gentleman

’Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply, which his heart was not consenting to.

Countess

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

And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?

First Gentleman

A servant only, and a gentleman

Which I have sometime known.

Countess

Parolles, was it not?

First Gentleman

Ay, my good lady, he.

Countess

A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.

My son corrupts a well-derived nature

With his inducement.

First Gentleman

Indeed, good lady,

The fellow has a deal of that too much,

Which holds him much to have.

Countess

You’re welcome, gentlemen.

I will entreat you, when you see my son,

To tell him that his sword can never win

The honour that he loses: more I’ll entreat you

Written to bear along.

Second Gentleman

We serve you, madam,

In that and all your worthiest affairs.

Countess

Not so, but as we change our courtesies.

Will you draw near!

Exeunt Countess and Gentlemen

Helena

‘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

That chase thee from thy country and expose

Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the none-sparing war? and is it I

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,

Fly with false aim; move the still-peering air,

That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord.

Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;

Whoever charges on his forward breast,

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

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,

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

And angels officed 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.

Exit

SCENE III. FLORENCE. BEFORE THE DUKE’S PALACE.

Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, 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.

Bertram

Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my strength, but yet

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 prosperous helm,

As thy auspicious mistress!

Bertram

This very day,

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. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

Enter Countess and Steward

Countess

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.

Steward

[Reads] I am Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither gone:

Ambitious love hath so in me offended,

That barefoot 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 fervor sanctify:

His taken labours bid him me forgive;

I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth

From courtly friends, with camping foes to live,

Where death and danger dogs the heels of worth:

He is too good and fair for death and me:

Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.

Countess

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,

I could have well diverted her intents,

Which thus she hath prevented.

Steward

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.

Countess

What angel shall

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,

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.

Dispatch the most convenient messenger:

When haply he shall hear that she is gone,

He will return; and hope I may that she,

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:

My heart is heavy and mine age is weak;

Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak.

Exeunt

SCENE V. FLORENCE. WITHOUT THE WALLS. A TUCKET AFAR OFF.

Enter an old Widow of Florence, Diana, Violenta, and Mariana, with other Citizens

Widow

Nay, come; for if they do approach the city, we shall lose all the sight.

Diana

They say the French count has done most honourable service.

Widow

It is reported that he has taken their greatest commander; and that with his own hand he slew the duke’s brother.

Tucket

We have lost our labour; they are gone a contrary way: hark! you may know by their trumpets.

Mariana

Come, let’s return again, and suffice ourselves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this French earl: the honour of a maid is her name; and no legacy is so rich as honesty.

Widow

I have told my neighbour how you have been solicited by a gentleman his companion.

Mariana

I know that knave; hang him! one Parolles: a filthy officer he is in those suggestions for the young earl. Beware of them, Diana; their promises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go under: many a maid hath been seduced by them; and the misery is, example, that so terrible shows in the wreck of maidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade succession, but that they are limed with the twigs that threaten them. I hope I need not to advise you further; but I hope your own grace will keep you where you are, though there were no further danger known but the modesty which is so lost.

Diana

You shall not need to fear me.

Widow

I hope so.

Enter Helena, disguised like a Pilgrim

Look, here comes a pilgrim: I know she will lie at my house; thither they send one another: I’ll question her. God save you, pilgrim! whither are you bound?

Helena

To Saint Jaques le Grand.

Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?

Widow

At the Saint Francis here beside the port.

Helena

Is this the way?

Widow

Ay, marry, is’t.

A march afar

Hark you! they come this way.

If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,

But till the troops come by,

I will conduct you where you shall be lodged;

The rather, for I think I know your hostess

As ample as myself.

Helena

Is it yourself?

Widow

If you shall please so, pilgrim.

Helena

I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.

Widow

You came, I think, from France?

Helena

I did so.

Widow

Here you shall see a countryman of yours

That has done worthy service.

Helena

His name, I pray you.

Diana

The Count Rousillon: know you such a one?

Helena

But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him:

His face I know not.

Diana

Whatsome’er he is,

He’s bravely taken here. He stole from France,

As ’tis reported, for the king had married him

Against his liking: think you it is so?

Helena

Ay, surely, mere the truth: I know his lady.

Diana

There is a gentleman that serves the count

Reports but coarsely of her.

Helena

What’s his name?

Diana

Monsieur Parolles.

Helena

O, I believe with him,

In argument of praise, or to the worth

Of the great count himself, she is too mean

To have her name repeated: all her deserving

Is a reserved honesty, and that

I have not heard examined.

Diana

Alas, poor lady!

’Tis a hard bondage to become the wife

Of a detesting lord.

Widow

I warrant, good creature, wheresoe’er she is,

Her heart weighs sadly: this young maid might do her

A shrewd turn, if she pleased.

Helena

How do you mean?

May be the amorous count solicits her

In the unlawful purpose.

Widow

He does indeed;

And brokes with all that can in such a suit

Corrupt the tender honour of a maid:

But she is arm’d for him and keeps her guard

In honestest defence.

Mariana

The gods forbid else!

Widow

So, now they come:

Drum and Colours

Enter Bertram, Parolles, and the whole army

That is Antonio, the duke’s eldest son;

That, Escalus.

Helena

Which is the Frenchman?

Diana

He;

That with the plume: ’tis a most gallant fellow.

I would he loved his wife: if he were honester

He were much goodlier: is’t not a handsome gentleman?

Helena

I like him well.

Diana

’Tis pity he is not honest: yond’s that same knave

That leads him to these places: were I his lady,

I would Poison that vile rascal.

Helena

Which is he?

Diana

That jack-an-apes with scarfs: why is he melancholy?

Helena

Perchance he’s hurt i’ the battle.

Parolles

Lose our drum! well.

Mariana

He’s shrewdly vexed at something: look, he has spied us.

Widow

Marry, hang you!

Mariana

And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier!

Exeunt Bertram, Parolles, and army

Widow

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.

Helena

I humbly thank you:

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

Worthy the note.

Both

We’ll take your offer kindly.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. CAMP BEFORE FLORENCE.

Enter Bertram and the two French Lords

Second Lord

Nay, good my lord, put him to’t; let him have his way.

First Lord

If your lordship find him not a hilding, hold me no more in your respect.

Second Lord

On my life, my lord, a bubble.

Bertram

Do you think I am so far deceived in him?

Second Lord

Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of him as my kinsman, he’s a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner of no one good quality worthy your lordship’s entertainment.

First Lord

It were fit you knew him; lest, reposing too far in his virtue, which he hath not, he might at some great and trusty business in a main danger fail you.

Bertram

I would I knew in what particular action to try him.

First Lord

None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which you hear him so confidently undertake to do.

Second Lord

I, with a troop of Florentines, will suddenly surprise him; such I will have, whom I am sure he knows not from the enemy: we will bind and hoodwink him so, that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the leaguer of the adversaries, when we bring him to our own tents. Be but your lordship present at his examination: if he do not, for the promise of his life and in the highest compulsion of base fear, offer to betray you and deliver all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, never trust my judgment in any thing.

First Lord

O, for the love of laughter, let him fetch his drum; he says he has a stratagem for’t: when your lordship sees the bottom of his success in’t, and to what metal this counterfeit lump of ore will be melted, if you give him not John Drum’s entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed. Here he comes.

Enter Parolles

Second Lord

[Aside to Bertram] O, for the love of laughter, hinder not the honour of his design: let him fetch off his drum in any hand.

Bertram

How now, monsieur! this drum sticks sorely in your disposition.

First Lord

A pox on’t, let it go; ’tis but a drum.

Parolles

‘But a drum’! is’t ‘but a drum’? A drum so lost! There was excellent command,— to charge in with our horse upon our own wings, and to rend our own soldiers!

First Lord

That was not to be blamed in the command of the service: it was a disaster of war that Caesar himself could not have prevented, if he had been there to command.

Bertram

Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success: some dishonour we had in the loss of that drum; but it is not to be recovered.

Parolles

It might have been recovered.

Bertram

It might; but it is not now.

Parolles

It is to be recovered: but that the merit of service is seldom attributed to the true and exact performer, I would have that drum or another, or ’hic jacet.’

Bertram

Why, if you have a stomach, to’t, monsieur: if you think your mystery in stratagem can bring this instrument of honour again into his native quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprise and go on; I will grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speed well in it, the duke shall both speak of it. and extend to you what further becomes his greatness, even to the utmost syllable of your worthiness.

Parolles

By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it.

Bertram

But you must not now slumber in it.

Parolles

I’ll about it this evening: and I will presently pen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my certainty, put myself into my mortal preparation; and by midnight look to hear further from me.

Bertram

May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it?

Parolles

I know not what the success will be, my lord; but the attempt I vow.

Bertram

I know thou’rt valiant; and, to the possibility of thy soldiership, will subscribe for thee. Farewell.

Parolles

I love not many words.

Exit

Second Lord

No more than a fish loves water. Is not this a strange fellow, my lord, that so confidently seems to undertake this business, which he knows is not to be done; damns himself to do and dares better be damned than to do’t?

First Lord

You do not know him, my lord, as we do: certain it is that he will steal himself into a man’s favour and for a week escape a great deal of discoveries; but when you find him out, you have him ever after.

Bertram

Why, do you think he will make no deed at all of this that so seriously he does address himself unto?

Second Lord

None in the world; but return with an invention and clap upon you two or three probable lies: but we have almost embossed him; you shall see his fall to-night; for indeed he is not for your lordship’s respect.

First Lord

We’ll make you some sport with the fox ere we case him. He was first smoked by the old lord Lafeu: when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall find him; which you shall see this very night.

Second Lord

I must go look my twigs: he shall be caught.

Bertram

Your brother he shall go along with me.

Second Lord

As’t please your lordship: I’ll leave you.

Exit

Bertram

Now will I lead you to the house, and show you

The lass I spoke of.

First Lord

But you say she’s honest.

Bertram

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;

And this is all I have done. She’s a fair creature:

Will you go see her?

First Lord

With all my heart, my lord.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. FLORENCE. THE WIDOW’S HOUSE.

Enter Helena and Widow

Helena

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.

Widow

Though my estate be fallen, I was well born,

Nothing acquainted with these businesses;

And would not put my reputation now

In any staining act.

Helena

Nor would I wish you.

First, give me trust, the count he 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.

Widow

I should believe you:

For you have show’d me that which well approves

You’re great in fortune.

Helena

Take this purse of gold,

And let me buy your friendly help thus far,

Which I will over-pay and pay again

When I have found it. The count he wooes your daughter,

Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,

Resolved to carry her: let her in fine consent,

As we’ll direct her how ’tis best to bear it.

Now his important blood will nought deny

That she’ll demand: a ring the county wears,

That downward hath succeeded in his house

From son to son, some four or five descents

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.

Widow

Now I see

The bottom of your purpose.

Helena

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;

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 passed already.

Widow

I have yielded:

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 composed

To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us

To chide him from our eaves; for he persists

As if his life lay on’t.

Helena

Why then to-night

Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed,

Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed

And lawful meaning in a lawful act,

Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact:

But let’s about it.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. WITHOUT THE FLORENTINE CAMP.

Enter Second French Lord, with five or six other Soldiers in ambush

Second Lord

He can come no other way but by this hedge-corner. When you sally upon him, speak what terrible language you will: though you understand it not yourselves, no matter; for we must not seem to understand him, unless some one among us whom we must produce for an interpreter.

First Soldier

Good captain, let me be the interpreter.

Second Lord

Art not acquainted with him? knows he not thy voice?

First Soldier

No, sir, I warrant you.

Second Lord

But what linsey-woolsey hast thou to speak to us again?

First Soldier

E’en such as you speak to me.

Second Lord

He must think us some band of strangers i’ the adversary’s entertainment. Now he hath a smack of all neighbouring languages; therefore we must every one be a man of his own fancy, not to know what we speak one to another; so we seem to know, is to know straight our purpose: choughs’ language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you, interpreter, you must seem very politic. But couch, ho! here he comes, to beguile two hours in a sleep, and then to return and swear the lies he forges.

Enter Parolles

Parolles

Ten o’clock: within these three hours ’twill be time enough to go home. What shall I say I have done? It must be a very plausive invention that carries it: they begin to smoke me; and disgraces have of late knocked too often at my door. I find my tongue is too foolhardy; but my heart hath the fear of Mars before it and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue.

Second Lord

This is the first truth that e’er thine own tongue was guilty of.

Parolles

What the devil should move me to undertake the recovery of this drum, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must give myself some hurts, and say I got them in exploit: yet slight ones will not carry it; they will say, ‘Came you off with so little?’ and great ones I dare not give. Wherefore, what’s the instance? Tongue, I must put you into a butter-woman’s mouth and buy myself another of Bajazet’s mule, if you prattle me into these perils.

Second Lord

Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?

Parolles

I would the cutting of my garments would serve the turn, or the breaking of my Spanish sword.

Second Lord

We cannot afford you so.

Parolles

Or the baring of my beard; and to say it was in stratagem.

Second Lord

’Twould not do.

Parolles

Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripped.

Second Lord

Hardly serve.

Parolles

Though I swore I leaped from the window of the citadel.

Second Lord

How deep?

Parolles

Thirty fathom.

Second Lord

Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed.

Parolles

I would I had any drum of the enemy’s: I would swear I recovered it.

Second Lord

You shall hear one anon.

Parolles

A drum now of the enemy’s,—

Alarum within

Second Lord

Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.

All

Cargo, cargo, cargo, villiando par corbo, cargo.

Parolles

O, ransom, ransom! do not hide mine eyes.

They seize and blindfold him

First Soldier

Boskos thromuldo boskos.

Parolles

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,

Italian, or French, let him speak to me; I’ll

Discover that which shall undo the Florentine.

First Soldier

Boskos vauvado: I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue. Kerely bonto, sir, betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards are at thy bosom.

Parolles

O!

First Soldier

O, pray, pray, pray! Manka revania dulche.

Second Lord

Oscorbidulchos volivorco.

First Soldier

The general is content to spare thee yet;

And, hoodwink’d as thou art, will lead thee on

To gather from thee: haply thou mayst inform

Something to save thy life.

Parolles

O, let me live!

And all the secrets of our camp I’ll show,

Their force, their purposes; nay, I’ll speak that

Which you will wonder at.

First Soldier

But wilt thou faithfully?

Parolles

If I do not, damn me.

First Soldier

Acordo linta.

Come on; thou art granted space.

Exit, with Parolles guarded. A short alarum within

Second 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.

Second Soldier

Captain, I will.

Second Lord

A’ will betray us all unto ourselves:

Inform on that.

Second Soldier

So I will, sir.

Second Lord

Till then I’ll keep him dark and safely lock’d.

Exeunt

SCENE II. FLORENCE. THE WIDOW’S HOUSE.

Enter Bertram and Diana

Bertram

They told me that your name was Fontibell.

Diana

No, my good lord, Diana.

Bertram

Titled goddess;

And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul,

In your fine frame hath love no quality?

If 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 stem;

And now you should be as your mother was

When your sweet self was got.

Diana

She then was honest.

Bertram

So should you be.

Diana

No:

My mother did but duty; such, my lord,

As you owe to your wife.

Bertram

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.

Diana

Ay, so you serve us

Till we serve you; but when you have our roses,

You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves

And mock us with our bareness.

Bertram

How have I sworn!

Diana

’Tis not the many oaths that makes the truth,

But the plain single vow that is vow’d true.

What is not holy, that we swear not by,

But take the High’st to witness: then, pray you, tell me,

If I should swear by God’s great attributes,

I loved 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,

That I will work against him: therefore your oaths

Are words and poor conditions, but unseal’d,

At least in my opinion.

Bertram

Change it, change it;

Be not so holy-cruel: love is holy;

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.

Diana

I see that men make ropes in such a scarre

That we’ll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.

Bertram

I’ll lend it thee, my dear; but have no power

To give it from me.

Diana

Will you not, my lord?

Bertram

It is an honour ’longing to our house,

Bequeathed down from many ancestors;

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world

In me to lose.

Diana

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

In me to lose: thus your own proper wisdom

Brings in the champion Honour on my part,

Against your vain assault.

Bertram

Here, take my ring:

My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine,

And I’ll be bid by thee.

Diana

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,

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:

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.

Bertram

A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.

Exit

Diana

For which live long to thank both heaven and me!

You may so in the end.

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,

Marry that will, I live and die a maid:

Only in this disguise I think’t no sin

To cozen him that would unjustly win.

Exit

SCENE III. THE FLORENTINE CAMP.

Enter the two French Lords and some two or three Soldiers

First Lord

You have not given him his mother’s letter?

Second Lord

I have delivered it an hour since: there is something in’t that stings his nature; for on the reading it he changed almost into another man.

First Lord

He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off so good a wife and so sweet a lady.

Second Lord

Especially he hath incurred the everlasting displeasure of the king, who had even tuned his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.

First Lord

When you have spoken it, ’tis dead, and I am the grave of it.

Second Lord

He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown; and this night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her honour: he hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself made in the unchaste composition.

First Lord

Now, God delay our rebellion! as we are ourselves, what things are we!

Second Lord

Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends, so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream o’erflows himself.

First Lord

Is it not meant damnable in us, to be trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall not then have his company to-night?

Second Lord

Not till after midnight; for he is dieted to his hour.

First Lord

That approaches apace; I would gladly have him see his company anatomized, that he might take a measure of his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit.

Second Lord

We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other.

First Lord

In the mean time, what hear you of these wars?

Second Lord

I hear there is an overture of peace.

First Lord

Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.

Second Lord

What will Count Rousillon do then? will he travel higher, or return again into France?

First Lord

I perceive, by this demand, you are not altogether of his council.

Second Lord

Let it be forbid, sir; so should I be a great deal of his act.

First Lord

Sir, his wife some two months since fled from his house: her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le Grand; which holy undertaking with most austere sanctimony she accomplished; and, there residing the tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, and now she sings in heaven.

Second Lord

How is this justified?

First Lord

The stronger part of it by her own letters, which makes her story true, even to the point of her death: her death itself, which could not be her office to say is come, was faithfully confirmed by the rector of the place.

Second Lord

Hath the count all this intelligence?

First Lord

Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from point, so to the full arming of the verity.

Second Lord

I am heartily sorry that he’ll be glad of this.

First Lord

How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our losses!

Second Lord

And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquired for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample.

First Lord

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues.

Enter a Messenger

How now! where’s your master?

Servant

He met the duke in the street, sir, of whom he hath taken a solemn leave: his lordship will next morning for France. The duke hath offered him letters of commendations to the king.

Second Lord

They shall be no more than needful there, if they were more than they can commend.

First Lord

They cannot be too sweet for the king’s tartness. Here’s his lordship now.

Enter Bertram

How now, my lord! is’t not after midnight?

Bertram

I have to-night dispatched sixteen businesses, a month’s length a-piece, by an abstract of success: I have congied with the duke, done my adieu with his nearest; buried a wife, mourned for her; writ to my lady mother I am returning; entertained my convoy; and between these main parcels of dispatch effected many nicer needs; the last was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet.

Second Lord

If the business be of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requires haste of your lordship.

Bertram

I mean, the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue between the fool and the soldier? Come, bring forth this counterfeit module, he has deceived me, like a double-meaning prophesier.

Second Lord

Bring him forth: has sat i’ the stocks all night, poor gallant knave.

Bertram

No matter: his heels have deserved it, in usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry himself?

Second Lord

I have told your lordship already, the stocks carry him. But to answer you as you would be understood; he weeps like a wench that had shed her milk: he hath confessed himself to Morgan, whom he supposes to be a friar, from the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i’ the stocks: and what think you he hath confessed?

Bertram

Nothing of me, has a’?

Second Lord

His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his face: if your lordship be in’t, as I believe you are, you must have the patience to hear it.

Enter Parolles guarded, and First Soldier

Bertram

A plague upon him! muffled! he can say nothing of me: hush, hush!

First Lord

Hoodman comes! Portotartarosa

First Soldier

He calls for the tortures: what will you say without ’em?

Parolles

I will confess what I know without constraint: if ye pinch me like a pasty, I can say no more.

First Soldier

Bosko chimurcho.

First Lord

Boblibindo chicurmurco.

First Soldier

You are a merciful general. Our general bids you answer to what I shall ask you out of a note.

Parolles

And truly, as I hope to live.

First Soldier

[Reads] ‘First demand of him how many horse the duke is strong.’ What say you to that?

Parolles

Five or six thousand; but very weak and unserviceable: the troops are all scattered, and the commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation and credit and as I hope to live.

First Soldier

Shall I set down your answer so?

Parolles

Do: I’ll take the sacrament on’t, how and which way you will.

Bertram

All’s one to him. What a past-saving slave is this!

First Lord

You’re deceived, my lord: this is Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist,— that was his own phrase,— that had the whole theoric of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practise in the chape of his dagger.

Second Lord

I will never trust a man again for keeping his sword clean. nor believe he can have every thing in him by wearing his apparel neatly.

First Soldier

Well, that’s set down.

Parolles

Five or six thousand horse, I said,— I will say true,— or thereabouts, set down, for I’ll speak truth.

First Lord

He’s very near the truth in this.

Bertram

But I con him no thanks for’t, in the nature he delivers it.

Parolles

Poor rogues, I pray you, say.

First Soldier

Well, that’s set down.

Parolles

I humbly thank you, sir: a truth’s a truth, the rogues are marvellous poor.

First Soldier

[Reads] ‘Demand of him, of what strength they are a-foot.’ What say you to that?

Parolles

By my troth, sir, if I were to live this present hour, I will tell true. Let me see: Spurio, a hundred and fifty; Sebastian, so many; Corambus, so many; Jaques, so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, two hundred and fifty each; mine own company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred and fifty each: so that the muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my life, amounts not to fifteen thousand poll; half of the which dare not shake snow from off their cassocks, lest they shake themselves to pieces.

Bertram

What shall be done to him?

First Lord

Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my condition, and what credit I have with the duke.

First Soldier

Well, that’s set down.

[Reads] ‘You shall demand of him, whether one Captain Dumain be i’ the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is with the duke; what his valour, honesty, and expertness in wars; or whether he thinks it were not possible, with well-weighing sums of gold, to corrupt him to revolt.’ What say you to this? what do you know of it?

Parolles

I beseech you, let me answer to the particular of the inter’gatories: demand them singly.

First Soldier

Do you know this Captain Dumain?

Parolles

I know him: a’ was a botcher’s ’prentice in Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the shrieve’s fool with child,— a dumb innocent, that could not say him nay.

Bertram

Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.

First Soldier

Well, is this captain in the duke of Florence’s camp?

Parolles

Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy.

First Lord

Nay look not so upon me; we shall hear of your lordship anon.

First Soldier

What is his reputation with the duke?

Parolles

The duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of mine; and writ to me this other day to turn him out o’ the band: I think I have his letter in my pocket.

First Soldier

Marry, we’ll search.

Parolles

In good sadness, I do not know; either it is there, or it is upon a file with the duke’s other letters in my tent.

First Soldier

Here ’tis; here’s a paper: shall I read it to you?

Parolles

I do not know if it be it or no.

Bertram

Our interpreter does it well.

First Lord

Excellently.

First Soldier

[Reads] ‘Dian, the count’s a fool, and full of gold,’—

Parolles

That is not the duke’s letter, sir; that is an advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one Diana, to take heed of the allurement of one Count Rousillon, a foolish idle boy, but for all that very ruttish: I pray you, sir, put it up again.

First Soldier

Nay, I’ll read it first, by your favour.

Parolles

My meaning in’t, I protest, was very honest in the behalf of the maid; for I knew the young count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a whale to virginity and devours up all the fry it finds.

Bertram

Damnable both-sides rogue!

First Soldier

[Reads] ‘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;

And say a soldier, Dian, told thee this,

Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss:

For count of this, the count’s a fool, I know it,

Who pays before, but not when he does owe it.

Thine, as he vowed to thee in thine ear,

Parolles.’

Bertram

He shall be whipped through the army with this rhyme in’s forehead.

Second Lord

This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold linguist and the armipotent soldier.

Bertram

I could endure any thing before but a cat, and now he’s a cat to me.

First Soldier

I perceive, sir, by the general’s looks, we shall be fain to hang you.

Parolles

My life, sir, in any case: not that I am afraid to die; but that, my offences being many, I would repent out the remainder of nature: let me live, sir, in a dungeon, i’ the stocks, or any where, so I may live.

First Soldier

We’ll see what may be done, so you confess freely; therefore, once more to this Captain Dumain: you have answered to his reputation with the duke and to his valour: what is his honesty?

Parolles

He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister: for rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus: he professes not keeping of oaths; in breaking ’em he is stronger than Hercules: he will lie, sir, with such volubility, that you would think truth were a fool: drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk; and in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bed-clothes about him; but they know his conditions and lay him in straw. I have but little more to say, sir, of his honesty: he has every thing that an honest man should not have; what an honest man should have, he has nothing.

First Lord

I begin to love him for this.

Bertram

For this description of thine honesty? A pox upon him for me, he’s more and more a cat.

First Soldier

What say you to his expertness in war?

Parolles

Faith, sir, he has led the drum before the English tragedians; to belie him, I will not, and more of his soldiership I know not; except, in that country he had the honour to be the officer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct for the doubling of files: I would do the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certain.

First Lord

He hath out-villained villany so far, that the rarity redeems him.

Bertram

A pox on him, he’s a cat still.

First Soldier

His qualities being at this poor price, I need not to ask you if gold will corrupt him to revolt.

Parolles

Sir, for a quart d’ecu he will sell the fee-simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it; and cut the entail from all remainders, and a perpetual succession for it perpetually.

First Soldier

What’s his brother, the other Captain Dumain?

Second Lord

Why does be ask him of me?

First Soldier

What’s he?

Parolles

E’en a crow o’ the same nest; not altogether so great as the first in goodness, but greater a great deal in evil: he excels his brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed one of the best that is: in a retreat he outruns any lackey; marry, in coming on he has the cramp.

First Soldier

If your life be saved, will you undertake to betray the Florentine?

Parolles

Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count Rousillon.

First Soldier

I’ll whisper with the general, and know his pleasure.

Parolles

[Aside] I’ll no more drumming; a plague of all drums! Only to seem to deserve well, and to beguile the supposition of that lascivious young boy the count, have I run into this danger. Yet who would have suspected an ambush where I was taken?

First Soldier

There is no remedy, sir, but you must die: the general says, you that have so traitorously discovered the secrets of your army and made such pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can serve the world for no honest use; therefore you must die. Come, headsman, off with his head.

Parolles

O Lord, sir, let me live, or let me see my death!

First Lord

That shall you, and take your leave of all your friends.

Unblinding him

So, look about you: know you any here?

Bertram

Good morrow, noble captain.

Second Lord

God bless you, Captain Parolles.

First Lord

God save you, noble captain.

Second Lord

Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafeu? I am for France.

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’ld compel it of you: but fare you well.

Exeunt Bertram and Lords

First Soldier

You are undone, captain, all but your scarf; that has a knot on’t yet

Parolles

Who cannot be crushed with a plot?

First Soldier

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 with Soldiers

Parolles

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

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.

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. THE WIDOW’S HOUSE.

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana

Helena

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:

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

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,

And by the leave of my good lord the king,

We’ll be before our welcome.

Widow

Gentle madam,

You never had a servant to whose trust

Your business was more welcome.

Helena

Nor you, mistress,

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

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

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.

Diana

Let death and honesty

Go with your impositions, I am yours

Upon your will to suffer.

Helena

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;

Our wagon is prepared, and time revives us:

All’s well that ends well; still the fine’s the crown;

Whate’er the course, the end is the renown.

Exeunt

SCENE V. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

Enter Countess, Lafeu, and Clown

Lafeu

No, no, no, your son was misled with a snipt-taffeta fellow there, whose villanous saffron would have made all the unbaked and doughy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had been alive at this hour, and your son here at home, more advanced by the king than by that red-tailed humble-bee I speak of.

Countess

I would I had not known him; it was the death of the most virtuous gentlewoman that ever nature had praise for creating. If she had partaken of my flesh, and cost me the dearest groans of a mother, I could not have owed her a more rooted love.

Lafeu

’Twas a good lady, ’twas a good lady: we may pick a thousand salads ere we light on such another herb.

Clown

Indeed, sir, she was the sweet marjoram of the salad, or rather, the herb of grace.

Lafeu

They are not herbs, you knave; they are nose-herbs.

Clown

I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much skill in grass.

Lafeu

Whether dost thou profess thyself, a knave or a fool?

Clown

A fool, sir, at a woman’s service, and a knave at a man’s.

Lafeu

Your distinction?

Clown

I would cozen the man of his wife and do his service.

Lafeu

So you were a knave at his service, indeed.

Clown

And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to do her service.

Lafeu

I will subscribe for thee, thou art both knave and fool.

Clown

At your service.

Lafeu

No, no, no.

Clown

Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve as great a prince as you are.

Lafeu

Who’s that? a Frenchman?

Clown

Faith, sir, a’ has an English name; but his fisnomy is more hotter in France than there.

Lafeu

What prince is that?

Clown

The black prince, sir; alias, the prince of darkness; alias, the devil.

Lafeu

Hold thee, there’s my purse: I give thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talkest of; serve him still.

Clown

I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire; and the master I speak of ever keeps a good fire. But, sure, he is the prince of the world; let his nobility remain in’s court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: some that humble themselves may; but the many will be too chill and tender, and they’ll be for the flowery way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire.

Lafeu

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.

Clown

If I put any tricks upon ’em, sir, they shall be jades’ tricks; which are their own right by the law of nature.

Exit

Lafeu

A shrewd knave and an unhappy.

Countess

So he is. My lord that’s gone made himself much sport out of him: by his authority he remains here, which he thinks is a patent for his sauciness; and, indeed, he has no pace, but runs where he will.

Lafeu

I like him well; ’tis not amiss. And I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good lady’s death and that my lord your son was upon his return home, I moved the king my master to speak in the behalf of my daughter; which, in the minority of them both, his majesty, out of a self-gracious remembrance, did first propose: his highness hath promised me to do it: and, to stop up the displeasure he hath conceived against your son, there is no fitter matter. How does your ladyship like it?

Countess

With very much content, my lord; and I wish it happily effected.

Lafeu

His highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able body as when he numbered thirty: he will be here to-morrow, or I am deceived by him that in such intelligence hath seldom failed.

Countess

It rejoices me, that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I have letters that my son will be here to-night: I shall beseech your lordship to remain with me till they meet together.

Lafeu

Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted.

Countess

You need but plead your honourable privilege.

Lafeu

Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but I thank my God it holds yet.

Re-enter Clown

Clown

O madam, yonder’s my lord your son with a patch of velvet on’s face: whether there be a scar under’t 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.

Lafeu

A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honour; so belike is that.

Clown

But it is your carbonadoed face.

Lafeu

Let us go see your son, I pray you: I long to talk with the young noble soldier.

Clown

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

Helena

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,

Be bold you do so grow in my requital

As nothing can unroot you. In happy time;

Enter a Gentleman

This man may help me to his majesty’s ear,

If he would spend his power. God save you, sir.

Gentleman

And you.

Helena

Sir, I have seen you in the court of France.

Gentleman

I have been sometimes there.

Helena

I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen

From the report that goes upon your goodness;

An therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions,

Which lay nice manners by, I put you to

The use of your own virtues, for the which

I shall continue thankful.

Gentleman

What’s your will?

Helena

That it will please you

To give this poor petition to the king,

And aid me with that store of power you have

To come into his presence.

Gentleman

The king’s not here.

Helena

Not here, sir!

Gentleman

Not, indeed:

He hence removed last night and with more haste

Than is his use.

Widow

Lord, how we lose our pains!

Helena

All’s well that ends well yet,

Though time seem so adverse and means unfit.

I do beseech you, whither is he gone?

Gentleman

Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon;

Whither I am going.

Helena

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

But rather make you thank your pains for it.

I will come after you with what good speed

Our means will make us means.

Gentleman

This I’ll do for you.

Helena

And you shall find yourself to be well thank’d,

Whate’er falls more. We must to horse again.

Go, go, provide.

Exeunt

SCENE II. ROUSILLON. BEFORE THE COUNT’S PALACE.

Enter Clown, and Parolles, following

Parolles

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.

Clown

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.

Parolles

Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir; I spake but by a metaphor.

Clown

Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose; or against any man’s metaphor. Prithee, get thee further.

Parolles

Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.

Clown

Foh! prithee, stand away: a paper from fortune’s close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look, here he comes himself.

Enter Lafeu

Here is a purr of fortune’s, sir, or of fortune’s cat,— but not a musk-cat,— that has fallen into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he says, is muddied withal: pray you, sir, use the carp as you may; for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress in my similes of comfort and leave him to your lordship.

Exit

Parolles

My lord, I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratched.

Lafeu

And what would you have me to do? ’Tis too late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you played the knave with fortune, that she should scratch you, who of herself is a good lady and would not have knaves thrive long under her? There’s a quart d’ecu for you: let the justices make you and fortune friends: I am for other business.

Parolles

I beseech your honour to hear me one single word.

Lafeu

You beg a single penny more: come, you shall ha’t; save your word.

Parolles

My name, my good lord, is Parolles.

Lafeu

You beg more than ‘word,’ then. Cox my passion! give me your hand. How does your drum?

Parolles

O my good lord, you were the first that found me!

Lafeu

Was I, in sooth? and I was the first that lost thee.

Parolles

It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for you did bring me out.

Lafeu

Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon me at once both the office of God and the devil? One brings thee in grace and the other brings thee out.

Trumpets sound

The king’s coming; I know by his trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me; I had talk of you last night: though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat; go to, follow.

Parolles

I praise God for you.

Exeunt

SCENE III. ROUSILLON. THE COUNT’S PALACE.

Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, the two French Lords, with Attendants

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.

Countess

’Tis past, my liege;

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,

I have forgiven and forgotten all;

Though my revenges were high bent upon him,

And watch’d the time to shoot.

Lafeu

This I must say,

But first I beg my pardon, the young lord

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

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;

We are reconciled, 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

The incensing relics of it: let him approach,

A stranger, no offender; and inform him

So ’tis our will he should.

Gentleman

I shall, my liege.

Exit

King

What says he to your daughter? have you spoke?

Lafeu

All that he is hath reference to your highness.

King

Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me

That set him high in fame.

Enter Bertram

Lafeu

He looks well on’t.

King

I am not a day of season,

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.

Bertram

My high-repented blames,

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

The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time

Steals ere we can effect them. You remember

The daughter of this lord?

Bertram

Admiringly, my liege, 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;

Scorn’d a fair colour, or express’d it stolen;

Extended or contracted all proportions

To a most hideous object: thence it came

That she whom all men praised and whom myself,

Since I have lost, have loved, was in mine eye

The dust that did offend it.

King

Well excused:

That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away

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 rash faults

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

Our own love waking cries to see what’s done,

While shame full late sleeps out the afternoon.

Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her.

Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin:

The main consents are had; and here we’ll stay

To see our widower’s second marriage-day.

Countess

Which better than the first, O dear heaven, bless!

Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse!

Lafeu

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,

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 at court,

I saw upon her finger.

Bertram

Hers it was not.

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

Necessitied to help, that by this token

I would relieve her. Had you that craft, to reave

her

Of what should stead her most?

Bertram

My gracious sovereign,

Howe’er it pleases you to take it so,

The ring was never hers.

Countess

Son, on my life,

I have seen her wear it; and she reckon’d it

At her life’s rate.

Lafeu

I am sure I saw her wear it.

Bertram

You are deceived, my lord; she never saw it:

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 engaged: but when I had subscribed

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 ceased

In heavy satisfaction and would never

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,

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

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.

Bertram

She never saw it.

King

Thou speak’st it falsely, as I love mine honour;

And makest 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;—

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.

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.

Bertram

If you shall prove

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 a Gentleman

Gentleman

Gracious sovereign,

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,

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,

In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern

Your highness with herself.

King

[Reads] 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.

Diana CAPILET.

Lafeu

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:

Go speedily and bring again the count.

I am afeard the life of Helen, lady,

Was foully snatch’d.

Countess

Now, justice on the doers!

Re-enter Bertram, guarded

King

I wonder, sir, sith wives are monsters to you,

And that you fly them as you swear them lordship,

Yet you desire to marry.

Enter Widow and Diana

What woman’s that?

Diana

I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine,

Derived from the ancient Capilet:

My suit, as I do understand, you know,

And therefore know how far I may be pitied.

Widow

I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour

Both suffer under this complaint we bring,

And both shall cease, without your remedy.

King

Come hither, count; do you know these women?

Bertram

My lord, I neither can nor will deny

But that I know them: do they charge me further?

Diana

Why do you look so strange upon your wife?

Bertram

She’s none of mine, my lord.

Diana

If you shall marry,

You give away this hand, and that is mine;

You give away heaven’s vows, and those are mine;

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.

Lafeu

Your reputation comes too short for my daughter; you are no husband for her.

Bertram

My lord, this is a fond and desperate creature,

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

Till your deeds gain them: fairer prove your honour

Than in my thought it lies.

Diana

Good my lord,

Ask him upon his oath, if he does think

He had not my virginity.

King

What say’st thou to her?

Bertram

She’s impudent, my lord,

And was a common gamester to the camp.

Diana

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,

Whose high respect and rich validity

Did lack a parallel; yet for all that

He gave it to a commoner o’ the camp,

If I be one.

Countess

He blushes, and ’tis it:

Of six preceding ancestors, that gem,

Conferr’d by testament to the sequent issue,

Hath it been owed and worn. This is his wife;

That ring’s a thousand proofs.

King

Methought you said

You saw one here in court could witness it.

Diana

I did, my lord, but loath am to produce

So bad an instrument: his name’s Parolles.

Lafeu

I saw the man to-day, if man he be.

King

Find him, and bring him hither.

Exit an Attendant

Bertram

What of him?

He’s quoted for a most perfidious slave,

With all the spots o’ the world tax’d and debosh’d;

Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth.

Am I or that or this for what he’ll utter,

That will speak any thing?

King

She hath that ring of yours.

Bertram

I think she has: certain it is I liked her,

And boarded her i’ the wanton way of youth:

She knew her distance and did angle for me,

Madding my eagerness with her restraint,

As all impediments in fancy’s course

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

At market-price have bought.

Diana

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;

Send for your ring, I will return it home,

And give me mine again.

Bertram

I have it not.

King

What ring was yours, I pray you?

Diana

Sir, much like

The same upon your finger.

King

Know you this ring? this ring was his of late.

Diana

And this was it I gave him, being abed.

King

The story then goes false, you threw it him

Out of a casement.

Diana

I have spoke the truth.

Enter Parolles

Bertram

My lord, I do confess the ring was hers.

King

You boggle shrewdly, every feather stars you.

Is this the man you speak of?

Diana

Ay, my lord.

King

Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true, I charge you,

Not fearing the displeasure of your master,

Which on your just proceeding I’ll keep off,

By him and by this woman here what know you?

Parolles

So please your majesty, my master hath been an honourable gentleman: tricks he hath had in him, which gentlemen have.

King

Come, come, to the purpose: did he love this woman?

Parolles

Faith, sir, he did love her; but how?

King

How, I pray you?

Parolles

He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a woman.

King

How is that?

Parolles

He loved her, sir, and loved her not.

King

As thou art a knave, and no knave. What an equivocal companion is this!

Parolles

I am a poor man, and at your majesty’s command.

Lafeu

He’s a good drum, my lord, but a naughty orator.

Diana

Do you know he promised me marriage?

Parolles

Faith, I know more than I’ll speak.

King

But wilt thou not speak all thou knowest?

Parolles

Yes, so please your majesty. I did go between them, as I said; but more than that, he loved her: for indeed he was mad for her, and talked of Satan and of Limbo and of Furies and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time that I knew of their going to bed, and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would derive me ill will to speak of; therefore I will not speak what I know.

King

Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou canst say they are married: but thou art too fine in thy evidence; therefore stand aside.

This ring, you say, was yours?

Diana

Ay, my good lord.

King

Where did you buy it? or who gave it you?

Diana

It was not given me, nor I did not buy it.

King

Who lent it you?

Diana

It was not lent me neither.

King

Where did you find it, then?

Diana

I found it not.

King

If it were yours by none of all these ways,

How could you give it him?

Diana

I never gave it him.

Lafeu

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.

Diana

It might be yours or hers, for aught I know.

King

Take her away; I do not like her now;

To prison with her: and away with him.

Unless thou tell’st me where thou hadst this ring,

Thou diest within this hour.

Diana

I’ll never tell you.

King

Take her away.

Diana

I’ll put in bail, my liege.

King

I think thee now some common customer.

Diana

By Jove, if ever I knew man, ’twas you.

King

Wherefore hast thou accused him all this while?

Diana

Because he’s guilty, and he is not guilty:

He knows I am no maid, and he’ll swear to’t;

I’ll swear I am a maid, and he knows not.

Great king, I am no strumpet, by my life;

I am either maid, or else this old man’s wife.

King

She does abuse our ears: to prison with her.

Diana

Good mother, fetch my bail. Stay, royal sir:

Exit Widow

The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for,

And he shall surety me. But for this lord,

Who hath abused me, as he knows himself,

Though yet he never harm’d me, here I quit him:

He knows himself my bed he hath defiled;

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

Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?

Is’t real that I see?

Helena

No, my good lord;

’Tis but the shadow of a wife you see,

The name and not the thing.

Bertram

Both, both. O, pardon!

Helena

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

And are by me with child,’ & c. This is done:

Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?

Bertram

If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly,

I’ll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.

Helena

If it appear not plain and prove untrue,

Deadly divorce step between me and you!

O my dear mother, do I see you living?

Lafeu

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 courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones.

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,

Choose thou thy husband, and I’ll pay thy dower;

For I can guess that by thy honest aid

Thou keep’st a wife herself, thyself a maid.

Of that and all the progress, more or less,

Resolvedly more leisure shall express:

All yet seems well; and if it end so meet,

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.

Flourish

EPILOGUE

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:

Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts;

Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts.

Exeunt

As You Like It

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. ORCHARD OF OLIVER’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. LAWN BEFORE THE DUKE’S PALACE.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

ACT II

SCENE I. THE FOREST OF ARDEN.

SCENE II. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

SCENE III. BEFORE OLIVER’S HOUSE.

SCENE IV. THE FOREST OF ARDEN.

SCENE V. THE FOREST.

SCENE VI. THE FOREST.

SCENE VII. THE FOREST.

ACT III

SCENE I. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

SCENE II. THE FOREST.

SCENE III. THE FOREST.

SCENE IV. THE FOREST.

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE FOREST.

ACT IV

SCENE I. THE FOREST.

SCENE II. THE FOREST.

SCENE III. THE FOREST.

ACT V

SCENE I. THE FOREST.

SCENE II. THE FOREST.

SCENE III. THE FOREST.

SCENE IV. THE FOREST.

EPILOGUE

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Duke, living in exile

Frederick, brother to the Duke, and Usurper of his Dominions

Amiens, Lord attending on the Duke in his Banishment

Jaques, Lord attending on the Duke in his Banishment

Le Beau, a Courtier attending upon Frederick

Charles, his Wrestler

Oliver, son of Sir Rowland de Bois

Jaques, son of Sir Rowland de Bois

Orlando, son of Sir Rowland de Bois

Adam, servant to Oliver

Dennis, servant to Oliver

Touchstone, a clown

Sir Oliver Martext, a Vicar

Corin, shepherd

Silvius, shepherd

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 belonging to the two Dukes; Pages, Foresters, and other Attendants.

ACT I

SCENE I. ORCHARD OF OLIVER’S HOUSE.

Enter Orlando and Adam

Orlando

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.

Adam

Yonder comes my master, your brother.

Orlando

Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up.

Enter Oliver

Oliver

Now, sir! what make you here?

Orlando

Nothing: I am not taught to make any thing.

Oliver

What mar you then, sir?

Orlando

Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.

Oliver

Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught awhile.

Orlando

Shall I keep your hogs and eat husks with them? What prodigal portion have I spent, that I should come to such penury?

Oliver

Know you where your are, sir?

Orlando

O, sir, very well; here in your orchard.

Oliver

Know you before whom, sir?

Orlando

Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are my eldest brother; and, in the gentle condition of blood, you should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better, in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us: I have as much of my father in me as you; albeit, I confess, your coming before me is nearer to his reverence.

Oliver

What, boy!

Orlando

Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.

Oliver

Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?

Orlando

I am no villain; I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys; he was my father, and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat till this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying so: thou hast railed on thyself.

Adam

Sweet masters, be patient: for your father’s remembrance, be at accord.

Oliver

Let me go, I say.

Orlando

I will not, till I please: you shall hear me. My father charged you in his will to give me good education: you have trained me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it: therefore allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament; with that I will go buy my fortunes.

Oliver

And what wilt thou do? beg, when that is spent? Well, sir, get you in: I will not long be troubled with you; you shall have some part of your will: I pray you, leave me.

Orlando

I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.

Oliver

Get you with him, you old dog.

Adam

Is ‘old dog’ my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth in your service. God be with my old master! he would not have spoke such a word.

Exeunt Orlando and Adam

Oliver

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

Dennis

Calls your worship?

Oliver

Was not Charles, the duke’s wrestler, here to speak with me?

Dennis

So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access to you.

Oliver

Call him in.

Exit Dennis

’Twill be a good way; and to-morrow the wrestling is.

Enter Charles

Charles

Good morrow to your worship.

Oliver

Good Monsieur Charles, what’s the new news at the new court?

Charles

There’s no news at the court, sir, but the old news: that is, the old duke is banished by his younger brother the new duke; and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new duke; therefore he gives them good leave to wander.

Oliver

Can you tell if Rosalind, the duke’s daughter, be banished with her father?

Charles

O, no; for the duke’s daughter, her cousin, so loves her, being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do.

Oliver

Where will the old duke live?

Charles

They say he is already in the forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England: they say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.

Oliver

What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new duke?

Charles

Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother Orlando hath a disposition to come in disguised against me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would be loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come in: therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is a thing of his own search and altogether against my will.

Oliver

Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother’s purpose herein and have by underhand means laboured to dissuade him from it, but he is resolute. I’ll tell thee, Charles: it is the stubbornest young fellow of France, full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man’s good parts, a secret and villanous contriver against me his natural brother: therefore use thy discretion; I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to’t; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device and never leave thee till he hath ta’en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, I assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not one so young and so villanous this day living. I speak but brotherly of him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush and weep and thou must look pale and wonder.

Charles

I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come to-morrow, I’ll give him his payment: if ever he go alone again, I’ll never wrestle for prize more: and so God keep your worship!

Oliver

Farewell, good Charles.

Exit Charles

Now will I stir this gamester: I hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he. Yet he’s gentle, never schooled and yet learned, full of noble device, of all sorts enchantingly beloved, and indeed so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether misprised: but it shall not be so long; this wrestler shall clear all: nothing remains but that I kindle the boy thither; which now I’ll go about.

Exit

SCENE II. LAWN BEFORE THE DUKE’S PALACE.

Enter Celia and Rosalind

Celia

I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.

Rosalind

Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure.

Celia

Herein I see thou lovest me not with the full weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy uncle, the duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine: so wouldst thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously tempered as mine is to thee.

Rosalind

Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to rejoice in yours.

Celia

You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to have: and, truly, when he dies, thou shalt be his heir, for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affection; by mine honour, I will; and when I break that oath, let me turn monster: therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry.

Rosalind

From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports. Let me see; what think you of falling in love?

Celia

Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal: but love no man in good earnest; nor no further in sport neither than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again.

Rosalind

What shall be our sport, then?

Celia

Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.

Rosalind

I would we could do so, for her benefits are mightily misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women.

Celia

’Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest, and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly.

Rosalind

Nay, now thou goest from Fortune’s office to Nature’s: Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of Nature.

Enter Touchstone

Celia

No? when Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by Fortune fall into the fire? Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument?

Rosalind

Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when Fortune makes Nature’s natural the cutter-off of Nature’s wit.

Celia

Peradventure this is not Fortune’s work neither, but Nature’s; who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses and hath sent this natural for our whetstone; for always the dulness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. How now, wit! whither wander you?

Touchstone

Mistress, you must come away to your father.

Celia

Were you made the messenger?

Touchstone

No, by mine honour, but I was bid to come for you.

Rosalind

Where learned you that oath, fool?

Touchstone

Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were good pancakes and swore by his honour the mustard was naught: now I’ll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard was good, and yet was not the knight forsworn.

Celia

How prove you that, in the great heap of your knowledge?

Rosalind

Ay, marry, now unmuzzle your wisdom.

Touchstone

Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and swear by your beards that I am a knave.

Celia

By our beards, if we had them, thou art.

Touchstone

By my knavery, if I had it, then I were; but if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn: no more was this knight swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancakes or that mustard.

Celia

Prithee, who is’t that thou meanest?

Touchstone

One that old Frederick, your father, loves.

Celia

My father’s love is enough to honour him: enough! speak no more of him; you’ll be whipped for taxation one of these days.

Touchstone

The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.

Celia

By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.

Rosalind

With his mouth full of news.

Celia

Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young.

Rosalind

Then shall we be news-crammed.

Celia

All the better; we shall be the more marketable.

Enter Le Beau

Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau: what’s the news?

Le Beau

Fair princess, you have lost much good sport.

Celia

Sport! of what colour?

Le Beau

What colour, madam! how shall I answer you?

Rosalind

As wit and fortune will.

Touchstone

Or as the Destinies decree.

Celia

Well said: that was laid on with a trowel.

Touchstone

Nay, if I keep not my rank,—

Rosalind

Thou losest thy old smell.

Le Beau

You amaze me, ladies: I would have told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of.

Rosalind

You tell us the manner of the wrestling.

Le Beau

I will tell you the beginning; and, if it please your ladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do; and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it.

Celia

Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried.

Le Beau

There comes an old man and his three sons,—

Celia

I could match this beginning with an old tale.

Le Beau

Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence.

Rosalind

With bills on their necks, ‘Be it known unto all men by these presents.’

Le Beau

The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the duke’s wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him and broke three of his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him: so he served the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor old man, their father, making such pitiful dole over them that all the beholders take his part with weeping.

Rosalind

Alas!

Touchstone

But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have lost?

Le Beau

Why, this that I speak of.

Touchstone

Thus men may grow wiser every day: it is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies.

Celia

Or I, I promise thee.

Rosalind

But is there any else longs to see this broken music in his sides? is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin?

Le Beau

You must, if you stay here; for here is the place appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it.

Celia

Yonder, sure, they are coming: let us now stay and see it.

Flourish. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Orlando, Charles, and Attendants

Duke Frederick

Come on: since the youth will not be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness.

Rosalind

Is yonder the man?

Le Beau

Even he, madam.

Celia

Alas, he is too young! yet he looks successfully.

Duke Frederick

How now, daughter and cousin! are you crept hither to see the wrestling?

Rosalind

Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave.

Duke Frederick

You will take little delight in it, I can tell you; there is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger’s youth I would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if you can move him.

Celia

Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.

Duke Frederick

Do so: I’ll not be by.

Le Beau

Monsieur the challenger, the princesses call for you.

Orlando

I attend them with all respect and duty.

Rosalind

Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler?

Orlando

No, fair princess; he is the general challenger: I come but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth.

Celia

Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man’s strength: if you saw yourself with your eyes or knew yourself with your judgment, the fear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equal enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your own safety and give over this attempt.

Rosalind

Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be misprised: we will make it our suit to the duke that the wrestling might not go forward.

Orlando

I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts; wherein I confess me much guilty, to deny so fair and excellent ladies any thing. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial: wherein if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that was never gracious; if killed, but one dead that was willing to be so: I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me, the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when I have made it empty.

Rosalind

The little strength that I have, I would it were with you.

Celia

And mine, to eke out hers.

Rosalind

Fare you well: pray heaven I be deceived in you!

Celia

Your heart’s desires be with you!

Charles

Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to lie with his mother earth?

Orlando

Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.

Duke Frederick

You shall try but one fall.

Charles

No, I warrant your grace, you shall not entreat him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.

Orlando

An you mean to mock me after, you should not have mocked me before: but come your ways.

Rosalind

Now Hercules be thy speed, young man!

Celia

I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg.

They wrestle

Rosalind

O excellent young man!

Celia

If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down.

Shout. Charles is thrown

Duke Frederick

No more, no more.

Orlando

Yes, I beseech your grace: I am not yet well breathed.

Duke Frederick

How dost thou, Charles?

Le Beau

He cannot speak, my lord.

Duke Frederick

Bear him away. What is thy name, young man?

Orlando

Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys.

Duke Frederick

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 pleased me with this deed,

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

Celia

Were I my father, coz, would I do this?

Orlando

I am more proud to be Sir Rowland’s son,

His youngest son; and would not change that calling,

To be adopted heir to Frederick.

Rosalind

My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul,

And all the world was of my father’s mind:

Had I before known this young man his son,

I should have given him tears unto entreaties,

Ere he should thus have ventured.

Celia

Gentle cousin,

Let us go thank him and encourage him:

My father’s rough and envious disposition

Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserved:

If you do keep your promises in love

But justly, as you have exceeded all promise,

Your mistress shall be happy.

Rosalind

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.

Shall we go, coz?

Celia

Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman.

Orlando

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.

Rosalind

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.

Celia

Will you go, coz?

Rosalind

Have with you. Fare you well.

Exeunt Rosalind and Celia

Orlando

What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?

I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference.

O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown!

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 deserved

High commendation, true applause and love,

Yet such is now the duke’s condition

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.

Orlando

I thank you, sir: and, pray you, tell me this:

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;

But yet indeed the lesser 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

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

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,

I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

Orlando

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:

But heavenly Rosalind!

Exit

SCENE III. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

Enter Celia and Rosalind

Celia

Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! not a word?

Rosalind

Not one to throw at a dog.

Celia

No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

Rosalind

Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any.

Celia

But is all this for your father?

Rosalind

No, some of it is for my child’s father. O, how full of briers is this working-day world!

Celia

They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery: if we walk not in the trodden paths our very petticoats will catch them.

Rosalind

I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart.

Celia

Hem them away.

Rosalind

I would try, if I could cry ‘hem’ and have him.

Celia

Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.

Rosalind

O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself!

Celia

O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in despite of a fall. But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest: is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?

Rosalind

The duke my father loved his father dearly.

Celia

Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.

Rosalind

No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.

Celia

Why should I not? doth he not deserve well?

Rosalind

Let me love him for that, and do you love him because I do. Look, here comes the duke.

Celia

With his eyes full of anger.

Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords

Duke Frederick

Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste

And get you from our court.

Rosalind

Me, uncle?

Duke Frederick

You, cousin

Within these ten days if that thou be’st found

So near our public court as twenty miles,

Thou diest for it.

Rosalind

I do beseech your grace,

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,—

As I do trust I am not — then, dear uncle,

Never so much as in a thought unborn

Did I offend your highness.

Duke Frederick

Thus do all traitors:

If their purgation did consist in words,

They are as innocent as grace itself:

Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.

Rosalind

Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor:

Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.

Duke Frederick

Thou art thy father’s daughter; there’s enough.

Rosalind

So was I when your highness took his dukedom;

So was I when your highness banish’d him:

Treason is not inherited, my lord;

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.

Celia

Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

Duke Frederick

Ay, Celia; we stay’d her for your sake,

Else had she with her father ranged along.

Celia

I did not then entreat to have her stay;

It was your pleasure and your own remorse:

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,

Rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together,

And wheresoever we went, like Juno’s swans,

Still we went coupled and inseparable.

Duke Frederick

She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,

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

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.

Celia

Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege:

I cannot live out of her company.

Duke Frederick

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.

Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords

Celia

O my poor Rosalind, whither wilt thou go?

Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.

I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am.

Rosalind

I have more cause.

Celia

Thou hast not, cousin;

Prithee be cheerful: know’st thou not, the duke

Hath banish’d me, his daughter?

Rosalind

That he hath not.

Celia

No, hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love

Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:

Shall we be sunder’d? shall we part, sweet girl?

No: let my father seek another heir.

Therefore devise with me how we may fly,

Whither to go and what to bear with us;

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.

Rosalind

Why, whither shall we go?

Celia

To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.

Rosalind

Alas, what danger will it be to us,

Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

Celia

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

And never stir assailants.

Rosalind

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,

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

That do outface it with their semblances.

Celia

What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

Rosalind

I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page;

And therefore look you call me Ganymede.

But what will you be call’d?

Celia

Something that hath a reference to my state

No longer Celia, but Aliena.

Rosalind

But, cousin, what if we assay’d to steal

The clownish fool out of your father’s court?

Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

Celia

He’ll go along o’er the wide world with me;

Leave me alone to woo him. Let’s away,

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

To liberty and not to banishment.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. THE FOREST OF ARDEN.

Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and two or three Lords, like foresters

Duke Senior

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?

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

‘This is no flattery: these are counsellors

That feelingly persuade me what I am.’

Sweet are the uses of adversity,

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,

Sermons in stones and good in every thing.

I would not change it.

Amiens

Happy is your grace,

That can translate the stubbornness of fortune

Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Duke Senior

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 gored.

First Lord

Indeed, my lord,

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

Did steal behind him as he lay along

Under an oak whose antique root peeps out

Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:

To the which place a poor sequester’d stag,

That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt,

Did come to languish, and indeed, my lord,

The wretched animal heaved forth such groans

That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat

Almost to bursting, and the big round tears

Coursed one another down his innocent nose

In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool

Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,

Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,

Augmenting it with tears.

Duke Senior

But what said Jaques?

Did he not moralize this spectacle?

First Lord

O, yes, into a thousand similes.

First, for his weeping into the needless stream;

‘Poor deer,’ quoth he, ‘thou makest a testament

As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more

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,

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

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

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 Senior

And did you leave him in this contemplation?

Second Lord

We did, my lord, weeping and commenting

Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke Senior

Show me the place:

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,

For then he’s full of matter.

First Lord

I’ll bring you to him straight.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords

Duke Frederick

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.

The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,

Saw her abed, and in the morning early

They found the bed untreasured of their mistress.

Second Lord

My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft

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

That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;

And she believes, wherever they are gone,

That youth is surely in their company.

Duke Frederick

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

To bring again these foolish runaways.

Exeunt

SCENE III. BEFORE OLIVER’S HOUSE.

Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting

Orlando

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 bonny priser of the humorous duke?

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.

O, what a world is this, when what is comely

Envenoms him that bears it!

Orlando

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

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,

He will have other means to cut you off.

I overheard him and his practises.

This is no place; this house is but a butchery:

Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

Orlando

Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?

Adam

No matter whither, so you come not here.

Orlando

What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food?

Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce

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

Of a diverted blood and bloody brother.

Adam

But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,

The thrifty hire I saved under your father,

Which I did store to be my foster-nurse

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,

Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;

And 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

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,

Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;

I’ll do the service of a younger man

In all your business and necessities.

Orlando

O good old man, how well in thee appears

The constant service of the antique world,

When service sweat for duty, not for meed!

Thou art not for the fashion of these times,

Where none will sweat but for promotion,

And having that, do choke their service up

Even with the having: it is not so with thee.

But, poor old man, thou prunest a rotten tree,

That cannot so much as a blossom yield

In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry

But come thy ways; well go along together,

And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,

We’ll light upon some settled low content.

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.

At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;

But at fourscore it is too late a week:

Yet fortune cannot recompense me better

Than to die well and not my master’s debtor.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. THE FOREST OF ARDEN.

Enter Rosalind for Ganymede, Celia for Aliena, and Touchstone

Rosalind

O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!

Touchstone

I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.

Rosalind

I could find in my heart to disgrace my man’s apparel and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat: therefore courage, good Aliena!

Celia

I pray you, bear with me; I cannot go no further.

Touchstone

For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you; yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you, for I think you have no money in your purse.

Rosalind

Well, this is the forest of Arden.

Touchstone

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.

Rosalind

Ay, be so, good Touchstone.

Enter Corin and Silvius

Look you, who comes here; a young man and an old in solemn talk.

Corin

That is the way to make her scorn you still.

Silvius

O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her!

Corin

I partly guess; for I have loved ere now.

Silvius

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 —

As sure I think did never man love so —

How many actions most ridiculous

Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

Corin

Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

Silvius

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 loved:

Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,

Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress’ praise,

Thou hast not loved:

Or if thou hast not broke from company

Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,

Thou hast not loved.

O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!

Exit

Rosalind

Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,

I have by hard adventure found mine own.

Touchstone

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 batlet and the cow’s dugs that her pretty chopt 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.

Rosalind

Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of.

Touchstone

Nay, I shall ne’er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it.

Rosalind

Jove, Jove! this shepherd’s passion

Is much upon my fashion.

Touchstone

And mine; but it grows something stale with me.

Celia

I pray you, one of you question yond man

If he for gold will give us any food:

I faint almost to death.

Touchstone

Holla, you clown!

Rosalind

Peace, fool: he’s not thy kinsman.

Corin

Who calls?

Touchstone

Your betters, sir.

Corin

Else are they very wretched.

Rosalind

Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.

Corin

And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.

Rosalind

I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold

Can in this desert place buy entertainment,

Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed:

Here’s a young maid with travel much oppress’d

And faints for succor.

Corin

Fair sir, I pity her

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:

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,

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.

Rosalind

What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

Corin

That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,

That little cares for buying any thing.

Rosalind

I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,

Buy thou the cottage, pasture and the flock,

And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

Celia

And we will mend thy wages. I like this place.

And willingly could waste my time in it.

Corin

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

And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

Exeunt

SCENE V. THE FOREST.

Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others

Amiens

[sings] Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird’s throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Jaques

More, more, I prithee, more.

Amiens

It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

Jaques

I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs.

More, I prithee, more.

Amiens

My voice is ragged: I know I cannot please you.

Jaques

I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more; another stanzo: call you ’em stanzos?

Amiens

What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

Jaques

Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing?

Amiens

More at your request than to please myself.

Jaques

Well then, if ever I thank any man, I’ll thank you; but that they call compliment is like the encounter of two dog-apes, and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks I have given him a penny and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.

Amiens

Well, I’ll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the duke will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look you.

Jaques

And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my company: I think of as many matters as he, but I give heaven thanks and make no boast of them. Come, warble, come.

[Song]

All together here

Who doth ambition shun

And loves to live i’ the sun,

Seeking the food he eats

And pleased with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Jaques

I’ll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

Amiens

And I’ll sing it.

Jaques

Thus it goes:—

If it do come to pass

That any man turn ass,

Leaving his wealth and ease,

A stubborn will to please,

Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame:

Here shall he see

Gross fools as he,

An if he will come to me.

Amiens

What’s that ‘ducdame’?

Jaques

’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.

Amiens

And I’ll go seek the duke: his banquet is prepared.

Exeunt severally

SCENE VI. 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.

Orlando

Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest yield any thing 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 any thing in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam!

Exeunt

SCENE VII. THE FOREST.

A table set out. Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and Lords like outlaws

Duke Senior

I think he be transform’d into a beast;

For I can no where find him like a man.

First Lord

My lord, he is but even now gone hence:

Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

Duke Senior

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.

Enter Jaques

First Lord

He saves my labour by his own approach.

Duke Senior

Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,

That your poor friends must woo your company?

What, you look merrily!

Jaques

A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest,

A motley fool; a miserable world!

As I do live by food, I met a fool

Who laid him down and bask’d him in the sun,

And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms,

In good set terms and yet a motley fool.

‘Good morrow, fool,’ quoth I. ‘No, sir,’ quoth he,

‘Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune:’

And then he drew a dial from his poke,

And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,

Says very wisely, ‘It is ten o’clock:

Thus we may see,’ quoth he, ‘how the world wags:

’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,

And after one hour more ’twill be eleven;

And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,

And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;

And thereby hangs a tale.’ When I did hear

The motley fool thus moral on the time,

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

That fools should be so deep-contemplative,

And I did laugh sans intermission

An hour by his dial. O noble fool!

A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear.

Duke Senior

What fool is this?

Jaques

O worthy fool! One that hath been a courtier,

And says, if ladies be but young and fair,

They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm’d

With observation, the which he vents

In mangled forms. O that I were a fool!

I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Duke Senior

Thou shalt have one.

Jaques

It is my only suit;

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,

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:

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 anatomized

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 the infected world,

If they will patiently receive my medicine.

Duke Senior

Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

Jaques

What, for a counter, would I do but good?

Duke Senior

Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:

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.

Jaques

Why, who cries out on pride,

That can therein tax any private party?

Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,

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?

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 of my cost,

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,

Why then my taxing like a wild-goose flies,

Unclaim’d of any man. But who comes here?

Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn

Orlando

Forbear, and eat no more.

Jaques

Why, I have eat none yet.

Orlando

Nor shalt not, till necessity be served.

Jaques

Of what kind should this cock come of?

Duke Senior

Art thou thus bolden’d, man, by thy distress,

Or else a rude despiser of good manners,

That in civility thou seem’st so empty?

Orlando

You touch’d my vein at first: the thorny point

Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show

Of smooth civility: yet am I inland bred

And know some nurture. But forbear, I say:

He dies that touches any of this fruit

Till I and my affairs are answered.

Jaques

An you will not be answered with reason, I must die.

Duke Senior

What would you have? Your gentleness shall force

More than your force move us to gentleness.

Orlando

I almost die for food; and let me have it.

Duke Senior

Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

Orlando

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

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

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 wiped a tear

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 Senior

True is it that we have seen better days,

And have with holy bell been knoll’d to church

And sat at good men’s feasts and wiped our eyes

Of drops that sacred pity hath engender’d:

And therefore sit you down in gentleness

And take upon command what help we have

That to your wanting may be minister’d.

Orlando

Then but forbear your food a little while,

Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn

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 sufficed,

Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hunger,

I will not touch a bit.

Duke Senior

Go find him out,

And we will nothing waste till you return.

Orlando

I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort!

Exit

Duke Senior

Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:

This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woeful pageants than the scene

Wherein we play in.

Jaques

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.

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 woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Re-enter Orlando, with Adam

Duke Senior

Welcome. Set down your venerable burthen,

And let him feed.

Orlando

I thank you most for him.

Adam

So had you need:

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

Duke Senior

Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you

As yet, to question you about your fortunes.

Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

Amiens

[sings] Blow, blow, thou winter wind.

Thou art not so unkind

As man’s ingratitude;

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,

That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember’d not.

Heigh-ho! sing, & c.

Duke Senior

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

Most truly limn’d and living in your face,

Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke

That loved your father: the residue of your fortune,

Go to my cave and tell me. Good old man,

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, Lords, and Oliver

Duke Frederick

Not see 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:

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.

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 brothers mouth

Of what we think against thee.

Oliver

O that your highness knew my heart in this!

I never loved my brother in my life.

Duke Frederick

More villain thou. Well, push him out of doors;

And let my officers of such a nature

Make an extent upon his house and lands:

Do this expediently and turn him going.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE FOREST.

Enter Orlando, with a paper

Orlando

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

And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character;

That every eye which in this forest looks

Shall see thy virtue witness’d every where.

Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree

The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she.

Exit

Enter Corin and Touchstone

Corin

And how like you this shepherd’s life, Master Touchstone?

Touchstone

Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life, but in respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now, in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As is it a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?

Corin

No more but that I know the more one sickens the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means and content is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding or comes of a very dull kindred.

Touchstone

Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?

Corin

No, truly.

Touchstone

Then thou art damned.

Corin

Nay, I hope.

Touchstone

Truly, thou art damned like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.

Corin

For not being at court? Your reason.

Touchstone

Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never sawest good manners; if thou never sawest good manners, then thy manners must be wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.

Corin

Not a whit, Touchstone: those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the behavior of the country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court, but you kiss your hands: that courtesy would be uncleanly, if courtiers were shepherds.

Touchstone

Instance, briefly; come, instance.

Corin

Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their fells, you know, are greasy.

Touchstone

Why, do not your courtier’s hands sweat? and is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow. A better instance, I say; come.

Corin

Besides, our hands are hard.

Touchstone

Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again.

A more sounder instance, come.

Corin

And they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep: and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet.

Touchstone

Most shallow man! thou worms-meat, in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed! Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.

Corin

You have too courtly a wit for me: I’ll rest.

Touchstone

Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man!

God make incision in thee! thou art raw.

Corin

Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man’s happiness, glad of other men’s good, content with my harm, and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.

Touchstone

That is another simple sin in you, to bring the ewes and the rams together and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou beest not damned for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how thou shouldst

’scape.

Corin

Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress’s brother.

Enter Rosalind, with a paper, reading

Rosalind

From the east to western Ind,

No jewel is like Rosalind.

Her worth, being mounted on the wind,

Through all the world bears Rosalind.

All the pictures fairest lined

Are but black to Rosalind.

Let no fair be kept in mind

But the fair of Rosalind.

Touchstone

I’ll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and suppers and sleeping-hours excepted: it is the right butter-women’s rank to market.

Rosalind

Out, fool!

Touchstone

For a taste:

If a hart do lack a hind,

Let him seek out Rosalind.

If the cat will after kind,

So be sure will Rosalind.

Winter garments must be lined,

So must slender Rosalind.

They that reap must sheaf and bind;

Then to cart with Rosalind.

Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,

Such a nut is Rosalind.

He that sweetest rose will find

Must find love’s prick and Rosalind.

This is the very false gallop of verses: why do you infect yourself with them?

Rosalind

Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree.

Touchstone

Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

Rosalind

I’ll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit i’ the country; for you’ll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that’s the right virtue of the medlar.

Touchstone

You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge.

Enter Celia, with a writing

Rosalind

Peace! Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.

Celia

[Reads]

Why should this a desert be?

For it is unpeopled? No:

Tongues I’ll hang on every tree,

That shall civil sayings show:

Some, how brief the life of man

Runs his erring pilgrimage,

That the stretching of a span

Buckles in his sum of age;

Some, of violated vows

’Twixt the souls of friend and friend:

But upon the fairest boughs,

Or at every sentence end,

Will I Rosalinda write,

Teaching all that read to know

The quintessence of every sprite

Heaven would in little show.

Therefore Heaven Nature charged

That one body should be fill’d

With all graces wide-enlarged:

Nature presently distill’d

Helen’s cheek, but not her heart,

Cleopatra’s majesty,

Atalanta’s better part,

Sad Lucretia’s modesty.

Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devised,

Of many faces, eyes and hearts,

To have the touches dearest prized.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have,

And I to live and die her slave.

Rosalind

O most gentle pulpiter! what tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried ‘Have patience, good people!’

Celia

How now! back, friends! Shepherd, go off a little.

Go with him, sirrah.

Touchstone

Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.

Exeunt Corin and Touchstone

Celia

Didst thou hear these verses?

Rosalind

O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.

Celia

That’s no matter: the feet might bear the verses.

Rosalind

Ay, but the feet were lame and could not bear themselves without the verse and therefore stood lamely in the verse.

Celia

But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged and carved upon these trees?

Rosalind

I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras’ time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.

Celia

Trow you who hath done this?

Rosalind

Is it a man?

Celia

And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour?

Rosalind

I prithee, who?

Celia

O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes and so encounter.

Rosalind

Nay, but who is it?

Celia

Is it possible?

Rosalind

Nay, I prithee now with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.

Celia

O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping!

Rosalind

Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a South-sea of discovery; I prithee, tell me who is it quickly, and speak apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow- mouthed bottle, either too much at once, or none at all. I prithee, take the cork out of thy mouth that may drink thy tidings.

Celia

So you may put a man in your belly.

Rosalind

Is he of God’s making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard?

Celia

Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Rosalind

Why, God will send more, if the man will be thankful: let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.

Celia

It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler’s heels and your heart both in an instant.

Rosalind

Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak, sad brow and true maid.

Celia

I’ faith, coz, ’tis he.

Rosalind

Orlando?

Celia

Orlando.

Rosalind

Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose? What did he when thou sawest him? What said he? How looked he? Wherein went he? What makes him here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.

Celia

You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first: ’tis a word too great for any mouth of this age’s size. To say ay and no to these particulars is more than to answer in a catechism.

Rosalind

But doth he know that I am in this forest and in man’s apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

Celia

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover; but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn.

Rosalind

It may well be called Jove’s tree, when it drops forth such fruit.

Celia

Give me audience, good madam.

Rosalind

Proceed.

Celia

There lay he, stretched along, like a wounded knight.

Rosalind

Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.

Celia

Cry ‘holla’ to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.

Rosalind

O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.

Celia

I would sing my song without a burden: thou bringest me out of tune.

Rosalind

Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.

Celia

You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here?

Enter Orlando and Jaques

Rosalind

’Tis he: slink by, and note him.

Jaques

I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.

Orlando

And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I thank you too for your society.

Jaques

God be wi’ you: let’s meet as little as we can.

Orlando

I do desire we may be better strangers.

Jaques

I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love-songs in their barks.

Orlando

I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.

Jaques

Rosalind is your love’s name?

Orlando

Yes, just.

Jaques

I do not like her name.

Orlando

There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.

Jaques

What stature is she of?

Orlando

Just as high as my heart.

Jaques

You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths’ wives, and conned them out of rings?

Orlando

Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.

Jaques

You have a nimble wit: I think ’twas made of Atalanta’s heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail against our mistress the world and all our misery.

Orlando

I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.

Jaques

The worst fault you have is to be in love.

Orlando

’Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.

Jaques

By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.

Orlando

He is drowned in the brook: look but in, and you shall see him.

Jaques

There I shall see mine own figure.

Orlando

Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

Jaques

I’ll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good Signior Love.

Orlando

I am glad of your departure: adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.

Exit Jaques

Rosalind

[Aside to Celia] I will speak to him, like a saucy lackey and under that habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester?

Orlando

Very well: what would you?

Rosalind

I pray you, what is’t o’clock?

Orlando

You should ask me what time o’ day: there’s no clock in the forest.

Rosalind

Then there is no true lover in the forest; else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock.

Orlando

And why not the swift foot of Time? had not that been as proper?

Rosalind

By no means, sir: Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I’ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal and who he stands still withal.

Orlando

I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

Rosalind

Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized: if the interim be but a se’nnight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year.

Orlando

Who ambles Time withal?

Rosalind

With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hath not the gout, for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study, and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain, the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing no burden of heavy tedious penury; these Time ambles withal.

Orlando

Who doth he gallop withal?

Rosalind

With a thief to the gallows, for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

Orlando

Who stays it still withal?

Rosalind

With lawyers in the vacation, for they sleep between term and term and then they perceive not how Time moves.

Orlando

Where dwell you, pretty youth?

Rosalind

With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

Orlando

Are you native of this place?

Rosalind

As the cony that you see dwell where she is kindled.

Orlando

Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.

Rosalind

I have been told so of many: but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it, and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.

Orlando

Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women?

Rosalind

There were none principal; they were all like one another as half-pence are, every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault came to match it.

Orlando

I prithee, recount some of them.

Rosalind

No, I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving ‘Rosalind’ on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns and elegies on brambles, all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.

Orlando

I am he that is so love-shaked: I pray you tell me your remedy.

Rosalind

There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you: he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.

Orlando

What were his marks?

Rosalind

A lean cheek, which you have not, a blue eye and sunken, which you have not, an unquestionable spirit, which you have not, a beard neglected, which you have not; but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brother’s revenue: then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation; but you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.

Orlando

Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

Rosalind

Me believe it! you may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does: that is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

Orlando

I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.

Rosalind

But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

Orlando

Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

Rosalind

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do: and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.

Orlando

Did you ever cure any so?

Rosalind

Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for every passion something and for no passion truly any thing, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in’t.

Orlando

I would not be cured, youth.

Rosalind

I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind and come every day to my cote and woo me.

Orlando

Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is.

Rosalind

Go with me to it and I’ll show it you and by the way you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?

Orlando

With all my heart, good youth.

Rosalind

Nay you must call me Rosalind. Come, sister, will you go?

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE FOREST.

Enter Touchstone and Audrey; Jaques behind

Touchstone

Come apace, good Audrey: I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? am I the man yet? doth my simple feature content you?

Audrey

Your features! Lord warrant us! what features!

Touchstone

I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.

Jaques

[Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than Jove in a thatched house!

Touchstone

When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward child Understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.

Audrey

I do not know what ‘poetical’ is: is it honest in deed and word? is it a true thing?

Touchstone

No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry, and what they swear in poetry may be said as lovers they do feign.

Audrey

Do you wish then that the gods had made me poetical?

Touchstone

I do, truly; for thou swearest to me thou art honest: now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign.

Audrey

Would you not have me honest?

Touchstone

No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured; for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.

Jaques

[Aside] A material fool!

Audrey

Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make me honest.

Touchstone

Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

Audrey

I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.

Touchstone

Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness! sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee, and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of the next village, who hath promised to meet me in this place of the forest and to couple us.

Jaques

[Aside] I would fain see this meeting.

Audrey

Well, the gods give us joy!

Touchstone

Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? C ourage! As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said, ‘many a man knows no end of his goods:’ right; many a man has good horns, and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; ’tis none of his own getting. Horns? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No: as a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor; and by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than to want. Here comes Sir Oliver.

Enter Sir Oliver Martext

Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met: will you dispatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?

Sir Oliver Martext

Is there none here to give the woman?

Touchstone

I will not take her on gift of any man.

Sir Oliver Martext

Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.

Jaques

[Advancing] Proceed, proceed I’ll give her.

Touchstone

Good even, good Master What-ye-call’t: how do you, sir? You are very well met: God ’ild you for your last company: I am very glad to see you: even a toy in hand here, sir: nay, pray be covered.

Jaques

Will you be married, motley?

Touchstone

As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling.

Jaques

And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush like a beggar? Get you to church, and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is: this fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel and, like green timber, warp, warp.

Touchstone

[Aside] I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him than of another: for he is not like to marry me well; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife.

Jaques

Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

Touchstone

‘Come, sweet Audrey:

We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.

Farewell, good Master Oliver: not,—

O sweet Oliver,

O brave Oliver,

Leave me not behind thee: but,—

Wind away,

Begone, I say,

I will not to wedding with thee.

Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone and Audrey

Sir Oliver Martext

’Tis no matter: ne’er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.

Exit

SCENE IV. THE FOREST.

Enter Rosalind and Celia

Rosalind

Never talk to me; I will weep.

Celia

Do, I prithee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.

Rosalind

But have I not cause to weep?

Celia

As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.

Rosalind

His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

Celia

Something browner than Judas’s marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children.

Rosalind

I’ faith, his hair is of a good colour.

Celia

An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.

Rosalind

And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.

Celia

He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.

Rosalind

But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?

Celia

Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

Rosalind

Do you think so?

Celia

Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer, but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet or a worm-eaten nut.

Rosalind

Not true in love?

Celia

Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.

Rosalind

You have heard him swear downright he was.

Celia

‘Was’ is not ‘is:’ besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the duke your father.

Rosalind

I met the duke yesterday and had much question with him: he asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando?

Celia

O, that’s a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose: but all’s brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here?

Enter Corin

Corin

Mistress and master, you have oft inquired

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.

Celia

Well, and what of him?

Corin

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,

If you will mark it.

Rosalind

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

Silvius

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,

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

Phebe

I would not be thy executioner:

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,

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:

Now counterfeit to swoon; 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:

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,

Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,

Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes

That can do hurt.

Silvius

O dear Phebe,

If ever,— as that ever may be near,—

You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,

Then shall you know the wounds invisible

That love’s keen arrows make.

Phebe

But till that time

Come not thou near me: and when that time comes,

Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;

As till that time I shall not pity thee.

Rosalind

And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,

That you insult, exult, and all at once,

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?

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!

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.

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

That makes 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.

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:

Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.

So take her to thee, shepherd: fare you well.

Phebe

Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together:

I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

Rosalind

He’s fallen in love with your 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?

Phebe

For no ill will I bear you.

Rosalind

I pray you, do not fall in love with me,

For I am falser than vows made in wine:

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.

Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,

And be not proud: though all the world could see,

None could be so abused in sight as he.

Come, to our flock.

Exeunt Rosalind, Celia and Corin

Phebe

Dead Shepherd, now I find thy saw of might,

‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?’

Silvius

Sweet Phebe,—

Phebe

Ha, what say’st thou, Silvius?

Silvius

Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Phebe

Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

Silvius

Wherever sorrow is, relief would be:

If you do sorrow at my grief in love,

By giving love your sorrow and my grief

Were both extermined.

Phebe

Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?

Silvius

I would have you.

Phebe

Why, that were covetousness.

Silvius, the time was that I hated thee,

And yet it is not that I bear thee love;

But since that thou canst talk of love so well,

Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,

I will endure, and I’ll employ thee too:

But do not look for further recompense

Than thine own gladness that thou art employ’d.

Silvius

So holy and so perfect is my love,

And I in such a poverty of grace,

That I shall think it a most plenteous crop

To glean the broken ears after the man

That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then

A scatter’d smile, and that I’ll live upon.

Phebe

Know’st now the youth that spoke to me erewhile?

Silvius

Not very well, but I have met him oft;

And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds

That the old carlot once was master of.

Phebe

Think not I love him, though I ask for him:

’Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well;

But what care I for words? yet words do well

When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.

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.

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,

A little riper and more lusty red

Than that mix’d in his cheek; ’twas just the difference

Between the constant red and mingled damask.

There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him

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

I have more cause to hate him than to love him:

For what had he to do to chide at me?

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:

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?

Silvius

Phebe, with all my heart.

Phebe

I’ll write it straight;

The matter’s in my head and in my heart:

I will be bitter with him and passing short.

Go with me, Silvius.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. THE FOREST.

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques

Jaques

I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Rosalind

They say you are a melancholy fellow.

Jaques

I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

Rosalind

Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.

Jaques

Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.

Rosalind

Why then, ’tis good to be a post.

Jaques

I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation, nor the musician’s, which is fantastical, nor the courtier’s, which is proud, nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious, nor the lawyer’s, which is politic, nor the lady’s, which is nice, nor the lover’s, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry’s contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me m a most humorous sadness.

Rosalind

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.

Jaques

Yes, I have gained my experience.

Rosalind

And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad; and to travel for it too!

Enter Orlando

Orlando

Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!

Jaques

Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.

Exit

Rosalind

Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: look you lisp and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with your nativity and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.

Orlando

My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

Rosalind

Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.

Orlando

Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Rosalind

Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I had as lief be wooed of a snail.

Orlando

Of a snail?

Rosalind

Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman: besides he brings his destiny with him.

Orlando

What’s that?

Rosalind

Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife.

Orlando

Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.

Rosalind

And I am your Rosalind.

Celia

It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.

Rosalind

Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind?

Orlando

I would kiss before I spoke.

Rosalind

Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking — God warn us!— matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

Orlando

How if the kiss be denied?

Rosalind

Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.

Orlando

Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

Rosalind

Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.

Orlando

What, of my suit?

Rosalind

Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?

Orlando

I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her.

Rosalind

Well in her person I say I will not have you.

Orlando

Then in mine own person I die.

Rosalind

No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicit, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont and being taken with the cramp was drowned and the foolish coroners of that age found it was ‘Hero of Sestos.’ But these are all lies: men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

Orlando

I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for, I protest, her frown might kill me.

Rosalind

By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will. I will grant it.

Orlando

Then love me, Rosalind.

Rosalind

Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.

Orlando

And wilt thou have me?

Rosalind

Ay, and twenty such.

Orlando

What sayest thou?

Rosalind

Are you not good?

Orlando

I hope so.

Rosalind

Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us. Give me your hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister?

Orlando

Pray thee, marry us.

Celia

I cannot say the words.

Rosalind

You must begin, ‘Will you, Orlando —’

Celia

Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?

Orlando

I will.

Rosalind

Ay, but when?

Orlando

Why now; as fast as she can marry us.

Rosalind

Then you must say ‘I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.’

Orlando

I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

Rosalind

I might ask you for your commission; but I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband: there’s a girl goes before the priest; and certainly a woman’s thought runs before her actions.

Orlando

So do all thoughts; they are winged.

Rosalind

Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.

Orlando

For ever and a day.

Rosalind

Say ‘a day,’ without the ’ever.’ No, no, Orlando; men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.

Orlando

But will my Rosalind do so?

Rosalind

By my life, she will do as I do.

Orlando

O, but she is wise.

Rosalind

Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the wiser, the waywarder: make the doors upon a woman’s wit and it will out at the casement; shut that and ’twill out at the key-hole; stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

Orlando

A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say ‘Wit, whither wilt?’

Rosalind

Nay, you might keep that cheque for it till you met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s bed.

Orlando

And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

Rosalind

Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool!

Orlando

For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.

Rosalind

Alas! dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.

Orlando

I must attend the duke at dinner: by two o’clock I will be with thee again.

Rosalind

Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you would prove: my friends told me as much, and I thought no less: that flattering tongue of yours won me: ’tis but one cast away, and so, come, death! Two o’clock is your hour?

Orlando

Ay, sweet Rosalind.

Rosalind

By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise and the most hollow lover and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful: therefore beware my censure and keep your promise.

Orlando

With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: so adieu.

Rosalind

Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try: adieu.

Exit Orlando

Celia

You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate: we must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.

Rosalind

O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded: my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal.

Celia

Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.

Rosalind

No, that same wicked bastard of Venus that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses every one’s eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. I’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: I’ll go find a shadow and sigh till he come.

Celia

And I’ll sleep.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE FOREST.

Enter Jaques, Lords, and Foresters

Jaques

Which is he that killed the deer?

A Lord

Sir, it was I.

Jaques

Let’s present him to the duke, like a Roman conqueror; and it would do well to set the deer’s horns upon his head, for a branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose?

Forester

Yes, sir.

Jaques

Sing it: ’tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.

Forester

[sings] What shall he have that kill’d the deer?

His leather skin and horns to wear.

Then sing him home; (The rest shall bear this burden)

Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;

It was a crest ere thou wast born:

Thy father’s father wore it,

And thy father bore it:

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn

Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE FOREST.

Enter Rosalind and Celia

Rosalind

How say you now? Is it not past two o’clock? and here much Orlando!

Celia

I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he hath ta’en his bow and arrows and is gone forth to sleep. Look, who comes here.

Enter Silvius

Silvius

My errand is to you, fair youth;

My gentle Phebe bid me give you this:

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 tenor: pardon me:

I am but as a guiltless messenger.

Rosalind

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;

She calls me proud, and that she could not love me,

Were man as rare as phoenix. ‘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.

Silvius

No, I protest, I know not the contents:

Phebe did write it.

Rosalind

Come, come, you are a fool

And turn’d into the extremity of love.

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 huswife’s hand; but that’s no matter:

I say she never did invent this letter;

This is a man’s invention and his hand.

Silvius

Sure, it is hers.

Rosalind

Why, ’tis a boisterous and a cruel style.

A style for-challengers; why, she defies me,

Like Turk to Christian: women’s gentle brain

Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention

Such Ethiope words, blacker in their effect

Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?

Silvius

So please you, for I never heard it yet;

Yet heard too much of Phebe’s cruelty.

Rosalind

She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes.

Reads

Art thou god to shepherd turn’d,

That a maiden’s heart hath burn’d?

Can a woman rail thus?

Silvius

Call you this railing?

Rosalind

[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,

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,

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!

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

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.

Silvius

Call you this chiding?

Celia

Alas, poor shepherd!

Rosalind

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

Oliver

Good morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know,

Where in the purlieus of this forest stands

A sheep-cote fenced about with olive trees?

Celia

West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom:

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.

Oliver

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

Like a ripe sister: the woman low

And browner than her brother.’ Are not you

The owner of the house I did inquire for?

Celia

It is no boast, being ask’d, to say we are.

Oliver

Orlando doth commend him to you both,

And to that youth he calls his Rosalind

He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?

Rosalind

I am: what must we understand by this?

Oliver

Some of my shame; if you will know of me

What man I am, and how, and why, and where

This handkercher was stain’d.

Celia

I pray you, tell it.

Oliver

When last the young Orlando parted from you

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,

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,

Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck

A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself,

Who with her head nimble in threats approach’d

The opening of his mouth; but suddenly,

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,

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:

This seen, Orlando did approach the man

And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

Celia

O, I have heard him speak of that same brother;

And he did render him the most unnatural

That lived amongst men.

Oliver

And well he might so do,

For well I know he was unnatural.

Rosalind

But, to Orlando: did he leave him there,

Food to the suck’d and hungry lioness?

Oliver

Twice did he turn his back and purposed so;

But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,

And nature, stronger than his just occasion,

Made him give battle to the lioness,

Who quickly fell before him: in which hurtling

From miserable slumber I awaked.

Celia

Are you his brother?

Rosalind

Wast you he rescued?

Celia

Was’t you that did so oft contrive to kill him?

Oliver

’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.

Rosalind

But, for the bloody napkin?

Oliver

By and by.

When from the first to last betwixt us two

Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed,

As how I came into that desert place:—

In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,

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,

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;

And, after some small space, being strong at heart,

He sent me hither, stranger as I am,

To tell this story, that you might excuse

His broken promise, and to give this napkin

Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth

That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

Rosalind swoons

Celia

Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede!

Oliver

Many will swoon when they do look on blood.

Celia

There is more in it. Cousin Ganymede!

Oliver

Look, he recovers.

Rosalind

I would I were at home.

Celia

We’ll lead you thither.

I pray you, will you take him by the arm?

Oliver

Be of good cheer, youth: you a man! you lack a man’s heart.

Rosalind

I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was well counterfeited! I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho!

Oliver

This was not counterfeit: there is too great testimony in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest.

Rosalind

Counterfeit, I assure you.

Oliver

Well then, take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man.

Rosalind

So I do: but, i’ faith, I should have been a woman by right.

Celia

Come, you look paler and paler: pray you, draw homewards. Good sir, go with us.

Oliver

That will I, for I must bear answer back

How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

Rosalind

I shall devise something: but, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him. Will you go?

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. THE FOREST.

Enter Touchstone and Audrey

Touchstone

We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.

Audrey

Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman’s saying.

Touchstone

A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.

Audrey

Ay, I know who ’tis; he hath no interest in me in the world: here comes the man you mean.

Touchstone

It is meat and drink to me to see a clown: by my troth, we that have good wits have much to answer for; we shall be flouting; we cannot hold.

Enter William

William

Good even, Audrey.

Audrey

God ye good even, William.

William

And good even to you, sir.

Touchstone

Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, prithee, be covered. How old are you, friend?

William

Five and twenty, sir.

Touchstone

A ripe age. Is thy name William?

William

William, sir.

Touchstone

A fair name. Wast born i’ the forest here?

William

Ay, sir, I thank God.

Touchstone

‘Thank God;’ a good answer. Art rich?

William

Faith, sir, so so.

Touchstone

‘So so’ is good, very good, very excellent good; and yet it is not; it is but so so. Art thou wise?

William

Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.

Touchstone

Why, thou sayest well. I do now remember a saying, ‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.’ The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth; meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do love this maid?

William

I do, sir.

Touchstone

Give me your hand. Art thou learned?

William

No, sir.

Touchstone

Then learn this of me: to have, is to have; for it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty the other; for all your writers do consent that ipse is he: now, you are not ipse, for I am he.

William

Which he, sir?

Touchstone

He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown, abandon,— which is in the vulgar leave,— the society,— which in the boorish is company,— of this female,— which in the common is woman; which together is, abandon the society of this female, or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into death, thy liberty into bondage: I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy with thee in faction; I will o’errun thee with policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways: therefore tremble and depart.

Audrey

Do, good William.

William

God rest you merry, sir.

Exit

Enter Corin

Corin

Our master and mistress seeks you; come, away, away!

Touchstone

Trip, Audrey! trip, Audrey! I attend, I attend.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE FOREST.

Enter Orlando and Oliver

Orlando

Is’t possible that on so little acquaintance you should like her? that but seeing you should love her? and loving woo? and, wooing, she should grant? and will you persever to enjoy her?

Oliver

Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden consenting; but say with me, I love Aliena; say with her that she loves me; consent with both that we may enjoy each other: it shall be to your good; for my father’s house and all the revenue that was old Sir Rowland’s will I estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd.

Orlando

You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow: thither will I invite the duke and all’s contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for look you, here comes my Rosalind.

Enter Rosalind

Rosalind

God save you, brother.

Oliver

And you, fair sister.

Exit

Rosalind

O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf!

Orlando

It is my arm.

Rosalind

I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.

Orlando

Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.

Rosalind

Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon when he showed me your handkerchief?

Orlando

Ay, and greater wonders than that.

Rosalind

O, I know where you are: nay, ’tis true: there was never any thing so sudden but the fight of two rams and Caesar’s thrasonical brag of ‘I came, saw, and overcame:’ for your brother and my sister no sooner met but they looked, no sooner looked but they loved, no sooner loved but they sighed, no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason, no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy; and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage: they are in the very wrath of love and they will together; clubs cannot part them.

Orlando

They shall be married to-morrow, and I will bid the duke to the nuptial. But, O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes! By so much the more shall I to-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall think my brother happy in having what he wishes for.

Rosalind

Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?

Orlando

I can live no longer by thinking.

Rosalind

I will weary you then no longer with idle talking. Know of me then, for now I speak to some purpose, that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit: I speak not this that you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are; neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in some little measure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good and not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things: I have, since I was three year old, conversed with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena, shall you marry her: I know into what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes tomorrow human as she is and without any danger.

Orlando

Speakest thou in sober meanings?

Rosalind

By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I say I am a magician. Therefore, put you in your best array: bid your friends; for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, if you will.

Enter Silvius and Phebe

Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers.

Phebe

Youth, you have done me much ungentleness,

To show the letter that I writ to you.

Rosalind

I care not if I have: it is my study

To seem despiteful and ungentle to you:

You are there followed by a faithful shepherd;

Look upon him, love him; he worships you.

Phebe

Good shepherd, tell this youth what ’tis to love.

Silvius

It is to be all made of sighs and tears;

And so am I for Phebe.

Phebe

And I for Ganymede.

Orlando

And I for Rosalind.

Rosalind

And I for no woman.

Silvius

It is to be all made of faith and service;

And so am I for Phebe.

Phebe

And I for Ganymede.

Orlando

And I for Rosalind.

Rosalind

And I for no woman.

Silvius

It is to be all made of fantasy,

All made of passion and all made of wishes,

All adoration, duty, and observance,

All humbleness, all patience and impatience,

All purity, all trial, all observance;

And so am I for Phebe.

Phebe

And so am I for Ganymede.

Orlando

And so am I for Rosalind.

Rosalind

And so am I for no woman.

Phebe

If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

Silvius

If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

Orlando

If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

Rosalind

Who do you speak to, ‘Why blame you me to love you?’

Orlando

To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.

Rosalind

Pray you, no more of this; ’tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon. [To Silvius] I will help you, if I can. [To Phebe] I would love you, if I could. To-morrow meet me all together. [To Phebe] I will marry you, if ever I marry woman, and I’ll be married to-morrow. [To Orlando] I will satisfy you, if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow. [To Silvius] I will content you, if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married to-morrow. [To Orlando] As you love Rosalind, meet. [To Silvius] as you love Phebe, meet. And as I love no woman, I’ll meet. So fare you well. I have left you commands.

Silvius

I’ll not fail, if I live.

Phebe

Nor I.

Orlando

Nor I.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE FOREST.

Enter Touchstone and Audrey

Touchstone

To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to-morrow will we be married.

Audrey

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 comes two of the banished duke’s pages.

Enter two Pages

First Page

Well met, honest gentleman.

Touchstone

By my troth, well met. Come, sit, sit, and a song.

Second Page

We are for you: sit i’ the middle.

First Page

Shall we clap into’t roundly, without hawking or spitting or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to a bad voice?

Second Page

I’faith, i’faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies on a horse.

[sings] It was a lover and his lass,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

That o’er the green corn-field did pass

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:

Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino

These pretty country folks would lie,

In spring time, & c.

This carol they began that hour,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

How that a life was but a flower

In spring time, & c.

And therefore take the present time,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;

For love is crowned with the prime

In spring time, & c.

Touchstone

Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable.

First Page

You are deceived, sir: we kept time, we lost not our time.

Touchstone

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. THE FOREST.

Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia

Duke Senior

Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy

Can do all this that he hath promised?

Orlando

I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not;

As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.

Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe

Rosalind

Patience once more, whiles our compact is urged:

You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,

You will bestow her on Orlando here?

Duke Senior

That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.

Rosalind

And you say, you will have her, when I bring her?

Orlando

That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.

Rosalind

You say, you’ll marry me, if I be willing?

Phebe

That will I, should I die the hour after.

Rosalind

But if you do refuse to marry me,

You’ll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?

Phebe

So is the bargain.

Rosalind

You say, that you’ll have Phebe, if she will?

Silvius

Though to have her and death were both one thing.

Rosalind

I have promised to make all this matter even.

Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter;

You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter:

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,

To make these doubts all even.

Exeunt Rosalind and Celia

Duke Senior

I do remember in this shepherd boy

Some lively touches of my daughter’s favour.

Orlando

My lord, the first time that I ever saw him

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,

Whom he reports to be a great magician,

Obscured in the circle of this forest.

Enter Touchstone and Audrey

Jaques

There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called fools.

Touchstone

Salutation and greeting to you all!

Jaques

Good my lord, bid him welcome: this is the motley-minded gentleman that I have so often met in the forest: he hath been a courtier, he swears.

Touchstone

If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation. I have trod a measure; I have flattered a lady; I have been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought one.

Jaques

And how was that ta’en up?

Touchstone

Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause.

Jaques

How seventh cause? Good my lord, like this fellow.

Duke Senior

I like him very well.

Touchstone

God ’ild you, sir; I desire you of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear and to forswear: according as marriage binds and blood breaks: a poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will: rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.

Duke Senior

By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.

Touchstone

According to the fool’s bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases.

Jaques

But, for the seventh cause; how did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause?

Touchstone

Upon a lie seven times removed:— bear your body more seeming, Audrey:— as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier’s beard: he sent me word, if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it was: this is called the Retort Courteous. If I sent him word again ‘it was not well cut,’ he would send me word, he cut it to please himself: this is called the Quip Modest. If again ‘it was not well cut,’ he disabled my judgment: this is called the Reply Churlish. If again ‘it was not well cut,’ he would answer, I spake not true: this is called the Reproof Valiant. If again ‘it was not well cut,’ he would say I lied: this is called the Counter-cheque Quarrelsome: and so to the Lie Circumstantial and the Lie Direct.

Jaques

And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut?

Touchstone

I durst go no further than the Lie Circumstantial, nor he durst not give me the Lie Direct; and so we measured swords and parted.

Jaques

Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie?

Touchstone

O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book; as you have books for good manners: I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the Reply Churlish; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the Countercheque Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and you may avoid that too, with an If. I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an If, as, ‘If you said so, then I said so;’ and they shook hands and swore brothers. Your If is the only peacemaker; much virtue in If.

Jaques

Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he’s as good at any thing and yet a fool.

Duke Senior

He uses his folly like a stalking-horse and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

Enter Hymen, Rosalind, and Celia

Still Music

Hymen

Then is there mirth in heaven,

When earthly things made even

Atone together.

Good duke, receive thy daughter

Hymen from heaven brought her,

Yea, brought her hither,

That thou mightst join her hand with his

Whose heart within his bosom is.

Rosalind

[To Duke Senior] To you I give myself, for I am yours.

To Orlando

To you I give myself, for I am yours.

Duke Senior

If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.

Orlando

If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.

Phebe

If sight and shape be true,

Why then, my love adieu!

Rosalind

I’ll have no father, if you be not he:

I’ll have no husband, if you be not he:

Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not she.

Hymen

Peace, ho! I bar confusion:

’Tis I must make conclusion

Of these most strange events:

Here’s eight that must take hands

To join in Hymen’s bands,

If truth holds true contents.

You and you no cross shall part:

You and you are heart in heart

You to his love must accord,

Or have a woman to your lord:

You and you are sure together,

As the winter to foul weather.

Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing,

Feed yourselves with questioning;

That reason wonder may diminish,

How thus we met, and these things finish.

[sings] Wedding is great Juno’s crown:

O blessed bond of board and bed!

’Tis Hymen peoples every town;

High wedlock then be honoured:

Honour, high honour and renown,

To Hymen, god of every town!

Duke Senior

O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me!

Even daughter, welcome, in no less degree.

Phebe

I will not eat my word, now thou art mine;

Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.

Enter Jaques de Boys

Jaques de Boys

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

Men of great worth resorted to this forest,

Address’d a mighty power; which were on foot,

In his own conduct, purposely to take

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

Both from his enterprise and from the world,

His crown bequeathing to his banish’d brother,

And all their lands restored to them again

That were with him exiled. This to be true,

I do engage my life.

Duke Senior

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.

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 endured shrewd days and nights with us

Shall share the good of our returned fortune,

According to the measure of their states.

Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity

And fall into our rustic revelry.

Play, music! And you, brides and bridegrooms all,

With measure heap’d in joy, to the measures fall.

Jaques

Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,

The duke hath put on a religious life

And thrown into neglect the pompous court?

Jaques de Boys

He hath.

Jaques

To him will I : out of these convertites

There is much matter to be heard and learn’d.

To Duke Senior

You to your former honour I bequeath;

Your patience and your virtue well deserves it:

To Orlando

You to a love that your true faith doth merit:

To Oliver

You to your land and love and great allies:

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 victuall’d. So, to your pleasures:

I am for other than for dancing measures.

Duke Senior

Stay, Jaques, stay.

Jaques

To see no pastime I what you would have

I’ll stay to know at your abandon’d cave.

Exit

Duke Senior

Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,

As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.

A dance

EPILOGUE

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 hates 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 Comedy of Errors

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. A HALL IN DUKE SOLINUS’S PALACE.

SCENE II. THE MART.

ACT II

SCENE I. THE HOUSE OF ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

SCENE II. A PUBLIC PLACE.

ACT III

SCENE I. BEFORE THE HOUSE OF ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

SCENE II. THE SAME.

ACT IV

SCENE I. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE II. THE HOUSE OF ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

SCENE III. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE IV. A STREET.

ACT V

SCENE I. A STREET BEFORE A PRIORY.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Solinus, Duke of Ephesus.

Aegeon, a merchant of Syracuse.

Aemelia, wife to Aegeon; an abbess at Ephesus.

Antipholus of Ephesus and Antipholus of Syracuse, twin brothers and sons to Aegeon and Aemelia.

Dromio of Ephesus and Dromio of Syracuse, twin brothers, and attendants on the two Antipholuses.

Balthazar, a merchant.

Angelo, a goldsmith.

First Merchant, friend to Antipholus of Syracuse.

Second Merchant, to whom Angelo is a debtor.

Pinch, a schoolmaster.

Adriana, wife to Antipholus of Ephesus.

Luciana, her sister.

Luce, servant to Adriana.

A Courtezan.

Gaoler, Officers, Attendants

ACT I

SCENE I. A HALL IN DUKE SOLINUS’S PALACE.

Enter Duke Solinus, Aegeon, Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants

Aegeon

Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall

And by the doom of death end woes and all.

Duke Solinus

Merchant of Syracuse, plead no more;

I am not partial to infringe our laws:

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

Have seal’d his rigorous statutes with their bloods,

Excludes all pity from our threatening looks.

For, since the mortal and intestine jars

’Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,

It hath in solemn synods been decreed

Both by the Syracusians and ourselves,

To admit no traffic to our adverse towns Nay, more,

If any born at Ephesus be seen

At any 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,

Unless a thousand marks be levied,

To quit the penalty and to ransom him.

Thy substance, valued at the highest rate,

Cannot amount unto a hundred marks;

Therefore by law thou art condemned to die.

Aegeon

Yet this my comfort: when your words are done,

My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

Duke Solinus

Well, Syracusian, say in brief the cause

Why thou departed’st from thy native home

And for what cause thou camest to Ephesus.

Aegeon

A heavier task could not have been imposed

Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable:

Yet, that the world may witness that my end

Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence,

I’ll utter what my sorrows give me leave.

In Syracusa was I born, and wed

Unto a woman, happy but for me,

And by me, had not our hap been bad.

With her I lived in joy; our wealth increased

By prosperous voyages I often made

To Epidamnum; till my factor’s death

And the great care of goods at random left

Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse:

From whom my absence was not six months old

Before herself, almost at fainting under

The pleasing punishment that women bear,

Had made provision for her following me

And soon and safe arrived where I was.

There had she not been long, but she became

A joyful mother of two goodly sons;

And, which was strange, the one so like the other,

As could not be distinguish’d but by names.

That very hour, and in the self-same inn,

A meaner woman was delivered

Of such a burden, male twins, both alike:

Those,— for their parents were exceeding poor,—

I bought and brought up to attend my sons.

My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys,

Made daily motions for our home return:

Unwilling I agreed. Alas! too soon,

We came aboard.

A league from Epidamnum had we sail’d,

Before the always wind-obeying deep

Gave any tragic instance of our harm:

But longer did we not retain much hope;

For what obscured light the heavens did grant

Did but convey unto our fearful minds

A doubtful warrant of immediate death;

Which though myself would gladly have embraced,

Yet the incessant weepings of my wife,

Weeping before for what she saw must come,

And piteous plainings of the pretty babes,

That mourn’d for fashion, ignorant what to fear,

Forced me to seek delays for them and me.

And this it was, for other means was none:

The sailors sought for safety by our boat,

And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us:

My wife, more careful for the latter-born,

Had fasten’d him unto a small spare mast,

Such as seafaring men provide for storms;

To him one of the other twins was bound,

Whilst I had been like heedful of the other:

The children thus disposed, my wife and I,

Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix’d,

Fasten’d ourselves at either end the mast;

And floating straight, obedient to the stream,

Was carried towards Corinth, as we thought.

At length the sun, gazing upon the earth,

Dispersed 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,

Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this:

But ere they came,— O, let me say no more!

Gather the sequel by that went before.

Duke Solinus

Nay, forward, old man; do not break off so;

For we may pity, though not pardon thee.

Aegeon

O, had the gods done so, I had not now

Worthily term’d them merciless to us!

For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues,

We were encounterd 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,

Fortune had left to both of us alike

What to delight in, what to sorrow for.

Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdened

With lesser weight but not with lesser woe,

Was carried with more speed before the wind;

And in our sight they three were taken up

By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought.

At length, another ship had seized on us;

And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,

Gave healthful welcome to their shipwreck’d guests;

And would have reft the fishers of their prey,

Had not their bark been very slow of sail;

And therefore homeward did they bend their course.

Thus have you heard me sever’d from my bliss;

That by misfortunes was my life prolong’d,

To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.

Duke Solinus

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.

Aegeon

My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,

At eighteen years became inquisitive

After his brother: and importuned me

That his attendant — so his case was like,

Reft of his brother, but retain’d his name —

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 loved.

Five summers have I spent in furthest Greece,

Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia,

And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus;

Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought

Or that or any place that harbours men.

But here must end the story of my life;

And happy were I in my timely death,

Could all my travels warrant me they live.

Duke Solinus

Hapless Aegeon, whom the fates have mark’d

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 would sue as advocate for thee.

But, though thou art adjudged to the death

And passed sentence may not be recall’d

But to our honour’s great disparagement,

Yet I will 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;

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.

Gaoler

I will, my lord.

Aegeon

Hopeless and helpless doth Aegeon wend,

But to procrastinate his lifeless end.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE MART.

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse, Dromio of Syracuse, and First Merchant

First Merchant

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;

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.

Antipholus of Syracuse

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,

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.

Dromio of Syracuse

Many a man would take you at your word,

And go indeed, having so good a mean.

Exit

Antipholus of Syracuse

A trusty villain, sir, that very oft,

When I am dull with care and melancholy,

Lightens my humour with his merry jests.

What, will you walk with me about the town,

And then go to my inn and dine with me?

First Merchant

I am invited, sir, to certain merchants,

Of whom I hope to make much benefit;

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:

My present business calls me from you now.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Farewell till then: I will go lose myself

And wander up and down to view the city.

First Merchant

Sir, I commend you to your own content.

Exit

Antipholus of Syracuse

He that commends me to mine own content

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,

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.

Enter Dromio of Ephesus

Here comes the almanac of my true date.

What now? how chance thou art return’d so soon?

Dromio of Ephesus

Return’d so soon! rather approach’d too late:

The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit,

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;

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.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Stop in your wind, sir: tell me this, I pray:

Where have you left the money that I gave you?

Dromio of Ephesus

O,— sixpence, that I had o’ Wednesday last

To pay the saddler for my mistress’ crupper?

The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.

Antipholus of Syracuse

I am not in a sportive humour now:

Tell me, and dally not, where is the money?

We being strangers here, how darest thou trust

So great a charge from thine own custody?

Dromio of Ephesus

I pray you, air, as you sit at dinner:

I from my mistress come to you in post;

If I return, I shall be post indeed,

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.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out of season;

Reserve them till a merrier hour than this.

Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee?

Dromio of Ephesus

To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness,

And tell me how thou hast disposed thy charge.

Dromio of Ephesus

My charge was but to fetch you from the mart

Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner:

My mistress and her sister stays for you.

Antipholus of Syracuse

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 undisposed:

Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?

Dromio of Ephesus

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.

If I should pay your worship those again,

Perchance you will not bear them patiently.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Thy mistress’ marks? what mistress, slave, hast thou?

Dromio of Ephesus

Your worship’s wife, my mistress at the Phoenix;

She that doth fast till you come home to dinner,

And prays that you will hie you home to dinner.

Antipholus of Syracuse

What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my face,

Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave.

Dromio of Ephesus

What mean you, sir? for God’s sake, hold your hands!

Nay, and you will not, sir, I’ll take my heels.

Exit

Antipholus of Syracuse

Upon my life, by some device or other

The villain is o’er-raught of all my money.

They say this town is full of cozenage,

As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,

Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind,

Soul-killing witches that deform the body,

Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,

And many such-like liberties of sin:

If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.

I’ll to the Centaur, to go seek this slave:

I greatly fear my money is not safe.

Exit

ACT II

SCENE I. THE HOUSE OF ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Enter Adriana and Luciana

Adriana

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.

Luciana

Perhaps some merchant hath invited him,

And from the mart he’s somewhere gone to dinner.

Good sister, let us dine and never fret:

A man is master of his liberty:

Time is their master, and, when they see time,

They’ll go or come: if so, be patient, sister.

Adriana

Why should their liberty than ours be more?

Luciana

Because their business still lies out o’ door.

Adriana

Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill.

Luciana

O, know he is the bridle of your will.

Adriana

There’s none but asses will be bridled so.

Luciana

Why, headstrong liberty is lash’d with woe.

There’s nothing situate under heaven’s eye

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,

Lords of the wide world and wild watery seas,

Indued with intellectual sense and souls,

Of more preeminence than fish and fowls,

Are masters to their females, and their lords:

Then let your will attend on their accords.

Adriana

This servitude makes you to keep unwed.

Luciana

Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed.

Adriana

But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway.

Luciana

Ere I learn love, I’ll practise to obey.

Adriana

How if your husband start some other where?

Luciana

Till he come home again, I would forbear.

Adriana

Patience unmoved! no marvel though she pause;

They can be meek that have no other cause.

A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,

We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;

But were we burdened with like weight of pain,

As much or more would we 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,

This fool-begg’d patience in thee will be left.

Luciana

Well, I will marry one day, but to try.

Here comes your man; now is your husband nigh.

Enter Dromio of Ephesus

Adriana

Say, is your tardy master now at hand?

Dromio of Ephesus

Nay, he’s at two hands with me, and that my two ears can witness.

Adriana

Say, didst thou speak with him? know’st thou his mind?

Dromio of Ephesus

Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear:

Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.

Luciana

Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel his meaning?

Dromio of Ephesus

Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well feel his blows; and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce understand them.

Adriana

But say, I prithee, is he coming home? It seems he hath great care to please his wife.

Dromio of Ephesus

Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad.

Adriana

Horn-mad, thou villain!

Dromio of Ephesus

I mean not cuckold-mad;

But, sure, he is stark mad.

When I desired him to come home to dinner,

He ask’d me for a thousand marks in gold:

‘’Tis dinner-time,’ quoth I; ‘My gold!’ quoth he;

‘Your meat doth burn,’ quoth I; ‘My gold!’ quoth he:

‘Will you come home?’ quoth I; ‘My gold!’ quoth he.

‘Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?’

‘The pig,’ quoth I, ‘is burn’d;’ ‘My gold!’ quoth he:

‘My mistress, sir’ quoth I; ‘Hang up thy mistress!

I know not thy mistress; out on thy mistress!’

Luciana

Quoth who?

Dromio of Ephesus

Quoth my master:

‘I know,’ quoth he, ‘no house, no wife, no mistress.’

So that my errand, due unto my tongue,

I thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders;

For, in conclusion, he did beat me there.

Adriana

Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him home.

Dromio of Ephesus

Go back again, and be new beaten home?

For God’s sake, send some other messenger.

Adriana

Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across.

Dromio of Ephesus

And he will bless that cross with other beating:

Between you I shall have a holy head.

Adriana

Hence, prating peasant! fetch thy master home.

Dromio of Ephesus

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:

If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.

Exit

Luciana

Fie, how impatience loureth in your face!

Adriana

His company must do his minions grace,

Whilst I at home starve for a merry look.

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,

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,

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

And feeds from home; poor I am but his stale.

Luciana

Self-harming jealousy! fie, beat it hence!

Adriana

Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense.

I know his eye doth homage otherwhere,

Or else what lets it but he would be here?

Sister, you know he promised me a chain;

Would that alone, alone he would detain,

So he would keep fair quarter with his bed!

I see the jewel best enamelled

Will lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still,

That others touch, and often touching will

Wear gold: and no man that hath a name,

By falsehood and corruption doth it shame.

Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,

I’ll weep what’s left away, and weeping die.

Luciana

How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!

Exeunt

SCENE II. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse

Antipholus of Syracuse

The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up

Safe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave

Is wander’d forth, in care to seek me out

By computation and mine host’s report.

I could not speak with Dromio since at first

I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.

Enter Dromio of Syracuse

How now sir! is your merry humour alter’d?

As you love strokes, so jest with me again.

You know no Centaur? you received no gold?

Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner?

My house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad,

That thus so madly thou didst answer me?

Dromio of Syracuse

What answer, sir? when spake I such a word?

Antipholus of Syracuse

Even now, even here, not half an hour since.

Dromio of Syracuse

I did not see you since you sent me hence,

Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Villain, thou didst deny the gold’s receipt,

And told’st me of a mistress and a dinner;

For which, I hope, thou felt’st I was displeased.

Dromio of Syracuse

I am glad to see you in this merry vein:

What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?

Think’st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.

Beating him

Dromio of Syracuse

Hold, sir, for God’s sake! now your jest is earnest:

Upon what bargain do you give it me?

Antipholus of Syracuse

Because that I familiarly sometimes

Do use you for my fool and chat with you,

Your sauciness will jest upon my love

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,

And fashion your demeanor to my looks,

Or I will beat this method in your sconce.

Dromio of Syracuse

Sconce call you it? so you would leave battering, I had rather have it a head: an you use these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head and ensconce it too; or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders. But, I pray, sir why am I beaten?

Antipholus of Syracuse

Dost thou not know?

Dromio of Syracuse

Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Shall I tell you why?

Dromio of Syracuse

Ay, sir, and wherefore; for they say every why hath a wherefore.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Why, first,— for flouting me; and then, wherefore —

For urging it the second time to me.

Dromio of Syracuse

Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season, When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme nor reason? Well, sir, I thank you.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Thank me, sir, for what?

Dromio of Syracuse

Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me for nothing.

Antipholus of Syracuse

I’ll make you amends next, to give you nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinner-time?

Dromio of Syracuse

No, sir; I think the meat wants that I have.

Antipholus of Syracuse

In good time, sir; what’s that?

Dromio of Syracuse

Basting.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Well, sir, then ’twill be dry.

Dromio of Syracuse

If it be, sir, I pray you, eat none of it.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Your reason?

Dromio of Syracuse

Lest it make you choleric and purchase me another dry basting.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Well, sir, learn to jest in good time: there’s a time for all things.

Dromio of Syracuse

I durst have denied that, before you were so choleric.

Antipholus of Syracuse

By what rule, sir?

Dromio of Syracuse

Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald pate of father Time himself.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Let’s hear it.

Dromio of Syracuse

There’s no time for a man to recover his hair that grows bald by nature.

Antipholus of Syracuse

May he not do it by fine and recovery?

Dromio of Syracuse

Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig and recover the lost hair of another man.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement?

Dromio of Syracuse

Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts; and what he hath scanted men in hair he hath given them in wit.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Why, but there’s many a man hath more hair than wit.

Dromio of Syracuse

Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain dealers without wit.

Dromio of Syracuse

The plainer dealer, the sooner lost: yet he loseth it in a kind of jollity.

Antipholus of Syracuse

For what reason?

Dromio of Syracuse

For two; and sound ones too.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Nay, not sound, I pray you.

Dromio of Syracuse

Sure ones, then.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.

Dromio of Syracuse

Certain ones then.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Name them.

Dromio of Syracuse

The one, to save the money that he spends in trimming; the other, that at dinner they should not drop in his porridge.

Antipholus of Syracuse

You would all this time have proved there is no time for all things.

Dromio of Syracuse

Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to recover hair lost by nature.

Antipholus of Syracuse

But your reason was not substantial, why there is no time to recover.

Dromio of Syracuse

Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald and therefore to the world’s end will have bald followers.

Antipholus of Syracuse

I knew ’twould be a bald conclusion:

But, soft! who wafts us yonder?

Enter Adriana and Luciana

Adriana

Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown:

Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects;

I am not Adriana nor thy wife.

The time was once when thou unurged wouldst vow

That never words were music to thine ear,

That never object pleasing in thine eye,

That never touch well welcome to thy hand,

That never meat sweet-savor’d in thy taste,

Unless I spake, or look’d, or touch’d, or carved to thee.

How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it,

That thou art thus estranged from thyself?

Thyself I call it, being strange to me,

That, undividable, incorporate,

Am better than thy dear self’s better part.

Ah, do not tear away thyself from me!

For know, my love, as easy mayest thou fall

A drop of water in the breaking gulf,

And take unmingled that same drop again,

Without addition or diminishing,

As take from me thyself and not me too.

How dearly would it touch me to the quick,

Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious

And that this body, consecrate to thee,

By ruffian lust should be contaminate!

Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me

And hurl the name of husband in my face

And tear the stain’d skin off my harlot-brow

And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring

And break it with a deep-divorcing vow?

I know thou canst; and therefore see thou do it.

I am possess’d with an adulterate blot;

My blood is mingled with the crime of lust:

For if we too be one and thou play false,

I do digest the poison of thy flesh,

Being strumpeted by thy contagion.

Keep then far league and truce with thy true bed;

I live unstain’d, thou undishonoured.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not:

In Ephesus I am but two hours old,

As strange unto your town as to your talk;

Who, every word by all my wit being scann’d,

Want wit in all one word to understand.

Luciana

Fie, brother! how the world is changed with you!

When were you wont to use my sister thus?

She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.

Antipholus of Syracuse

By Dromio?

Dromio of Syracuse

By me?

Adriana

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.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Did you converse, sir, with this gentlewoman?

What is the course and drift of your compact?

Dromio of Syracuse

I, sir? I never saw her till this time.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Villain, thou liest; for even her very words

Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.

Dromio of Syracuse

I never spake with her in all my life.

Antipholus of Syracuse

How can she thus then call us by our names,

Unless it be by inspiration.

Adriana

How ill agrees it with your gravity

To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave,

Abetting him to thwart me in my mood!

Be it my wrong you are from me exempt,

But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt.

Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine:

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine,

Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state,

Makes me with thy strength to communicate:

If aught possess thee from me, it is dross,

Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss;

Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion

Infect thy sap and live on thy confusion.

Antipholus of Syracuse

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?

Until I know this sure uncertainty,

I’ll entertain the offer’d fallacy.

Luciana

Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner.

Dromio of Syracuse

O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner.

This is the fairy land: O spite of spites!

We talk with goblins, owls and sprites:

If we obey them not, this will ensue,

They’ll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.

Luciana

Why pratest thou to thyself and answer’st not?

Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!

Dromio of Syracuse

I am transformed, master, am I not?

Antipholus of Syracuse

I think thou art in mind, and so am I.

Dromio of Syracuse

Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Thou hast thine own form.

Dromio of Syracuse

No, I am an ape.

Luciana

If thou art changed to aught, ’tis to an ass.

Dromio of Syracuse

’Tis true; she rides me and I long for grass.

’Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be

But I should know her as well as she knows me.

Adriana

Come, come, no longer will I be a fool,

To put the finger in the eye and weep,

Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn.

Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate.

Husband, I’ll dine above with you to-day

And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks.

Sirrah, if any ask you for your master,

Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter.

Come, sister. Dromio, play the porter well.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell?

Sleeping or waking? mad or well-advised?

Known unto these, and to myself disguised!

I’ll say as they say and persever so,

And in this mist at all adventures go.

Dromio of Syracuse

Master, shall I be porter at the gate?

Adriana

Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.

Luciana

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

Antipholus of Ephesus

Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all;

My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours:

Say that I linger’d with you at your shop

To see the making of her carcanet,

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 charged him with a thousand marks in gold,

And that I did deny my wife and house.

Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this?

Dromio of Ephesus

Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know;

That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to show:

If the skin were parchment, and the blows you gave were ink,

Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

Antipholus of Ephesus

I think thou art an ass.

Dromio of Ephesus

Marry, so it doth appear

By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear.

I should kick, being kick’d; and, being at that pass,

You would keep from my heels and beware of an ass.

Antipholus of Ephesus

You’re sad, Signior Balthazar: pray God our cheer

May answer my good will and your good welcome here.

Balthazar

I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear.

Antipholus of Ephesus

O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish,

A table full of welcome make scarce one dainty dish.

Balthazar

Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl affords.

Antipholus of Ephesus

And welcome more common; for that’s nothing but words.

Balthazar

Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Ay, to a niggardly host, and more sparing guest:

But though my cates be mean, take them in good part;

Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart.

But, soft! my door is lock’d. Go bid them let us in.

Dromio of Ephesus

Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicel, Gillian, Ginn!

Dromio of Syracuse

[Within] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch! Either get thee from the door, or sit down at the hatch. Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call’st for such store, When one is one too many? Go, get thee from the door.

Dromio of Ephesus

What patch is made our porter? My master stays in the street.

Dromio of Syracuse

[Within] Let him walk from whence he came, lest he catch cold on’s feet.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Who talks within there? ho, open the door!

Dromio of Syracuse

[Within] Right, sir; I’ll tell you when, an you tell me wherefore.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Wherefore? for my dinner: I have not dined to-day.

Dromio of Syracuse

[Within] Nor to-day here you must not; come again when you may.

Antipholus of Ephesus

What art thou that keepest me out from the house I owe?

Dromio of Syracuse

[Within] The porter for this time, sir, and my name is Dromio.

Dromio of Ephesus

O villain! thou hast stolen both mine office and my name. The one ne’er got me credit, the other mickle blame. If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place, Thou wouldst have changed thy face for a name or thy name for an ass.

Luce

[Within] What a coil is there, Dromio? who are those at the gate?

Dromio of Ephesus

Let my master in, Luce.

Luce

[Within] Faith, no; he comes too late;

And so tell your master.

Dromio of Ephesus

O Lord, I must laugh!

Have at you with a proverb — Shall I set in my staff?

Luce

[Within] Have at you with another; that’s — When? can you tell?

Dromio of Syracuse

[Within] If thy name be call’d Luce — Luce, thou hast answered him well.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Do you hear, you minion? you’ll let us in, I hope?

Luce

[Within] I thought to have asked you.

Dromio of Syracuse

[Within] And you said no.

Dromio of Ephesus

So, come, help: well struck! there was blow for blow.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Thou baggage, let me in.

Luce

[Within] Can you tell for whose sake?

Dromio of Ephesus

Master, knock the door hard.

Luce

[Within] Let him knock till it ache.

Antipholus of Ephesus

You’ll cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down.

Luce

[Within] What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town?

Adriana

[Within] Who is that at the door that keeps all this noise?

Dromio of Syracuse

[Within] By my troth, your town is troubled with unruly boys.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Are you there, wife? you might have come before.

Adriana

[Within] Your wife, sir knave! go get you from the door.

Dromio of Ephesus

If you went in pain, master, this ’knave’ would go sore.

Angelo

Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome: we would fain have either.

Balthazar

In debating which was best, we shall part with neither.

Dromio of Ephesus

They stand at the door, master; bid them welcome hither.

Antipholus of Ephesus

There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in.

Dromio of Ephesus

You would say so, master, if your garments were thin.

Your cake there is warm within; you stand here in the cold:

It would make a man mad as a buck, to be so bought and sold.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Go fetch me something: I’ll break ope the gate.

Dromio of Syracuse

[Within] Break any breaking here, and I’ll break your knave’s pate.

Dromio of Ephesus

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.

Dromio of Syracuse

[Within] It seems thou want’st breaking: out upon thee, hind!

Dromio of Ephesus

Here’s too much ‘out upon thee!’ I pray thee, let me in.

Dromio of Syracuse

[Within] Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Well, I’ll break in: go borrow me a crow.

Dromio of Ephesus

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.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Go get thee gone; fetch me an iron crow.

Balthazar

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.

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

Why at this time the doors are made against you.

Be ruled by me: depart in patience,

And let us to the Tiger all to dinner,

And about evening come yourself alone

To know the reason of this strange restraint.

If by strong hand you offer to break in

Now in the stirring passage of the day,

A vulgar comment will be made of it,

And that supposed by the common rout

Against your yet ungalled estimation

That may with foul intrusion enter in

And dwell upon your grave when you are dead;

For slander lives upon succession,

For ever housed where it gets possession.

Antipholus of Ephesus

You have prevailed: I will depart in quiet,

And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry.

I know a wench of excellent discourse,

Pretty and witty; wild, and yet, too, gentle:

There will we dine. This woman that I mean,

My wife — but, I protest, without desert —

Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal:

To her will we to dinner.

To Angelo

Get you home

And fetch the chain; by this I know ’tis made:

Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine;

For there’s the house: that chain will I bestow —

Be it for nothing but to spite my wife —

Upon mine hostess there: good sir, make haste.

Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me,

I’ll knock elsewhere, to see if they’ll disdain me.

Angelo

I’ll meet you at that place some hour hence.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Do so. This jest shall cost me some expense.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME.

Enter Luciana and Antipholus of Syracuse

Luciana

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?

If you did wed my sister for her wealth,

Then for her wealth’s sake use her with more kindness:

Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;

Muffle your false love with some show of blindness:

Let not my sister read it in your eye;

Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator;

Look sweet, be fair, become disloyalty;

Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger;

Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted;

Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;

Be secret-false: what need she be acquainted?

What simple thief brags of his own attaint?

’Tis double wrong, to truant with your bed

And let her read it in thy looks at board:

Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;

Ill d eeds are doubled with an evil word.

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.

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.

Antipholus of Syracuse

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.

Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;

Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit,

Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,

The folded meaning of your words’ deceit.

Against my soul’s pure truth why labour you

To make it wander in an unknown field?

Are you a god? would you create me new?

Transform me then, and to your power I’ll yield.

But if that I am I, then well I know

Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,

Nor to her bed no homage do I owe

Far more, far more to you do I decline.

O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,

To drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears:

Sing, siren, for thyself and I will dote:

Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs,

And as a bed I’ll take them and there lie,

And in that glorious supposition think

He gains by death that hath such means to die:

Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink!

Luciana

What, are you mad, that you do reason so?

Antipholus of Syracuse

Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.

Luciana

It is a fault that springeth from your eye.

Antipholus of Syracuse

For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by.

Luciana

Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.

Antipholus of Syracuse

As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.

Luciana

Why call you me love? call my sister so.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Thy sister’s sister.

Luciana

That’s my sister.

Antipholus of Syracuse

No;

It is thyself, mine own self’s better part,

Mine eye’s clear eye, my dear heart’s dearer heart,

My food, my fortune and my sweet hope’s aim,

My sole earth’s heaven and my heaven’s claim.

Luciana

All this my sister is, or else should be.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Call thyself sister, sweet, for I am thee.

Thee will I love and with thee lead my life:

Thou hast no husband yet nor I no wife.

Give me thy hand.

Luciana

O, soft, air! hold you still:

I’ll fetch my sister, to get her good will.

Exit

Enter Dromio of Syracuse

Antipholus of Syracuse

Why, how now, Dromio! where runn’st thou so fast?

Dromio of Syracuse

Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? am I your man? am I myself?

Antipholus of Syracuse

Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself.

Dromio of Syracuse

I am an ass, I am a woman’s man and besides myself.

Antipholus of Syracuse

What woman’s man? and how besides thyself? besides thyself?

Dromio of Syracuse

Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a woman; one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me.

Antipholus of Syracuse

What claim lays she to thee?

Dromio of Syracuse

Marry sir, such claim as you would lay to your horse; and she would have me as a beast: not that, I being a beast, she would have me; but that she, being a very beastly creature, lays claim to me.

Antipholus of Syracuse

What is she?

Dromio of Syracuse

A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man may not speak of without he say ‘sir-reverence.’ I have but lean luck in the match, and yet is she a wondrous fat marriage.

Antipholus of Syracuse

How dost thou mean a fat marriage?

Dromio of Syracuse

Marry, sir, she’s the kitchen wench and all grease; and I know not what use to put her to but to make a lamp of her and run from her by her own light. I warrant, her rags and the tallow in them will burn a Poland winter: if she lives till doomsday, she’ll burn a week longer than the whole world.

Antipholus of Syracuse

What complexion is she of?

Dromio of Syracuse

Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing half so clean kept: for why, she sweats; a man may go over shoes in the grime of it.

Antipholus of Syracuse

That’s a fault that water will mend.

Dromio of Syracuse

No, sir, ’tis in grain; Noah’s flood could not do it.

Antipholus of Syracuse

What’s her name?

Dromio of Syracuse

Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters, that’s an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from hip to hip.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Then she bears some breadth?

Dromio of Syracuse

No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip: she is spherical, like a globe; I could find out countries in her.

Antipholus of Syracuse

In what part of her body stands Ireland?

Dromio of Syracuse

Marry, in her buttocks: I found it out by the bogs.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Where Scotland?

Dromio of Syracuse

I found it by the barrenness; hard in the palm of the hand.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Where France?

Dromio of Syracuse

In her forehead; armed and reverted, making war against her heir.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Where England?

Dromio of Syracuse

I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no whiteness in them; but I guess it stood in her chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France and it.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Where Spain?

Dromio of Syracuse

Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in her breath.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Where America, the Indies?

Dromio of Syracuse

Oh, sir, upon her nose all o’er embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain; who sent whole armadoes of caracks to be ballast at her nose.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?

Dromio of Syracuse

Oh, sir, I did not look so low. To conclude, this drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me, call’d me Dromio; swore I was assured to her; told me what privy marks I had about me, as, the mark of my shoulder, the mole in my neck, the great wart on my left arm, that I amazed ran from her as a witch: And, I think, if my breast had not been made of faith and my heart of steel, She had transform’d me to a curtal dog and made me turn i’ the wheel.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Go hie thee presently, post to the road:

An if the wind blow any way from shore,

I will not harbour in this town to-night:

If any bark put forth, come to the mart,

Where I will walk till thou return to me.

If every one knows us and we know none,

’Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack and be gone.

Dromio of Syracuse

As from a bear a man would run for life,

So fly I from her that would be my wife.

Exit

Antipholus of Syracuse

There’s none but witches do inhabit here;

And therefore ’tis high time that I were hence.

She that doth call me husband, even my soul

Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister,

Possess’d with such a gentle sovereign grace,

Of such enchanting presence and discourse,

Hath almost made me traitor to myself:

But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,

I’ll stop mine ears against the mermaid’s song.

Enter Angelo with the chain

Angelo

Master Antipholus,—

Antipholus of Syracuse

Ay, that’s my name.

Angelo

I know it well, sir, lo, here is the chain.

I thought to have ta’en you at the Porpentine:

The chain unfinish’d made me stay thus long.

Antipholus of Syracuse

What is your will that I shall do with this?

Angelo

What please yourself, sir: I have made it for you.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it not.

Angelo

Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have.

Go home with it and please your wife withal;

And soon at supper-time I’ll visit you

And then receive my money for the chain.

Antipholus of Syracuse

I pray you, sir, receive the money now,

For fear you ne’er see chain nor money more.

Angelo

You are a merry man, sir: fare you well.

Exit

Antipholus of Syracuse

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.

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

Second Merchant

You know since Pentecost the sum is due,

And since I have not much importuned you;

Nor now I had not, but that I am bound

To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage:

Therefore make present satisfaction,

Or I’ll attach you by this officer.

Angelo

Even just the sum that I do owe to you

Is growing to me by Antipholus,

And in the instant that I met with you

He had of me a chain: at five o’clock

I shall receive the money for the same.

Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house,

I will discharge my bond and thank you too.

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus from the courtezan’s

Officer

That labour may you save: see where he comes.

Antipholus of Ephesus

While I go to the goldsmith’s house, go thou

And buy a rope’s end: that will I bestow

Among my wife and her confederates,

For locking me out of my doors by day.

But, soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone;

Buy thou a rope and bring it home to me.

Dromio of Ephesus

I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a rope.

Exit

Antipholus of Ephesus

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.

Belike you thought our love would last too long,

If it were chain’d together, and therefore came not.

Angelo

Saving your merry humour, here’s the note

How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat,

The fineness of the gold and chargeful fashion.

Which doth amount to three odd ducats more

Than I stand debted to this gentleman:

I pray you, see him presently discharged,

For he is bound to sea and stays but for it.

Antipholus of Ephesus

I am not furnish’d with the present money;

Besides, I have some business in the town.

Good signior, take the stranger to my house

And with you take the chain and bid my wife

Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof:

Perchance I will be there as soon as you.

Angelo

Then you will bring the chain to her yourself?

Antipholus of Ephesus

No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough.

Angelo

Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about you?

Antipholus of Ephesus

An if I have not, sir, I hope you have;

Or else you may return without your money.

Angelo

Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain:

Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman,

And I, to blame, have held him here too long.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Good Lord! you use this dalliance to excuse

Your breach of promise to the Porpentine.

I should have chid you for not bringing it,

But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.

Second Merchant

The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dispatch.

Angelo

You hear how he importunes me;— the chain!

Antipholus of Ephesus

Why, give it to my wife and fetch your money.

Angelo

Come, come, you know I gave it you even now.

Either send the chain or send me by some token.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Fie, now you run this humour out of breath, where’s the chain? I pray you, let me see it.

Second Merchant

My business cannot brook this dalliance.

Good sir, say whether you’ll answer me or no:

If not, I’ll leave him to the officer.

Antipholus of Ephesus

I answer you! what should I answer you?

Angelo

The money that you owe me for the chain.

Antipholus of Ephesus

I owe you none till I receive the chain.

Angelo

You know I gave it you half an hour since.

Antipholus of Ephesus

You gave me none: you wrong me much to say so.

Angelo

You wrong me more, sir, in denying it:

Consider how it stands upon my credit.

Second Merchant

Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.

Officer

I do; and charge you in the duke’s name to obey me.

Angelo

This touches me in reputation.

Either consent to pay this sum for me

Or I attach you by this officer.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Consent to pay thee that I never had!

Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou darest.

Angelo

Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer,

I would not spare my brother in this case,

If he should scorn me so apparently.

Officer

I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit.

Antipholus of Ephesus

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.

Angelo

Sir, sir, I will have law in Ephesus,

To your notorious shame; I doubt it not.

Enter Dromio of Syracuse, from the bay

Dromio of Syracuse

Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum

That stays but till her owner comes aboard,

And then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir,

I have convey’d aboard; and I have bought

The oil, the balsamum and aqua-vitae.

The ship is in her trim; the merry wind

Blows fair from land: they stay for nought at all

But for their owner, master, and yourself.

Antipholus of Ephesus

How now! a madman! Why, thou peevish sheep,

What ship of Epidamnum stays for me?

Dromio of Syracuse

A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope;

And told thee to what purpose and what end.

Dromio of Syracuse

You sent me for a rope’s end as soon:

You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark.

Antipholus of Ephesus

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

That’s cover’d o’er with Turkish tapestry,

There is a purse of ducats; let her send it:

Tell her I am arrested in the street

And that shall bail me; hie thee, slave, be gone!

On, officer, to prison till it come.

Exeunt Second Merchant, Angelo, Officer, and Antipholus of Ephesus

Dromio of Syracuse

To Adriana! that is where we dined,

Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband:

She is too big, I hope, for me to compass.

Thither I must, although against my will,

For servants must their masters’ minds fulfil.

Exit

SCENE II. THE HOUSE OF ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Enter Adriana and Luciana

Adriana

Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so?

Mightst 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 madest thou in this case

Of his heart’s meteors tilting in his face?

Luciana

First he denied you had in him no right.

Adriana

He meant he did me none; the more my spite.

Luciana

Then swore he that he was a stranger here.

Adriana

And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were.

Luciana

Then pleaded I for you.

Adriana

And what said he?

Luciana

That love I begg’d for you he begg’d of me.

Adriana

With what persuasion did he tempt thy love?

Luciana

With words that in an honest suit might move.

First he did praise my beauty, then my speech.

Adriana

Didst speak him fair?

Luciana

Have patience, I beseech.

Adriana

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-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere;

Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind;

Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.

Luciana

Who would be jealous then of such a one?

No evil lost is wail’d when it is gone.

Adriana

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.

Enter Dromio of Syracuse

Dromio of Syracuse

Here! go; the desk, the purse! sweet, now, make haste.

Luciana

How hast thou lost thy breath?

Dromio of Syracuse

By running fast.

Adriana

Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well?

Dromio of Syracuse

No, he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell.

A devil in an everlasting garment hath him;

One whose hard heart is button’d up with steel;

A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough;

A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff;

A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands

The passages of alleys, creeks and narrow lands;

A hound that runs counter and yet draws dryfoot well;

One that before the judgement carries poor souls to hell.

Adriana

Why, man, what is the matter?

Dromio of Syracuse

I do not know the matter: he is ’rested on the case.

Adriana

What, is he arrested? Tell me at whose suit.

Dromio of Syracuse

I know not at whose suit he is arrested well;

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?

Adriana

Go fetch it, sister.

Exit Luciana

This I wonder at,

That he, unknown to me, should be in debt.

Tell me, was he arrested on a band?

Dromio of Syracuse

Not on a band, but on a stronger thing;

A chain, a chain! Do you not hear it ring?

Adriana

What, the chain?

Dromio of Syracuse

No, no, the bell: ’tis time that I were gone:

It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one.

Adriana

The hours come back! that did I never hear.

Dromio of Syracuse

O, yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, a’ turns back for very fear.

Adriana

As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason!

Dromio of Syracuse

Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he’s worth, to season.

Nay, he’s a thief too: have you not heard men say

That Time comes stealing on by night and day?

If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,

Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?

Re-enter Luciana with a purse

Adriana

Go, Dromio; there’s the money, bear it straight;

And bring thy master home immediately.

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

Antipholus of Syracuse

There’s not a man I meet but doth salute me

As if I were their well-acquainted friend;

And every one doth call me by my name.

Some tender money to me; some invite me;

Some other give me thanks for kindnesses;

Some offer me commodities to buy:

Even now a tailor call’d me in his shop

And show’d me silks that he had bought for me,

And therewithal took measure of my body.

Sure, these are but imaginary wiles

And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.

Enter Dromio Of Syracuse

Dromio of Syracuse

Master, here’s the gold you sent me for. What, have you got the picture of old Adam new-apparelled?

Antipholus of Syracuse

What gold is this? what Adam dost thou mean?

Dromio of Syracuse

Not that Adam that kept the Paradise but that Adam that keeps the prison: he that goes in the calf’s skin that was killed for the Prodigal; he that came behind you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty.

Antipholus of Syracuse

I understand thee not.

Dromio of Syracuse

No? why, ’tis a plain case: he that went, like a bass-viol, in a case of leather; the man, sir, that, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a sob and ‘rests them; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed men and gives them suits of durance; he that sets up his rest to do more exploits with his mace than a morris-pike.

Antipholus of Syracuse

What, thou meanest an officer?

Dromio of Syracuse

Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band, he that brings any man to answer it that breaks his band; one that thinks a man always going to bed, and says, ‘God give you good rest!’

Antipholus of Syracuse

Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there any

Dromio of Syracuse

Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the bark Expedition put forth to-night; and then were you hindered by the sergeant, to tarry for the hoy Delay. Here are the angels that you sent for to deliver you.

Antipholus of Syracuse

The fellow is distract, and so am I;

And here we wander in illusions:

Some blessed power deliver us from hence!

Enter a Courtezan

Courtezan

Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.

I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now:

Is that the chain you promised me to-day?

Antipholus of Syracuse

Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt me not.

Dromio of Syracuse

Master, is this Mistress Satan?

Antipholus of Syracuse

It is the devil.

Dromio of Syracuse

Nay, she is worse, she is the devil’s dam; and here she comes in the habit of a light wench: and thereof comes that the wenches say ‘God damn me;’ that’s as much to say ‘God make me a light wench.’ It is written, they appear to men like angels of light: light is an effect of fire, and fire will burn; ergo, light wenches will burn. Come not near her.

Courtezan

Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir.

Will you go with me? We’ll mend our dinner here?

Dromio of Syracuse

Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat; or bespeak a long spoon.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Why, Dromio?

Dromio of Syracuse

Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Avoid then, 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.

Courtezan

Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,

Or, for my diamond, the chain you promised,

And I’ll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

Dromio of Syracuse

Some devils ask but the parings of one’s nail,

A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin,

A nut, a cherry-stone;

But she, more covetous, would have a chain.

Master, be wise: an if you give it her,

The devil will shake her chain and fright us with it.

Courtezan

I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain:

I hope you do not mean to cheat me so.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let us go.

Dromio of Syracuse

‘Fly pride,’ says the peacock: mistress, that you know.

Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse

Courtezan

Now, out of doubt Antipholus is mad,

Else would he never so demean himself.

A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats,

And for the same he promised me a chain:

Both one and other he denies me now.

The reason that I gather he is mad,

Besides this present instance of his rage,

Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner,

Of his own doors being shut against his entrance.

Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits,

On purpose shut the doors against his way.

My way is now to hie home to his house,

And tell his wife that, being lunatic,

He rush’d into my house and took perforce

My ring away. This course I fittest choose;

For forty ducats is too much to lose.

Exit

SCENE IV. A STREET.

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and the Officer

Antipholus of Ephesus

Fear me not, man; I will not break away:

I’ll give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money,

To warrant thee, as I am ’rested for.

My wife is in a wayward mood to-day,

And will not lightly trust the messenger

That I should be attach’d in Ephesus,

I tell you, ’twill sound harshly in her ears.

Enter Dromio of Ephesus with a rope’s-end

Here comes my man; I think he brings the money.

How now, sir! have you that I sent you for?

Dromio of Ephesus

Here’s that, I warrant you, will pay them all.

Antipholus of Ephesus

But where’s the money?

Dromio of Ephesus

Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope?

Dromio of Ephesus

I’ll serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate.

Antipholus of Ephesus

To what end did I bid thee hie thee home?

Dromio of Ephesus

To a rope’s-end, sir; and to that end am I returned.

Antipholus of Ephesus

And to that end, sir, I will welcome you.

Beating him

Officer

Good sir, be patient.

Dromio of Ephesus

Nay, ’tis for me to be patient; I am in adversity.

Officer

Good, now, hold thy tongue.

Dromio of Ephesus

Nay, rather persuade him to hold his hands.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Thou whoreson, senseless villain!

Dromio of Ephesus

I would I were senseless, sir, that I might not feel your blows.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Thou art sensible in nothing but blows, and so is an ass.

Dromio of Ephesus

I am an ass, indeed; you may prove it by my long ears. I have served him from the hour of my nativity to this instant, and have nothing at his hands for my service but blows. When I am cold, he heats me with beating; when I am warm, he cools me with beating; I am waked with it when I sleep; raised with it when I sit; driven out of doors with it when I go from home; welcomed home with it when I return; nay, I bear it on my shoulders, as a beggar wont her brat; and, I think when he hath lamed me, I shall beg with it from door to door.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Come, go along; my wife is coming yonder.

Enter Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan, and Pinch

Dromio of Ephesus

Mistress, ‘respice finem,’ respect your end; or rather, the prophecy like the parrot, ‘beware the rope’s-end.’

Antipholus of Ephesus

Wilt thou still talk?

Beating him

Courtezan

How say you now? is not your husband mad?

Adriana

His incivility confirms no less.

Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer;

Establish him in his true sense again,

And I will please you what you will demand.

Luciana

Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks!

Courtezan

Mark how he trembles in his ecstasy!

Pinch

Give me your hand and let me feel your pulse.

Antipholus of Ephesus

There is my hand, and let it feel your ear.

Striking him

Pinch

I charge thee, Satan, housed within this man,

To yield possession to my holy prayers

And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight:

I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven!

Antipholus of Ephesus

Peace, doting wizard, peace! I am not mad.

Adriana

O, that thou wert not, poor distressed soul!

Antipholus of Ephesus

You minion, you, are these your customers?

Did this companion with the saffron face

Revel and feast it at my house to-day,

Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut

And I denied to enter in my house?

Adriana

O husband, God doth know you dined at home;

Where would you had remain’d until this time,

Free from these slanders and this open shame!

Antipholus of Ephesus

Dined at home! Thou villain, what sayest thou?

Dromio of Ephesus

Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at home.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Were not my doors lock’d up and I shut out?

Dromio of Ephesus

Perdie, your doors were lock’d and you shut out.

Antipholus of Ephesus

And did not she herself revile me there?

Dromio of Ephesus

Sans fable, she herself reviled you there.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and scorn me?

Dromio of Ephesus

Certes, she did; the kitchen-vestal scorn’d you.

Antipholus of Ephesus

And did not I in rage depart from thence?

Dromio of Ephesus

In verity you did; my bones bear witness,

That since have felt the vigour of his rage.

Adriana

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.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Thou hast suborn’d the goldsmith to arrest me.

Adriana

Alas, I sent you money to redeem you,

By Dromio here, who came in haste for it.

Dromio of Ephesus

Money by me! heart and goodwill you might;

But surely master, not a rag of money.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Went’st not thou to her for a purse of ducats?

Adriana

He came to me and I deliver’d it.

Luciana

And I am witness with her that she did.

Dromio of Ephesus

God and the rope-maker bear me witness

That I was sent for nothing but a rope!

Pinch

Mistress, both man and master is possess’d;

I know it by their pale and deadly looks:

They must be bound and laid in some dark room.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth to-day?

And why dost thou deny the bag of gold?

Adriana

I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth.

Dromio of Ephesus

And, gentle master, I received no gold;

But I confess, sir, that we were lock’d out.

Adriana

Dissembling villain, thou speak’st false in both.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all;

And art confederate with a damned pack

To make a loathsome abject scorn of me:

But with these nails I’ll pluck out these false eyes

That would behold in me this shameful sport.

Enter three or four, and offer to bind him. He strives

Adriana

O, bind him, bind him! let him not come near me.

Pinch

More company! The fiend is strong within him.

Luciana

Ay me, poor man, how pale and wan he looks!

Antipholus of Ephesus

What, will you murder me? Thou gaoler, thou,

I am thy prisoner: wilt thou suffer them

To make a rescue?

Officer

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 offer to bind Dromio of Ephesus

Adriana

What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer?

Hast thou delight to see a wretched man

Do outrage and displeasure to himself?

Officer

He is my prisoner: if I let him go,

The debt he owes will be required of me.

Adriana

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

Home to my house. O most unhappy day!

Antipholus of Ephesus

O most unhappy strumpet!

Dromio of Ephesus

Master, I am here entered in bond for you.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Out on thee, villain! wherefore dost thou mad me?

Dromio of Ephesus

Will you be bound for nothing? be mad, good master: cry ‘The devil!’

Luciana

God help, poor souls, how idly do they talk!

Adriana

Go bear him hence. Sister, go you with me.

Exeunt all but Adriana, Luciana, Officer and Courtezan

Say now, whose suit is he arrested at?

Officer

One Angelo, a goldsmith: do you know him?

Adriana

I know the man. What is the sum he owes?

Officer

Two hundred ducats.

Adriana

Say, how grows it due?

Officer

Due for a chain your husband had of him.

Adriana

He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not.

Courtezan

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 —

Straight after did I meet him with a chain.

Adriana

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.

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse with his rapier drawn, and Dromio of Syracuse

Luciana

God, for thy mercy! they are loose again.

Adriana

And come with naked swords.

Let’s call more help to have them bound again.

Officer

Away! they’ll kill us.

Exeunt all but Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse

Antipholus of Syracuse

I see these witches are afraid of swords.

Dromio of Syracuse

She that would be your wife now ran from you.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff from thence:

I long that we were safe and sound aboard.

Dromio of Syracuse

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.

Antipholus of Syracuse

I will not stay to-night for all the town;

Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. A STREET BEFORE A PRIORY.

Enter Second Merchant and Angelo

Angelo

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.

Second Merchant

How is the man esteemed here in the city?

Angelo

Of very reverend reputation, sir,

Of credit infinite, highly beloved,

Second to none that lives here in the city:

His word might bear my wealth at any time.

Second Merchant

Speak softly; yonder, as I think, he walks.

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse

Angelo

’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.

Signior Antipholus, I wonder much

That you would put me to this shame and trouble;

And, not without some scandal to yourself,

With circumstance and oaths so to deny

This chain which now you wear so openly:

Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment,

You have done wrong to this my honest friend,

Who, but for staying on our controversy,

Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day:

This chain you had of me; can you deny it?

Antipholus of Syracuse

I think I had; I never did deny it.

Second Merchant

Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it too.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Who heard me to deny it or forswear it?

Second Merchant

These ears of mine, thou know’st did hear thee.

Fie on thee, wretch! ’tis pity that thou livest

To walk where any honest man resort.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Thou art a villain to impeach me thus:

I’ll prove mine honour and mine honesty

Against thee presently, if thou darest stand.

Second Merchant

I dare, and do defy thee for a villain.

They draw

Enter Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan, and others

Adriana

Hold, hurt him not, for God’s sake! he is mad.

Some get within him, take his sword away:

Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house.

Dromio of Syracuse

Run, master, run; for God’s sake, take a house!

This is some priory. In, or we are spoil’d!

Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse to the Priory

Enter the Lady Abbess, Aemilia

Aemelia

Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither?

Adriana

To fetch my poor distracted husband hence.

Let us come in, that we may bind him fast

And bear him home for his recovery.

Angelo

I knew he was not in his perfect wits.

Second Merchant

I am sorry now that I did draw on him.

Aemelia

How long hath this possession held the man?

Adriana

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.

Aemelia

Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck 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,

Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing.

Which of these sorrows is he subject to?

Adriana

To none of these, except it be the last;

Namely, some love that drew him oft from home.

Aemelia

You should for that have reprehended him.

Adriana

Why, so I did.

Aemelia

Ay, but not rough enough.

Adriana

As roughly as my modesty would let me.

Aemelia

Haply, in private.

Adriana

And in assemblies too.

Aemelia

Ay, but not enough.

Adriana

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;

Alone, it was the subject of my theme;

In company I often glanced it;

Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.

Aemelia

And thereof came it that the man was mad.

The venom clamours of a jealous woman

Poisons more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth.

It seems his sleeps were hinder’d by thy railing,

And therefore comes it that his head is light.

Thou say’st his meat was sauced with thy upbraidings:

Unquiet meals make ill digestions;

Thereof the raging fire of fever bred;

And what’s a fever but a fit of madness?

Thou say’st his sports were hinderd by thy brawls:

Sweet recreation barr’d, what doth ensue

But moody and dull melancholy,

Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair,

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:

The consequence is then thy jealous fits

Have scared thy husband from the use of wits.

Luciana

She never reprehended him but mildly,

When he demean’d himself rough, rude and wildly.

Why bear you these rebukes and answer not?

Adriana

She did betray me to my own reproof.

Good people enter and lay hold on him.

Aemelia

No, not a creature enters in my house.

Adriana

Then let your servants bring my husband forth.

Aemelia

Neither: he took this place for sanctuary,

And it shall privilege him from your hands

Till I have brought him to his wits again,

Or lose my labour in assaying it.

Adriana

I will attend my husband, be his nurse,

Diet his sickness, for it is my office,

And will have no attorney but myself;

And therefore let me have him home with me.

Aemelia

Be patient; for I will not let him stir

Till I have used the approved means I have,

With wholesome syrups, drugs and holy prayers,

To make of him a formal man again:

It is a branch and parcel of mine oath,

A charitable duty of my order.

Therefore depart and leave him here with me.

Adriana

I will not hence and leave my husband here:

And ill it doth beseem your holiness

To separate the husband and the wife.

Aemelia

Be quiet and depart: thou shalt not have him.

Exit

Luciana

Complain unto the duke of this indignity.

Adriana

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.

Second Merchant

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,

The place of death and sorry execution,

Behind the ditches of the abbey here.

Angelo

Upon what cause?

Second Merchant

To see a reverend Syracusian merchant,

Who put unluckily into this bay

Against the laws and statutes of this town,

Beheaded publicly for his offence.

Angelo

See where they come: we will behold his death.

Luciana

Kneel to the duke before he pass the abbey.

Enter Duke Solinus, attended; Aegeon bareheaded; with the Headsman and other Officers

Duke Solinus

Yet once again proclaim it publicly,

If any friend will pay the sum for him,

He shall not die; so much we tender him.

Adriana

Justice, most sacred duke, against the abbess!

Duke Solinus

She is a virtuous and a reverend lady:

It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong.

Adriana

May it please your grace, Antipholus, my husband,

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 —

Doing displeasure to the citizens

By rushing in their houses, bearing thence

Rings, jewels, any thing his rage did like.

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,

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,

Chased us away; till, raising of more aid,

We came again to bind them. Then they fled

Into this abbey, whither we pursued them:

And here the abbess shuts the gates on us

And will not suffer us to fetch him out,

Nor send him forth that we may bear him hence.

Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy command

Let him be brought forth and borne hence for help.

Duke Solinus

Long since thy husband served me in my wars,

And I to thee engaged a prince’s word,

When thou didst make him master of thy bed,

To do him all the grace and good I could.

Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate

And bid the lady abbess come to me.

I will determine this before I stir.

Enter a Servant

Servant

O mistress, mistress, shift and save yourself!

My master and his man are both broke loose,

Beaten the maids a-row and bound the doctor

Whose beard they have singed off with brands of fire;

And ever, as it blazed, they threw on him

Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair:

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.

Adriana

Peace, fool! thy master and his man are here,

And that is false thou dost report to us.

Servant

Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true;

I have not breathed almost since I did see it.

He cries for you, and vows, if he can take you,

To scorch your face and to disfigure you.

Cry within

Hark, hark! I hear him, mistress. fly, be gone!

Duke Solinus

Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard with halberds!

Adriana

Ay me, it is my husband! Witness you,

That he is borne about invisible:

Even now we housed him in the abbey here;

And now he’s there, past thought of human reason.

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus

Antipholus of Ephesus

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

Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood

That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.

Aegeon

Unless the fear of death doth make me dote,

I see my son Antipholus and Dromio.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Justice, sweet prince, against that woman there!

She whom thou gavest to me to be my wife,

That hath abused and dishonour’d me

Even in the strength and height of injury!

Beyond imagination is the wrong

That she this day hath shameless thrown on me.

Duke Solinus

Discover how, and thou shalt find me just.

Antipholus of Ephesus

This day, great duke, she shut the doors upon me,

While she with harlots feasted in my house.

Duke Solinus

A grievous fault! Say, woman, didst thou so?

Adriana

No, my good lord: myself, he and my sister

To-day did dine together. So befall my soul

As this is false he burdens me withal!

Luciana

Ne’er may I look on day, nor sleep on night,

But she tells to your highness simple truth!

Angelo

O perjured woman! They are both forsworn:

In this the madman justly chargeth them.

Antipholus of Ephesus

My liege, I am advised what I say,

Neither disturbed with the effect of wine,

Nor heady-rash, provoked with raging ire,

Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad.

This woman lock’d me out this day from dinner:

That goldsmith there, were he not pack’d with her,

Could witness it, for he was with me then;

Who parted with me to go fetch a chain,

Promising to bring it to the Porpentine,

Where Balthazar and I did dine together.

Our dinner done, and he not coming thither,

I went to seek him: in the street I met him

And in his company that gentleman.

There did this perjured goldsmith swear me down

That I this day of him received the chain,

Which, God he knows, I saw not: for the which

He did arrest me with an officer.

I did obey, and sent my peasant home

For certain ducats: he with none return’d

Then fairly I bespoke the officer

To go in person with me to my house.

By the way we met

My wife, her sister, and a rabble more

Of vile confederates. Along with them

They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-faced villain,

A mere anatomy, a mountebank,

A threadbare juggler and a fortune-teller,

A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch,

A dead-looking man: this pernicious slave,

Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer,

And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse,

And with no face, as ’twere, outfacing me,

Cries out, I was possess’d. Then all together

They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence

And in a dark and dankish vault at home

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

To give me ample satisfaction

For these deep shames and great indignities.

Angelo

My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him,

That he dined not at home, but was lock’d out.

Duke Solinus

But had he such a chain of thee or no?

Angelo

He had, my lord: and when he ran in here,

These people saw the chain about his neck.

Second Merchant

Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine

Heard you confess you had the chain of him

After you first forswore it on the mart:

And thereupon I drew my sword on you;

And then you fled into this abbey here,

From whence, I think, you are come by miracle.

Antipholus of Ephesus

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!

And this is false you burden me withal.

Duke Solinus

Why, what an intricate impeach is this!

I think you all have drunk of Circe’s cup.

If here you housed him, here he would have been;

If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly:

You say he dined at home; the goldsmith here

Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you?

Dromio of Ephesus

Sir, he dined with her there, at the Porpentine.

Courtezan

He did, and from my finger snatch’d that ring.

Antipholus of Ephesus

’Tis true, my liege; this ring I had of her.

Duke Solinus

Saw’st thou him enter at the abbey here?

Courtezan

As sure, my liege, as I do see your grace.

Duke Solinus

Why, this is strange. Go call the abbess hither.

I think you are all mated or stark mad.

Exit one to Abbess

Aegeon

Most mighty duke, vouchsafe me speak a word:

Haply I see a friend will save my life

And pay the sum that may deliver me.

Duke Solinus

Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt.

Aegeon

Is not your name, sir, call’d Antipholus?

And is not that your bondman, Dromio?

Dromio of Ephesus

Within this hour I was his bondman sir,

But he, I thank him, gnaw’d in two my cords:

Now am I Dromio and his man unbound.

Aegeon

I am sure you both of you remember me.

Dromio of Ephesus

Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you;

For lately we were bound, as you are now

You are not Pinch’s patient, are you, sir?

Aegeon

Why look you strange on me? you know me well.

Antipholus of Ephesus

I never saw you in my life till now.

Aegeon

O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last,

And careful hours with time’s deformed hand

Have written strange defeatures in my face:

But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

Antipholus of Ephesus

Neither.

Aegeon

Dromio, nor thou?

Dromio of Ephesus

No, trust me, sir, nor I.

Aegeon

I am sure thou dost.

Dromio of Ephesus

Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not; and whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him.

Aegeon

Not know my voice! O time’s extremity,

Hast thou so crack’d and splitted my poor tongue

In seven short years, that here my only son

Knows not my feeble key of untuned cares?

Though now this grained face of mine be hid

In sap-consuming winter’s drizzled snow,

And all the conduits of my blood froze up,

Yet hath my night of life some memory,

My wasting 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.

Antipholus of Ephesus

I never saw my father in my life.

Aegeon

But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy,

Thou know’st we parted: but perhaps, my son,

Thou shamest to acknowledge me in misery.

Antipholus of Ephesus

The duke and all that know me in the city

Can witness with me that it is not so

I ne’er saw Syracusa in my life.

Duke Solinus

I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years

Have I been patron to Antipholus,

During which time he ne’er saw Syracusa:

I see thy age and dangers make thee dote.

Re-enter Aemilia, with Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse

Aemelia

Most mighty duke, behold a man much wrong’d.

All gather to see them

Adriana

I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me.

Duke Solinus

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?

Dromio of Syracuse

I, sir, am Dromio; command him away.

Dromio of Ephesus

I, sir, am Dromio; pray, let me stay.

Antipholus of Syracuse

Aegeon art thou not? or else his ghost?

Dromio of Syracuse

O, my old master! who hath bound him here?

Aemelia

Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds

And gain a husband by his liberty.

Speak, old Aegeon, if thou be’st the man

That hadst a wife once call’d Aemilia

That bore thee at a burden two fair sons:

O, if thou be’st the same Aegeon, speak,

And speak unto the same Aemilia!

Aegeon

If I dream not, thou art Aemilia:

If thou art she, tell me where is that son

That floated with thee on the fatal raft?

Aemelia

By men of Epidamnum he and I

And the twin Dromio all were taken up;

But by and by rude fishermen of Corinth

By force took Dromio and my son from them

And me they left with those of Epidamnum.

What then became of them I cannot tell

I to this fortune that you see me in.

Duke Solinus

Why, here begins his morning story right;

These two Antipholuses, these two so like,

And these two Dromios, one in semblance,—

Besides her urging of her wreck at sea,—

These are the parents to these children,

Which accidentally are met together.

Antipholus, thou camest from Corinth first?

Antipholus of Syracuse

No, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse.

Duke Solinus

Stay, stand apart; I know not which is which.

Antipholus of Ephesus

I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord,—

Dromio of Ephesus

And I with him.

Antipholus of Ephesus

Brought to this town by that most famous warrior,

Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle.

Adriana

Which of you two did dine with me to-day?

Antipholus of Syracuse

I, gentle mistress.

Adriana

And are not you my husband?

Antipholus of Ephesus

No; I say nay to that.

Antipholus of Syracuse

And so do I; yet did she call me so:

And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here,

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.

Angelo

That is the chain, sir, which you had of me.

Antipholus of Syracuse

I think it be, sir; I deny it not.

Antipholus of Ephesus

And you, sir, for this chain arrested me.

Angelo

I think I did, sir; I deny it not.

Adriana

I sent you money, sir, to be your bail,

By Dromio; but I think he brought it not.

Dromio of Ephesus

No, none by me.

Antipholus of Syracuse

This purse of ducats I received from you,

And Dromio, my man, did bring them me.

I see we still did meet each other’s man,

And I was ta’en for him, and he for me,

And thereupon these errors are arose.

Antipholus of Ephesus

These ducats pawn I for my father here.

Duke Solinus

It shall not need; thy father hath his life.

Courtezan

Sir, I must have that diamond from you.

Antipholus of Ephesus

There, take it; and much thanks for my good cheer.

Aemelia

Renowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains

To go with us into the abbey here

And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes:

And all that are assembled in this place,

That by this sympathized one day’s error

Have suffer’d wrong, go keep us company,

And we shall make full satisfaction.

Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail

Of you, my sons; and till this present hour

My heavy burden ne’er delivered.

The duke, my husband and my children both,

And you the calendars of their nativity,

Go to a gossips’ feast and go with me;

After so long grief, such festivity!

Duke Solinus

With all my heart, I’ll gossip at this feast.

Exeunt all but Antipholus of Syracuse, Antipholus of Ephesus, Dromio of Syracuse and Dromio of Ephesus

Dromio of Syracuse

Master, shall I fetch your stuff from shipboard?

Antipholus of Ephesus

Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark’d?

Dromio of Syracuse

Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur.

Antipholus of Syracuse

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

Dromio of Syracuse

There is a fat friend at your master’s house,

That kitchen’d me for you to-day at dinner:

She now shall be my sister, not my wife.

Dromio of Ephesus

Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother:

I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.

Will you walk in to see their gossiping?

Dromio of Syracuse

Not I, sir; you are my elder.

Dromio of Ephesus

That’s a question: how shall we try it?

Dromio of Syracuse

We’ll draw cuts for the senior: till then lead thou first.

Dromio of Ephesus

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

Love’s Labour ’s Lost

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. THE KING OF NAVARRE’S PARK.

SCENE II. THE SAME.

ACT II

SCENE I. THE SAME.

ACT III

SCENE I. THE SAME.

ACT IV

SCENE I. THE SAME.

SCENE II. THE SAME.

SCENE III. THE SAME.

ACT V

SCENE I. THE SAME.

SCENE II. THE SAME.

THE CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Ferdinand, King of Navarre

Biron, Lord attending on the King

Longaville, Lord attending on the King

Dumain, Lord attending on the King

Boyet, Lord attending on the Princess of France

Mercade, Lord 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, Lady attending on the Princess

Maria, Lady attending on the Princess

Katharine, Lady attending on the Princess

Jaquenetta, a country wench

Officers and Others, Attendants on the King and Princess.

ACT I

SCENE I. THE KING OF NAVARRE’S PARK.

Enter Ferdinand king of Navarre, Biron, Longaville and Dumain

Ferdinand

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,

The endeavor 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,

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;

Our court shall be a little Academe,

Still and contemplative in living art.

You three, Biron, Dumain, 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:

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.

Longaville

I am resolved; ’tis but a three years’ fast:

The mind shall banquet, though the body pine:

Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits

Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits.

Dumain

My loving lord, Dumain is mortified:

The grosser manner of these world’s delights

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.

Biron

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;

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,

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

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!

Ferdinand

Your oath is pass’d to pass away from these.

Biron

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.

Longaville

You swore to that, Biron, and to the rest.

Biron

By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest.

What is the end of study? let me know.

Ferdinand

Why, that to know, which else we should not know.

Biron

Things hid and barr’d, you mean, from common sense?

Ferdinand

Ay, that is study’s godlike recompense.

Biron

Come on, then; I will swear to study so,

To know the thing I am forbid to know:

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,

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.

Ferdinand

These be the stops that hinder study quite

And train our intellects to vain delight.

Biron

Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain,

Which with pain purchased 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:

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

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

That will not be deep-search’d with saucy looks:

Small have continual plodders ever won

Save base authority from others’ books

These earthly godfathers of heaven’s lights

That give a name to every fixed star

Have no more profit of their shining nights

Than those that walk and wot not what they are.

Too much to know is to know nought but fame;

And every godfather can give a name.

Ferdinand

How well he’s read, to reason against reading!

Dumain

Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding!

Longaville

He weeds the corn and still lets grow the weeding.

Biron

The spring is near when green geese are a-breeding.

Dumain

How follows that?

Biron

Fit in his place and time.

Dumain

In reason nothing.

Biron

Something then in rhyme.

Ferdinand

Biron is like an envious sneaping frost,

That bites the first-born infants of the spring.

Biron

Well, say I am; why should proud summer boast

Before the birds have any cause to sing?

Why should I joy in any abortive birth?

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,

Climb o’er the house to unlock the little gate.

Ferdinand

Well, sit you out: go home, Biron: adieu.

Biron

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,

Yet confident I’ll keep what I have swore

And bide the penance of each three years’ day.

Give me the paper; let me read the same;

And to the strict’st decrees I’ll write my name.

Ferdinand

How well this yielding rescues thee from shame!

Biron

[Reads] ‘Item, That no woman shall come within a mile of my court:’

Hath this been proclaimed?

Longaville

Four days ago.

Biron

Let’s see the penalty.

[Reads] ‘On pain of losing her tongue.’

Who devised this penalty?

Longaville

Marry, that did I.

Biron

Sweet lord, and why?

Longaville

To fright them hence with that dread penalty.

Biron

A dangerous law against gentility!

[Reads] ‘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;

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

To her decrepit, sick and bedrid father:

Therefore this article is made in vain,

Or vainly comes the admired princess hither.

Ferdinand

What say you, lords? Why, this was quite forgot.

Biron

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.

Ferdinand

We must of force dispense with this decree;

She must lie here on mere necessity.

Biron

Necessity will make us all forsworn

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.’

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:

Suggestions are to other 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?

Ferdinand

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;

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:

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;

But, I protest, I love to hear him lie

And I will use him for my minstrelsy.

Biron

Armado is a most illustrious wight,

A man of fire-new words, fashion’s own knight.

Longaville

Costard the swain and he shall be our sport;

And so to study, three years is but short.

Enter Dull with a letter, and Costard

Dull

Which is the duke’s own person?

Biron

This, fellow: what wouldst?

Dull

I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his grace’s tharborough: but I would see his own person in flesh and blood.

Biron

This is he.

Dull

Signior Arme — Arme — commends you. There’s villany abroad: this letter will tell you more.

Costard

Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me.

Ferdinand

A letter from the magnificent Armado.

Biron

How low soever the matter, I hope in God for high words.

Longaville

A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!

Biron

To hear? or forbear laughing?

Longaville

To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately; or to forbear both.

Biron

Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness.

Costard

The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta.

The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner.

Biron

In what manner?

Costard

In manner and form following, sir; all those three: I was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park; which, put together, is in manner and form following. Now, sir, for the manner,— it is the manner of a man to speak to a woman: for the form,— in some form.

Biron

For the following, sir?

Costard

As it shall follow in my correction: and God defend the right!

Ferdinand

Will you hear this letter with attention?

Biron

As we would hear an oracle.

Costard

Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh.

Ferdinand

[Reads] ‘Great deputy, the welkin’s vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul’s earth’s god, and body’s fostering patron.’

Costard

Not a word of Costard yet.

Ferdinand

[Reads] ‘so it is,’—

Costard

It may be so: but if he say it is so, he is, in telling true, but so.

Ferdinand

Peace!

Costard

Be to me and every man that dares not fight!

Ferdinand

No words!

Costard

Of other men’s secrets, I beseech you.

Ferdinand

[Reads] ‘so it is, besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving air; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself to walk. The time when. About the sixth hour; when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper: so much for the time when. Now for the ground which; which, I mean, I walked upon: it is y-cleped thy park. Then for the place where; where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and preposterous event, that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest; but to the place where; it standeth north-north-east and by east from the west corner of thy curious- knotted garden: there did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth,’—

Costard

Me?

Ferdinand

[Reads] ’that unlettered small-knowing soul,’—

Costard

Me?

Ferdinand

[Reads] ’that shallow vassal,’—

Costard

Still me?

Ferdinand

[Reads] ‘which, as I remember, hight Costard,’—

Costard

O, me!

Ferdinand

[Reads] ‘sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon, which with,— O, with — but with this I passion to say wherewith,—

Costard

With a wench.

Ferdinand

[Reads] ‘with a child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. Him I, as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on, have sent to thee, to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet grace’s officer, Anthony Dull; a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation.’

Dull

Me, an’t shall please you; I am Anthony Dull.

Ferdinand

[Reads] ‘For Jaquenetta,— so is the weaker vessel called which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain,— I keep her as a vessel of the law’s fury; and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heart-burning heat of duty. Don Adriano de Armado.’

Biron

This is not so well as I looked for, but the best that ever I heard.

Ferdinand

Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, what say you to this?

Costard

Sir, I confess the wench.

Ferdinand

Did you hear the proclamation?

Costard

I do confess much of the hearing it but little of the marking of it.

Ferdinand

It was proclaimed a year’s imprisonment, to be taken with a wench.

Costard

I was taken with none, sir: I was taken with a damsel.

Ferdinand

Well, it was proclaimed ‘damsel.’

Costard

This was no damsel, neither, sir; she was a virgin.

Ferdinand

It is so varied, too; for it was proclaimed ’virgin.’

Costard

If it were, I deny her virginity: I was taken with a maid.

Ferdinand

This maid will not serve your turn, sir.

Costard

This maid will serve my turn, sir.

Ferdinand

Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you shall fast a week with bran and water.

Costard

I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge.

Ferdinand

And Don Armado shall be your keeper.

My Lord Biron, see him deliver’d o’er:

And go we, lords, to put in practise that

Which each to other hath so strongly sworn.

Exeunt Ferdinand, Longaville, and Dumain

Biron

I’ll lay my head to any good man’s hat,

These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn.

Sirrah, come on.

Costard

I suffer for the truth, sir; for true it is, I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl; and therefore welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again; and till then, sit thee down, sorrow!

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME.

Enter Don Adriano de Armado and Moth

Don Adriano de Armado

Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy?

Moth

A great sign, sir, that he will look sad.

Don Adriano de Armado

Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp.

Moth

No, no; O Lord, sir, no.

Don Adriano de Armado

How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal?

Moth

By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough senior.

Don Adriano de Armado

Why tough senior? why tough senior?

Moth

Why tender juvenal? why tender juvenal?

Don Adriano de Armado

I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender.

Moth

And I, tough senior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough.

Don Adriano de Armado

Pretty and apt.

Moth

How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt? or

I apt, and my saying pretty?

Don Adriano de Armado

Thou pretty, because little.

Moth

Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt?

Don Adriano de Armado

And therefore apt, because quick.

Moth

Speak you this in my praise, master?

Don Adriano de Armado

In thy condign praise.

Moth

I will praise an eel with the same praise.

Don Adriano de Armado

What, that an eel is ingenious?

Moth

That an eel is quick.

Don Adriano de Armado

I do say thou art quick in answers: thou heatest my blood.

Moth

I am answered, sir.

Don Adriano de Armado

I love not to be crossed.

Moth

[Aside] He speaks the mere contrary; crosses love not him.

Don Adriano de Armado

I have promised to study three years with the duke.

Moth

You may do it in an hour, sir.

Don Adriano de Armado

Impossible.

Moth

How many is one thrice told?

Don Adriano de Armado

I am ill at reckoning; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster.

Moth

You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.

Don Adriano de Armado

I confess both: they are both the varnish of a complete man.

Moth

Then, I am sure, you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to.

Don Adriano de Armado

It doth amount to one more than two.

Moth

Which the base vulgar do call three.

Don Adriano de Armado

True.

Moth

Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here is three studied, ere ye’ll thrice wink: and how easy it is to put ‘years’ to the word ’three,’ and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you.

Don Adriano de Armado

A most fine figure!

Moth

To prove you a cipher.

Don Adriano de Armado

I will hereupon confess I am in love: and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised courtesy. I think scorn to sigh: methinks I should outswear Cupid. Comfort, me, boy: what great men have been in love?

Moth

Hercules, master.

Don Adriano de Armado

Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage.

Moth

Samson, master: he was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town-gates on his back like a porter: and he was in love.

Don Adriano de Armado

O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson’s love, my dear Moth?

Moth

A woman, master.

Don Adriano de Armado

Of what complexion?

Moth

Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four.

Don Adriano de Armado

Tell me precisely of what complexion.

Moth

Of the sea-water green, sir.

Don Adriano de Armado

Is that one of the four complexions?

Moth

As I have read, sir; and the best of them too.

Don Adriano de Armado

Green indeed is the colour of lovers; but to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely affected her for her wit.

Moth

It was so, sir; for she had a green wit.

Don Adriano de Armado

My love is most immaculate white and red.

Moth

Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under such colours.

Don Adriano de Armado

Define, define, well-educated infant.

Moth

My father’s wit and my mother’s tongue, assist me!

Don Adriano de Armado

Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty and pathetical!

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:

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.

A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red.

Don Adriano de Armado

Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar?

Moth

The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since: but I think now ’tis not to be found; or, if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune.

Don Adriano de Armado

I will have that subject newly writ o’er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard: she deserves well.

Moth

[Aside] To be whipped; and yet a better love than my master.

Don Adriano de Armado

Sing, boy; my spirit grows heavy in love.

Moth

And that’s great marvel, loving a light wench.

Don Adriano de Armado

I say, sing.

Moth

Forbear till this company be past.

Enter Dull, Costard, and Jaquenetta

Dull

Sir, the duke’s pleasure is, that you keep Costard safe: and you must suffer him to take no delight nor no penance; but a’ must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park: she is allowed for the day-woman. Fare you well.

Don Adriano de Armado

I do betray myself with blushing. Maid!

Jaquenetta

Man?

Don Adriano de Armado

I will visit thee at the lodge.

Jaquenetta

That’s hereby.

Don Adriano de Armado

I know where it is situate.

Jaquenetta

Lord, how wise you are!

Don Adriano de Armado

I will tell thee wonders.

Jaquenetta

With that face?

Don Adriano de Armado

I love thee.

Jaquenetta

So I heard you say.

Don Adriano de Armado

And so, farewell.

Jaquenetta

Fair weather after you!

Dull

Come, Jaquenetta, away!

Exeunt Dull and Jaquenetta

Don Adriano de Armado

Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned.

Costard

Well, sir, I hope, when I do it, I shall do it on a full stomach.

Don Adriano de Armado

Thou shalt be heavily punished.

Costard

I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded.

Don Adriano de Armado

Take away this villain; shut him up.

Moth

Come, you transgressing slave; away!

Costard

Let me not be pent up, sir: I will fast, being loose.

Moth

No, sir; that were fast and loose: thou shalt to prison.

Costard

Well, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation that I have seen, some shall see.

Moth

What shall some see?

Costard

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

Don Adriano de Armado

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 cause 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 rhyme, for I am sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio.

Exit

ACT II

SCENE I. THE SAME.

Enter the Princess of France, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine, Boyet, Lords, and other Attendants

Boyet

Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits:

Consider who the king your father sends,

To whom he sends, and what’s his embassy:

Yourself, held precious in the world’s esteem,

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.

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.

Princess

Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean,

Needs not the painted flourish of your praise:

Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye,

Not utter’d by base sale of chapmen’s tongues:

I am less proud to hear you tell my worth

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,

You are not ignorant, all-telling fame

Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow,

Till painful study shall outwear three years,

No woman may approach his silent court:

Therefore to’s seemeth 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

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,

Like humble-visaged suitors, his high will.

Boyet

Proud of employment, willingly I go.

Princess

All pride is willing pride, and yours is so.

Exit Boyet

Who are the votaries, my loving lords,

That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke?

First Lord

Lord Longaville is one.

Princess

Know you the man?

Maria

I know him, madam: at a marriage-feast,

Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir

Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized

In Normandy, saw I this Longaville:

A man of sovereign parts he is esteem’d;

Well fitted in 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,

Is a sharp wit matched with too blunt a will;

Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills

It should none spare that come within his power.

Princess

Some merry mocking lord, belike; is’t so?

Maria

They say so most that most his humours know.

Princess

Such short-lived wits do wither as they grow.

Who are the rest?

Katharine

The young Dumain, a well-accomplished youth,

Of all that virtue love for virtue loved:

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 Alencon’s once;

And much too little of that good I saw

Is my report to his great worthiness.

Rosaline

Another of these students at that time

Was there with him, if I have heard a truth.

Biron they call him; but a merrier man,

Within the limit of becoming mirth,

I never spent an hour’s talk withal:

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,

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.

Princess

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

Princess

Now, what admittance, lord?

Boyet

Navarre had notice of your fair approach;

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,

Like one that comes here to besiege his court,

Than seek a dispensation for his oath,

To let you enter his unpeopled house.

Here comes Navarre.

Enter Ferdinand, Longaville, Dumain, Biron, and Attendants

Ferdinand

Fair princess, welcome to the court of Navarre.

Princess

‘Fair’ I give you back again; and ‘welcome’ I have not yet: the roof of this court is too high to be yours; and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine.

Ferdinand

You shall be welcome, madam, to my court.

Princess

I will be welcome, then: conduct me thither.

Ferdinand

Hear me, dear lady; I have sworn an oath.

Princess

Our Lady help my lord! he’ll be forsworn.

Ferdinand

Not for the world, fair madam, by my will.

Princess

Why, will shall break it; will and nothing else.

Ferdinand

Your ladyship is ignorant what it is.

Princess

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,

And sin to break it.

But pardon me. I am too sudden-bold:

To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me.

Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming,

And suddenly resolve me in my suit.

Ferdinand

Madam, I will, if suddenly I may.

Princess

You will the sooner, that I were away;

For you’ll prove perjured if you make me stay.

Biron

Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?

Rosaline

Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?

Biron

I know you did.

Rosaline

How needless was it then to ask the question!

Biron

You must not be so quick.

Rosaline

’Tis ’long of you that spur me with such questions.

Biron

Your wit’s too hot, it speeds too fast, ’twill tire.

Rosaline

Not till it leave the rider in the mire.

Biron

What time o’ day?

Rosaline

The hour that fools should ask.

Biron

Now fair befall your mask!

Rosaline

Fair fall the face it covers!

Biron

And send you many lovers!

Rosaline

Amen, so you be none.

Biron

Nay, then will I be gone.

Ferdinand

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,

Received 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 valued to the money’s worth.

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.

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,

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.

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.

Princess

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.

Ferdinand

I do protest I never heard of it;

And if you prove it, I’ll repay it back

Or yield up Aquitaine.

Princess

We arrest your word.

Boyet, you can produce acquittances

For such a sum from special officers

Of Charles his father.

Ferdinand

Satisfy me so.

Boyet

So please your grace, the packet is not come

Where that and other specialties are bound:

To-morrow you shall have a sight of them.

Ferdinand

It shall suffice me: at which interview

All liberal reason I will yield unto.

Meantime receive such welcome at my hand

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 received

As you shall deem yourself lodged 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.

Princess

Sweet health and fair desires consort your grace!

Ferdinand

Thy own wish wish I thee in every place!

Exit

Biron

Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart.

Rosaline

Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it.

Biron

I would you heard it groan.

Rosaline

Is the fool sick?

Biron

Sick at the heart.

Rosaline

Alack, let it blood.

Biron

Would that do it good?

Rosaline

My physic says ‘ay.’

Biron

Will you prick’t with your eye?

Rosaline

No point, with my knife.

Biron

Now, God save thy life!

Rosaline

And yours from long living!

Biron

I cannot stay thanksgiving.

Retiring

Dumain

Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same?

Boyet

The heir of Alencon, Katharine her name.

Dumain

A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well.

Exit

Longaville

I beseech you a word: what is she in the white?

Boyet

A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light.

Longaville

Perchance light in the light. I desire her name.

Boyet

She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame.

Longaville

Pray you, sir, whose daughter?

Boyet

Her mother’s, I have heard.

Longaville

God’s blessing on your beard!

Boyet

Good sir, be not offended.

She is an heir of Falconbridge.

Longaville

Nay, my choler is ended.

She is a most sweet lady.

Boyet

Not unlike, sir, that may be.

Exit Longaville

Biron

What’s her name in the cap?

Boyet

Rosaline, by good hap.

Biron

Is she wedded or no?

Boyet

To her will, sir, or so.

Biron

You are welcome, sir: adieu.

Boyet

Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.

Exit Biron

Maria

That last is Biron, the merry madcap lord:

Not a word with him but a jest.

Boyet

And every jest but a word.

Princess

It was well done of you to take him at his word.

Boyet

I was as willing to grapple as he was to board.

Maria

Two hot sheeps, marry.

Boyet

And wherefore not ships?

No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips.

Maria

You sheep, and I pasture: shall that finish the jest?

Boyet

So you grant pasture for me.

Offering to kiss her

Maria

Not so, gentle beast:

My lips are no common, though several they be.

Boyet

Belonging to whom?

Maria

To my fortunes and me.

Princess

Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree:

This civil war of wits were much better used

On Navarre and his book-men; for here ’tis abused.

Boyet

If my observation, which very seldom lies,

By the heart’s still rhetoric disclosed with eyes,

Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected.

Princess

With what?

Boyet

With that which we lovers entitle affected.

Princess

Your reason?

Boyet

Why, all his behaviors did make their retire

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;

Who, tendering their own worth from where they were glass’d,

Did point you to buy them, along as you pass’d:

His face’s own margent did quote such amazes

That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes.

I’ll give you Aquitaine and all that is his,

An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.

Princess

Come to our pavilion: Boyet is disposed.

Boyet

But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclosed.

I only have made a mouth of his eye,

By adding a tongue which I know will not lie.

Rosaline

Thou art an old love-monger and speakest skilfully.

Maria

He is Cupid’s grandfather and learns news of him.

Rosaline

Then was Venus like her mother, for her father is but grim.

Boyet

Do you hear, my mad wenches?

Maria

No.

Boyet

What then, do you see?

Rosaline

Ay, our way to be gone.

Boyet

You are too hard for me.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. THE SAME.

Enter Don Adriano de Armado and Moth

Don

Don Adriano de Armado

Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing.

Moth

Concolinel.

Singing

Don Adriano de Armado

Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years; take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither: I must employ him in a letter to my love.

Moth

Master, will you win your love with a French brawl?

Don Adriano de Armado

How meanest thou? brawling in French?

Moth

No, my complete master: but to jig off a tune at the tongue’s end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouse-like o’er the shop of your eyes; with your arms crossed on your thin-belly doublet like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in your pocket like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. These are complements, these are humours; these betray nice wenches, that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note — do you note me?— that most are affected to these.

Don Adriano de Armado

How hast thou purchased this experience?

Moth

By my penny of observation.

Don Adriano de Armado

But O,— but O,—

Moth

‘The hobby-horse is forgot.’

Don Adriano de Armado

Callest thou my love ’hobby-horse’?

Moth

No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your love?

Don Adriano de Armado

Almost I had.

Moth

Negligent student! learn her by heart.

Don Adriano de Armado

By heart and in heart, boy.

Moth

And out of heart, master: all those three I will prove.

Don Adriano de Armado

What wilt thou prove?

Moth

A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon the instant: by heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her; in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her.

Don Adriano de Armado

I am all these three.

Moth

And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all.

Don Adriano de Armado

Fetch hither the swain: he must carry me a letter.

Moth

A message well sympathized; a horse to be ambassador for an ass.

Don Adriano de Armado

Ha, ha! what sayest thou?

Moth

Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go.

Don Adriano de Armado

The way is but short: away!

Moth

As swift as lead, sir.

Don Adriano de Armado

The meaning, pretty ingenious?

Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?

Moth

Minime, honest master; or rather, master, no.

Don Adriano de Armado

I say lead is slow.

Moth

You are too swift, sir, to say so:

Is that lead slow which is fired from a gun?

Don Adriano de Armado

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

Don Adriano de Armado

A most acute juvenal; voluble 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.

Re-enter Moth with Costard

Moth

A wonder, master! here’s a costard broken in a shin.

Don Adriano de Armado

Some enigma, some riddle: come, thy l’envoy; begin.

Costard

No enigma, no riddle, no l’envoy; no salve in the mail, sir: O, sir, plantain, a plain plantain! no l’envoy, no l’envoy; no salve, sir, but a plantain!

Don Adriano de Armado

By virtue, thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling. O, pardon me, my stars! Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l’envoy, and the word l’envoy for a salve?

Moth

Do the wise think them other? is not l’envoy a salve?

Don Adriano de Armado

No, page: it is an epilogue or discourse, to make plain

Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain.

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.

Moth

I will add the l’envoy. Say the moral again.

Don Adriano de Armado

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,

Were still at odds, being but three.

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.

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,

Were still at odds, being but three.

Don Adriano de Armado

Until the goose came out of door,

Staying the odds by adding four.

Moth

A good l’envoy, ending in the goose: would you desire more?

Costard

The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that’s flat.

Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be fat.

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.

Don Adriano de Armado

Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin?

Moth

By saying that a costard was broken in a shin.

Then call’d you for the l’envoy.

Costard

True, and I for a plantain: thus came your argument in;

Then the boy’s fat l’envoy, the goose that you bought;

And he ended the market.

Don Adriano de Armado

But tell me; how was there a costard broken in a shin?

Moth

I will tell you sensibly.

Costard

Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth: I will speak that l’envoy:

I Costard, running out, that was safely within,

Fell over the threshold and broke my shin.

Don Adriano de Armado

We will talk no more of this matter.

Costard

Till there be more matter in the shin.

Don Adriano de Armado

Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise thee.

Costard

O, marry me to one Frances: I smell some l’envoy, some goose, in this.

Don Adriano de Armado

By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person; thou wert immured, restrained, captivated, bound.

Costard

True, true; and now you will be my purgation and let me loose.

Don Adriano de Armado

I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this: bear this significant

Giving a letter

to the country maid Jaquenetta: there is remuneration; for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow.

Exit

Moth

Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu.

Costard

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 Biron

Biron

O, my good knave Costard! exceedingly well met.

Costard

Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon may a man buy for a remuneration?

Biron

What is a remuneration?

Costard

Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing.

Biron

Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk.

Costard

I thank your worship: God be wi’ you!

Biron

Stay, slave; I must employ thee:

As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,

Do one thing for me that I shall entreat.

Costard

When would you have it done, sir?

Biron

This afternoon.

Costard

Well, I will do it, sir: fare you well.

Biron

Thou knowest not what it is.

Costard

I shall know, sir, when I have done it.

Biron

Why, villain, thou must know first.

Costard

I will come to your worship to-morrow morning.

Biron

It must be done this afternoon.

Hark, slave, it is but this:

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;

And to her white hand see thou do commend

This seal’d-up counsel. There’s thy guerdon; go.

Giving him a shilling

Costard

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

Biron

And I, forsooth, in love! I, that have been love’s whip;

A very beadle to a humorous sigh;

A critic, nay, a night-watch constable;

A domineering pedant o’er the boy;

Than whom no mortal so magnificent!

This whimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy;

This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;

Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms,

The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,

Liege of all loiterers and malcontents,

Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,

Sole imperator and great general

Of trotting ’paritors:— O my little heart:—

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,

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 perjured, which is worst of all;

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

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

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 SAME.

Enter the Princess, and her train, a Forester, Boyet, Rosaline, Maria, and Katharine

Princess

Was that the king, that spurred his horse so hard

Against the steep uprising of the hill?

Boyet

I know not; but I think it was not he.

Princess

Whoe’er a’ was, a’ show’d a mounting mind.

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?

Forester

Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice;

A stand where you may make the fairest shoot.

Princess

I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,

And thereupon thou speak’st the fairest shoot.

Forester

Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.

Princess

What, what? first praise me and again say no?

O short-lived pride! Not fair? alack for woe!

Forester

Yes, madam, fair.

Princess

Nay, never paint me now:

Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.

Here, good my glass, take this for telling true:

Fair payment for foul words is more than due.

Forester

Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.

Princess

See see, my beauty will be saved 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,

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,

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,

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

Only for praise sake, when they strive to be

Lords o’er their lords?

Princess

Only for praise: and praise we may afford

To any lady that subdues a lord.

Boyet

Here comes a member of the commonwealth.

Enter Costard

Costard

God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady?

Princess

Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads.

Costard

Which is the greatest lady, the highest?

Princess

The thickest and the tallest.

Costard

The thickest and the tallest! it is so; truth is truth.

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.

Princess

What’s your will, sir? what’s your will?

Costard

I have a letter from Monsieur Biron to one Lady Rosaline.

Princess

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.

This letter is mistook, it importeth none here;

It is writ to Jaquenetta.

Princess

We will read it, I swear.

Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear.

Boyet

[Reads] ‘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 annothanize 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: who 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. 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.

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.

Princess

What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?

What vane? what weathercock? did you ever hear better?

Boyet

I am much deceived but I remember the style.

Princess

Else your memory is bad, going o’er it erewhile.

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 bookmates.

Princess

Thou fellow, a word:

Who gave thee this letter?

Costard

I told you; my lord.

Princess

To whom shouldst thou give it?

Costard

From my lord to my lady.

Princess

From which lord to which lady?

Costard

From my lord Biron, a good master of mine,

To a lady of France that he call’d Rosaline.

Princess

Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.

To Rosaline

Here, sweet, put up this: ’twill be thine another day.

Exeunt Princess and train

Boyet

Who is the suitor? who is the suitor?

Rosaline

Shall I teach you to know?

Boyet

Ay, my continent of beauty.

Rosaline

Why, she that bears the bow.

Finely put off!

Boyet

My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry,

Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry.

Finely put on!

Rosaline

Well, then, I am the shooter.

Boyet

And who is your deer?

Rosaline

If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near.

Finely put on, indeed!

Maria

You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow.

Boyet

But she herself is hit lower: have I hit her now?

Rosaline

Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it?

Boyet

So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinover of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it.

Rosaline

Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,

Thou canst not hit it, my good man.

Boyet

An I cannot, cannot, cannot,

An I cannot, another can.

Exeunt Rosaline and Katharine

Costard

By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it!

Maria

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.

Maria

Wide o’ the bow hand! i’ faith, your hand is out.

Costard

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.

Costard

Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.

Maria

Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul.

Costard

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

Costard

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!

When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit.

Armado o’ th’ 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!

And his page o’ t’ other side, that handful of wit!

Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit!

Sola, sola!

Shout within

Exit Costard, running

SCENE II. THE SAME.

Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull

Sir Nathaniel

Very reverend sport, truly; and done in the testimony of a good conscience.

Holofernes

The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth.

Sir Nathaniel

Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, I assure ye, it was a buck of the first head.

Holofernes

Sir Nathaniel, haud credo.

Dull

’Twas not a haud credo; ’twas a pricket.

Holofernes

Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it were, replication, or rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination, after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather, unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion, to insert again my haud credo for a deer.

Dull

I said the deer was not a haud credo; twas a pricket.

Holofernes

Twice-sod simplicity, his coctus!

O thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look!

Sir Nathaniel

Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in 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:

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 me by your wit

What was a month old at Cain’s birth, that’s not five weeks old as yet?

Holofernes

Dictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, goodman Dull.

Dull

What is Dictynna?

Sir Nathaniel

A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon.

Holofernes

The moon was a month old when Adam was no more,

And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score.

The allusion holds in the exchange.

Dull

’Tis true indeed; the collusion holds in the exchange.

Holofernes

God comfort thy capacity! I say, the allusion holds in the exchange.

Dull

And I say, the pollusion holds in the exchange; for the moon is never but a month old: and I say beside that, ’twas a pricket that the princess killed.

Holofernes

Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? And, to humour the ignorant, call I the deer the princess killed a pricket.

Sir Nathaniel

Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility.

Holofernes

I will something affect the letter, for it argues facility.

The preyful princess pierced and prick’d a pretty pleasing pricket;

Some say a sore; but not a sore, till now made sore with shooting.

The dogs did yell: put L to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket;

Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting.

If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores one sorel.

Of one sore I an hundred make by adding but one more L.

Sir Nathaniel

A rare talent!

Dull

[Aside] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent.

Holofernes

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.

Sir Nathaniel

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.

Holofernes

Mehercle, if their sons be ingenuous, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them: but vir sapit qui pauca loquitur; a soul feminine saluteth us.

Enter Jaquenetta and Costard

Jaquenetta

God give you good morrow, master Parson.

Holofernes

Master Parson, quasi pers-on. An if one should be pierced, which is the one?

Costard

Marry, master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead.

Holofernes

Piercing a hogshead! a good lustre of conceit in a tuft of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine: ’tis pretty; it is well.

Jaquenetta

Good master Parson, be so good as read me this letter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado: I beseech you, read it.

Holofernes

Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat,— and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan! I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice;

Venetia, Venetia,

Chi non ti vede non ti pretia.

Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! who understandeth thee not, loves thee not. Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather, as Horace says in his — What, my soul, verses?

Sir Nathaniel

Ay, sir, and very learned.

Holofernes

Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, domine.

Sir Nathaniel

[Reads] If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?

Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow’d!

Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’ll faithful prove:

Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bow’d.

Study his bias leaves and makes his book thine eyes,

Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend:

If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice;

Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend,

All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;

Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire:

Thy eye Jove’s lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder,

Which not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.

Celestial as thou art, O, pardon, love, this wrong,

That sings heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue.

Holofernes

You find not the apostraphas, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso, but for smelling out the odouriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you?

Jaquenetta

Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one of the strange queen’s lords.

Holofernes

I will overglance the superscript: ‘To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline.’ I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: ‘Your ladyship’s in all desired employment, Biron.’ Sir Nathaniel, this Biron is one of the votaries with the king; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen’s, which accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the king: it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty; adieu.

Jaquenetta

Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life!

Costard

Have with thee, my girl.

Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta

Sir Nathaniel

Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain father saith,—

Holofernes

Sir tell me not of the father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel?

Sir Nathaniel

Marvellous well for the pen.

Holofernes

I do dine to-day at the father’s of a certain pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention: I beseech your society.

Sir Nathaniel

And thank you too; for society, saith the text, is the happiness of life.

Holofernes

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 Biron, with a paper

Biron

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, set 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 rhyme and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme, 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!

Stands aside

Enter Ferdinand, with a paper

Ferdinand

Ay me!

Biron

[Aside] Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid: thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets!

Ferdinand

[Reads] So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not

To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,

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,

As doth thy face through tears of mine give light;

Thou shinest in every tear that I do weep:

No drop but as a coach doth carry thee;

So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.

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.

O queen of queens! how far dost thou 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.

Biron

Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear!

Enter Longaville, with a paper

Longaville

Ay me, I am forsworn!

Biron

Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.

Ferdinand

In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in shame!

Biron

One drunkard loves another of the name.

Longaville

Am I the first that have been perjured so?

Biron

I could put thee in comfort. Not by two that I know:

Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of society,

The shape of Love’s Tyburn that hangs up simplicity.

Longaville

I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move:

O sweet Maria, empress of my love!

These numbers will I tear, and write in prose.

Biron

O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid’s hose:

Disfigure not his slop.

Longaville

This same shall go.

[Reads] Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,

’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,

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:

Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine,

Exhalest 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

To lose an oath to win a paradise?

Biron

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.

Longaville

By whom shall I send this?— Company! stay.

Steps aside

Biron

All hid, all hid; an old infant play.

Like a demigod here sit I in the sky.

And wretched fools’ secrets heedfully o’ereye.

More sacks to the mill! O heavens, I have my wish!

Enter Dumain, with a paper

Dumain transform’d! four woodcocks in a dish!

Dumain

O most divine Kate!

Biron

O most profane coxcomb!

Dumain

By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye!

Biron

By earth, she is not, corporal, there you lie.

Dumain

Her amber hair for foul hath amber quoted.

Biron

An amber-colour’d raven was well noted.

Dumain

As upright as the cedar.

Biron

Stoop, I say;

Her shoulder is with child.

Dumain

As fair as day.

Biron

Ay, as some days; but then no sun must shine.

Dumain

O that I had my wish!

Longaville

And I had mine!

Ferdinand

And I mine too, good Lord!

Biron

Amen, so I had mine: is not that a good word?

Dumain

I would forget her; but a fever she

Reigns in my blood and will remember’d be.

Biron

A fever in your blood! why, then incision

Would let her out in saucers: sweet misprision!

Dumain

Once more I’ll read the ode that I have writ.

Biron

Once more I’ll mark how love can vary wit.

Dumain

[Reads] On a day — alack the day!—

Love, whose month is ever May,

Spied a blossom passing fair

Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind,

All unseen, can passage find;

That the lover, sick to death,

Wish himself the heaven’s breath.

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;

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;

Thou for whom Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiope were;

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.

This will I send, and something else more plain,

That shall express my true love’s fasting pain.

O, would the king, Biron, and Longaville,

Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill,

Would from my forehead wipe a perjured note;

For none offend where all alike do dote.

Longaville

[Advancing] Dumain, thy love is far from charity.

You may look pale, but I should blush, I know,

To be o’erheard and taken napping so.

Ferdinand

[Advancing] Come, sir, you blush; as his your case is such;

You chide at him, offending twice as much;

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.

I have been closely shrouded in this bush

And mark’d you both and for you both did blush:

I heard your guilty rhymes, observed your fashion,

Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion:

Ay me! says one; O Jove! the other cries;

One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other’s eyes:

To Longaville

You would for paradise break faith, and troth;

To Dumain

And Jove, for your love, would infringe an oath.

What will Biron say when that he shall hear

Faith so 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!

For all the wealth that ever I did see,

I would not have him know so much by me.

Biron

Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.

Advancing

Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me!

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;

You’ll not be perjured, ’tis a hateful thing;

Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting!

But are you not ashamed? nay, are you not,

All three of you, to be thus much o’ershot?

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!

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,

And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,

And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!

Where lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumain?

And gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain?

And where my liege’s? all about the breast:

A caudle, ho!

Ferdinand

Too bitter is thy jest.

Are we betray’d thus to thy over-view?

Biron

Not you to me, but I betray’d by you:

I, that am honest; I, that hold it sin

To break the vow I am engaged in;

I am betray’d, by keeping company

With men like men of inconstancy.

When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme?

Or groan for love? 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,

A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist,

A leg, a limb?

Ferdinand

Soft! whither away so fast?

A true man or a thief that gallops so?

Biron

I post from love: good lover, let me go.

Enter Jaquenetta and Costard

Jaquenetta

God bless the king!

Ferdinand

What present hast thou there?

Costard

Some certain treason.

Ferdinand

What makes treason here?

Costard

Nay, it makes nothing, sir.

Ferdinand

If it mar nothing neither,

The treason and you go in peace away together.

Jaquenetta

I beseech your grace, let this letter be read:

Our parson misdoubts it; ’twas treason, he said.

Ferdinand

Biron, read it over.

Giving him the paper

Where hadst thou it?

Jaquenetta

Of Costard.

Ferdinand

Where hadst thou it?

Costard

Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.

Biron tears the letter

Ferdinand

How now! what is in you? why dost thou tear it?

Biron

A toy, my liege, a toy: your grace needs not fear it.

Longaville

It did move him to passion, and therefore let’s hear it.

Dumain

It is Biron’s writing, and here is his name.

Gathering up the pieces

Biron

[To Costard] Ah, you whoreson loggerhead! you were born to do me shame. Guilty, my lord, guilty! I confess, I confess.

Ferdinand

What?

Biron

That you three fools lack’d me fool to make up the mess:

He, he, and you, and you, my liege, and I,

Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die.

O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more.

Dumain

Now the number is even.

Biron

True, true; we are four.

Will these turtles be gone?

Ferdinand

Hence, sirs; away!

Costard

Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay.

Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta

Biron

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:

We cannot cross the cause why we were born;

Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn.

Ferdinand

What, did these rent lines show some love of thine?

Biron

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?

Ferdinand

What zeal, what fury hath inspired thee now?

My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon;

She an attending star, scarce seen a light.

Biron

My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Biron:

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,

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,

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,

And gives the crutch the cradle’s infancy:

O, ’tis the sun that maketh all things shine.

Ferdinand

By heaven, thy love is black as ebony.

Biron

Is ebony like her? O wood divine!

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:

No face is fair that is not full so black.

Ferdinand

O paradox! Black is the badge of hell,

The hue of dungeons and the suit of night;

And beauty’s crest becomes the heavens well.

Biron

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;

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.

Dumain

To look like her are chimney-sweepers black.

Longaville

And since her time are colliers counted bright.

Ferdinand

And Ethiopes of their sweet complexion crack.

Dumain

Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light.

Biron

Your mistresses dare never come in rain,

For fear their colours should be wash’d away.

Ferdinand

’Twere good, yours did; for, sir, to tell you plain,

I’ll find a fairer face not wash’d to-day.

Biron

I’ll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here.

Ferdinand

No devil will fright thee then so much as she.

Dumain

I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear.

Longaville

Look, here’s thy love: my foot and her face see.

Biron

O, if the streets were paved with thine eyes,

Her feet were much too dainty for such tread!

Dumain

O, vile! then, as she goes, what upward lies

The street should see as she walk’d overhead.

Ferdinand

But what of this? are we not all in love?

Biron

Nothing so sure; and thereby all forsworn.

Ferdinand

Then leave this chat; and, good Biron, now prove

Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn.

Dumain

Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil.

Longaville

O, some authority how to proceed;

Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil.

Dumain

Some salve for perjury.

Biron

’Tis more than need.

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;

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 have forsworn his book,

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

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

Why, universal plodding poisons up

The nimble spirits in the arteries,

As motion and long-during action tires

The sinewy vigour of the traveller.

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

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,

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

Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes

Of beauty’s tutors have enrich’d you with?

Other slow arts entirely keep the brain;

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;

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.

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:

Love’s feeling is more soft and sensible

Than are the tender horns of cockl’d snails;

Love’s tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste:

For valour, is not Love a Hercules,

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.

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

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,

That show, contain and nourish all the world:

Else none at all in ought 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,

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,

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 fulfills the law,

And who can sever love from charity?

Ferdinand

Saint Cupid, then! and, soldiers, to the field!

Biron

Advance your standards, and upon them, lords;

Pell-mell, down with them! but be first advised,

In conflict that you get the sun of them.

Longaville

Now to plain-dealing; lay these glozes by:

Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France?

Ferdinand

And win them too: therefore let us devise

Some entertainment for them in their tents.

Biron

First, from the park let us conduct them thither;

Then homeward every man attach the hand

Of his fair mistress: in the afternoon

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.

Ferdinand

Away, away! no time shall be omitted

That will betime, and may by us be fitted.

Biron

Allons! allons! Sow’d cockle reap’d no corn;

And justice always whirls in equal measure:

Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn;

If so, our copper buys no better treasure.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. THE SAME.

Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull

Holofernes

Satis quod sufficit.

Sir Nathaniel

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 with- out heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the king’s, who is intituled, nomi- nated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado.

Holofernes

Novi hominem tanquam te: his humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical, and his general behavior vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it.

Sir Nathaniel

A most singular and choice epithet.

Draws out his table-book

Holofernes

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 nebor; neigh abbreviated ne. This is abhominable,— which he would call abbominable: it insinuateth me of insanie: anne intelligis, domine? to make frantic, lunatic.

Sir Nathaniel

Laus Deo, bene intelligo.

Holofernes

Bon, bon, fort bon, Priscian! a little scratch’d, ’twill serve.

Sir Nathaniel

Videsne quis venit?

Holofernes

Video, et gaudeo.

Enter Don Adriano de Armado, Moth, and Costard

Don Adriano de Armado

Chirrah!

To Moth

Holofernes

Quare chirrah, not sirrah?

Don Adriano de Armado

Men of peace, well encountered.

Holofernes

Most military sir, salutation.

Moth

[Aside to Costard] They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.

Costard

O, they have lived long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word; for thou art not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus: thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon.

Moth

Peace! the peal begins.

Don Adriano de Armado

[To Holofernes] Monsieur, are you not lettered?

Moth

Yes, yes; he teaches boys the hornbook. What is a, b, spelt backward, with the horn on his head?

Holofernes

Ba, pueritia, with a horn added.

Moth

Ba, most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning.

Holofernes

Quis, quis, thou consonant?

Moth

The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them; or the fifth, if I.

Holofernes

I will repeat them,— a, e, i,—

Moth

The sheep: the other two concludes it,— o, u.

Don Adriano de Armado

Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit! snip, snap, quick and home! it rejoiceth my intellect: true wit!

Moth

Offered by a child to an old man; which is wit-old.

Holofernes

What is the figure? what is the figure?

Moth

Horns.

Holofernes

Thou disputest like an infant: go, whip thy gig.

Moth

Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy circum circa,— a gig of a cuckold’s horn.

Costard

An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread: hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou halfpenny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O, an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me! Go to; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers’ ends, as they say.

Holofernes

O, I smell false Latin; dunghill for unguem.

Don Adriano de Armado

Arts-man, preambulate, we will be singled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge-house on the top of the mountain?

Holofernes

Or mons, the hill.

Don Adriano de Armado

At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain.

Holofernes

I do, sans question.

Don Adriano de Armado

Sir, it is the king’s most sweet pleasure and affection to congratulate the princess at her pavilion in the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon.

Holofernes

The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent and measurable for the afternoon: the word is well culled, chose, sweet and apt, I do assure you, sir, I do assure.

Don Adriano de Armado

Sir, the king is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do assure ye, very good friend: for what is inward between us, let it pass. I do beseech thee, remember thy courtesy; I beseech thee, apparel thy head: and among other important and most serious designs, and of great import indeed, too, but let that pass: for I must tell thee, it will please his grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor shoulder, and with his royal finger, thus, dally with my excrement, with my mustachio; but, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable: some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world; but let that pass. The very all of all is,— but, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy,— that the king would have me present the princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antique, or firework. Now, understanding that the curate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sudden breaking out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance.

Holofernes

Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. Sir, as concerning some entertainment of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by our assistants, at the king’s command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before the princess; I say none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies.

Sir Nathaniel

Where will you find men worthy enough to present them?

Holofernes

Joshua, yourself; myself and this gallant gentleman, Judas Maccabaeus; this swain, because of his great limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules,—

Don Adriano de Armado

Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for that Worthy’s thumb: he is not so big as the end of his club.

Holofernes

Shall I have audience? he shall present Hercules in minority: his enter and exit shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an apology for that purpose.

Moth

An excellent device! so, if any of the audience hiss, you may cry ‘Well done, Hercules! now thou crushest the snake!’ that is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it.

Don Adriano de Armado

For the rest of the Worthies?—

Holofernes

I will play three myself.

Moth

Thrice-worthy gentleman!

Don Adriano de Armado

Shall I tell you a thing?

Holofernes

We attend.

Don Adriano de Armado

We will have, if this fadge not, an antique. I beseech you, follow.

Holofernes

Via, goodman Dull! thou hast spoken no word all this while.

Dull

Nor understood none neither, sir.

Holofernes

Allons! we will employ thee.

Dull

I’ll make one in a dance, or so; or I will play

On the tabour to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay.

Holofernes

Most dull, honest Dull! To our sport, away!

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME.

Enter the Princess, Katharine, Rosaline, and Maria

Princess

Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart,

If fairings come thus plentifully in:

A lady wall’d about with diamonds!

Look you what I have from the loving king.

Rosaline

Madame, came nothing else along with that?

Princess

Nothing but this! yes, as much love in rhyme

As would be cramm’d up in a sheet of paper,

Writ o’ both sides the leaf, margent and all,

That he was fain to seal on Cupid’s name.

Rosaline

That was the way to make his godhead wax,

For he hath been five thousand years a boy.

Katharine

Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too.

Rosaline

You’ll ne’er be friends with him; a’ kill’d your sister.

Katharine

He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy;

And so she died: had she been light, like you,

Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit,

She might ha’ been a grandam ere she died:

And so may you; for a light heart lives long.

Rosaline

What’s your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word?

Katharine

A light condition in a beauty dark.

Rosaline

We need more light to find your meaning out.

Katharine

You’ll mar the light by taking it in snuff;

Therefore I’ll darkly end the argument.

Rosaline

Look what you do, you do it still i’ the dark.

Katharine

So do not you, for you are a light wench.

Rosaline

Indeed I weigh not you, and therefore light.

Katharine

You weigh me not? O, that’s you care not for me.

Rosaline

Great reason; for ‘past cure is still past care.’

Princess

Well bandied both; a set of wit well play’d.

But Rosaline, you have a favour too:

Who sent it? and what is it?

Rosaline

I would you knew:

An if my face were but as fair as yours,

My favour were as great; be witness this.

Nay, I have verses too, I thank Biron:

The numbers true; and, were the numbering too,

I were the fairest goddess on the ground:

I am compared to twenty thousand fairs.

O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter!

Princess

Any thing like?

Rosaline

Much in the letters; nothing in the praise.

Princess

Beauteous as ink; a good conclusion.

Katharine

Fair as a text B in a copy-book.

Rosaline

’Ware pencils, ho! let me not die your debtor,

My red dominical, my golden letter:

O, that your face were not so full of O’s!

Katharine

A pox of that jest! and I beshrew all shrows.

Princess

But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair Dumain?

Katharine

Madam, this glove.

Princess

Did he not send you twain?

Katharine

Yes, madam, and moreover

Some thousand verses of a faithful lover,

A huge translation of hypocrisy,

Vilely compiled, profound simplicity.

Maria

This and these pearls to me sent Longaville:

The letter is too long by half a mile.

Princess

I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart

The chain were longer and the letter short?

Maria

Ay, or I would these hands might never part.

Princess

We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.

Rosaline

They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.

That same Biron I’ll torture ere I go:

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 rhymes

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.

Princess

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.

Rosaline

The blood of youth burns not with such excess

As gravity’s revolt to wantonness.

Maria

Folly in fools bears not so strong a note

As foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote;

Since all the power thereof it doth apply

To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity.

Princess

Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face.

Enter Boyet

Boyet

O, I am stabb’d with laughter! Where’s her grace?

Princess

Thy news Boyet?

Boyet

Prepare, madam, prepare!

Arm, wenches, arm! encounters mounted are

Against your peace: Love doth approach disguised,

Armed in arguments; you’ll be surprised:

Muster your wits; stand in your own defence;

Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence.

Princess

Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they

That charge their breath against us? say, scout, say.

Boyet

Under the cool shade of a sycamore

I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour;

When, lo! to interrupt my purposed rest,

Toward that shade I might behold addrest

The king and his companions: warily

I stole into a neighbour thicket by,

And overheard what you shall overhear,

That, by and by, disguised they will be here.

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

Presence majestical would put him out,

‘For,’ quoth the king, ‘an angel shalt thou see;

Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.’

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:

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,

Cried, ‘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,

That in this spleen ridiculous appears,

To cheque their folly, passion’s solemn tears.

Princess

But what, but what, come they to visit us?

Boyet

They do, they do: and are apparell’d thus.

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.

Princess

And will they so? the gallants shall be task’d;

For, ladies, we shall every one be mask’d;

And not a man of them shall have the grace,

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 Biron take me for Rosaline.

And change your favours too; so shall your loves

Woo contrary, deceived by these removes.

Rosaline

Come on, then; wear the favours most in sight.

Katharine

But in this changing what is your intent?

Princess

The effect of my intent is to cross theirs:

They do it but in mocking merriment;

And mock for mock is only my intent.

Their several counsels they unbosom shall

To loves mistook, and so be mock’d withal

Upon the next occasion that we meet,

With visages displayed, to talk and greet.

Rosaline

But shall we dance, if they desire to’t?

Princess

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.

Boyet

Why, that contempt will kill the speaker’s heart,

And quite divorce his memory from his part.

Princess

Therefore I do it; and I make no doubt

The rest will ne’er come in, if he be out

There’s no such sport as sport by sport o’erthrown,

To make theirs ours and ours none but our own:

So shall we stay, mocking intended game,

And they, well mock’d, depart away with shame.

Trumpets sound within

Boyet

The trumpet sounds: be mask’d; the maskers come.

The Ladies mask

Enter Blackamoors with music; Moth; Ferdinand, Biron, Longaville, and Dumain, in Russian habits, and masked

Moth

All hail, the richest beauties on the earth!—

Boyet

Beauties no richer than rich taffeta.

Moth

A holy parcel of the fairest dames.

The Ladies turn their backs to him

That ever turn’d their — backs — to mortal views!

Biron

[Aside to Moth] Their eyes, villain, their eyes!

Moth

That ever turn’d their eyes to mortal views!— Out —

Boyet

True; out indeed.

Moth

Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe

Not to behold —

Biron

[Aside to Moth] Once to behold, rogue.

Moth

Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes,

— with your sun-beamed eyes —

Boyet

They will not answer to that epithet;

You were best call it ‘daughter-beamed eyes.’

Moth

They do not mark me, and that brings me out.

Biron

Is this your perfectness? be gone, you rogue!

Exit Moth

Rosaline

What would these strangers? know their minds, Boyet:

If they do speak our language, ’tis our will:

That some plain man recount their purposes

Know what they would.

Boyet

What would you with the princess?

Biron

Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.

Rosaline

What would they, say they?

Boyet

Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.

Rosaline

Why, that they have; and bid them so be gone.

Boyet

She says, you have it, and you may be gone.

Ferdinand

Say to her, we have measured many miles

To tread a measure with her on this grass.

Boyet

They say, that they have measured many a mile

To tread a measure with you on this grass.

Rosaline

It is not so. Ask them how many inches

Is in one mile: if they have measured many,

The measure then of one is easily told.

Boyet

If to come hither you have measured miles,

And many miles, the princess bids you tell

How many inches doth fill up one mile.

Biron

Tell her, we measure them by weary steps.

Boyet

She hears herself.

Rosaline

How many weary steps,

Of many weary miles you have o’ergone,

Are number’d in the travel of one mile?

Biron

We number nothing that we spend for you:

Our duty is so rich, so infinite,

That we may do it still without accompt.

Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face,

That we, like savages, may worship it.

Rosaline

My face is but a moon, and clouded too.

Ferdinand

Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do!

Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine,

Those clouds removed, upon our watery eyne.

Rosaline

O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter;

Thou now request’st but moonshine in the water.

Ferdinand

Then, in our measure do but vouchsafe one change.

Thou bid’st me beg: this begging is not strange.

Rosaline

Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon.

Music plays

Not yet! no dance! Thus change I like the moon.

Ferdinand

Will you not dance? How come you thus estranged?

Rosaline

You took the moon at full, but now she’s changed.

Ferdinand

Yet still she is the moon, and I the man.

The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it.

Rosaline

Our ears vouchsafe it.

Ferdinand

But your legs should do it.

Rosaline

Since you are strangers and come here by chance,

We’ll not be nice: take hands. We will not dance.

Ferdinand

Why take we hands, then?

Rosaline

Only to part friends:

Curtsy, sweet hearts; and so the measure ends.

Ferdinand

More measure of this measure; be not nice.

Rosaline

We can afford no more at such a price.

Ferdinand

Prize you yourselves: what buys your company?

Rosaline

Your absence only.

Ferdinand

That can never be.

Rosaline

Then cannot we be bought: and so, adieu;

Twice to your visor, and half once to you.

Ferdinand

If you deny to dance, let’s hold more chat.

Rosaline

In private, then.

Ferdinand

I am best pleased with that.

They converse apart

Biron

White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee.

Princess

Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three.

Biron

Nay then, two treys, and if you grow so nice,

Metheglin, wort, and malmsey: well run, dice!

There’s half-a-dozen sweets.

Princess

Seventh sweet, adieu:

Since you can cog, I’ll play no more with you.

Biron

One word in secret.

Princess

Let it not be sweet.

Biron

Thou grievest my gall.

Princess

Gall! bitter.

Biron

Therefore meet.

They converse apart

Dumain

Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?

Maria

Name it.

Dumain

Fair lady,—

Maria

Say you so? Fair lord,—

Take that for your fair lady.

Dumain

Please it you,

As much in private, and I’ll bid adieu.

They converse apart

Katharine

What, was your vizard made without a tongue?

Longaville

I know the reason, lady, why you ask.

Katharine

O for your reason! quickly, sir; I long.

Longaville

You have a double tongue within your mask,

And would afford my speechless vizard half.

Katharine

Veal, quoth the Dutchman. Is not ’veal’ a calf?

Longaville

A calf, fair lady!

Katharine

No, a fair lord calf.

Longaville

Let’s part the word.

Katharine

No, I’ll not be your half

Take all, and wean it; it may prove an ox.

Longaville

Look, how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks!

Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so.

Katharine

Then die a calf, before your horns do grow.

Longaville

One word in private with you, ere I die.

Katharine

Bleat softly then; the butcher hears you cry.

They converse apart

Boyet

The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen

As is the razor’s edge invisible,

Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen,

Above the sense of sense; so sensible

Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings

Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things.

Rosaline

Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off.

Biron

By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!

Ferdinand

Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits.

Princess

Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits.

Exeunt Ferdinand, Lords, and Blackamoors

Are these the breed of wits so wonder’d at?

Boyet

Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff’d out.

Rosaline

Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.

Princess

O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout!

Will they not, think you, hang themselves tonight?

Or ever, but in vizards, show their faces?

This pert Biron was out of countenance quite.

Rosaline

O, they were all in lamentable cases!

The king was weeping-ripe for a good word.

Princess

Biron did swear himself out of all suit.

Maria

Dumain was at my service, and his sword:

No point, quoth I; my servant straight was mute.

Katharine

Lord Longaville said, I came o’er his heart;

And trow you what he called me?

Princess

Qualm, perhaps.

Katharine

Yes, in good faith.

Princess

Go, sickness as thou art!

Rosaline

Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps.

But will you hear? the king is my love sworn.

Princess

And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me.

Katharine

And Longaville was for my service born.

Maria

Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree.

Boyet

Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear:

Immediately they will again be here

In their own shapes; for it can never be

They will digest this harsh indignity.

Princess

Will they return?

Boyet

They will, they will, God knows,

And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows:

Therefore change favours; and, when they repair,

Blow like sweet roses in this summer air.

Princess

How blow? how blow? speak to be understood.

Boyet

Fair ladies mask’d are roses in their bud;

Dismask’d, their damask sweet commixture shown,

Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.

Princess

Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do,

If they return in their own shapes to woo?

Rosaline

Good madam, if by me you’ll be advised,

Let’s, mock them still, as well known as disguised:

Let us complain to them what fools were here,

Disguised like Muscovites, in shapeless gear;

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.

Boyet

Ladies, withdraw: the gallants are at hand.

Princess

Whip to our tents, as roes run o’er land.

Exeunt Princess, Rosaline, Katharine, and Maria

Re-enter Ferdinand, Biron, Longaville, and Dumain, in their proper habits

Ferdinand

Fair sir, God save you! Where’s the princess?

Boyet

Gone to her tent. Please it your majesty

Command me any service to her thither?

Ferdinand

That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.

Boyet

I will; and so will she, I know, my lord.

Exit

Biron

This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease,

And utters it again when God doth please:

He is wit’s pedler, 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;

A’ can carve too, and lisp: why, this is he

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

A mean most meanly; and in ushering

Mend him who can: the ladies call him sweet;

The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet:

This is the flower that smiles on every one,

To show his teeth as white as whale’s bone;

And consciences, that will not die in debt,

Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet.

Ferdinand

A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart,

That put Armado’s page out of his part!

Biron

See where it comes! Behavior, what wert thou

Till this madman show’d thee? and what art thou now?

Re-enter the Princess, ushered by Boyet, Rosaline, Maria, and Katharine

Ferdinand

All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day!

Princess

‘Fair’ in ‘all hail’ is foul, as I conceive.

Ferdinand

Construe my speeches better, if you may.

Princess

Then wish me better; I will give you leave.

Ferdinand

We came to visit you, and purpose now

To lead you to our court; vouchsafe it then.

Princess

This field shall hold me; and so hold your vow:

Nor God, nor I, delights in perjured men.

Ferdinand

Rebuke me not for that which you provoke:

The virtue of your eye must break my oath.

Princess

You nickname virtue; vice you should have spoke;

For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth.

Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure

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

Of heavenly oaths, vow’d with integrity.

Ferdinand

O, you have lived in desolation here,

Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.

Princess

Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear;

We have had pastimes here and pleasant game:

A mess of Russians left us but of late.

Ferdinand

How, madam! Russians!

Princess

Ay, in truth, my lord;

Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state.

Rosaline

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

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,

When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink.

Biron

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,

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.

Rosaline

This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye,—

Biron

I am a fool, and full of poverty.

Rosaline

But that you take what doth to you belong,

It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue.

Biron

O, I am yours, and all that I possess!

Rosaline

All the fool mine?

Biron

I cannot give you less.

Rosaline

Which of the vizards was it that you wore?

Biron

Where? when? what vizard? why demand you this?

Rosaline

There, then, that vizard; that superfluous case

That hid the worse and show’d the better face.

Ferdinand

We are descried; they’ll mock us now downright.

Dumain

Let us confess and turn it to a jest.

Princess

Amazed, my lord? why looks your highness sad?

Rosaline

Help, hold his brows! he’ll swoon! Why look you pale?

Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy.

Biron

Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury.

Can any face of brass hold longer out?

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;

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 schoolboy’s tongue,

Nor never come in vizard to my friend,

Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper’s song!

Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,

Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affectation,

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!—

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.

Rosaline

Sans sans, I pray you.

Biron

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;

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.

Princess

No, they are free that gave these tokens to us.

Biron

Our states are forfeit: seek not to undo us.

Rosaline

It is not so; for how can this be true,

That you stand forfeit, being those that sue?

Biron

Peace! for I will not have to do with you.

Rosaline

Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.

Biron

Speak for yourselves; my wit is at an end.

Ferdinand

Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression

Some fair excuse.

Princess

The fairest is confession.

Were not you here but even now disguised?

Ferdinand

Madam, I was.

Princess

And were you well advised?

Ferdinand

I was, fair madam.

Princess

When you then were here,

What did you whisper in your lady’s ear?

Ferdinand

That more than all the world I did respect her.

Princess

When she shall challenge this, you will reject her.

Ferdinand

Upon mine honour, no.

Princess

Peace, peace! forbear:

Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear.

Ferdinand

Despise me, when I break this oath of mine.

Princess

I will: and therefore keep it. Rosaline,

What did the Russian whisper in your ear?

Rosaline

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.

Princess

God give thee joy of him! the noble lord

Most honourably doth unhold his word.

Ferdinand

What mean you, madam? by my life, my troth,

I never swore this lady such an oath.

Rosaline

By heaven, you did; and to confirm it plain,

You gave me this: but take it, sir, again.

Ferdinand

My faith and this the princess I did give:

I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve.

Princess

Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear;

And Lord Biron, I thank him, is my dear.

What, will you have me, or your pearl again?

Biron

Neither of either; I remit both twain.

I see the trick on’t: here was a consent,

Knowing aforehand of our merriment,

To dash it like a Christmas comedy:

Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany,

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 disposed,

Told our intents before; which once disclosed,

The ladies did change favours: and then we,

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.

Much upon this it is: and might not you

To Boyet

Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue?

Do not you know my lady’s foot by the squier,

And laugh upon the apple of her eye?

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

Wounds like a leaden sword.

Boyet

Full merrily

Hath this brave manage, this career, been run.

Biron

Lo, he is tilting straight! Peace! I have done.

Enter Costard

Welcome, pure wit! thou partest a fair fray.

Costard

O Lord, sir, they would know

Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no.

Biron

What, are there but three?

Costard

No, sir; but it is vara fine,

For every one pursents three.

Biron

And three times thrice is nine.

Costard

Not so, sir; under correction, sir; I hope it is not so. You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir we know what we know: I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir,—

Biron

Is not nine.

Costard

Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount.

Biron

By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.

Costard

O Lord, sir, it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir.

Biron

How much is it?

Costard

O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount: for mine own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man in one poor man, Pompion the Great, sir.

Biron

Art thou one of the Worthies?

Costard

It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion the Great: for mine own part, I know not the degree of the Worthy, but I am to stand for him.

Biron

Go, bid them prepare.

Costard

We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take some care.

Exit

Ferdinand

Biron, they will shame us: let them not approach.

Biron

We are shame-proof, my lord: and tis some policy

To have one show worse than the king’s and his company.

Ferdinand

I say they shall not come.

Princess

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

Dies in the zeal of that which it presents:

Their form confounded makes most form in mirth,

When great things labouring perish in their birth.

Biron

A right description of our sport, my lord.

Enter Don Adriano De Armado

Don Adriano de Armado

Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words.

Converses apart with Ferdinand, and delivers him a paper

Princess

Doth this man serve God?

Biron

Why ask you?

Princess

He speaks not like a man of God’s making.

Don Adriano de Armado

That is 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

Ferdinand

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 Maccabaeus:

And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive,

These four will change habits, and present the other five.

Biron

There is five in the first show.

Ferdinand

You are deceived; ’tis not so.

Biron

The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool and the boy:—

Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again

Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein.

Ferdinand

The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain.

Enter Costard, for Pompey

Costard

I Pompey am,—

Boyet

You lie, you are not he.

Costard

I Pompey am,—

Boyet

With libbard’s head on knee.

Biron

Well said, old mocker: I must needs be friends with thee.

Costard

I Pompey am, Pompey surnamed the Big —

Dumain

The Great.

Costard

It is, ‘Great,’ sir:— Pompey surnamed the Great;

That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat:

And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance,

And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France,

If your ladyship would say, ‘Thanks, Pompey,’ I had done.

Princess

Great thanks, great Pompey.

Costard

’Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect: I made a little fault in ‘Great.’

Biron

My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy.

Enter Sir Nathaniel, for Alexander

Sir Nathaniel

When in the world I lived, I was the world’s commander;

By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might:

My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander,—

Boyet

Your nose says, no, you are not for it stands too right.

Biron

Your nose smells ‘no’ in this, most tender-smelling knight.

Princess

The conqueror is dismay’d. Proceed, good Alexander.

Sir Nathaniel

When in the world I lived, I was the world’s commander,—

Boyet

Most true, ’tis right; you were so, Alisander.

Biron

Pompey the Great,—

Costard

Your servant, and Costard.

Biron

Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander.

Costard

[To Sir Nathaniel] O, sir, you have overthrown Alisander the conqueror! You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this: your lion, that holds his poll-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax: he will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to speak! run away for shame, Alisander.

Sir Nathaniel retires

There, an’t shall please you; a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dashed. He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler: but, for Alisander,— alas, you see how ’tis,— a little o’erparted. But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort.

Enter Holofernes, for Judas; and Moth, for Hercules

Holofernes

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,

Ergo I come with this apology.

Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish.

Moth retires

Judas I am,—

Dumain

A Judas!

Holofernes

Not Iscariot, sir.

Judas I am, ycliped Maccabaeus.

Dumain

Judas Maccabaeus clipt is plain Judas.

Biron

A kissing traitor. How art thou proved Judas?

Holofernes

Judas I am,—

Dumain

The more shame for you, Judas.

Holofernes

What mean you, sir?

Boyet

To make Judas hang himself.

Holofernes

Begin, sir; you are my elder.

Biron

Well followed: Judas was hanged on an elder.

Holofernes

I will not be put out of countenance.

Biron

Because thou hast no face.

Holofernes

What is this?

Boyet

A cittern-head.

Dumain

The head of a bodkin.

Biron

A Death’s face in a ring.

Longaville

The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.

Boyet

The pommel of Caesar’s falchion.

Dumain

The carved-bone face on a flask.

Biron

Saint George’s half-cheek in a brooch.

Dumain

Ay, and in a brooch of lead.

Biron

Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer.

And now forward; for we have put thee in countenance.

Holofernes

You have put me out of countenance.

Biron

False; we have given thee faces.

Holofernes

But you have out-faced them all.

Biron

An thou wert a lion, we would do so.

Boyet

Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go.

And so adieu, sweet Jude! nay, why dost thou stay?

Dumain

For the latter end of his name.

Biron

For the ass to the Jude; give it him:— Jud-as, away!

Holofernes

This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.

Boyet

A light for Monsieur Judas! it grows dark, he may stumble.

Holofernes retires

Princess

Alas, poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited!

Enter Don Adriano de Armado, for Hector

Biron

Hide thy head, Achilles: here comes Hector in arms.

Dumain

Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry.

Ferdinand

Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this.

Boyet

But is this Hector?

Ferdinand

I think Hector was not so clean-timbered.

Longaville

His leg is too big for Hector’s.

Dumain

More calf, certain.

Boyet

No; he is best endued in the small.

Biron

This cannot be Hector.

Dumain

He’s a god or a painter; for he makes faces.

Don Adriano de Armado

The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,

Gave Hector a gift,—

Dumain

A gilt nutmeg.

Biron

A lemon.

Longaville

Stuck with cloves.

Dumain

No, cloven.

Don Adriano de Armado

Peace!—

The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty

Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;

A man so breathed, that certain he would fight; yea

From morn till night, out of his pavilion.

I am that flower,—

Dumain

That mint.

Longaville

That columbine.

Don Adriano de Armado

Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.

Longaville

I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector.

Dumain

Ay, and Hector’s a greyhound.

Don Adriano de Armado

The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried: when he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device.

To the Princess

Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing.

Princess

Speak, brave Hector: we are much delighted.

Don Adriano de Armado

I do adore thy sweet grace’s slipper.

Boyet

[Aside to Dumain] Loves her by the foot,—

Dumain

[Aside to Boyet] He may not by the yard.

Don Adriano de Armado

This Hector far surmounted Hannibal,—

Costard

The party is gone, fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two months on her way.

Don Adriano de Armado

What meanest thou?

Costard

Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor wench is cast away: she’s quick; the child brags in her belly already: tis yours.

Don Adriano de Armado

Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? thou shalt die.

Costard

Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by him and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him.

Dumain

Most rare Pompey!

Boyet

Renowned Pompey!

Biron

Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey!

Pompey the Huge!

Dumain

Hector trembles.

Biron

Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! stir them on! stir them on!

Dumain

Hector will challenge him.

Biron

Ay, if a’ have no man’s blood in’s belly than will sup a flea.

Don Adriano de Armado

By the north pole, I do challenge thee.

Costard

I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man: I’ll slash; I’ll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again.

Dumain

Room for the incensed Worthies!

Costard

I’ll do it in my shirt.

Dumain

Most resolute Pompey!

Moth

Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation.

Don Adriano de Armado

Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt.

Dumain

You may not deny it: Pompey hath made the challenge.

Don Adriano de Armado

Sweet bloods, I both may and will.

Biron

What reason have you for’t?

Don Adriano de Armado

The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance.

Boyet

True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen: since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta’s, and that a’ wears next his heart for a favour.

Enter Mercade

Mercade

God save you, madam!

Princess

Welcome, Mercade;

But that thou interrupt’st our merriment.

Mercade

I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring

Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father —

Princess

Dead, for my life!

Mercade

Even so; my tale is told.

Biron

Worthies, away! the scene begins to cloud.

Don Adriano de Armado

For mine 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

Ferdinand

How fares your majesty?

Princess

Boyet, prepare; I will away tonight.

Ferdinand

Madam, not so; I do beseech you, stay.

Princess

Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords,

For all your fair endeavors; and entreat,

Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe

In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide

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!

A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue:

Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks

For my great suit so easily obtain’d.

Ferdinand

The extreme parts of time extremely forms

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

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

From what it purposed; since, to wail friends lost

Is not by much so wholesome-profitable

As to rejoice at friends but newly found.

Princess

I understand you not: my griefs are double.

Biron

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,

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,

All wanton as a child, skipping and vain,

Form’d by the eye and therefore, like the eye,

Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms,

Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll

To every varied object in his glance:

Which parti-coated presence of loose love

Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,

Have misbecomed our oaths and gravities,

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

To those that make us both,— fair ladies, you:

And even that falsehood, in itself a sin,

Thus purifies itself and turns to grace.

Princess

We have received your letters full of love;

Your favours, the ambassadors of love;

And, in our maiden council, rated them

At courtship, pleasant jest and courtesy,

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.

Dumain

Our letters, madam, show’d much more than jest.

Longaville

So did our looks.

Rosaline

We did not quote them so.

Ferdinand

Now, at the latest minute of the hour,

Grant us your loves.

Princess

A time, methinks, too short

To make a world-without-end bargain in.

No, no, my lord, your grace is perjured much,

Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this:

If for my love, as there is no such cause,

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;

There stay until the twelve celestial signs

Have brought about the annual reckoning.

If this austere insociable life

Change not your offer made in heat of blood;

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,

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 woeful self up in a mourning house,

Raining the tears of lamentation

For the remembrance of my father’s death.

If this thou do deny, let our hands part,

Neither entitled in the other’s heart.

Ferdinand

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.

Dumain

But what to me, my love? but what to me? A wife?

Katharine

A beard, fair health, and honesty;

With three-fold love I wish you all these three.

Dumain

O, shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife?

Katharine

Not so, my lord; a twelvemonth and a day

I’ll mark no words that smooth-faced wooers say:

Come when the king doth to my lady come;

Then, if I have much love, I’ll give you some.

Dumain

I’ll serve thee true and faithfully till then.

Katharine

Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again.

Longaville

What says Maria?

Maria

At the twelvemonth’s end

I’ll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

Longaville

I’ll stay with patience; but the time is long.

Maria

The liker you; few taller are so young.

Biron

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.

Rosaline

Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Biron,

Before I saw you; and the world’s large tongue

Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks,

Full of comparisons and wounding flouts,

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,

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 endeavor of your wit

To enforce the pained impotent to smile.

Biron

To move wild laughter in the throat of death?

It cannot be; it is impossible:

Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

Rosaline

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 lies in the ear

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 then,

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,

Right joyful of your reformation.

Biron

A twelvemonth! well; befall what will befall,

I’ll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.

Princess

[To Ferdinand] Ay, sweet my lord; and so I take my leave.

Ferdinand

No, madam; we will bring you on your way.

Biron

Our wooing doth not end like an old play;

Jack hath not Jill: these ladies’ courtesy

Might well have made our sport a comedy.

Ferdinand

Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day,

And then ’twill end.

Biron

That’s too long for a play.

Re-enter Don Adriano De Armado

Don Adriano de Armado

Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me,—

Princess

Was not that Hector?

Dumain

The worthy knight of Troy.

Don Adriano de Armado

I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three years. But, most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the owl and the cuckoo? It should have followed in the end of our show.

Ferdinand

Call them forth quickly; we will do so.

Don Adriano de Armado

Holla! approach.

Re-enter Holofernes, Sir 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.

The Song

Spring.

When daisies pied and violets blue

And lady-smocks all silver-white

And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue

Do paint the meadows with delight,

The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men; for thus sings he, Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws

And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,

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, Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

Winter.

When icicles hang by the wall

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,

Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit;

Tu-who, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

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,

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit;

Tu-who, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Don Adriano de Armado

The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of

Apollo. You that way: we this way.

Exeunt

Measure for Measure

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. AN APARTMENT IN THE DUKE’S PALACE.

SCENE II. A STREET.

SCENE III. A MONASTERY.

SCENE IV. A NUNNERY.

ACT II

SCENE I. A HALL IN ANGELO’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE SAME.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN A PRISON.

SCENE IV. A ROOM IN ANGELO’S HOUSE.

ACT III

SCENE I. A ROOM IN THE PRISON.

SCENE II. THE STREET BEFORE THE PRISON.

ACT IV

SCENE I. THE MOATED GRANGE AT ST. LUKE’S.

SCENE II. A ROOM IN THE PRISON.

SCENE III. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE SAME.

SCENE IV. A ROOM IN ANGELO’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. FIELDS WITHOUT THE TOWN.

SCENE VI. STREET NEAR THE CITY GATE.

ACT V

SCENE I. THE CITY GATE.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Vicentio, Duke of Vienna.

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, Servant to the Duke.

Provost.

Thomas, friar.

Peter, friar.

A Justice.

Elbow, a simple Constable.

Froth, a foolish Gentleman.

Pompey, Tapster to Mistress Overdone.

Clown, Servant to Mistress Overdone.

Abhorson, an Executioner.

Barnardine, a dissolute Prisoner.

Isabella, Sister to Claudio.

Mariana, betrothed to Angelo.

Juliet, beloved by Claudio.

Francisca, a nun.

Mistress Overdone, a Bawd.

Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, Officers, and other Attendants.

ACT I

SCENE I. AN APARTMENT IN THE DUKE’S PALACE.

Enter Duke Vincentio, Escalus, Lords and Attendants

Duke Vincentio

Escalus.

Escalus

My lord.

Duke Vincentio

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

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,

Our city’s institutions, and the terms

For common justice, you’re as pregnant in

As art and practise hath enriched any

That we remember. There is our commission,

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?

For you must know, we have with special soul

Elected him our absence to supply,

Lent him our terror, dress’d him with our love,

And given his deputation all the organs

Of our own power: what think you of it?

Escalus

If any in Vienna be of worth

To undergo such ample grace and honour,

It is Lord Angelo.

Duke Vincentio

Look where he comes.

Enter Angelo

Angelo

Always obedient to your grace’s will,

I come to know your pleasure.

Duke Vincentio

Angelo,

There is a kind of character in thy life,

That to the observer doth thy history

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,

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

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;

Hold therefore, Angelo:—

In our remove be thou at full ourself;

Mortality and mercy in Vienna

Live in thy tongue and heart: old Escalus,

Though first in question, is thy secondary.

Take thy commission.

Angelo

Now, good my lord,

Let there be some more test made of my metal,

Before so noble and so great a figure

Be stamp’d upon it.

Duke Vincentio

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

That it prefers itself and leaves unquestion’d

Matters of needful value. We shall write to you,

As time and our concernings shall importune,

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.

Angelo

Yet give leave, my lord,

That we may bring you something on the way.

Duke Vincentio

My haste may not admit it;

Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do

With any scruple; your scope is as mine own

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:

Through 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.

Angelo

The heavens give safety to your purposes!

Escalus

Lead forth and bring you back in happiness!

Duke

I thank you. Fare you well.

Exit

Escalus

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.

Angelo

’Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together,

And we may soon our satisfaction have

Touching that point.

Escalus

I’ll wait upon your honour.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A STREET.

Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen

Lucio

If the duke with the other dukes come not to composition with the King of Hungary, why then all the dukes fall upon the king.

First Gentleman

Heaven grant us its peace, but not the King of

Hungary’s!

Second Gentleman

Amen.

Lucio

Thou concludest like the sanctimonious pirate, that went to sea with the Ten Commandments, but scraped one out of the table.

Second Gentleman

‘Thou shalt not steal’?

Lucio

Ay, that he razed.

First Gentleman

Why, ’twas a commandment to command the captain and all the rest from their functions: they put forth to steal. There’s not a soldier of us all, that, in the thanksgiving before meat, do relish the petition well that prays for peace.

Second Gentleman

I never heard any soldier dislike it.

Lucio

I believe thee; for I think thou never wast where grace was said.

Second Gentleman

No? a dozen times at least.

First Gentleman

What, in metre?

Lucio

In any proportion or in any language.

First Gentleman

I think, or in any religion.

Lucio

Ay, why not? Grace is grace, despite of all controversy: as, for example, thou thyself art a wicked villain, despite of all grace.

First Gentleman

Well, there went but a pair of shears between us.

Lucio

I grant; as there may between the lists and the velvet. Thou art the list.

First Gentleman

And thou the velvet: thou art good velvet; thou’rt a three-piled piece, I warrant thee: I had as lief be a list of an English kersey as be piled, as thou art piled, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly now?

Lucio

I think thou dost; and, indeed, with most painful feeling of thy speech: I will, out of thine own confession, learn to begin thy health; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after thee.

First Gentleman

I think I have done myself wrong, have I not?

Second Gentleman

Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art tainted or free.

Lucio

Behold, behold. where Madam Mitigation comes! I have purchased as many diseases under her roof as come to —

Second Gentleman

To what, I pray?

Lucio

Judge.

Second Gentleman

To three thousand dolours a year.

First Gentleman

Ay, and more.

Lucio

A French crown more.

First Gentleman

Thou art always figuring diseases in me; but thou art full of error; I am sound.

Lucio

Nay, not as one would say, healthy; but so sound as things that are hollow: thy bones are hollow; impiety has made a feast of thee.

Enter Mistress Overdone

First Gentleman

How now! which of your hips has the most profound sciatica?

Mistress Overdone

Well, well; there’s one yonder arrested and carried to prison was worth five thousand of you all.

Second Gentleman

Who’s that, I pray thee?

Mistress Overdone

Marry, sir, that’s Claudio, Signior Claudio.

First Gentleman

Claudio to prison? ’tis not so.

Mistress Overdone

Nay, but I know ’tis so: I saw him arrested, saw him carried away; and, which is more, within these three days his head to be chopped off.

Lucio

But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so.

Art thou sure of this?

Mistress Overdone

I am too sure of it: and it is for getting Madam

Julietta with child.

Lucio

Believe me, this may be: he promised to meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise in promise-keeping.

Second Gentleman

Besides, you know, it draws something near to the speech we had to such a purpose.

First Gentleman

But, most of all, agreeing with the proclamation.

Lucio

Away! let’s go learn the truth of it.

Exeunt Lucio and Gentlemen

Mistress Overdone

Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what with the gallows and what with poverty, I am custom-shrunk.

Enter Pompey

How now! what’s the news with you?

Pompey

Yonder man is carried to prison.

Mistress Overdone

Well; what has he done?

Pompey

A woman.

Mistress Overdone

But what’s his offence?

Pompey

Groping for trouts in a peculiar river.

Mistress Overdone

What, is there a maid with child by him?

Pompey

No, but there’s a woman with maid by him. You have not heard of the proclamation, have you?

Mistress Overdone

What proclamation, man?

Pompey

All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be plucked down.

Mistress Overdone

And what shall become of those in the city?

Pompey

They shall stand for seed: they had gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in for them.

Mistress Overdone

But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pulled down?

Pompey

To the ground, mistress.

Mistress Overdone

Why, here’s a change indeed in the commonwealth!

What shall become of me?

Pompey

Come; fear you not: good counsellors lack no clients: though you change your place, you need not change your trade; I’ll be your tapster still. Courage! there will be pity taken on you: you that have worn your eyes almost out in the service, you will be considered.

Mistress Overdone

What’s to do here, Thomas tapster? let’s withdraw.

Pompey

Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the provost to prison; and there’s Madam Juliet.

Exeunt

Enter Provost, Claudio, Juliet, and Officers

Claudio

Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to the world?

Bear me to prison, where I am committed.

Provost

I do it not in evil disposition,

But from Lord Angelo by special charge.

Claudio

Thus can the demigod 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.

Re-enter Lucio and two Gentlemen

Lucio

Why, how now, Claudio! whence comes this restraint?

Claudio

From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty:

As surfeit is the father of much fast,

So every scope by the immoderate use

Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue,

Like rats that ravin down their proper bane,

A thirsty evil; and when we drink we die.

Lucio

If could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors: and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment. What’s thy offence, Claudio?

Claudio

What but to speak of would offend again.

Lucio

What, is’t murder?

Claudio

No.

Lucio

Lechery?

Claudio

Call it so.

Provost

Away, sir! you must go.

Claudio

One word, good friend. Lucio, a word with you.

Lucio

A hundred, if they’ll do you any good.

Is lechery so look’d after?

Claudio

Thus stands it with me: upon a true contract

I got possession of Julietta’s bed:

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

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.

Lucio

With child, perhaps?

Claudio

Unhappily, even so.

And the new deputy now for the duke —

Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness,

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,

Or in his emmence that fills it up,

I stagger in:— but this new governor

Awakes me all the enrolled penalties

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

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.

Claudio

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

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:

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.

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.

Claudio

I thank you, good friend Lucio.

Lucio

Within two hours.

Claudio

Come, officer, away!

Exeunt

SCENE III. A MONASTERY.

Enter Duke Vincentio and Friar Thomas

Duke Vincentio

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

More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends

Of burning youth.

Friar Thomas

May your grace speak of it?

Duke Vincentio

My holy sir, none better knows than you

How I have ever loved the life removed

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,

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 received. Now, pious sir,

You will demand of me why I do this?

Friar Thomas

Gladly, my lord.

Duke Vincentio

We have strict statutes and most biting laws.

The needful bits and curbs to headstrong weeds,

Which for this nineteen years we have let slip;

Even like an o’ergrown lion in a cave,

That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers,

Having bound up the threatening twigs of birch,

Only to stick it in their children’s sight

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;

And liberty plucks justice by the nose;

The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart

Goes all decorum.

Friar Thomas

It rested in your grace

To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleased:

And it in you more dreadful would have seem’d

Than in Lord Angelo.

Duke Vincentio

I do fear, too dreadful:

Sith ’twas my fault to give the people scope,

’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 imposed the office;

Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,

And yet my nature never in the fight

To do in slander. And to behold his sway,

I will, as ’twere a brother of your order,

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. More reasons for this action

At our more leisure shall I render you;

Only, this one: Lord Angelo is precise;

Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses

That his blood flows, or that his appetite

Is more to bread than stone: hence shall we see,

If power change purpose, what our seemers be.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. A NUNNERY.

Enter Isabella and Francisca

Isabella

And have you nuns no farther privileges?

Francisca

Are not these large enough?

Isabella

Yes, truly; I speak not as desiring more;

But rather wishing a more strict restraint

Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare.

Lucio

[Within] Ho! Peace be in this place!

Isabella

Who’s that which calls?

Francisca

It is a man’s voice. Gentle Isabella,

Turn you the key, and know his business of him;

You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn.

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

Isabella

Peace and prosperity! Who is’t that calls

Enter Lucio

Lucio

Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses

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?

Isabella

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:

Not to be weary with you, he’s in prison.

Isabella

Woe me! for what?

Lucio

For that which, if myself might be his judge,

He should receive his punishment in thanks:

He hath got his friend with child.

Isabella

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,

Tongue far from heart — play with all virgins so:

I hold you as a thing ensky’d and sainted.

By your renouncement an immortal spirit,

And to be talk’d with in sincerity,

As with a saint.

Isabella

You do blaspheme the good in mocking me.

Lucio

Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, ’tis thus:

Your brother and his lover have embraced:

As those that feed grow full, as blossoming time

That from the seedness the bare fallow brings

To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb

Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry.

Isabella

Some one with child by him? My cousin Juliet?

Lucio

Is she your cousin?

Isabella

Adoptedly; as school-maids change their names

By vain though apt affection.

Lucio

She it is.

Isabella

O, let him marry her.

Lucio

This is the point.

The duke is very strangely gone from hence;

Bore many gentlemen, myself being one,

In hand and hope of action: but we do learn

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,

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

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,

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,

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.

Isabella

Doth he so seek his life?

Lucio

Has censured him

Already; and, as I hear, the provost hath

A warrant for his execution.

Isabella

Alas! what poor ability’s in me

To do him good?

Lucio

Assay the power you have.

Isabella

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,

Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel,

All their petitions are as freely theirs

As they themselves would owe them.

Isabella

I’ll see what I can do.

Lucio

But speedily.

Isabella

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

I’ll send him certain word of my success.

Lucio

I take my leave of you.

Isabella

Good sir, adieu.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. A HALL IN ANGELO’S HOUSE.

Enter Angelo, Escalus, and a Justice, Provost, Officers, and other Attendants, behind

Angelo

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.

Escalus

Ay, but yet

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,

Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue,

That, in the working of your own affections,

Had time cohered with place or place with wishing,

Or that the resolute acting of your blood

Could have attain’d the effect of your own purpose,

Whether you had not sometime in your life

Err’d in this point which now you censure him,

And pull’d the law upon you.

Angelo

’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

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’t

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,

Let mine own judgment pattern out my death,

And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die.

Escalus

Be it as your wisdom will.

Angelo

Where is the provost?

Provost

Here, if it like your honour.

Angelo

See that Claudio

Be executed by nine to-morrow morning:

Bring him his confessor, let him be prepared;

For that’s the utmost of his pilgrimage.

Exit Provost

Escalus

[Aside] Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all!

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall:

Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none:

And some condemned for a fault alone.

Enter Elbow, and Officers with Froth and Pompey

Elbow

Come, bring them away: if these be good people in a commonweal that do nothing but use their abuses in common houses, I know no law: bring them away.

Angelo

How now, sir! What’s your name? and what’s the matter?

Elbow

If it Please your honour, I am the poor duke’s constable, and my name is Elbow: I do lean upon justice, sir, and do bring in here before your good honour two notorious benefactors.

Angelo

Benefactors? Well; what benefactors are they? are they not malefactors?

Elbow

If it? please your honour, I know not well what they are: but precise villains they are, that I am sure of; and void of all profanation in the world that good Christians ought to have.

Escalus

This comes off well; here’s a wise officer.

Angelo

Go to: what quality are they of? Elbow is your name? why dost thou not speak, Elbow?

Pompey

He cannot, sir; he’s out at elbow.

Angelo

What are you, sir?

Elbow

He, sir! a tapster, sir; parcel-bawd; one that serves a bad woman; whose house, sir, was, as they say, plucked down in the suburbs; and now she professes a hot-house, which, I think, is a very ill house too.

Escalus

How know you that?

Elbow

My wife, sir, whom I detest before heaven and your honour,—

Escalus

How? thy wife?

Elbow

Ay, sir; whom, I thank heaven, is an honest woman,—

Escalus

Dost thou detest her therefore?

Elbow

I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well as she, that this house, if it be not a bawd’s house, it is pity of her life, for it is a naughty house.

Escalus

How dost thou know that, constable?

Elbow

Marry, sir, by my wife; who, if she had been a woman cardinally given, might have been accused in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there.

Escalus

By the woman’s means?

Elbow

Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone’s means: but as she spit in his face, so she defied him.

Pompey

Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so.

Elbow

Prove it before these varlets here, thou honourable man; prove it.

Escalus

Do you hear how he misplaces?

Pompey

Sir, she came in great with child; and longing, saving your honour’s reverence, for stewed prunes; sir, we had but two in the house, which at that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit-dish, a dish of some three-pence; your honours have seen such dishes; they are not China dishes, but very good dishes,—

Escalus

Go to, go to: no matter for the dish, sir.

Pompey

No, indeed, sir, not of a pin; you are therein in the right: but to the point. As I say, this Mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and being great-bellied, and longing, as I said, for prunes; and having but two in the dish, as I said, Master Froth here, this very man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them very honestly; for, as you know, Master Froth, I could not give you three-pence again.

Froth

No, indeed.

Pompey

Very well: you being then, if you be remembered, cracking the stones of the foresaid prunes,—

Froth

Ay, so I did indeed.

Pompey

Why, very well; I telling you then, if you be remembered, that such a one and such a one were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless they kept very good diet, as I told you,—

Froth

All this is true.

Pompey

Why, very well, then,—

Escalus

Come, you are a tedious fool: to the purpose. What was done to Elbow’s wife, that he hath cause to complain of? Come me to what was done to her.

Pompey

Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet.

Escalus

No, sir, nor I mean it not.

Pompey

Sir, but you shall come to it, by your honour’s leave. And, I beseech you, look into Master Froth here, sir; a man of four-score pound a year; whose father died at Hallowmas: was’t not at Hallowmas, Master Froth?

Froth

All-hallond eve.

Pompey

Why, very well; I hope here be truths. He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir; ’twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where indeed you have a delight to sit, have you not?

Froth

I have so; because it is an open room and good for winter.

Pompey

Why, very well, then; I hope here be truths.

Angelo

This will last out a night in Russia,

When nights are longest there: I’ll take my leave.

And leave you to the hearing of the cause;

Hoping you’ll find good cause to whip them all.

Escalus

I think no less. Good morrow to your lordship.

Exit Angelo

Now, sir, come on: what was done to Elbow’s wife, once more?

Pompey

Once, sir? there was nothing done to her once.

Elbow

I beseech you, sir, ask him what this man did to my wife.

Pompey

I beseech your honour, ask me.

Escalus

Well, sir; what did this gentleman to her?

Pompey

I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman’s face. Good Master Froth, look upon his honour; ’tis for a good purpose. Doth your honour mark his face?

Escalus

Ay, sir, very well.

Pompey

Nay; I beseech you, mark it well.

Escalus

Well, I do so.

Pompey

Doth your honour see any harm in his face?

Escalus

Why, no.

Pompey

I’ll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him. Good, then; if his face be the worst thing about him, how could Master Froth do the constable’s wife any harm? I would know that of your honour.

Escalus

He’s in the right. Constable, what say you to it?

Elbow

First, an it like you, the house is a respected house; next, this is a respected fellow; and his mistress is a respected woman.

Pompey

By this hand, sir, his wife is a more respected person than any of us all.

Elbow

Varlet, thou liest; thou liest, wicked varlet! the time has yet to come that she was ever respected with man, woman, or child.

Pompey

Sir, she was respected with him before he married with her.

Escalus

Which is the wiser here? Justice or Iniquity? Is this true?

Elbow

O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou wicked Hannibal! I respected with her before I was married to her! If ever I was respected with her, or she with me, let not your worship think me the poor duke’s officer. Prove this, thou wicked Hannibal, or I’ll have mine action of battery on thee.

Escalus

If he took you a box o’ the ear, you might have your action of slander too.

Elbow

Marry, I thank your good worship for it. What is’t your worship’s pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff?

Escalus

Truly, officer, because he hath some offences in him that thou wouldst discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou knowest what they are.

Elbow

Marry, I thank your worship for it. Thou seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what’s come upon thee: thou art to continue now, thou varlet; thou art to continue.

Escalus

Where were you born, friend?

Froth

Here in Vienna, sir.

Escalus

Are you of fourscore pounds a year?

Froth

Yes, an’t please you, sir.

Escalus

So. What trade are you of, sir?

Pompey

Tapster; a poor widow’s tapster.

Escalus

Your mistress’ name?

Pompey

Mistress Overdone.

Escalus

Hath she had any more than one husband?

Pompey

Nine, sir; Overdone by the last.

Escalus

Nine! Come hither to me, Master Froth. Master Froth, I would not have you acquainted with tapsters: they will draw you, Master Froth, and you will hang them. Get you gone, and let me hear no more of you.

Froth

I thank your worship. For mine own part, I never come into any room in a tap-house, but I am drawn in.

Escalus

Well, no more of it, Master Froth: farewell.

Exit Froth

Come you hither to me, Master tapster. What’s your name, Master tapster?

Pompey

Pompey.

Escalus

What else?

Pompey

Bum, sir.

Escalus

Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing about you; so that in the beastliest sense you are Pompey the Great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever you colour it in being a tapster, are you not? come, tell me true: it shall be the better for you.

Pompey

Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow that would live.

Escalus

How would you live, Pompey? by being a bawd? What do you think of the trade, Pompey? is it a lawful trade?

Pompey

If the law would allow it, sir.

Escalus

But the law will not allow it, Pompey; nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna.

Pompey

Does your worship mean to geld and splay all the youth of the city?

Escalus

No, Pompey.

Pompey

Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will to’t then. If your worship will take order for the drabs and the knaves, you need not to fear the bawds.

Escalus

There are pretty orders beginning, I can tell you: it is but heading and hanging.

Pompey

If you head and hang all that offend that way but for ten year together, you’ll be glad to give out a commission for more heads: if this law hold in Vienna ten year, I’ll rent the fairest house in it after three-pence a bay: if you live to see this come to pass, say Pompey told you so.

Escalus

Thank you, good Pompey; and, in requital of your prophecy, hark you: I advise you, let me not find you before me again upon any complaint whatsoever; no, not for dwelling where you do: if I do, Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd Caesar to you; in plain dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipt: so, for this time, Pompey, fare you well.

Pompey

I thank your worship for your good counsel:

Aside

but I shall follow it as the flesh and fortune shall better determine.

Whip me? No, no; let carman whip his jade:

The valiant heart is not whipt out of his trade.

Exit

Escalus

Come hither to me, Master Elbow; come hither, Master constable. How long have you been in this place of constable?

Elbow

Seven year and a half, sir.

Escalus

I thought, by your readiness in the office, you had continued in it some time. You say, seven years together?

Elbow

And a half, sir.

Escalus

Alas, it hath been great pains to you. They do you wrong to put you so oft upon ’t: are there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it?

Elbow

Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters: as they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for them; I do it for some piece of money, and go through with all.

Escalus

Look you bring me in the names of some six or seven, the most sufficient of your parish.

Elbow

To your worship’s house, sir?

Escalus

To my house. Fare you well.

Exit Elbow

What’s o’clock, think you?

Justice

Eleven, sir.

Escalus

I pray you home to dinner with me.

Justice

I humbly thank you.

Escalus

It grieves me for the death of Claudio;

But there’s no remedy.

Justice

Lord Angelo is severe.

Escalus

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 is no remedy.

Come, sir.

Exeunt

SCENE II. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE SAME.

Enter Provost and a Servant

Servant

He’s hearing of a cause; he will come straight

I’ll tell him of you.

Provost

Pray you, do.

Exit Servant

I’ll know

His pleasure; may be he will relent. Alas,

He hath but as offended in a dream!

All sects, all ages smack of this vice; and he

To die for’t!

Enter Angelo

Angelo

Now, what’s the matter. Provost?

Provost

Is it your will Claudio shall die tomorrow?

Angelo

Did not I tell thee yea? hadst thou not order?

Why dost thou ask again?

Provost

Lest I might be too rash:

Under your good correction, I have seen,

When, after execution, judgment hath

Repented o’er his doom.

Angelo

Go to; let that be mine:

Do you your office, or give up your place,

And you shall well be spared.

Provost

I crave your honour’s pardon.

What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet?

She’s very near her hour.

Angelo

Dispose of her

To some more fitter place, and that with speed.

Re-enter Servant

Servant

Here is the sister of the man condemn’d

Desires access to you.

Angelo

Hath he a sister?

Provost

Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid,

And to be shortly of a sisterhood,

If not already.

Angelo

Well, let her be admitted.

Exit Servant

See you the fornicatress be removed:

Let have needful, but not lavish, means;

There shall be order for’t.

Enter Isabella and Lucio

Provost

God save your honour!

Angelo

Stay a little while.

To Isabella

You’re welcome: what’s your will?

Isabella

I am a woeful suitor to your honour,

Please but your honour hear me.

Angelo

Well; what’s your suit?

Isabella

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

At war ’twixt will and will not.

Angelo

Well; the matter?

Isabella

I have a brother is condemn’d to die:

I do beseech you, let it be his fault,

And not my brother.

Provost

[Aside] Heaven give thee moving graces!

Angelo

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,

And let go by the actor.

Isabella

O just but severe law!

I had a brother, then. Heaven keep your honour!

Lucio

[Aside to Isabella] 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,

You could not with more tame a tongue desire it:

To him, I say!

Isabella

Must he needs die?

Angelo

Maiden, no remedy.

Isabella

Yes; I do think that you might pardon him,

And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy.

Angelo

I will not do’t.

Isabella

But can you, if you would?

Angelo

Look, what I will not, that I cannot do.

Isabella

But might you do’t, and do the world no wrong,

If so your heart were touch’d with that remorse

A s mine is to him?

Angelo

He’s sentenced; ’tis too late.

Lucio

[Aside to Isabella] You are too cold.

Isabella

Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word.

May call it back again. Well, believe this,

No ceremony that to great ones ’longs,

Not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword,

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,

You would have slipt like him; but he, like you,

Would not have been so stern.

Angelo

Pray you, be gone.

Isabella

I would to heaven I had your potency,

And you were Isabel! should it then be thus?

No; I would tell what ’twere to be a judge,

And what a prisoner.

Lucio

[Aside to Isabella]

Ay, touch him; there’s the vein.

Angelo

Your brother is a forfeit of the law,

And you but waste your words.

Isabella

Alas, alas!

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

But judge you as you are? O, think on that;

And mercy then will breathe within your lips,

Like man new made.

Angelo

Be you content, fair maid;

It is the law, not I condemn your brother:

Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son,

It should be thus with him: he must die tomorrow.

Isabella

To-morrow! O, that’s sudden! Spare him, spare him!

He’s not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens

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?

There’s many have committed it.

Lucio

[Aside to Isabella] Ay, well said.

Angelo

The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept:

Those many had not dared to do that evil,

If the first that did the edict infringe

Had answer’d for his deed: now ’tis awake

Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet,

Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils,

Either new, or by remissness new-conceived,

And so in progress to be hatch’d and born,

Are now to have no successive degrees,

But, ere they live, to end.

Isabella

Yet show some pity.

Angelo

I show it most of all when I show justice;

For then I pity those I do not know,

Which a dismiss’d offence would after gall;

And do him right that, answering one foul wrong,

Lives not to act another. Be satisfied;

Your brother dies to-morrow; be content.

Isabella

So you must be the first that gives this sentence,

And he, that suffer’s. O, it is excellent

To have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous

To use it like a giant.

Lucio

[Aside to Isabella] That’s well said.

Isabella

Could great men thunder

As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet,

For every pelting, petty officer

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

Than the soft myrtle: but man, proud man,

Drest in a little brief authority,

Most ignorant of what he’s most assured,

His glassy essence, like an angry ape,

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens,

Would all themselves laugh mortal.

Lucio

[Aside to Isabella] O, to him, to him, wench! he will relent; He’s coming; I perceive ’t.

Provost

[Aside] Pray heaven she win him!

Isabella

We cannot weigh our brother with ourself:

Great men may jest with saints; ’tis wit in them,

But in the less foul profanation.

Lucio

Thou’rt i’ the right, girl; more o, that.

Isabella

That in the captain’s but a choleric word,

Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

Lucio

[Aside to Isabella] Art avised o’ that? more on ’t.

Angelo

Why do you put these sayings upon me?

Isabella

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

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

Against my brother’s life.

Angelo

[Aside] She speaks, and ’tis

Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. Fare you well.

Isabella

Gentle my lord, turn back.

Angelo

I will bethink me: come again tomorrow.

Isabella

Hark how I’ll bribe you: good my lord, turn back.

Angelo

How! bribe me?

Isabella

Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you.

Lucio

[Aside to Isabella] You had marr’d all else.

Isabella

Not with fond shekels of the tested gold,

Or stones whose rates are either rich or poor

As fancy values them; but with true prayers

That shall be up at heaven and enter there

Ere sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls,

From fasting maids whose minds are dedicate

To nothing temporal.

Angelo

Well; come to me to-morrow.

Lucio

[Aside to Isabella] Go to; ’tis well; away!

Isabella

Heaven keep your honour safe!

Angelo

[Aside] Amen:

For I am that way going to temptation,

Where prayers cross.

Isabella

At what hour to-morrow

Shall I attend your lordship?

Angelo

At any time ’fore noon.

Isabella

’save your honour!

Exeunt Isabella, Lucio, and Provost

Angelo

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!

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

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!

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

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,

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,

Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid

Subdues me quite. Even till now,

When men were fond, I smiled and wonder’d how.

Exit

SCENE III. A ROOM IN A PRISON.

Enter, severally, Duke Vincentio disguised as a friar, and Provost

Duke Vincentio

Hail to you, provost! so I think you are.

Provost

I am the provost. What’s your will, good friar?

Duke Vincentio

Bound by my charity and my blest order,

I come to visit the afflicted spirits

Here in the prison. Do me the common right

To let me see them and to make me know

The nature of their crimes, that I may minister

To them accordingly.

Provost

I would do more than that, if more were needful.

Enter Juliet

Look, here comes one: a gentlewoman of mine,

Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth,

Hath blister’d her report: she is with child;

And he that got it, sentenced; a young man

More fit to do another such offence

Than die for this.

Duke Vincentio

When must he die?

Provost

As I do think, to-morrow.

I have provided for you: stay awhile,

To Juliet

And you shall be conducted.

Duke Vincentio

Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry?

Juliet

I do; and bear the shame most patiently.

Duke Vincentio

I’ll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience,

And try your penitence, if it be sound,

Or hollowly put on.

Juliet

I’ll gladly learn.

Duke Vincentio

Love you the man that wrong’d you?

Juliet

Yes, as I love the woman that wrong’d him.

Duke Vincentio

So then it seems your most offenceful act

Was mutually committed?

Juliet

Mutually.

Duke Vincentio

Then was your sin of heavier kind than his.

Juliet

I do confess it, and repent it, father.

Duke Vincentio

’Tis meet so, daughter: but lest you do repent,

As that the sin hath brought you to this shame,

Which sorrow is always towards ourselves, not heaven,

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 Vincentio

There rest.

Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow,

And I am going with instruction to him.

Grace go with you, Benedicite!

Exit

Juliet

Must die to-morrow! O injurious love,

That respites me a life, whose very comfort

Is still a dying horror!

Provost

’Tis pity of him.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. A ROOM IN ANGELO’S HOUSE.

Enter Angelo

Angelo

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,

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,

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,

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:

’Tis not the devil’s crest.

Enter a Servant

How now! who’s there?

Servant

One Isabel, a sister, desires access to you.

Angelo

Teach her the way.

Exit Servant

O heavens!

Why does my blood thus muster to my heart,

Making both it unable for itself,

And dispossessing all my other parts

Of necessary fitness?

So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons;

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,

Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness

Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love

Must needs appear offence.

Enter Isabella

How now, fair maid?

Isabella

I am come to know your pleasure.

Angelo

That you might know it, would much better please me

Than to demand what ’tis. Your brother cannot live.

Isabella

Even so. Heaven keep your honour!

Angelo

Yet may he live awhile; and, it may be,

As long as you or I; yet he must die.

Isabella

Under your sentence?

Angelo

Yea.

Isabella

When, I beseech you? that in his reprieve,

Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted

That his soul sicken not.

Angelo

Ha! fie, these filthy vices! It were as good

To pardon him that hath from nature stolen

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

As to put metal in restrained means

To make a false one.

Isabella

’Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth.

Angelo

Say you so? then I shall pose you quickly.

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?

Isabella

Sir, believe this,

I had rather give my body than my soul.

Angelo

I talk not of your soul: our compell’d sins

Stand more for number than for accompt.

Isabella

How say you?

Angelo

Nay, I’ll not warrant that; for I can speak

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

To save this brother’s life?

Isabella

Please you to do’t,

I’ll take it as a peril to my soul,

It is no sin at all, but charity.

Angelo

Pleased you to do’t at peril of your soul,

Were equal poise of sin and charity.

Isabella

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

To have it added to the faults of mine,

And nothing of your answer.

Angelo

Nay, but hear me.

Your sense pursues not mine: either you are ignorant,

Or seem so craftily; and that’s not good.

Isabella

Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good,

But graciously to know I am no better.

Angelo

Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright

When it doth tax itself; as these black masks

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.

Isabella

So.

Angelo

And his offence is so, as it appears,

Accountant to the law upon that pain.

Isabella

True.

Angelo

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 desired of such a person,

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

You must lay down the treasures of your body

To this supposed, or else to let him suffer;

What would you do?

Isabella

As much for my poor brother as myself:

That is, were I under the terms of death,

The impression of keen whips I’ld wear as rubies,

And strip myself to death, as to a bed

That longing have been sick for, ere I’ld yield

My body up to shame.

Angelo

Then must your brother die.

Isabella

And ’twere the cheaper way:

Better it were a brother died at once,

Than that a sister, by redeeming him,

Should die for ever.

Angelo

Were not you then as cruel as the sentence

That you have slander’d so?

Isabella

Ignomy in ransom and free pardon

Are of two houses: lawful mercy

Is nothing kin to foul redemption.

Angelo

You seem’d of late to make the law a tyrant;

And rather proved the sliding of your brother

A merriment than a vice.

Isabella

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,

For his advantage that I dearly love.

Angelo

We are all frail.

Isabella

Else let my brother die,

If not a feodary, but only he

Owe and succeed thy weakness.

Angelo

Nay, women are frail too.

Isabella

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.

Angelo

I think it well:

And from this testimony of your own sex,—

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

By all external warrants, show it now,

By putting on the destined livery.

Isabella

I have no tongue but one: gentle my lord,

Let me entreat you speak the former language.

Angelo

Plainly conceive, I love you.

Isabella

My brother did love Juliet,

And you tell me that he shall die for it.

Angelo

He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.

Isabella

I know your virtue hath a licence in’t,

Which seems a little fouler than it is,

To pluck on others.

Angelo

Believe me, on mine honour,

My words express my purpose.

Isabella

Ha! little honour to be much believed,

And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming!

I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for’t:

Sign me a present pardon for my brother,

Or with an outstretch’d throat I’ll tell the world aloud

What man thou art.

Angelo

Who will believe thee, Isabel?

My unsoil’d name, the austereness of my life,

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,

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

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,

Say what you can, my false o’erweighs your true.

Exit

Isabella

To whom should I complain? Did I tell this,

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 court’sy to their will:

Hooking both right and wrong to the 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.

That, had he twenty heads to tender down

On twenty bloody blocks, he’ld yield them up,

Before his sister should her body stoop

To such abhorr’d pollution.

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.

Exit

ACT III

SCENE I. A ROOM IN THE PRISON.

Enter Duke Vincentio disguised as before, Claudio, and Provost

Duke Vincentio

So then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo?

Claudio

The miserable have no other medicine

But only hope:

I’ve hope to live, and am prepared to die.

Duke Vincentio

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,

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

And yet runn’st toward him still. Thou art not noble;

For all the accommodations that thou bear’st

Are nursed by baseness. Thou’rt by no means valiant;

For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork

Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,

And that thou oft provokest; yet grossly fear’st

Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;

For thou exist’st on many a thousand grains

That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;

For what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get,

And what thou hast, forget’st. Thou art not certain;

For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,

After the moon. If thou art rich, thou’rt poor;

For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows,

Thou bear’s 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,

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,

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.

Claudio

I humbly thank you.

To sue to live, I find I seek to die;

And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.

Isabella

[Within] What, ho! Peace here; grace and good company!

Provost

Who’s there? come in: the wish deserves a welcome.

Duke Vincentio

Dear sir, ere long I’ll visit you again.

Claudio

Most holy sir, I thank you.

Enter Isabella

Isabella

My business is a word or two with Claudio.

Provost

And very welcome. Look, signior, here’s your sister.

Duke Vincentio

Provost, a word with you.

Provost

As many as you please.

Duke Vincentio

Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be concealed.

Exeunt Duke Vincentio and Provost

Claudio

Now, sister, what’s the comfort?

Isabella

Why,

As all comforts are; most good, most good indeed.

Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven,

Intends you for his swift ambassador,

Where you shall be an everlasting leiger:

Therefore your best appointment make with speed;

To-morrow you set on.

Claudio

Is there no remedy?

Isabella

None, but such remedy as, to save a head,

To cleave a heart in twain.

Claudio

But is there any?

Isabella

Yes, brother, you may live:

There is a devilish mercy in the judge,

If you’ll implore it, that will free your life,

But fetter you till death.

Claudio

Perpetual durance?

Isabella

Ay, just; perpetual durance, a restraint,

Though all the world’s vastidity you had,

To a determined scope.

Claudio

But in what nature?

Isabella

In such a one as, you consenting to’t,

Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear,

And leave you naked.

Claudio

Let me know the point.

Isabella

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. Darest thou die?

The sense of death is most in apprehension;

And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,

In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great

As when a giant dies.

Claudio

Why give you me this shame?

Think you I can a resolution fetch

From flowery tenderness? If I must die,

I will encounter darkness as a bride,

And hug it in mine arms.

Isabella

There spake my brother; there my father’s grave

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

Nips youth i’ the head and follies doth emmew

As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil

His filth within being cast, he would appear

A pond as deep as hell.

Claudio

The prenzie Angelo!

Isabella

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,

Thou mightst be freed.

Claudio

O heavens! it cannot be.

Isabella

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,

Or else thou diest to-morrow.

Claudio

Thou shalt not do’t.

Isabella

O, were it but my life,

I’ld throw it down for your deliverance

As frankly as a pin.

Claudio

Thanks, dear Isabel.

Isabella

Be ready, Claudio, for your death tomorrow.

Claudio

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,

Or of the deadly seven, it is the least.

Isabella

Which is the least?

Claudio

If it were damnable, he being so wise,

Why would he for the momentary trick

Be perdurably fined? O Isabel!

Isabella

What says my brother?

Claudio

Death is a fearful thing.

Isabella

And shamed life a hateful.

Claudio

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;

This sensible warm motion to become

A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside

In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;

To be imprison’d in the viewless winds,

And blown with restless violence round about

The pendent world; or to be worse than worst

Of those that lawless and incertain thought

Imagine howling: ’tis too horrible!

The weariest and most loathed worldly life

That age, ache, penury and imprisonment

Can lay on nature is a paradise

To what we fear of death.

Isabella

Alas, alas!

Claudio

Sweet sister, let me live:

What sin you do to save a brother’s life,

Nature dispenses with the deed so far

That it becomes a virtue.

Isabella

O you beast!

O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!

Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice?

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

Ne’er issued 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,

No word to save thee.

Claudio

Nay, hear me, Isabel.

Isabella

O, fie, fie, fie!

Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.

Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd:

’Tis best thou diest quickly.

Claudio

O hear me, Isabella!

Re-enter Duke Vincentio

Duke Vincentio

Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one word.

Isabella

What is your will?

Duke Vincentio

Might you dispense with your leisure, I would by and by have some speech with you: the satisfaction I would require is likewise your own benefit.

Isabella

I have no superfluous leisure; my stay must be stolen out of other affairs; but I will attend you awhile.

Walks apart

Duke Vincentio

Son, I have overheard what hath passed between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only he hath made an essay of her virtue to practise his judgment with the disposition of natures: she, having the truth of honour in her, hath made him that gracious denial which he is most glad to receive. I am confessor to Angelo, and I know this to be true; therefore prepare yourself to death: do not satisfy your resolution with hopes that are fallible: tomorrow you must die; go to your knees and make ready.

Claudio

Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so out of love with life that I will sue to be rid of it.

Duke Vincentio

Hold you there: farewell.

Exit Claudio

Provost, a word with you!

Re-enter Provost

Provost

What’s your will, father

Duke Vincentio

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.

Provost

In good time.

Exit Provost. Isabella comes forward

Duke Vincentio

The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good: the goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair. The assault that Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath conveyed to my understanding; and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, I should wonder at Angelo. How will you do to content this substitute, and to save your brother?

Isabella

I am now going to resolve him: I had rather my brother die by the law than my son should be unlawfully born. But, O, how much is the good duke deceived in Angelo! If ever he return and I can speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or discover his government.

Duke Vincentio

That shall not be much amiss: Yet, as the matter now stands, he will avoid your accusation; he made trial of you only. Therefore fasten your ear on my advisings: to the love I have in doing good a remedy presents itself. I do make myself believe that you may most uprighteously do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit; redeem your brother from the angry law; do no stain to your own gracious person; and much please the absent duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have hearing of this business.

Isabella

Let me hear you speak farther. I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.

Duke Vincentio

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Have you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister of Frederick the great soldier who miscarried at sea?

Isabella

I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name.

Duke Vincentio

She should this Angelo have married; was affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial appointed: between which time of the contract and limit of the solemnity, her brother Frederick was wrecked at sea, having in that perished vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman: there she lost a noble and renowned brother, in his love toward her ever most kind and natural; with him, the portion and sinew of her fortune, her marriage-dowry; with both, her combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo.

Isabella

Can this be so? did Angelo so leave her?

Duke Vincentio

Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort; swallowed his vows whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour: in few, bestowed her on her own lamentation, which she yet wears for his sake; and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but relents not.

Isabella

What a merit were it in death to take this poor maid from the world! What corruption in this life, that it will let this man live! But how out of this can she avail?

Duke Vincentio

It is a rupture that you may easily heal: and the cure of it not only saves your brother, but keeps you from dishonour in doing it.

Isabella

Show me how, good father.

Duke Vincentio

This forenamed maid hath yet in her the continuance of her first affection: his unjust unkindness, that in all reason should have quenched her love, hath, like an impediment in the current, made it more violent and unruly. Go you to Angelo; answer his requiring with a plausible obedience; agree with his demands to the point; only refer yourself to this advantage, first, that your stay with him may not be long; that the time may have all shadow and silence in it; and the place answer to convenience. This being granted in course,— and now follows all,— we shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your appointment, go in your place; if the encounter acknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him to her recompense: and here, by this, is your brother saved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana advantaged, and the corrupt deputy scaled. The maid will I frame and make fit for his attempt. If you think well to carry this as you may, the doubleness of the benefit defends the deceit from reproof. What think you of it?

Isabella

The image of it gives me content already; and I trust it will grow to a most prosperous perfection.

Duke Vincentio

It lies much in your holding up. Haste you speedily to Angelo: if for this night he entreat you to his bed, give him promise of satisfaction. I will presently to Saint Luke’s: there, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana. At that place call upon me; and dispatch with Angelo, that it may be quickly.

Isabella

I thank you for this comfort. Fare you well, good father.

Exeunt severally

SCENE II. THE STREET BEFORE THE PRISON.

Enter, on one side, Duke Vincentio disguised as before; on the other, Elbow, and Officers with Pompey

Elbow

Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will needs buy and sell men and women like beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown and white bastard.

Duke Vincentio

O heavens! what stuff is here

Pompey

’Twas never merry world since, of two usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser allowed by order of law a furred gown to keep him warm; and furred with fox and lamb-skins too, to signify, that craft, being richer than innocency, stands for the facing.

Elbow

Come your way, sir. ’Bless you, good father friar.

Duke Vincentio

And you, good brother father. What offence hath this man made you, sir?

Elbow

Marry, sir, he hath offended the law: and, sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir; for we have found upon him, sir, a strange picklock, which we have sent to the deputy.

Duke Vincentio

Fie, sirrah! a bawd, a wicked bawd!

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,

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.

Pompey

Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir; but yet, sir, I would prove —

Duke Vincentio

Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for sin,

Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer:

Correction and instruction must both work

Ere this rude beast will profit.

Elbow

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 Vincentio

That we were all, as some would seem to be,

From our faults, as faults from seeming, free!

Elbow

His neck will come to your waist,— a cord, sir.

Pompey

I spy comfort; I cry bail. Here’s a gentleman and a friend of mine.

Enter Lucio

Lucio

How now, noble Pompey! What, at the wheels of Caesar? art thou led in triumph? What, is there none of Pygmalion’s images, newly made woman, to be had now, for putting the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutch’d? What reply, ha? What sayest thou to this tune, matter and method? Is’t not drowned i’ the last rain, ha? What sayest thou, Trot? Is the world as it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few words? or how? The trick of it?

Duke Vincentio

Still thus, and thus; still worse!

Lucio

How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still, ha?

Pompey

Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the tub.

Lucio

Why, ’tis good; it is the right of it; it must be so: ever your fresh whore and your powdered bawd: an unshunned consequence; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey?

Pompey

Yes, faith, sir.

Lucio

Why, ’tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell: go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? or how?

Elbow

For being a bawd, for being a bawd.

Lucio

Well, then, imprison him: if imprisonment be the due of a bawd, why, ’tis his right: bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity too; bawd-born. Farewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the prison, Pompey: you will turn good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house.

Pompey

I hope, sir, your good worship will be my bail.

Lucio

No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your bondage: If you take it not patiently, why, your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey. ’Bless you, friar.

Duke Vincentio

And you.

Lucio

Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha?

Elbow

Come your ways, sir; come.

Pompey

You will not bail me, then, sir?

Lucio

Then, Pompey, nor now. What news abroad, friar? what news?

Elbow

Come your ways, sir; come.

Lucio

Go to kennel, Pompey; go.

Exeunt Elbow, Pompey and Officers

What news, friar, of the duke?

Duke Vincentio

I know none. Can you tell me of any?

Lucio

Some say he is with the Emperor of Russia; other some, he is in Rome: but where is he, think you?

Duke Vincentio

I know not where; but wheresoever, I wish him well.

Lucio

It was a mad fantastical trick of him to steal from the state, and usurp the beggary he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his absence; he puts transgression to ’t.

Duke Vincentio

He does well in ’t.

Lucio

A little more lenity to lechery would do no harm in him: something too crabbed that way, friar.

Duke Vincentio

It is too general a vice, and severity must cure it.

Lucio

Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great kindred; it is well allied: but it is impossible to extirp it quite, friar, till eating and drinking be put down. They say this Angelo was not made by man and woman after this downright way of creation: is it true, think you?

Duke Vincentio

How should he be made, then?

Lucio

Some report a sea-maid spawned him; some, that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice; that I know to be true: and he is a motion generative; that’s infallible.

Duke Vincentio

You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace.

Lucio

Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away the life of a man! Would the duke that is absent have done this? Ere he would have hanged a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing a thousand: he had some feeling of the sport: he knew the service, and that instructed him to mercy.

Duke Vincentio

I never heard the absent duke much detected for women; he was not inclined that way.

Lucio

O, sir, you are deceived.

Duke Vincentio

’Tis not possible.

Lucio

Who, not the duke? yes, your beggar of fifty; and his use was to put a ducat in her clack-dish: the duke had crotchets in him. He would be drunk too; that let me inform you.

Duke Vincentio

You do him wrong, surely.

Lucio

Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow was the duke: and I believe I know the cause of his withdrawing.

Duke Vincentio

What, I prithee, might be the cause?

Lucio

No, pardon; ’tis a secret must be locked within the teeth and the lips: but this I can let you understand, the greater file of the subject held the duke to be wise.

Duke Vincentio

Wise! why, no question but he was.

Lucio

A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow.

Duke Vincentio

Either this is the envy in you, folly, or mistaking: the very stream of his life and the business he hath helmed must upon a warranted need give him a better proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own bringings-forth, and he shall appear to the envious a scholar, a statesman and a soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully: or if your knowledge be more it is much darkened in your malice.

Lucio

Sir, I know him, and I love him.

Duke Vincentio

Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love.

Lucio

Come, sir, I know what I know.

Duke Vincentio

I can hardly believe that, since you know not what you speak. But, if ever the duke return, as our prayers are he may, let me desire you to make your answer before him. If it be honest you have spoke, you have courage to maintain it: I am bound to call upon you; and, I pray you, your name?

Lucio

Sir, my name is Lucio; well known to the duke.

Duke Vincentio

He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to report you.

Lucio

I fear you not.

Duke Vincentio

O, you hope the duke will return no more; or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But indeed I can do you little harm; you’ll forswear this again.

Lucio

I’ll be hanged first: thou art deceived in me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell if Claudio die to-morrow or no?

Duke Vincentio

Why should he die, sir?

Lucio

Why? For filling a bottle with a tundish. I would the duke we talk of were returned again: the ungenitured agent will unpeople the province with continency; sparrows must not build in his house-eaves, because they are lecherous. The duke yet would have dark deeds darkly answered; he would never bring them to light: would he were returned! Marry, this Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Farewell, good friar: I prithee, pray for me. The duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on Fridays. He’s not past it yet, and I say to thee, he would mouth with a beggar, though she smelt brown bread and garlic: say that I said so. Farewell.

Exit

Duke Vincentio

No might nor greatness in mortality

Can censure ’scape; back-wounding calumny

The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong

Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?

But who comes here?

Enter Escalus, Provost, and Officers with Mistress Overdone

Escalus

Go; away with her to prison!

Mistress Overdone

Good my lord, be good to me; your honour is accounted a merciful man; good my lord.

Escalus

Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in the same kind! This would make mercy swear and play the tyrant.

Provost

A bawd of eleven years’ continuance, may it please your honour.

Mistress Overdone

My lord, this is one Lucio’s information against me. Mistress Kate Keepdown was with child by him in the duke’s time; he promised her marriage: his child is a year and a quarter old, come Philip and Jacob: I have kept it myself; and see how he goes about to abuse me!

Escalus

That fellow is a fellow of much licence: let him be called before us. Away with her to prison! Go to; no more words.

Exeunt Officers with Mistress Overdone

Provost, my brother Angelo will not be altered; Claudio must die to-morrow: let him be furnished with divines, and have all charitable preparation. if my brother wrought by my pity, it should not be so with him.

Provost

So please you, this friar hath been with him, and advised him for the entertainment of death.

Escalus

Good even, good father.

Duke Vincentio

Bliss and goodness on you!

Escalus

Of whence are you?

Duke Vincentio

Not of this country, though my chance is now

To use it for my time: I am a brother

Of gracious order, late come from the See

In special business from his holiness.

Escalus

What news abroad i’ the world?

Duke Vincentio

None, but that there is so great a fever on goodness, that the dissolution of it must cure it: novelty is only in request; and it is as dangerous to be aged in any kind of course, as it is virtuous to be constant in any undertaking. There is scarce truth enough alive to make societies secure; but security enough to make fellowships accurst: much upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This news is old enough, yet it is every day’s news. I pray you, sir, of what disposition was the duke?

Escalus

One that, above all other strifes, contended especially to know himself.

Duke Vincentio

What pleasure was he given to?

Escalus

Rather rejoicing to see another merry, than merry at any thing which professed to make him rejoice: a gentleman of all temperance. But leave we him to his events, with a prayer they may prove prosperous; and let me desire to know how you find Claudio prepared. I am made to understand that you have lent him visitation.

Duke Vincentio

He professes to have received no sinister measure from his judge, but most willingly humbles himself to the determination of justice: yet had he framed to himself, by the instruction of his frailty, many deceiving promises of life; which I by my good leisure have discredited to him, and now is he resolved to die.

Escalus

You have paid the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I have laboured for the poor gentleman to the extremest shore of my modesty: but my brother justice have I found so severe, that he hath forced me to tell him he is indeed Justice.

Duke Vincentio

If his own life answer the straitness of his proceeding, it shall become him well; wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenced himself.

Escalus

I am going to visit the prisoner. Fare you well.

Duke Vincentio

Peace be with you!

Exeunt Escalus and Provost

He who the sword of heaven will bear

Should be as holy as severe;

Pattern in himself to know,

Grace to stand, and virtue go;

More nor less to others paying

Than by self-offences weighing.

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!

O, what may man within him hide,

Though angel on the outward side!

How may likeness made in crimes,

Making practise on the times,

To draw with idle spiders’ strings

Most ponderous and substantial things!

Craft against vice I must apply:

With Angelo to-night shall lie

His old betrothed but despised;

So disguise shall, by the disguised,

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:

But my kisses bring again, bring again;

Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.

Mariana

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 Vincentio disguised as before

I cry you mercy, sir; and well could wish

You had not found me here so musical:

Let me excuse me, and believe me so,

My mirth it much displeased, but pleased my woe.

Duke Vincentio

’Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm To make bad good, and good provoke to harm. I pray, you, tell me, hath any body inquired for me here to-day? much upon this time have I promised here to meet.

Mariana

You have not been inquired after:

I have sat here all day.

Enter Isabella

Duke Vincentio

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.

Mariana

I am always bound to you.

Exit

Duke Vincentio

Very well met, and well come.

What is the news from this good deputy?

Isabella

He hath a garden circummured with brick,

Whose western side is with a vineyard back’d;

And to that vineyard is a planched gate,

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

Upon the heavy middle of the night

To call upon him.

Duke Vincentio

But shall you on your knowledge find this way?

Isabella

I have ta’en a due and wary note upon’t:

With whispering and most guilty diligence,

In action all of precept, he did show me

The way twice o’er.

Duke Vincentio

Are there no other tokens

Between you ’greed concerning her observance?

Isabella

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,

That stays upon me, whose persuasion is

I come about my brother.

Duke Vincentio

’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;

She comes to do you good.

Isabella

I do desire the like.

Duke Vincentio

Do you persuade yourself that I respect you?

Mariana

Good friar, I know you do, and have found it.

Duke Vincentio

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.

Mariana

Will’t please you walk aside?

Exeunt Mariana and Isabella

Duke Vincentio

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

Make thee the father of their idle dreams

And rack thee in their fancies.

Re-enter Mariana and Isabella

Welcome, how agreed?

Isabella

She’ll take the enterprise upon her, father,

If you advise it.

Duke Vincentio

It is not my consent,

But my entreaty too.

Isabella

Little have you to say

When you depart from him, but, soft and low,

‘Remember now my brother.’

Mariana

Fear me not.

Duke Vincentio

Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all.

He is your husband on a pre-contract:

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:

Our corn’s to reap, for yet our tithe’s to sow.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A ROOM IN THE PRISON.

Enter Provost and Pompey

Provost

Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a man’s head?

Pompey

If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can; but if he be a married man, he’s his wife’s head, and I can never cut off a woman’s head.

Provost

Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and yield me a direct answer. To-morrow morning are to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in our prison a common executioner, who in his office lacks a helper: if you will take it on you to assist him, it shall redeem you from your gyves; if not, you shall have your full time of imprisonment and your deliverance with an unpitied whipping, for you have been a notorious bawd.

Pompey

Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time out of mind; but yet I will be content to be a lawful hangman. I would be glad to receive some instruction from my fellow partner.

Provost

What, ho! Abhorson! Where’s Abhorson, there?

Enter Abhorson

Abhorson

Do you call, sir?

Provost

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.

Abhorson

A bawd, sir? fie upon him! he will discredit our mystery.

Provost

Go to, sir; you weigh equally; a feather will turn the scale.

Exit

Pompey

Pray, sir, by your good favour,— for surely, sir, a good favour you have, but that you have a hanging look,— do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery?

Abhorson

Ay, sir; a mystery

Pompey

Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; and your whores, sir, being members of my occupation, using painting, do prove my occupation a mystery: but what mystery there should be in hanging, if I should be hanged, I cannot imagine.

Abhorson

Sir, it is a mystery.

Pompey

Proof?

Abhorson

Every true man’s apparel fits your thief: if it be too little for your thief, your true man thinks it big enough; if it be too big for your thief, your thief thinks it little enough: so every true man’s apparel fits your thief.

Re-enter Provost

Provost

Are you agreed?

Pompey

Sir, I will serve him; for I do find your hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd; he doth oftener ask forgiveness.

Provost

You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe to-morrow four o’clock.

Abhorson

Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee in my trade; follow.

Pompey

I do desire to learn, sir: and I hope, if you have occasion to use me for your own turn, you shall find me yare; for truly, sir, for your kindness I owe you a good turn.

Provost

Call hither Barnardine and Claudio:

Exeunt Pompey and Abhorson

The one has my pity; not a jot the other,

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?

Claudio

As fast lock’d up in sleep as guiltless labour

When it lies starkly in the traveller’s bones:

He will not wake.

Provost

Who can do good on him?

Well, go, prepare yourself.

Knocking within

But, hark, what noise?

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 Vincentio disguised as before

Welcome father.

Duke Vincentio

The best and wholesomest spirts of the night

Envelope you, good Provost! Who call’d here of late?

Provost

None, since the curfew rung.

Duke Vincentio

Not Isabel?

Provost

No.

Duke Vincentio

They will, then, ere’t be long.

Provost

What comfort is for Claudio?

Duke Vincentio

There’s some in hope.

Provost

It is a bitter deputy.

Duke Vincentio

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

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

The steeled gaoler is the friend of men.

Knocking within

How now! what noise? That spirit’s possessed with haste

That wounds the unsisting postern with these strokes.

Re-enter Provost

Provost

There he must stay until the officer

Arise to let him in: he is call’d up.

Duke Vincentio

Have you no countermand for Claudio yet,

But he must die to-morrow?

Provost

None, sir, none.

Duke Vincentio

As near the dawning, provost, as it is,

You shall hear more ere morning.

Provost

Happily

You something know; yet I believe there comes

No countermand; no such example have we:

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 Vincentio

And here comes Claudio’s pardon.

Messenger

[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.

Provost

I shall obey him.

Exit Messenger

Duke Vincentio

[Aside] This is his pardon, purchased by such sin

For which the pardoner himself is in.

Hence hath offence his quick celerity,

When it is born 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?

Provost

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.

Duke Vincentio

Pray you, let’s hear.

Provost

[Reads] ‘Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock; and in the afternoon Barnardine: for my better satisfaction, let me have Claudio’s head sent me by five. Let this be duly performed; with a thought that more depends on it than we must yet deliver. Thus fail not to do your office, as you will answer it at your peril.’

What say you to this, sir?

Duke Vincentio

What is that Barnardine who is to be executed in the afternoon?

Provost

A Bohemian born, but here nursed un and bred; one that is a prisoner nine years old.

Duke Vincentio

How came it that the absent duke had not either delivered him to his liberty or executed him? I have heard it was ever his manner to do so.

Provost

His friends still wrought reprieves for him: and, indeed, his fact, till now in the government of Lord Angelo, came not to an undoubtful proof.

Duke Vincentio

It is now apparent?

Provost

Most manifest, and not denied by himself.

Duke Vincentio

Hath he born himself penitently in prison? how seems he to be touched?

Provost

A man that apprehends death no more dreadfully but as a drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and fearless of what’s past, present, or to come; insensible of mortality, and desperately mortal.

Duke Vincentio

He wants advice.

Provost

He will hear none: he hath evermore had the liberty of the prison; give him leave to escape hence, he would not: drunk many times a day, if not many days entirely drunk. We have very oft awaked him, as if to carry him to execution, and showed him a seeming warrant for it: it hath not moved him at all.

Duke Vincentio

More of him anon. There is written in your brow, provost, honesty and constancy: if I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me; but, in the boldness of my cunning, I will lay myself in hazard. Claudio, whom here you have warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit to the law than Angelo who hath sentenced him. To make you understand this in a manifested effect, I crave but four days’ respite; for the which you are to do me both a present and a dangerous courtesy.

Provost

Pray, sir, in what?

Duke Vincentio

In the delaying death.

Provost

A lack, how may I do it, having the hour limited, and an express command, under penalty, to deliver his head in the view of Angelo? I may make my case as Claudio’s, to cross this in the smallest.

Duke Vincentio

By the vow of mine order I warrant you, if my instructions may be your guide. Let this Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head born to Angelo.

Provost

Angelo hath seen them both, and will discover the favour.

Duke Vincentio

O, death’s a great disguiser; and you may add to it. Shave the head, and tie the beard; and say it was the desire of the penitent to be so bared before his death: you know the course is common. If any thing fall to you upon this, more than thanks and good fortune, by the saint whom I profess, I will plead against it with my life.

Provost

Pardon me, good father; it is against my oath.

Duke Vincentio

Were you sworn to the duke, or to the deputy?

Provost

To him, and to his substitutes.

Duke Vincentio

You will think you have made no offence, if the duke avouch the justice of your dealing?

Provost

But what likelihood is in that?

Duke Vincentio

Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, integrity, nor persuasion can with ease attempt you, I will go further than I meant, to pluck all fears out of you. Look you, sir, here is the hand and seal of the duke: you know the character, I doubt not; and the signet is not strange to you.

Provost

I know them both.

Duke Vincentio

The contents of this is the return of the duke: you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure; where you shall find, within these two days he will be here. This is a thing that Angelo knows not; for he this very day receives letters of strange tenor; perchance of the duke’s death; perchance entering into some monastery; but, by chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, the unfolding star calls up the shepherd. Put not yourself into amazement how these things should be: all difficulties are but easy when they are known. Call your executioner, and off with Barnardine’s head: I will give him a present shrift and advise him for a better place. Yet you are amazed; but this shall absolutely resolve you. Come away; it is almost clear dawn.

Exeunt

SCENE III. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE SAME.

Enter Pompey

Pompey

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, ninescore 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-coloured satin, which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we here young Dizy, and young Master Deep-vow, and Master Copperspur, and Master Starve-lackey the rapier and dagger man, and young Drop-heir that killed lusty Pudding, and Master Forthlight the tilter, and brave Master Shooty 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.’

Enter Abhorson

Abhorson

Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither.

Pompey

Master Barnardine! you must rise and be hanged.

Master Barnardine!

Abhorson

What, ho, Barnardine!

Barnardine

[Within] A pox o’ your throats! Who makes that noise there? What are you?

Pompey

Your friends, sir; the hangman. You must be so good, sir, to rise and be put to death.

Barnardine

[Within] Away, you rogue, away! I am sleepy.

Abhorson

Tell him he must awake, and that quickly too.

Pompey

Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you are executed, and sleep afterwards.

Abhorson

Go in to him, and fetch him out.

Pompey

He is coming, sir, he is coming; I hear his straw rustle.

Abhorson

Is the axe upon the block, sirrah?

Pompey

Very ready, sir.

Enter Barnardine

Barnardine

How now, Abhorson? what’s the news with you?

Abhorson

Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into your prayers; for, look you, the warrant’s come.

Barnardine

You rogue, I have been drinking all night; I am not fitted for ’t.

Pompey

O, the better, sir; for he that drinks all night, and is hanged betimes in the morning, may sleep the sounder all the next day.

Abhorson

Look you, sir; here comes your ghostly father: do we jest now, think you?

Enter Duke Vincentio disguised as before

Duke Vincentio

Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how hastily you are to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort you and pray with you.

Barnardine

Friar, not I I have been drinking hard all night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or they shall beat out my brains with billets: I will not consent to die this day, that’s certain.

Duke Vincentio

O, sir, you must: and therefore I beseech you

Look forward on the journey you shall go.

Barnardine

I swear I will not die to-day for any man’s persuasion.

Duke Vincentio

But hear you.

Barnardine

Not a word: if you have any thing to say to me, come to my ward; for thence will not I to-day.

Exit

Duke Vincentio

Unfit to live or die: O gravel heart!

After him, fellows; bring him to the block.

Exeunt Abhorson and Pompey

Re-enter Provost

Provost

Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner?

Duke Vincentio

A creature unprepared, unmeet for death;

And to transport him in the mind he is

Were damnable.

Provost

Here in the prison, father,

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

This reprobate till he were well inclined;

And satisfy the deputy with the visage

Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio?

Duke Vincentio

O, ’tis an accident that heaven provides!

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.

Provost

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

If he were known alive?

Duke Vincentio

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

Your safety manifested.

Provost

I am your free dependant.

Duke Vincentio

Quick, dispatch, and send the head to Angelo.

Exit Provost

Now will I write letters to Angelo,—

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

To enter publicly: him I’ll desire

To meet me at the consecrated fount

A league below the city; and from thence,

By cold gradation and well-balanced form,

We shall proceed with Angelo.

Re-enter Provost

Provost

Here is the head; I’ll carry it myself.

Duke Vincentio

Convenient is it. Make a swift return;

For I would commune with you of such things

That want no ear but yours.

Provost

I’ll make all speed.

Exit

Isabella

[Within] Peace, ho, be here!

Duke Vincentio

The tongue of Isabel. She’s come to know

If yet her brother’s pardon be come hither:

But I will keep her ignorant of her good,

To make her heavenly comforts of despair,

When it is least expected.

Enter Isabella

Isabella

Ho, by your leave!

Duke Vincentio

Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter.

Isabella

The better, given me by so holy a man.

Hath yet the deputy sent my brother’s pardon?

Duke Vincentio

He hath released him, Isabel, from the world:

His head is off and sent to Angelo.

Isabella

Nay, but it is not so.

Duke Vincentio

It is no other: show your wisdom, daughter,

In your close patience.

Isabella

O, I will to him and pluck out his eyes!

Duke Vincentio

You shall not be admitted to his sight.

Isabella

Unhappy Claudio! wretched Isabel!

Injurious world! most damned Angelo!

Duke Vincentio

This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot;

Forbear it therefore; give your cause to heaven.

Mark what I say, which you shall find

By every syllable a faithful verity:

The duke comes home to-morrow; nay, dry your eyes;

One of our convent, 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,

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,

And general honour.

Isabella

I am directed by you.

Duke Vincentio

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

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,

I am combined by a sacred vow

And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter:

Command these fretting waters from your eyes

With a light heart; trust not my holy order,

If I pervert your course. Who’s here?

Enter Lucio

Lucio

Good even. Friar, where’s the provost?

Duke Vincentio

Not within, sir.

Lucio

O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see thine eyes so red: thou must be patient. I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran; I dare not for my head fill my belly; one fruitful meal would set me to ’t. But they say the duke will be here to-morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother: if the old fantastical duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived.

Exit Isabella

Duke Vincentio

Sir, the duke is marvellous little beholding to your reports; but the best is, he lives not in them.

Lucio

Friar, thou knowest not the duke so well as I do: he’s a better woodman than thou takest him for.

Duke Vincentio

Well, you’ll answer this one day. Fare ye well.

Lucio

Nay, tarry; I’ll go along with thee

I can tell thee pretty tales of the duke.

Duke Vincentio

You have told me too many of him already, sir, if they be true; if not true, none were enough.

Lucio

I was once before him for getting a wench with child.

Duke Vincentio

Did you such a thing?

Lucio

Yes, marry, did I but I was fain to forswear it; they would else have married me to the rotten medlar.

Duke Vincentio

Sir, your company is fairer than honest. Rest you well.

Lucio

By my troth, I’ll go with thee to the lane’s end: if bawdy talk offend you, we’ll have very little of it. Nay, friar, I am a kind of burr; I shall stick.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. A ROOM IN ANGELO’S HOUSE.

Enter Angelo and Escalus

Escalus

Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched other.

Angelo

In most uneven and distracted manner. His actions show much like to madness: pray heaven his wisdom be not tainted! And why meet him at the gates, and redeliver our authorities there

Escalus

I guess not.

Angelo

And why should we proclaim it in an hour before his entering, that if any crave redress of injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the street?

Escalus

He shows his reason for that: to have a dispatch of complaints, and to deliver us from devices hereafter, which shall then have no power to stand against us.

Angelo

Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaimed betimes i’ the morn; I’ll call you at your house: give notice to such men of sort and suit as are to meet him.

Escalus

I shall, sir. Fare you well.

Angelo

Good night.

Exit Escalus

This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant

And dull to all proceedings. A deflower’d maid!

And by an eminent body that enforced

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;

For my authority bears of a credent bulk,

That no particular scandal once can touch

But it confounds the breather. He should have lived,

Save that riotous youth, with dangerous sense,

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 lived!

A lack, when once our grace we have forgot,

Nothing goes right: we would, and we would not.

Exit

SCENE V. FIELDS WITHOUT THE TOWN.

Enter Duke Vincentio in his own habit, and Friar Peter

Duke Vincentio

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;

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,

And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate;

But send me Flavius first.

Friar Peter

It shall be speeded well.

Exit

Enter Varrius

Duke Vincentio

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.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. STREET NEAR THE CITY GATE.

Enter Isabella and Mariana

Isabella

To speak so indirectly I am loath:

I would say the truth; but to accuse him so,

That is your part: yet I am advised to do it;

He says, to veil full purpose.

Mariana

Be ruled by him.

Isabella

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.

Mariana

I would Friar Peter —

Isabella

O, peace! the friar is come.

Enter Friar Peter

Friar 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;

The generous and gravest citizens

Have hent the gates, and very near upon

The duke is entering: therefore, hence, away!

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. THE CITY GATE.

Mariana veiled, Isabella, and Friar Peter, at their stand. Enter Duke Vincentio, Varrius, Lords, Angelo, Escalus, Lucio, Provost, Officers, and Citizens, at several doors

Duke Vincentio

My very worthy cousin, fairly met!

Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you.

Angelo

Escalus

Happy return be to your royal grace!

Duke Vincentio

Many and hearty thankings to you both.

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.

Angelo

You make my bonds still greater.

Duke Vincentio

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

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,

You must walk by us on our other hand;

And good supporters are you.

Friar Peter and Isabella come forward

Friar Peter

Now is your time: speak loud and kneel before him.

Isabella

Justice, O royal duke! Vail your regard

Upon a wrong’d, I would fain have said, a maid!

O worthy prince, dishonour not your eye

By throwing it on any other object

Till you have heard me in my true complaint

And given me justice, justice, justice, justice!

Duke Vincentio

Relate your wrongs; in what? by whom? be brief.

Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice:

Reveal yourself to him.

Isabella

O worthy duke,

You bid me seek redemption of the devil:

Hear me yourself; for that which I must speak

Must either punish me, not being believed,

Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O hear me, here!

Angelo

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,—

Isabella

By course of justice!

Angelo

And she will speak most bitterly and strange.

Isabella

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,

An hypocrite, a virgin-violator;

Is it not strange and strange?

Duke Vincentio

Nay, it is ten times strange.

Isabella

It is not truer he is Angelo

Than this is all as true as it is strange:

Nay, it is ten times true; for truth is truth

To the end of reckoning.

Duke Vincentio

Away with her! Poor soul,

She speaks this in the infirmity of sense.

Isabella

O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believest

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

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,

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 Vincentio

By mine honesty,

If she be mad,— as I believe no other,—

Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense,

Such a dependency of thing on thing,

As e’er I heard in madness.

Isabella

O gracious duke,

Harp not on that, nor do not banish reason

For inequality; but let your reason serve

To make the truth appear where it seems hid,

And hide the false seems true.

Duke Vincentio

Many that are not mad

Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you say?

Isabella

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,

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 desired her

To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo

For her poor brother’s pardon.

Isabella

That’s he indeed.

Duke Vincentio

You were not bid to speak.

Lucio

No, my good lord;

Nor wish’d to hold my peace.

Duke Vincentio

I wish you now, then;

Pray you, take note of it: and when you have

A business for yourself, pray heaven you then

Be perfect.

Lucio

I warrant your honour.

Duke Vincentio

The warrants for yourself; take heed to’t.

Isabella

This gentleman told somewhat of my tale,—

Lucio

Right.

Duke Vincentio

It may be right; but you are i’ the wrong

To speak before your time. Proceed.

Isabella

I went

To this pernicious caitiff deputy,—

Duke Vincentio

That’s somewhat madly spoken.

Isabella

Pardon it;

The phrase is to the matter.

Duke Vincentio

Mended again. The matter; proceed.

Isabella

In brief, to set the needless process by,

How I persuaded, how I pray’d, and kneel’d,

How he refell’d me, and how I replied,—

For this was of much length,— the vile conclusion

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,

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 Vincentio

This is most likely!

Isabella

O, that it were as like as it is true!

Duke Vincentio

By heaven, fond wretch, thou knowist not what thou speak’st,

Or else thou art suborn’d against his honour

In hateful practise. First, his integrity

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:

Confess the truth, and say by whose advice

Thou camest here to complain.

Isabella

And is this all?

Then, O you blessed ministers above,

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!

Duke Vincentio

I know you’ld 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 practise.

Who knew of Your intent and coming hither?

Isabella

One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick.

Duke Vincentio

A ghostly father, belike. Who knows that Lodowick?

Lucio

My lord, I know him; ’tis a meddling friar;

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 swinged him soundly.

Duke Vincentio

Words against me? this is a good friar, belike!

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,

A very scurvy fellow.

Friar Peter

Blessed be your royal grace!

I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard

Your royal ear abused. First, hath this woman

Most wrongfully accused your substitute,

Who is as free from touch or soil with her

As she from one ungot.

Duke Vincentio

We did believe no less.

Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of?

Friar Peter

I know him for a man divine and holy;

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.

Lucio

My lord, most villanously; believe it.

Friar 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,

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

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 accused,

Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes,

Till she herself confess it.

Duke Vincentio

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!

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.

Mariana

Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face

Until my husband bid me.

Duke Vincentio

What, are you married?

Mariana

No, my lord.

Duke Vincentio

Are you a maid?

Mariana

No, my lord.

Duke Vincentio

A widow, then?

Mariana

Neither, my lord.

Duke Vincentio

Why, you are nothing then: neither maid, widow, nor wife?

Lucio

My lord, she may be a punk; for many of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife.

Duke Vincentio

Silence that fellow: I would he had some cause

To prattle for himself.

Lucio

Well, my lord.

Mariana

My lord; I do confess I ne’er was married;

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.

Duke Vincentio

For the benefit of silence, would thou wert so too!

Lucio

Well, my lord.

Duke Vincentio

This is no witness for Lord Angelo.

Mariana

Now I come to’t my lord

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

With all the effect of love.

Angelo

Charges she more than me?

Mariana

Not that I know.

Duke Vincentio

No? you say your husband.

Mariana

Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo,

Who thinks he knows that he ne’er knew my body,

But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel’s.

Angelo

This is a strange abuse. Let’s see thy face.

Mariana

My husband bids me; now I will unmask.

Unveiling

This is that face, thou cruel Angelo,

Which once thou sworest 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

That took away the match from Isabel,

And did supply thee at thy garden-house

In her imagined person.

Duke Vincentio

Know you this woman?

Lucio

Carnally, she says.

Duke Vincentio

Sirrah, no more!

Lucio

Enough, my lord.

Angelo

My lord, I must confess I know this woman:

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 disvalued

In levity: since which time of five years

I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her,

Upon my faith and honour.

Mariana

Noble prince,

As there comes light from heaven and words from breath,

As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue,

I am affianced this man’s wife as strongly

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,

Let me in safety raise me from my knees

Or else for ever be confixed here,

A marble monument!

Angelo

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

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 practise out.

Duke Vincentio

Ay, with my heart

And punish them to your height of pleasure.

Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman,

Compact with her that’s gone, think’st thou thy oaths,

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 derived.

There is another friar that set them on;

Let him be sent for.

Friar Peter

Would he were here, my lord! for he indeed

Hath set the women on to this complaint:

Your provost knows the place where he abides

And he may fetch him.

Duke Vincentio

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,

In any chastisement: I for a while will leave you;

But stir not you till you have well determined

Upon these slanderers.

Escalus

My lord, we’ll do it throughly.

Exit Duke

Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that

Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person?

Lucio

‘Cucullus non facit monachum:’ honest in nothing but in his clothes; and one that hath spoke most villanous speeches of the duke.

Escalus

We shall entreat you to abide here till he come and enforce them against him: we shall find this friar a notable fellow.

Lucio

As any in Vienna, on my word.

Escalus

Call that same Isabel here once again; I would speak with her.

Exit an Attendant

Pray you, my lord, give me leave to question; you shall see how I’ll handle her.

Lucio

Not better than he, by her own report.

Escalus

Say you?

Lucio

Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her privately, she would sooner confess: perchance, publicly, she’ll be ashamed.

Escalus

I will go darkly to work with her.

Lucio

That’s the way; for women are light at midnight.

Re-enter Officers with Isabella; and Provost with the Duke Vincentio in his friar’s habit

Escalus

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.

Escalus

In very good time: speak not you to him till we call upon you.

Lucio

Mum.

Escalus

Come, sir: did you set these women on to slander

Lord Angelo? they have confessed you did.

Duke Vincentio

’Tis false.

Escalus

How! know you where you are?

Duke Vincentio

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.

Escalus

The duke’s in us; and we will hear you speak:

Look you speak justly.

Duke Vincentio

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,

Thus to retort your manifest appeal,

And put your trial in the villain’s mouth

Which here you come to accuse.

Lucio

This is the rascal; this is he I spoke of.

Escalus

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,

To call him villain? and then to glance from him

To the duke himself, to tax him with injustice?

Take him hence; to the rack with him! We’ll touse you

Joint by joint, but we will know his purpose.

What ’unjust’!

Duke Vincentio

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,

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,

But faults so countenanced, that the strong statutes

Stand like the forfeits in a barber’s shop,

As much in mock as mark.

Escalus

Slander to the state! Away with him to prison!

Angelo

What can you vouch against him, Signior Lucio?

Is this the man that you did tell us of?

Lucio

’Tis he, my lord. Come hither, goodman baldpate: do you know me?

Duke Vincentio

I remember you, sir, by the sound of your voice: I met you at the prison, in the absence of the duke.

Lucio

O, did you so? And do you remember what you said of the duke?

Duke Vincentio

Most notedly, sir.

Lucio

Do you so, sir? And was the duke a fleshmonger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported him to be?

Duke Vincentio

You must, sir, change persons with me, ere you make that my report: you, indeed, spoke so of him; and much more, much worse.

Lucio

O thou damnable fellow! Did not I pluck thee by the nose for thy speeches?

Duke Vincentio

I protest I love the duke as I love myself.

Angelo

Hark, how the villain would close now, after his treasonable abuses!

Escalus

Such a fellow is not to be talked withal. Away with him to prison! Where is the provost? Away with him to prison! lay bolts enough upon him: let him speak no more. Away with those giglots too, and with the other confederate companion!

Duke Vincentio

[To Provost] Stay, sir; stay awhile.

Angelo

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 sheep-biting face, and be hanged an hour! Will’t not off?

Pulls off the friar’s hood, and discovers Duke Vincentio

Duke Vincentio

Thou art the first knave that e’er madest 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.

Lucio

This may prove worse than hanging.

Duke Vincentio

[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,

That yet can do thee office? If thou hast,

Rely upon it till my tale be heard,

And hold no longer out.

Angelo

O my dread lord,

I should be guiltier than my guiltiness,

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,

But let my trial be mine own confession:

Immediate sentence then and sequent death

Is all the grace I beg.

Duke Vincentio

Come hither, Mariana.

Say, wast thou e’er contracted to this woman?

Angelo

I was, my lord.

Duke Vincentio

Go take her hence, and marry her instantly.

Do you the office, friar; which consummate,

Return him here again. Go with him, provost.

Exeunt Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter and Provost

Escalus

My lord, I am more amazed at his dishonour

Than at the strangeness of it.

Duke Vincentio

Come hither, Isabel.

Your friar is now your prince: as I was then

Advertising and holy to your business,

Not changing heart with habit, I am still

Attorney’d at your service.

Isabella

O, give me pardon,

That I, your vassal, have employ’d and pain’d

Your unknown sovereignty!

Duke Vincentio

You are pardon’d, Isabel:

And now, dear maid, be you as free to us.

Your brother’s death, I know, sits at your heart;

And you may marvel why I obscured 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,

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.

Isabella

I do, my lord.

Re-enter Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter, and Provost

Duke Vincentio

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 adjudged your brother,—

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

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.

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.

Away with him!

Mariana

O my most gracious lord,

I hope you will not mock me with a husband.

Duke Vincentio

It is your husband mock’d you with a husband.

Consenting to the safeguard of your honour,

I thought your marriage fit; else imputation,

For that he knew you, might reproach your life

And choke your good to come; for his possessions,

Although by confiscation they are ours,

We do instate and widow you withal,

To buy you a better husband.

Mariana

O my dear lord,

I crave no other, nor no better man.

Duke Vincentio

Never crave him; we are definitive.

Mariana

Gentle my liege,—

Kneeling

Duke Vincentio

You do but lose your labour.

Away with him to death!

To Lucio

Now, sir, to you.

Mariana

O my good lord! Sweet Isabel, take my part;

Lend me your knees, and all my life to come

I’ll lend you all my life to do you service.

Duke Vincentio

Against all sense you do importune her:

Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact,

Her brother’s ghost his paved bed would break,

And take her hence in horror.

Mariana

Isabel,

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;

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?

Duke Vincentio

He dies for Claudio’s death.

Isabella

Most bounteous sir,

Kneeling

Look, if it please you, on this man condemn’d,

As if my brother lived: I partly think

A due sincerity govern’d his deeds,

Till he did look on me: since it is so,

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,

And must be buried but as an intent

That perish’d by the way: thoughts are no subjects;

Intents but merely thoughts.

Mariana

Merely, my lord.

Duke Vincentio

Your suit’s unprofitable; stand up, I say.

I have bethought me of another fault.

Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded

At an unusual hour?

Provost

It was commanded so.

Duke Vincentio

Had you a special warrant for the deed?

Provost

No, my good lord; it was by private message.

Duke Vincentio

For which I do discharge you of your office:

Give up your keys.

Provost

Pardon me, noble lord:

I thought it was a fault, but knew it not;

Yet did repent me, after more advice;

For testimony whereof, one in the prison,

That should by private order else have died,

I have reserved alive.

Duke Vincentio

What’s he?

Provost

His name is Barnardine.

Duke Vincentio

I would thou hadst done so by Claudio.

Go fetch him hither; let me look upon him.

Exit Provost

Escalus

I am sorry, one so learned and so wise

As you, Lord Angelo, have still appear’d,

Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood.

And lack of temper’d judgment afterward.

Angelo

I am sorry that such sorrow I procure:

And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart

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 Vincentio

Which is that Barnardine?

Provost

This, my lord.

Duke Vincentio

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,

And squarest thy life according. Thou’rt condemn’d:

But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all;

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?

Provost

This is another prisoner that I saved.

Who should have died when Claudio lost his head;

As like almost to Claudio as himself.

Unmuffles Claudio

Duke Vincentio

[To Isabella] If he be like your brother, for his sake

Is he pardon’d; and, for your lovely sake,

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.

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,

One all of luxury, an ass, a madman;

Wherein have I so deserved of you,

That you extol me thus?

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 whipt.

Duke Vincentio

Whipt first, sir, and hanged after.

Proclaim it, provost, round about the city.

Is any woman wrong’d by this lewd fellow,

As I have heard him swear himself there’s one

Whom he begot with child, let her appear,

And he shall marry her: the nuptial finish’d,

Let him be whipt 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 Vincentio

Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her.

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.

Duke Vincentio

Slandering a prince deserves it.

Exit Officers with Lucio

She, Claudio, that you wrong’d, look you restore.

Joy to you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo:

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:

We shill 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,

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

What’s yet behind, that’s meet you all should know.

Exeunt

The Merry Wives of Windsor

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. WINDSOR. BEFORE PAGE’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. THE SAME.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN THE GARTER INN.

SCENE IV. A ROOM IN DOCTOR CAIUS’ HOUSE.

ACT II

SCENE I. BEFORE PAGE’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. A ROOM IN THE GARTER INN.

SCENE III. A FIELD NEAR WINDSOR.

ACT III

SCENE I. A FIELD NEAR FROGMORE.

SCENE II. A STREET.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN FORD’S HOUSE.

SCENE IV. A ROOM IN PAGE’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. A ROOM IN THE GARTER INN.

ACT IV

SCENE I. A STREET.

SCENE II. A ROOM IN FORD’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN THE GARTER INN.

SCENE IV. A ROOM IN FORD’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. A ROOM IN THE GARTER INN.

SCENE VI. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE GARTER INN.

ACT V

SCENE I. A ROOM IN THE GARTER INN.

SCENE II. WINDSOR PARK.

SCENE III. A STREET LEADING TO THE PARK.

SCENE IV. WINDSOR PARK.

SCENE V. ANOTHER PART OF THE PARK.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Sir John Falstaff.

Fenton, a young Gentleman.

Shallow, a Country Justice.

Slender, his cousin.

Ford and Page, two Gentelmen dwelling at Windsor.

William Page, a boy, son of Page.

Sir Hugh Evans, a Welsh Parson.

Doctor Caius, a French Physician.

Host of the Garter Inn.

Bardolph, Pistol and Nym, followers of Flastaff.

Robin, page to Flastaff.

Simple, servant to Slender.

Rugby, servant to Doctor Caius.

Mistress Ford.

Mistress Page.

Anne Page, her daughter.

Mistress Quickly, servant to Doctor Caius.

Servants

ACT I

SCENE I. WINDSOR. BEFORE PAGE’S HOUSE.

Enter Shallow, Slender, and Sir Hugh Evans

Shallow

Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star-chamber matter of it: if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire.

Slender

In the county of Gloucester, justice of peace and ‘Coram.’

Shallow

Ay, cousin Slender, and ‘Custalourum’.

Slender

Ay, and ‘Rato-lorum’ too; and a gentleman born, master parson; who writes himself ‘Armigero,’ in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, ‘Armigero.’

Shallow

Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred years.

Slender

All his successors gone before him hath done’t; and all his ancestors that come after him may: they may give the dozen white luces in their coat.

Shallow

It is an old coat.

Sir Hugh Evans

The dozen white louses do become an old coat well; it agrees well, passant; it is a familiar beast to man, and signifies love.

Shallow

The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish is an old coat.

Slender

I may quarter, coz.

Shallow

You may, by marrying.

Sir Hugh Evans

It is marring indeed, if he quarter it.

Shallow

Not a whit.

Sir Hugh Evans

Yes, py’r lady; if he has a quarter of your coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, in my simple conjectures: but that is all one. If Sir John Falstaff have committed disparagements unto you, I am of the church, and will be glad to do my benevolence to make atonements and compremises between you.

Shallow

The council shall bear it; it is a riot.

Sir Hugh Evans

It is not meet the council hear a riot; there is no fear of Got in a riot: the council, look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that.

Shallow

Ha! o’ my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it.

Sir Hugh Evans

It is petter that friends is the sword, and end it: and there is also another device in my prain, which peradventure prings goot discretions with it: there is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master Thomas Page, which is pretty virginity.

Slender

Mistress Anne Page? She has brown hair, and speaks small like a woman.

Sir Hugh Evans

It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold and silver, is her grandsire upon his death’s-bed — Got deliver to a joyful resurrections! — give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years old: it were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master Abraham and Mistress Anne Page.

Slender

Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred pound?

Sir Hugh Evans

Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny.

Slender

I know the young gentlewoman; she has good gifts.

Sir Hugh Evans

Seven hundred pounds and possibilities is goot gifts.

Shallow

Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is Falstaff there?

Sir Hugh Evans

Shall I tell you a lie? I do despise a liar as I do despise one that is false, or as I despise one that is not true. The knight, Sir John, is there; and, I beseech you, be ruled by your well-willers. I will peat the door for Master Page.

Knocks

What, hoa! Got pless your house here!

Page

[Within] Who’s there?

Enter Page

Sir Hugh Evans

Here is Got’s plessing, and your friend, and Justice Shallow; and here young Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to your likings.

Page

I am glad to see your worships well.

I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow.

Shallow

Master Page, I am glad to see you: much good do it your good heart! I wished your venison better; it was ill killed. How doth good Mistress Page?— and I thank you always with my heart, la! with my heart.

Page

Sir, I thank you.

Shallow

Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do.

Page

I am glad to see you, good Master Slender.

Slender

How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard say he was outrun on Cotsall.

Page

It could not be judged, sir.

Slender

You’ll not confess, you’ll not confess.

Shallow

That he will not. ’Tis your fault, ’tis your fault;

’tis a good dog.

Page

A cur, sir.

Shallow

Sir, he’s a good dog, and a fair dog: can there be more said? he is good and fair. Is Sir John Falstaff here?

Page

Sir, he is within; and I would I could do a good office between you.

Sir Hugh Evans

It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak.

Shallow

He hath wronged me, Master Page.

Page

Sir, he doth in some sort confess it.

Shallow

If it be confessed, it is not redress’d: is not that so, Master Page? He hath wronged me; indeed he hath, at a word, he hath, believe me: Robert Shallow, esquire, saith, he is wronged.

Page

Here comes Sir John.

Enter Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol

Falstaff

Now, Master Shallow, you’ll complain of me to the king?

Shallow

Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, and broke open my lodge.

Falstaff

But not kissed your keeper’s daughter?

Shallow

Tut, a pin! this shall be answered.

Falstaff

I will answer it straight; I have done all this.

That is now answered.

Shallow

The council shall know this.

Falstaff

’Twere better for you if it were known in counsel: you’ll be laughed at.

Sir Hugh Evans

Pauca verba, Sir John; goot worts.

Falstaff

Good worts! good cabbage. Slender, I broke your head: what matter have you against me?

Slender

Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you; and against your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol.

Bardolph

You Banbury cheese!

Slender

Ay, it is no matter.

Pistol

How now, Mephostophilus!

Slender

Ay, it is no matter.

Nym

Slice, I say! pauca, pauca: slice! that’s my humour.

Slender

Where’s Simple, my man? Can you tell, cousin?

Sir Hugh Evans

Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand. There is three umpires in this matter, as I understand; that is, Master Page, fidelicet Master Page; and there is myself, fidelicet myself; and the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter.

Page

We three, to hear it and end it between them.

Sir Hugh Evans

Fery goot: I will make a prief of it in my note-book; and we will afterwards ork upon the cause with as great discreetly as we can.

Falstaff

Pistol!

Pistol

He hears with ears.

Sir Hugh Evans

The tevil and his tam! what phrase is this, ‘He hears with ear’? why, it is affectations.

Falstaff

Pistol, did you pick Master Slender’s purse?

Slender

Ay, by these gloves, did he, or I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else, of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward shovel-boards, that cost me two shilling and two pence apiece of Yead Miller, by these gloves.

Falstaff

Is this true, Pistol?

Sir Hugh Evans

No; it is false, if it is a pick-purse.

Pistol

Ha, thou mountain-foreigner! Sir John and Master mine,

I combat challenge of this latten bilbo.

Word of denial in thy labras here!

Word of denial: froth and scum, thou liest!

Slender

By these gloves, then, ’twas he.

Nym

Be avised, sir, and pass good humours: I will say ’marry trap’ with you, if you run the nuthook’s humour on me; that is the very note of it.

Slender

By this hat, then, he in the red face had it; for though I cannot remember what I did when you made me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass.

Falstaff

What say you, Scarlet and John?

Bardolph

Why, sir, for my part I say the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five sentences.

Sir Hugh Evans

It is his five senses: fie, what the ignorance is!

Bardolph

And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cashiered; and so conclusions passed the careires.

Slender

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.

Sir Hugh Evans

So Got udge me, that is a virtuous mind.

Falstaff

You hear all these matters denied, gentlemen; you hear it.

Enter Anne Page, with wine; Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, following

Page

Nay, daughter, carry the wine in; we’ll drink within.

Exit Anne Page

Slender

O heaven! this is Mistress Anne Page.

Page

How now, Mistress Ford!

Falstaff

Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well met: by your leave, good mistress.

Kisses 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.

Exeunt all except Shallow, Slender, and Sir Hugh Evans

Slender

I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of

Songs and Sonnets here.

Enter Simple

How now, Simple! where have you been? I must wait on myself, must I? You have not the Book of Riddles about you, have you?

Simple

Book of Riddles! why, did you not lend it to Alice Shortcake upon All-hallowmas last, a fortnight afore Michaelmas?

Shallow

Come, coz; come, coz; we stay for you. A word with you, coz; marry, this, coz: there is, as ’twere, a tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by Sir Hugh here. Do you understand me?

Slender

Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable; if it be so,

I shall do that that is reason.

Shallow

Nay, but understand me.

Slender

So I do, sir.

Sir Hugh Evans

Give ear to his motions, Master Slender: I will description the matter to you, if you be capacity of it.

Slender

Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says: I pray you, pardon me; he’s a justice of peace in his country, simple though I stand here.

Sir Hugh Evans

But that is not the question: the question is concerning your marriage.

Shallow

Ay, there’s the point, sir.

Sir Hugh Evans

Marry, is it; the very point of it; to Mistress Anne Page.

Slender

Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon any reasonable demands.

Sir Hugh Evans

But can you affection the ’oman? Let us command to know that of your mouth or of your lips; for divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the mouth. Therefore, precisely, can you carry your good will to the maid?

Shallow

Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her?

Slender

I hope, sir, I will do as it shall become one that would do reason.

Sir Hugh Evans

Nay, Got’s lords and his ladies! you must speak possitable, if you can carry her your desires towards her.

Shallow

That you must. Will you, upon good dowry, marry her?

Slender

I will do a greater thing than that, upon your request, cousin, in any reason.

Shallow

Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz: what I do is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the maid?

Slender

I will marry her, sir, at your request: but if there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are married and have more occasion to know one another; I hope, upon familiarity will grow more contempt: but if you say, ‘Marry her,’ I will marry her; that I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely.

Sir Hugh Evans

It is a fery discretion answer; save the fall is in the ort ‘dissolutely:’ the ort is, according to our meaning, ‘resolutely:’ his meaning is good.

Shallow

Ay, I think my cousin meant well.

Slender

Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la!

Shallow

Here comes fair Mistress Anne.

Re-enter Anne Page

Would I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne!

Anne Page

The dinner is on the table; my father desires your worships’ company.

Shallow

I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne.

Sir Hugh Evans

Od’s plessed will! I will not be absence at the grace.

Exeunt Shallow and Sir Hugh Evans

Anne Page

Will’t please your worship to come in, sir?

Slender

No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily; I am very well.

Anne Page

The dinner attends you, sir.

Slender

I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my cousin Shallow.

Exit Simple

A justice of peace sometimes may be beholding to his friend for a man. I keep but three men and a boy yet, till my mother be dead: but what though? Yet I live like a poor gentleman born.

Anne Page

I may not go in without your worship: they will not sit till you come.

Slender

I’ faith, I’ll eat nothing; I thank you as much as though I did.

Anne Page

I pray you, sir, walk in.

Slender

I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruised my shin th’ other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence; three veneys for a dish of stewed prunes; and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. Why do your dogs bark so? be there bears i’ the town?

Anne Page

I think there are, sir; I heard them talked of.

Slender

I love the sport well but I shall as soon quarrel at it as any man in England. You are afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you not?

Anne Page

Ay, indeed, sir.

Slender

That’s meat and drink to me, now. I have seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by the chain; but, I warrant you, the women have so cried and shrieked at it, that it passed: but women, indeed, cannot abide ’em; they are very ill-favored rough things.

Re-enter Page

Page

Come, gentle Master Slender, come; we stay for you.

Slender

I’ll eat nothing, I thank you, sir.

Page

By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir! come, come.

Slender

Nay, pray you, lead the way.

Page

Come on, sir.

Slender

Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first.

Anne Page

Not I, sir; pray you, keep on.

Slender

I’ll rather be unmannerly than troublesome.

You do yourself wrong, indeed, la!

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple

Sir Hugh Evans

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 dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and his wringer.

Simple

Well, sir.

Sir Hugh Evans

Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this letter; for it is a ’oman that altogether’s acquaintance with Mistress Anne Page: and the letter is, to desire and require her to solicit your master’s desires to Mistress Anne Page. I pray you, be gone: I will make an end of my dinner; there’s pippins and cheese to come.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A ROOM IN THE GARTER INN.

Enter Falstaff, Host, Bardolph, Nym, Pistol, and Robin

Falstaff

Mine host of the Garter!

Host

What says my bully-rook? speak scholarly and wisely.

Falstaff

Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers.

Host

Discard, bully Hercules; cashier: let them wag; trot, trot.

Falstaff

I sit at ten pounds a week.

Host

Thou’rt an emperor, Caesar, Keisar, and Pheezar. I will entertain Bardolph; he shall draw, he shall tap: said I well, bully Hector?

Falstaff

Do so, good mine host.

Host

I have spoke; let him follow.

To Bardolph

Let me see thee froth and lime: I am at a word; follow.

Exit

Falstaff

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.

Bardolph

It is a life that I have desired: I will thrive.

Pistol

O base Hungarian wight! wilt thou the spigot wield?

Exit Bardolph

Nym

He was gotten in drink: is not the humour conceited?

Falstaff

I am glad I am so acquit of this tinderbox: his thefts were too open; his filching was like an unskilful singer; he kept not time.

Nym

The good humour is to steal at a minute’s rest.

Pistol

‘Convey,’ the wise it call. ‘steal!’ foh! a fico for the phrase!

Falstaff

Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels.

Pistol

Why, then, let kibes ensue.

Falstaff

There is no remedy; I must cony-catch; I must shift.

Pistol

Young ravens must have food.

Falstaff

Which of you know Ford of this town?

Pistol

I ken the wight: he is of substance good.

Falstaff

My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.

Pistol

Two yards, and more.

Falstaff

No quips now, Pistol! Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford’s wife: I spy entertainment in her; she discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation: I can construe the action of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behavior, to be Englished rightly, is, ‘I am Sir John Falstaff’s.’

Pistol

He hath studied her will, and translated her will, out of honesty into English.

Nym

The anchor is deep: will that humour pass?

Falstaff

Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband’s purse: he hath a legion of angels.

Pistol

As many devils entertain; and ‘To her, boy,’ say I.

Nym

The humour rises; it is good: humour me the angels.

Falstaff

I have writ me here a letter to her: and here another to Page’s wife, who even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious oeillades; sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly.

Pistol

Then did the sun on dunghill shine.

Nym

I thank thee for that humour.

Falstaff

O, she did so course o’er my exteriors with such a greedy intention, that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass! Here’s another letter to her: she bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheater to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go bear thou this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to Mistress Ford: we will thrive, lads, we will thrive.

Pistol

Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become,

And by my side wear steel? then, Lucifer take all!

Nym

I will run no base humour: here, take the humour-letter: I will keep the havior of reputation.

Falstaff

[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 the age,

French thrift, you rogues; myself and skirted page.

Exeunt Falstaff and Robin

Pistol

Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds,

And high and low beguiles the rich and poor:

Tester I’ll have in pouch when thou shalt lack,

Base Phrygian Turk!

Nym

I have operations which be humours of revenge.

Pistol

Wilt thou revenge?

Nym

By welkin and her star!

Pistol

With wit or steel?

Nym

With both the humours, I:

I will discuss the humour of this love to Page.

Pistol

And I to Ford shall eke unfold

How Falstaff, varlet vile,

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.

Pistol

Thou art the Mars of malecontents: I second thee; troop on.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. A ROOM IN DOCTOR CAIUS’ HOUSE.

Enter Mistress Quickly, Simple, and Rugby

Mistress Quickly

What, John Rugby! I pray thee, go to the casement, and see if you can see my master, Master Doctor Caius, coming. If he do, i’ faith, and find any body in the house, here will be an old abusing of God’s patience and the king’s English.

Rugby

I’ll go watch.

Mistress Quickly

Go; and we’ll have a posset for’t soon at night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire.

Exit Rugby

An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house withal, and, I warrant you, no tell-tale nor no breed-bate: his worst fault is, that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish that way: but nobody but has his fault; but let that pass. Peter Simple, you say your name is?

Simple

Ay, for fault of a better.

Mistress Quickly

And Master Slender’s your master?

Simple

Ay, forsooth.

Mistress Quickly

Does he not wear a great round beard, like a glover’s paring-knife?

Simple

No, forsooth: he hath but a little wee face, with a little yellow beard, a Cain-coloured beard.

Mistress Quickly

A softly-sprighted man, is he not?

Simple

Ay, forsooth: but he is as tall a man of his hands as any is between this and his head; he hath fought with a warrener.

Mistress Quickly

How say you? O, I should remember him: does he not hold up his head, as it were, and strut in his gait?

Simple

Yes, indeed, does he.

Mistress Quickly

Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell Master Parson Evans I will do what I can for your master: Anne is a good girl, and I wish —

Re-enter Rugby

Rugby

Out, alas! here comes my master.

Mistress Quickly

We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man; go into this closet: he will not stay long.

Shuts Simple in the closet

What, John Rugby! John! what, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my master; I doubt he be not well, that he comes not home.

Singing

And down, down, adown-a, & c.

Enter Doctor Caius

Doctor Caius

Vat is you sing? I do not like des toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet un boitier vert, a box, a green-a box: do intend vat I speak? a green-a box.

Mistress Quickly

Ay, forsooth; I’ll fetch it you.

Aside

I am glad he went not in himself: if he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad.

Doctor Caius

Fe, fe, fe, fe! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m’en vais a la cour — la grande affaire.

Mistress Quickly

Is it this, sir?

Doctor Caius

Oui; mette le au mon pocket: depeche, quickly. Vere is dat knave Rugby?

Mistress Quickly

What, John Rugby! John!

Rugby

Here, sir!

Doctor Caius

You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby. Come, take-a your rapier, and come after my heel to the court.

Rugby

’Tis ready, sir, here in the porch.

Doctor Caius

By my trot, I tarry too long. Od’s me! Qu’ai-j’oublie! dere is some simples in my closet, dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind.

Mistress Quickly

Ay me, he’ll find the young man here, and be mad!

Doctor Caius

O diable, diable! vat is in my closet? Villain! larron!

Pulling Simple out

Rugby, my rapier!

Mistress Quickly

Good master, be content.

Doctor Caius

Wherefore shall I be content-a?

Mistress Quickly

The young man is an honest man.

Doctor Caius

What shall de honest man do in my closet? dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet.

Mistress Quickly

I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth of it: he came of an errand to me from Parson Hugh.

Doctor Caius

Vell.

Simple

Ay, forsooth; to desire her to —

Mistress Quickly

Peace, I pray you.

Doctor Caius

Peace-a your tongue. Speak-a your tale.

Simple

To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to speak a good word to Mistress Anne Page for my master in the way of marriage.

Mistress Quickly

This is all, indeed, la! but I’ll ne’er put my finger in the fire, and need not.

Doctor Caius

Sir Hugh send-a you? Rugby, baille me some paper.

Tarry you a little-a while.

Writes

Mistress Quickly

[Aside to Simple] I am glad he is so quiet: if he had been thoroughly moved, you should have heard him so loud and so melancholy. But notwithstanding, man, I’ll do you 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,—

Simple

[Aside to Mistress Quickly] ’Tis a great charge to come under one body’s hand.

Mistress Quickly

[Aside to Simple] Are you avised 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.

Doctor Caius

You jack’nape, give-a this letter to Sir Hugh; by gar, it is a shallenge: I will cut his troat in dee park; and I will 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 will cut all his two stones; by gar, he shall not have a stone to throw at his dog:

Exit Simple

Mistress Quickly

Alas, he speaks but for his friend.

Doctor Caius

It is no matter-a ver dat: do not you tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest; and I have appointed mine host of de Jarteer to measure our weapon. By gar, I will myself have Anne Page.

Mistress Quickly

Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We must give folks leave to prate: what, the good-jer!

Doctor Caius

Rugby, come to the court with me. By gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby.

Exeunt Doctor Caius and Rugby

Mistress Quickly

You shall have An fool’s-head of your own. No, I know Anne’s mind for that: never a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne’s mind than I do; nor can do more than I do with her, I thank heaven.

Fenton

[Within] Who’s within there? ho!

Mistress Quickly

Who’s there, I trow! Come near the house, I pray you.

Enter Fenton

Fenton

How now, good woman? how dost thou?

Mistress Quickly

The better that it pleases your good worship to ask.

Fenton

What news? how does pretty Mistress Anne?

Mistress Quickly

In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell you that by the way; I praise heaven for it.

Fenton

Shall I do any good, thinkest thou? shall I not lose my suit?

Mistress Quickly

Troth, sir, all is in his hands above: but notwithstanding, Master Fenton, I’ll be sworn on a book, she loves you. Have not your worship a wart above your eye?

Fenton

Yes, marry, have I; what of that?

Mistress Quickly

Well, thereby hangs a tale: good faith, it is such another Nan; but, I detest, an honest maid as ever broke bread: we had an hour’s talk of that wart. I shall never laugh but in that maid’s company! But indeed she is given too much to allicholy and musing: but for you — well, go to.

Fenton

Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there’s money for thee; let me have thy voice in my behalf: if thou seest her before me, commend me.

Mistress Quickly

Will I? i’faith, that we will; and I will tell your worship more of the wart the next time we have confidence; and of other wooers.

Fenton

Well, farewell; I am in great haste now.

Mistress Quickly

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

Mistress 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.

[Reads] ‘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 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,

Or any kind of light,

With all his might

For thee to fight, John Falstaff’

What a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked world! One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age to show himself a young gallant! What an unweighed behavior hath this Flemish drunkard picked — with the devil’s name!— out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner assay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What should I say to him? I was then frugal of my mirth: Heaven forgive me! Why, I’ll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men. How shall I be revenged on him? for revenged I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings.

Enter Mistress Ford

Mistress Ford

Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to your house.

Mistress Page

And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill.

Mistress Ford

Nay, I’ll ne’er believe that; I have to show to the contrary.

Mistress Page

Faith, but you do, in my mind.

Mistress Ford

Well, I do then; yet I say I could show you to the contrary. O Mistress Page, give me some counsel!

Mistress Page

What’s the matter, woman?

Mistress Ford

O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to such honour!

Mistress Page

Hang the trifle, woman! take the honour. What is it? dispense with trifles; what is it?

Mistress Ford

If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so,

I could be knighted.

Mistress Page

What? thou liest! Sir Alice Ford! These knights will hack; and so thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry.

Mistress Ford

We burn daylight: here, read, read; perceive how I might be knighted. I shall think the worse of fat men, as long as I have an eye to make difference of men’s liking: and yet he would not swear; praised women’s modesty; and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to all uncomeliness, that I would have sworn his disposition would have gone to the truth of his words; but they do no more adhere and keep place together than the Hundredth Psalm to the tune of ‘Green Sleeves.’ What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him? I think the best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like?

Mistress Page

Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs! To thy great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here’s the twin-brother of thy letter: but let thine inherit first; for, I protest, mine never shall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for different names — sure, more,— and these are of the second edition: he will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he puts into the press, when he would put us two. I had rather be a giantess, and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man.

Mistress Ford

Why, this is the very same; the very hand, the very words. What doth he think of us?

Mistress Page

Nay, I know not: it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I’ll entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me, that I know not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury.

Mistress Ford

‘Boarding,’ call you it? I’ll be sure to keep him above deck.

Mistress Page

So will I if he come under my hatches, I’ll never to sea again. Let’s be revenged on him: let’s appoint him a meeting; give him a show of comfort in his suit and lead him on with a fine-baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter.

Mistress Ford

Nay, I will consent to act any villany against him, that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this letter! it would give eternal food to his jealousy.

Mistress Page

Why, look where he comes; and my good man too: he’s as far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause; and that I hope is an unmeasurable distance.

Mistress Ford

You are the happier woman.

Mistress Page

Let’s consult together against this greasy knight.

Come hither.

They retire

Enter Ford with Pistol, and Page with Nym

Ford

Well, I hope it be not so.

Pistol

Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs:

Sir John affects thy wife.

Ford

Why, sir, my wife is not young.

Pistol

He wooes both high and low, both rich and poor,

Both young and old, one with another, Ford;

He loves the gallimaufry: Ford, perpend.

Ford

Love my wife!

Pistol

With liver burning hot. Prevent, or go thou,

Like Sir Actaeon he, with Ringwood at thy heels:

O, odious is the name!

Ford

What name, sir?

Pistol

The horn, I say. Farewell.

Take heed, have open eye, for thieves do foot by night:

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.

Nym

[To Page] And this is true; I like not the humour of lying. He hath wronged me in some humours: I should have borne the humoured letter to her; but I have a sword and it shall bite upon my necessity. He loves your wife; there’s the short and the long. My name is Corporal Nym; I speak and I avouch; ’tis true: my name is Nym and Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese, and there’s the humour of it. Adieu.

Exit

Page

‘The humour of it,’ quoth a’! here’s a fellow frights English out of his wits.

Ford

I will seek out Falstaff.

Page

I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue.

Ford

If I do find it: well.

Page

I will not believe such a Cataian, though the priest o’ the town commended him for a true man.

Ford

’Twas a good sensible fellow: well.

Page

How now, Meg!

Mistress Page and Mistress Ford come forward

Mistress Page

Whither go you, George? Hark you.

Mistress Ford

How now, sweet Frank! why art thou melancholy?

Ford

I melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get you home, go.

Mistress Ford

Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head. Now, will you go, Mistress Page?

Mistress Page

Have with you. You’ll come to dinner, George.

Aside to Mistress Ford

Look who comes yonder: she shall be our messenger to this paltry knight.

Mistress Ford

[Aside to Mistress Page] Trust me, I thought on her: she’ll fit it.

Enter Mistress Quickly

Mistress Page

You are come to see my daughter Anne?

Mistress Quickly

Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne?

Mistress Page

Go in with us and see: we have an hour’s talk with you.

Exeunt Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and Mistress Quickly

Page

How now, Master Ford!

Ford

You heard what this knave told me, did you not?

Page

Yes: and you heard what the other told me?

Ford

Do you think there is truth in them?

Page

Hang ’em, slaves! I do not think the knight would offer it: but these that accuse him in his intent towards our wives are a yoke of his discarded men; very rogues, now they be out of service.

Ford

Were they his men?

Page

Marry, were they.

Ford

I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter?

Page

Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage towards my wife, I would turn her loose to him; and what he gets more of her than sharp words, let it lie on my head.

Ford

I do not misdoubt my wife; but I would be loath to turn them together. A man may be too confident: I would have nothing lie on my head: I cannot be thus satisfied.

Page

Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes: there is either liquor in his pate or money in his purse when he looks so merrily.

Enter Host

How now, mine host!

Host

How now, bully-rook! thou’rt a gentleman.

Cavaleiro-justice, I say!

Enter Shallow

Shallow

I follow, mine host, I follow. Good even and twenty, good Master Page! Master Page, will you go with us? we have sport in hand.

Host

Tell him, cavaleiro-justice; tell him, bully-rook.

Shallow

Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest and Caius the French doctor.

Ford

Good mine host o’ the Garter, a word with you.

Drawing him aside

Host

What sayest thou, my bully-rook?

Shallow

[To Page] Will you go with us to behold it? My merry host hath had the measuring of their weapons; and, I think, hath appointed them contrary places; for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester. Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be.

They converse apart

Host

Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest-cavaleire?

Ford

None, I protest: but I’ll give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me recourse to him and tell him my name is Brook; only for a jest.

Host

My hand, bully; thou shalt have egress and regress; — said I well?— and thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. Will you go, An-heires?

Shallow

Have with you, mine host.

Page

I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier.

Shallow

Tut, sir, I could have told you more. In these times you stand on distance, your passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what: ’tis the heart, Master Page; ’tis here, ’tis here. I have seen the time, with my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats.

Host

Here, boys, here, here! shall we wag?

Page

Have with you. I would rather hear them scold than fight.

Exeunt Host, Shallow, and Page

Ford

Though Page be a secure fool, an 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

Falstaff

I will not lend thee a penny.

Pistol

Why, then the world’s mine oyster.

Which I with sword will open.

Falstaff

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.

Pistol

Didst not thou share? hadst thou not fifteen pence?

Falstaff

Reason, you rogue, reason: thinkest thou I’ll endanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more about me, I am no gibbet for you. Go. A short knife and a throng! To your manor of Pickt-hatch! Go. You’ll not bear a letter for me, you rogue! you stand upon your honour! Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the terms of my honour precise: I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your bold-beating oaths, under the shelter of your honour! You will not do it, you!

Pistol

I do relent: what would thou more of man?

Enter Robin

Robin

Sir, here’s a woman would speak with you.

Falstaff

Let her approach.

Enter Mistress Quickly

Mistress Quickly

Give your worship good morrow.

Falstaff

Good morrow, good wife.

Mistress Quickly

Not so, an’t please your worship.

Falstaff

Good maid, then.

Mistress Quickly

I’ll be sworn,

As my mother was, the first hour I was born.

Falstaff

I do believe the swearer. What with me?

Mistress Quickly

Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two?

Falstaff

Two thousand, fair woman: and I’ll vouchsafe thee the hearing.

Mistress Quickly

There is one Mistress Ford, sir:— I pray, come a little nearer this ways:— I myself dwell with master Doctor Caius,—

Falstaff

Well, on: Mistress Ford, you say,—

Mistress Quickly

Your worship says very true: I pray your worship, come a little nearer this ways.

Falstaff

I warrant thee, nobody hears; mine own people, mine own people.

Mistress Quickly

Are they so? God bless them and make them his servants!

Falstaff

Well, Mistress Ford; what of her?

Mistress Quickly

Why, sir, she’s a good creature. Lord Lord! your worship’s a wanton! Well, heaven forgive you and all of us, I pray!

Falstaff

Mistress Ford; come, Mistress Ford,—

Mistress Quickly

Marry, this is the short and the long of it; you have brought her into such a canaries as ’tis wonderful. The best courtier of them all, when the court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her to such a canary. Yet there has been knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with their coaches, I warrant you, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after gift; smelling so sweetly, all musk, and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold; and in such alligant terms; and in such wine and sugar of the best and the fairest, that would have won any woman’s heart; and, I warrant you, they could never get an eye-wink of her: I had myself twenty angels given me this morning; but I defy all angels, in any such sort, as they say, but in the way of honesty: and, I warrant you, they could never get her so much as sip on a cup with the proudest of them all: and yet there has been earls, nay, which is more, pensioners; but, I warrant you, all is one with her.

Falstaff

But what says she to me? be brief, my good she-Mercury.

Mistress Quickly

Marry, she hath received your letter, for the which she thanks you a thousand times; and she gives you to notify that her husband will be absence from his house between ten and eleven.

Falstaff

Ten and eleven?

Mistress Quickly

Ay, forsooth; and then you may come and see the picture, she says, that you wot of: Master Ford, her husband, will be from home. Alas! the sweet woman leads an ill life with him: he’s a very jealousy man: she leads a very frampold life with him, good heart.

Falstaff

Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me to her; I will not fail her.

Mistress Quickly

Why, you say well. But I have another messenger to your worship. Mistress Page hath her hearty commendations to you too: and let me tell you in your ear, she’s as fartuous a civil modest wife, and one, I tell you, that will not miss you morning nor evening prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe’er be the other: and she bade me tell your worship that her husband is seldom from home; but she hopes there will come a time. I never knew a woman so dote upon a man: surely I think you have charms, la; yes, in truth.

Falstaff

Not I, I assure thee: setting the attractions of my good parts aside I have no other charms.

Mistress Quickly

Blessing on your heart for’t!

Falstaff

But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford’s wife and

Page’s wife acquainted each other how they love me?

Mistress Quickly

That were a jest indeed! they have not so little grace, I hope: that were a trick indeed! but Mistress Page would desire you to send her your little page, of all loves: her husband has a marvellous infection to the little page; and truly Master Page is an honest man. Never a wife in Windsor leads a better life than she does: do what she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go to bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as she will: and truly she deserves it; for if there be a kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must send her your page; no remedy.

Falstaff

Why, I will.

Mistress Quickly

Nay, but do so, then: and, look you, he may come and go between you both; and in any case have a nay-word, that you may know one another’s mind, and the boy never need to understand any thing; for ’tis not good that children should know any wickedness: old folks, you know, have discretion, as they say, and know the world.

Falstaff

Fare thee well: commend me to them both: there’s my purse; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go along with this woman.

Exeunt Mistress Quickly and Robin

This news distracts me!

Pistol

This punk is one of Cupid’s carriers:

Clap on more sails; pursue; up with your fights:

Give fire: she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all!

Exit

Falstaff

Sayest thou so, old Jack? go thy ways; I’ll make more of thy old body than I have done. Will they yet look after thee? Wilt thou, after the expense of so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I thank thee. Let them say ’tis grossly done; so it be fairly done, no matter.

Enter Bardolph

Bardolph

Sir John, there’s one Master Brook below would fain speak with you, and be acquainted with you; and hath sent your worship a morning’s draught of sack.

Falstaff

Brook is his name?

Bardolph

Ay, sir.

Falstaff

Call him in.

Exit Bardolph

Such Brooks are welcome to me, that o’erflow such liquor. Ah, ha! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page have I encompassed you? go to; via!

Re-enter Bardolph, with Ford disguised

Ford

Bless you, sir!

Falstaff

And you, sir! Would you speak with me?

Ford

I make bold to press with so little preparation upon you.

Falstaff

You’re welcome. What’s your will? Give us leave, drawer.

Exit Bardolph

Ford

Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent much; my name is Brook.

Falstaff

Good Master Brook, I desire more acquaintance of you.

Ford

Good Sir John, I sue for yours: not to charge you; for I must let you understand I think myself in better plight for a lender than you are: the which hath something embolden’d me to this unseasoned intrusion; for they say, if money go before, all ways do lie open.

Falstaff

Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on.

Ford

Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles me: if you will help to bear it, Sir John, take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage.

Falstaff

Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be your porter.

Ford

I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the hearing.

Falstaff

Speak, good Master Brook: I shall be glad to be your servant.

Ford

Sir, I hear you are a scholar,— I will be brief with you,— and you have been a man long known to me, though I had never so good means, as desire, to make myself acquainted with you. I shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very much lay open mine own imperfection: but, good Sir John, as you have one eye upon my follies, as you hear them unfolded, turn another into the register of your own; that I may pass with a reproof the easier, sith you yourself know how easy it is to be such an offender.

Falstaff

Very well, sir; proceed.

Ford

There is a gentlewoman in this town; her husband’s name is Ford.

Falstaff

Well, sir.

Ford

I have long loved her, and, I protest to you, bestowed much on her; followed her with a doting observance; engrossed opportunities to meet her; fee’d every slight occasion that could but niggardly give me sight of her; not only bought many presents to give her, but have given largely to many to know what she would have given; briefly, I have pursued her as love hath pursued me; which hath been on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind or, in my means, meed, I am sure, I have received none; unless experience be a jewel that I have purchased at an infinite rate, and that hath taught me to say this:

‘Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues;

Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.’

Falstaff

Have you received no promise of satisfaction at her hands?

Ford

Never.

Falstaff

Have you importuned her to such a purpose?

Ford

Never.

Falstaff

Of what quality was your love, then?

Ford

Like a fair house built on another man’s ground; so that I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it.

Falstaff

To what purpose have you unfolded this to me?

Ford

When I have told you that, I have told you all. Some say, that though she appear honest to me, yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that there is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir John, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a gentleman of excellent breeding, admirable discourse, of great admittance, authentic in your place and person, generally allowed for your many war-like, court-like, and learned preparations.

Falstaff

O, sir!

Ford

Believe it, for you know it. There is money; spend it, spend it; spend more; spend all I have; only give me so much of your time in exchange of it, as to lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this Ford’s wife: use your art of wooing; win her to consent to you: if any man may, you may as soon as any.

Falstaff

Would it apply well to the vehemency of your affection, that I should win what you would enjoy? Methinks you prescribe to yourself very preposterously.

Ford

O, understand my drift. She dwells so securely on the excellency of her honour, that the folly of my soul dares not present itself: she is too bright to be looked against. Now, could I could come to her with any detection in my hand, my desires had instance and argument to commend themselves: I could drive her then from the ward of her purity, her reputation, her marriage-vow, and a thousand other her defences, which now are too too strongly embattled against me. What say you to’t, Sir John?

Falstaff

Master Brook, I will first make bold with your money; next, give me your hand; and last, as I am a gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford’s wife.

Ford

O good sir!

Falstaff

I say you shall.

Ford

Want no money, Sir John; you shall want none.

Falstaff

Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you shall want none. I shall be with her, I may tell you, by her own appointment; even as you came in to me, her assistant or go-between parted from me: I say I shall be with her between ten and eleven; for at that time the jealous rascally knave her husband will be forth. Come you to me at night; you shall know how I speed.

Ford

I am blest in your acquaintance. Do you know Ford, sir?

Falstaff

Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I know him not: yet I wrong him to call him poor; they say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money; for the which his wife seems to me well-favored. I will use her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue’s coffer; and there’s my harvest-home.

Ford

I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him if you saw him.

Falstaff

Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will stare him out of his wits; I will awe him with my cudgel: it shall hang like a meteor o’er the cuckold’s horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt lie with his wife. Come to me soon at night. Ford’s a knave, and I will aggravate his style; thou, Master Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuckold. Come to me soon at night.

Exit

Ford

What a damned Epicurean rascal is this! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who says this is improvident jealousy? my wife hath sent to him; the hour is fixed; the match is made. Would any man have thought this? See the hell of having a false woman! My bed shall be abused, my coffers ransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not only receive this villanous wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me this wrong. Terms! names! Amaimon sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils’ additions, the names of fiends: but Cuckold! Wittol!— Cuckold! the devil himself hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass: he will trust his wife; he will not be jealous. I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself; then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. God be praised for my jealousy! Eleven o’clock the hour. I will prevent this, detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it; better three hours too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! cuckold! cuckold! cuckold!

Exit

SCENE III. A FIELD NEAR WINDSOR.

Enter Doctor Caius and Rugby

Doctor Caius

Jack Rugby!

Rugby

Sir?

Doctor Caius

Vat is de clock, Jack?

Rugby

’Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promised to meet.

Doctor Caius

By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come; he has pray his Pible well, dat he is no come: by gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come.

Rugby

He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill him, if he came.

Doctor Caius

By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him.

Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him.

Rugby

Alas, sir, I cannot fence.

Doctor Caius

Villany, take your rapier.

Rugby

Forbear; here’s company.

Enter Host, Shallow, Slender, and Page

Host

Bless thee, bully doctor!

Shallow

Save you, Master Doctor Caius!

Page

Now, good master doctor!

Slender

Give you good morrow, sir.

Doctor Caius

Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for?

Host

To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse; to see thee here, to see thee there; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian? is he dead, my Francisco? ha, bully! What says my Aesculapius? my Galen? my heart of elder? ha! is he dead, bully stale? is he dead?

Doctor Caius

By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de vorld; he is not show his face.

Host

Thou art a Castalion-King-Urinal. Hector of Greece, my boy!

Doctor Caius

I pray you, bear vitness that me have stay six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come.

Shallow

He is the wiser man, master doctor: he is a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you should fight, you go against the hair of your professions. Is it not true, Master Page?

Page

Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter, though now a man of peace.

Shallow

Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are justices and doctors and churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page.

Page

’Tis true, Master Shallow.

Shallow

It will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor Caius, I am come to fetch you home. I am sworn of the peace: you have showed yourself a wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and patient churchman. You must go with me, master doctor.

Host

Pardon, guest-justice. A word, Mounseur Mockwater.

Doctor Caius

Mock-vater! vat is dat?

Host

Mock-water, in our English tongue, is valour, bully.

Doctor Caius

By gar, den, I have as mush mock-vater as de Englishman. Scurvy jack-dog priest! by gar, me vill cut his ears.

Host

He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully.

Doctor Caius

Clapper-de-claw! vat is dat?

Host

That is, he will make thee amends.

Doctor Caius

By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me; for, by gar, me vill have it.

Host

And I will provoke him to’t, or let him wag.

Doctor Caius

Me tank you for dat.

Host

And, moreover, bully,— but first, master guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaleiro Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore.

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?

Shallow

We will do it.

Page

Shallow

Slender

Adieu, good master doctor.

Exeunt Page, Shallow, and Slender

Doctor Caius

By gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page.

Host

Let him die: sheathe thy impatience, throw cold water on thy choler: go about the fields with me through Frogmore: I will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting; and thou shalt woo her. Cried I aim? said I well?

Doctor Caius

By gar, me dank you for dat: by gar, I love you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients.

Host

For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne

Page. Said I well?

Doctor Caius

By gar, ’tis good; vell said.

Host

Let us wag, then.

Doctor Caius

Come at my heels, Jack Rugby.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. A FIELD NEAR FROGMORE.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple

Sir Hugh Evans

I pray you now, good master Slender’s serving-man, and friend Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius, that calls himself doctor of physic?

Simple

Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park-ward, every way; old Windsor way, and every way but the town way.

Sir Hugh Evans

I most fehemently desire you you will also look that way.

Simple

I will, sir.

Exit

Sir Hugh Evans

’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 good opportunities for the ork. ’Pless my soul!

Sings

To shallow rivers, to whose falls

Melodious birds sings madrigals;

There will we make our peds of roses,

And a thousand fragrant posies.

To shallow —

Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry.

Sings

Melodious birds sing madrigals —

When as I sat in Pabylon —

And a thousand vagram posies.

To shallow & c.

Re-enter Simple

Simple

Yonder he is coming, this way, Sir Hugh.

Sir Hugh Evans

He’s welcome.

Sings

To shallow rivers, to whose falls-

Heaven prosper the right! What weapons is he?

Simple

No weapons, sir. There comes my master, Master Shallow, and another gentleman, from Frogmore, over the stile, this way.

Sir Hugh Evans

Pray you, give me my gown; or else keep it in your arms.

Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender

Shallow

How now, master Parson! Good morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful.

Slender

[Aside] Ah, sweet Anne Page!

Page

’save you, good Sir Hugh!

Sir Hugh Evans

’Pless you from his mercy sake, all of you!

Shallow

What, the sword and the word! do you study them both, master parson?

Page

And youthful still! in your doublet and hose this raw rheumatic day!

Sir Hugh Evans

There is reasons and causes for it.

Page

We are come to you to do a good office, master parson.

Sir Hugh Evans

Fery well: what is it?

Page

Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, belike having received wrong by some person, is at most odds with his own gravity and patience that ever you saw.

Shallow

I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never heard a man of his place, gravity and learning, so wide of his own respect.

Sir Hugh Evans

What is he?

Page

I think you know him; Master Doctor Caius, the renowned French physician.

Sir Hugh Evans

Got’s will, and his passion of my heart! I had as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge.

Page

Why?

Sir Hugh Evans

He has no more knowledge in Hibocrates and Galen, — and he is a knave besides; a cowardly knave as you would desires to be acquainted withal.

Page

I warrant you, he’s the man should fight with him.

Shallow

[Aside] O sweet Anne Page!

Shallow

It appears so by his weapons. Keep them asunder: here comes Doctor Caius.

Enter Host, Doctor Caius, and Rugby

Page

Nay, good master parson, keep in your weapon.

Shallow

So do you, good master doctor.

Host

Disarm them, and let them question: let them keep their limbs whole and hack our English.

Doctor Caius

I pray you, let-a me speak a word with your ear.

Vherefore vill you not meet-a me?

Sir Hugh Evans

[Aside to Doctor Caius] Pray you, use your patience: in good time.

Doctor Caius

By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape.

Sir Hugh Evans

[Aside to Doctor Caius] Pray you let us not be laughing-stocks to other men’s humours; I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends.

Aloud

I will knog your urinals about your knave’s cockscomb for missing your meetings and appointments.

Doctor Caius

Diable! Jack Rugby,— mine host de Jarteer,— have I not stay for him to kill him? have I not, at de place I did appoint?

Sir Hugh Evans

As I am a Christians soul now, look you, this is the place appointed: I’ll be judgement by mine host of the Garter.

Host

Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaul, French and Welsh, soul-curer and body-curer!

Doctor Caius

Ay, dat is very good; excellent.

Host

Peace, I say! hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? no; he gives me the potions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh? no; he gives me the proverbs and the no-verbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so. Give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceived you both; I have directed you to wrong places: your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace; follow, follow, follow.

Shallow

Trust me, a mad host. Follow, gentlemen, follow.

Slender

[Aside] O sweet Anne Page!

Exeunt Shallow, Slender, Page, and Host

Doctor Caius

Ha, do I perceive dat? have you make-a de sot of us, ha, ha?

Sir Hugh Evans

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.

Doctor Caius

By gar, with all my heart. He promise to bring me where is Anne Page; by gar, he deceive me too.

Sir Hugh Evans

Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray you, follow.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A STREET.

Enter Mistress Page and Robin

Mistress 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?

Robin

I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him like a dwarf.

Mistress Page

O, you are a flattering boy: now I see you’ll be a courtier.

Enter Ford

Ford

Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you?

Mistress Page

Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home?

Ford

Ay; and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company. I think, if your husbands were dead, you two would marry.

Mistress Page

Be sure of that,— two other husbands.

Ford

Where had you this pretty weather-cock?

Mistress Page

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of. What do you call your knight’s name, sirrah?

Robin

Sir John Falstaff.

Ford

Sir John Falstaff!

Mistress Page

He, he; I can never hit on’s name. There is such a league between my good man and he! Is your wife at home indeed?

Ford

Indeed she is.

Mistress Page

By your leave, sir: I am sick till I see her.

Exeunt Mistress Page and Robin

Ford

Has Page any brains? hath he any eyes? hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile, as easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank twelve score. He pieces out his wife’s inclination; he gives her folly motion and advantage: and now she’s going to my wife, and Falstaff’s boy with her. A man may hear this shower sing in the wind. And Falstaff’s boy with her! Good plots, they are laid; and our revolted wives share damnation together. Well; I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and wilful Actaeon; and to these violent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim.

Clock heard

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.

Enter Page, Shallow, Slender, Host, Sir Hugh Evans, Doctor Caius, and Rugby

Shallow, Page, amp;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.

Shallow

I must excuse myself, Master Ford.

Slender

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.

Shallow

We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer.

Slender

I hope I have your good will, father Page.

Page

You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly for you: but my wife, master doctor, is for you altogether.

Doctor Caius

Ay, be-gar; and de maid is love-a me: my nursh-a

Quickly tell me so mush.

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.

Page

Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having: he kept company with the wild prince and Poins; 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.

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.

Shallow

Well, fare you well: we shall have the freer wooing at Master Page’s.

Exeunt Shallow, and Slender

Doctor 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

Ford

[Aside] I think I shall drink in pipe wine first with him; I’ll make him dance. Will you go, gentles?

All

Have with you to see this monster.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A ROOM IN FORD’S HOUSE.

Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page

Mistress Ford

What, John! What, Robert!

Mistress Page

Quickly, quickly! is the buck-basket —

Mistress Ford

I warrant. What, Robin, I say!

Enter Servants with a basket

Mistress Page

Come, come, come.

Mistress Ford

Here, set it down.

Mistress Page

Give your men the charge; we must be brief.

Mistress Ford

Marry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be ready here hard by in the brew-house: and when I suddenly call you, come forth, and without any pause or staggering take this basket on your shoulders: that done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry it among the whitsters in Datchet-mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch close by the Thames side.

Mistress Page

You will do it?

Mistress Ford

I ha’ told them over and over; they lack no direction. Be gone, and come when you are called.

Exeunt Servants

Mistress Page

Here comes little Robin.

Enter Robin

Mistress Ford

How now, my eyas-musket! what news with you?

Robin

My master, Sir John, is come in at your back-door,

Mistress Ford, and requests your company.

Mistress Page

You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been true to us?

Robin

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.

Mistress 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.

Mistress Ford

Do so. Go tell thy master I am alone.

Exit Robin

Mistress Page, remember you your cue.

Mistress Page

I warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me.

Exit

Mistress Ford

Go to, then: we’ll use this unwholesome humidity, this gross watery pumpion; we’ll teach him to know turtles from jays.

Enter Falstaff

Falstaff

Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough: this is the period of my ambition: O this blessed hour!

Mistress Ford

O sweet Sir John!

Falstaff

Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, Mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish: I would thy husband were dead: I’ll speak it before the best lord; I would make thee my lady.

Mistress Ford

I your lady, Sir John! alas, I should be a pitiful lady!

Falstaff

Let the court of France show me such another. I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond: thou hast the right arched beauty of the brow that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance.

Mistress Ford

A plain kerchief, Sir John: my brows become nothing else; nor that well neither.

Falstaff

By the Lord, thou art a traitor to say so: thou wouldst make an absolute courtier; and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion to thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, Nature thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it.

Mistress Ford

Believe me, there is no such thing in me.

Falstaff

What made me love thee? let that persuade thee there’s something extraordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog and say thou art this and that, like a many of these lisping hawthorn-buds, that come like women in men’s apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury in simple time; I cannot: but I love thee; none but thee; and thou deservest it.

Mistress Ford

Do not betray me, sir. I fear you love Mistress Page.

Falstaff

Thou mightst as well say I love to walk by the Counter-gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-kiln.

Mistress Ford

Well, heaven knows how I love you; and you shall one day find it.

Falstaff

Keep in that mind; I’ll deserve it.

Mistress Ford

Nay, I must tell you, so you do; or else I could not be in that mind.

Robin

[Within] Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford! here’s Mistress Page at the door, sweating and blowing and looking wildly, and would needs speak with you presently.

Falstaff

She shall not see me: I will ensconce me behind the arras.

Mistress Ford

Pray you, do so: she’s a very tattling woman.

Falstaff hides himself

Re-enter Mistress Page and Robin

What’s the matter? how now!

Mistress Page

O Mistress Ford, what have you done? You’re shamed, you’re overthrown, you’re undone for ever!

Mistress Ford

What’s the matter, good Mistress Page?

Mistress Page

O well-a-day, Mistress Ford! having an honest man to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion!

Mistress Ford

What cause of suspicion?

Mistress Page

What cause of suspicion! Out pon you! how am I mistook in you!

Mistress Ford

Why, alas, what’s the matter?

Mistress Page

Your husband’s coming hither, woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman that he says is here now in the house by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his assence: you are undone.

Mistress Ford

’Tis not so, I hope.

Mistress Page

Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a man here! but ’tis most certain your husband’s coming, with half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. I come before to tell you. If you know yourself clear, why, I am glad of it; but if you have a friend here convey, convey him out. Be not amazed; call all your senses to you; defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever.

Mistress Ford

What shall I do? There is a gentleman my dear friend; and I fear not mine own shame so much as his peril: I had rather than a thousand pound he were out of the house.

Mistress Page

For shame! never stand ‘you had rather’ and ‘you had rather:’ your husband’s here at hand, bethink you of some conveyance: in the house you cannot hide him. O, how have you deceived me! Look, here is a basket: if he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep in here; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to bucking: or — it is whiting-time — send him by your two men to Datchet-mead.

Mistress Ford

He’s too big to go in there. What shall I do?

Falstaff

[Coming forward] Let me see’t, let me see’t, O, let me see’t! I’ll in, I’ll in. Follow your friend’s counsel. I’ll in.

Mistress Page

What, Sir John Falstaff! Are these your letters, knight?

Falstaff

I love thee. Help me away. Let me creep in here.

I’ll never —

Gets into the basket; they cover him with foul linen

Mistress Page

Help to cover your master, boy. Call your men,

Mistress Ford. You dissembling knight!

Mistress 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-meat; quickly, come.

Enter Ford, Page, Doctor Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans

Ford

Pray you, come near: if I suspect without cause, why then make sport at me; then let me be your jest; I deserve it. How now! whither bear you this?

Servant

To the laundress, forsooth.

Mistress Ford

Why, what have you to do whither they bear it? You were best meddle with buck-washing.

Ford

Buck! I would I could wash myself of the buck! Buck, buck, buck! Ay, buck; I warrant you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear.

Exeunt Servants with the basket

Gentlemen, I have dreamed to-night; I’ll tell you my dream. Here, here, here be my keys: ascend my chambers; search, seek, find out: I’ll warrant we’ll unkennel the fox. Let me stop this way first.

Locking the door

So, now uncape.

Page

Good Master Ford, be contented: you wrong yourself too much.

Ford

True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen: you shall see sport anon: follow me, gentlemen.

Exit

Sir Hugh Evans

This is fery fantastical humours and jealousies.

Doctor Caius

By gar, ’tis no the fashion of France; it is not jealous in France.

Page

Nay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue of his search.

Exeunt Page, Doctor Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans

Mistress Page

Is there not a double excellency in this?

Mistress Ford

I know not which pleases me better, that my husband is deceived, or Sir John.

Mistress Page

What a taking was he in when your husband asked who was in the basket!

Mistress Ford

I am half afraid he will have need of washing; so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit.

Mistress Page

Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would all of the same strain were in the same distress.

Mistress Ford

I think my husband hath some special suspicion of Falstaff’s being here; for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now.

Mistress Page

I will lay a plot to try that; and we will yet have more tricks with Falstaff: his dissolute disease will scarce obey this medicine.

Mistress Ford

Shall we send that foolish carrion, Mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into the water; and give him another hope, to betray him to another punishment?

Mistress Page

We will do it: let him be sent for to-morrow, eight o’clock, to have amends.

Re-enter Ford, Page, Doctor Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans

Ford

I cannot find him: may be the knave bragged of that he could not compass.

Mistress Page

[Aside to Mistress Ford] Heard you that?

Mistress Ford

You use me well, Master Ford, do you?

Ford

Ay, I do so.

Mistress Ford

Heaven make you better than your thoughts!

Ford

Amen!

Mistress Page

You do yourself mighty wrong, Master Ford.

Ford

Ay, ay; I must bear it.

Sir Hugh Evans

If there be any pody in the house, and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment!

Doctor Caius

By gar, nor I too: there is no bodies.

Page

Fie, fie, Master Ford! are you not ashamed? What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I would not ha’ your distemper in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle.

Ford

’Tis my fault, Master Page: I suffer for it.

Sir Hugh Evans

You suffer for a pad conscience: your wife is as honest a ’omans as I will desires among five thousand, and five hundred too.

Doctor Caius

By gar, I see ’tis an honest woman.

Ford

Well, I promised you a dinner. Come, come, walk in the Park: I pray you, pardon me; I will hereafter make known to you why I have done this. Come, wife; come, Mistress Page. I pray you, pardon me; pray heartily, pardon me.

Page

Let’s go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we’ll mock him. I do invite you to-morrow morning to my house to breakfast: after, we’ll a-birding together; I have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so?

Ford

Any thing.

Sir Hugh Evans

If there is one, I shall make two in the company.

Doctor Caius

If dere be one or two, I shall make-a the turd.

Ford

Pray you, go, Master Page.

Sir Hugh Evans

I pray you now, remembrance tomorrow on the lousy knave, mine host.

Doctor Caius

Dat is good; by gar, with all my heart!

Sir Hugh Evans

A lousy knave, to have his gibes and his mockeries!

Exeunt

SCENE IV. A ROOM IN PAGE’S HOUSE.

Enter Fenton and Anne Page

Fenton

I see I cannot get thy father’s love;

Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan.

Anne Page

Alas, how then?

Fenton

Why, thou must be thyself.

He doth object I am too great of birth —,

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;

And tells me ’tis a thing impossible

I should love thee but as a property.

Anne Page

May be he tells you true.

Fenton

No, heaven so speed me in my time to come!

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;

And ’tis the very riches of thyself

That now I aim at.

Anne Page

Gentle Master Fenton,

Yet seek my father’s love; still seek it, sir:

If opportunity and humblest suit

Cannot attain it, why, then,— hark you hither!

They converse apart

Enter Shallow, Slender, and Mistress Quickly

Shallow

Break their talk, Mistress Quickly: my kinsman shall speak for himself.

Slender

I’ll make a shaft or a bolt on’t: ’slid, ’tis but venturing.

Shallow

Be not dismayed.

Slender

No, she shall not dismay me: I care not for that, but that I am afeard.

Mistress Quickly

Hark ye; Master Slender would speak a word with you.

Anne Page

I come to him.

Aside

This is my father’s choice.

O, what a world of vile ill-favor’d faults

Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a-year!

Mistress Quickly

And how does good Master Fenton? Pray you, a word with you.

Shallow

She’s coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a father!

Slender

I had a father, Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you good jests of him. Pray you, uncle, tell Mistress Anne the jest, how my father stole two geese out of a pen, good uncle.

Shallow

Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you.

Slender

Ay, that I do; as well as I love any woman in

Gloucestershire.

Shallow

He will maintain you like a gentlewoman.

Slender

Ay, that I will, come cut and long-tail, under the degree of a squire.

Shallow

He will make you a hundred and fifty pounds jointure.

Anne Page

Good Master Shallow, let him woo for himself.

Shallow

Marry, I thank you for it; I thank you for that good comfort. She calls you, coz: I’ll leave you.

Anne Page

Now, Master Slender,—

Slender

Now, good Mistress Anne,—

Anne Page

What is your will?

Slender

My will! ’od’s heartlings, that’s a pretty jest indeed! I ne’er made my will yet, I thank heaven; I am not such a sickly creature, I give heaven praise.

Anne Page

I mean, Master Slender, what would you with me?

Slender

Truly, for mine own part, I would little or nothing with you. Your father and my uncle hath made motions: if it be my luck, so; if not, happy man be his dole! They can tell you how things go better than I can: you may ask your father; here he comes.

Enter Page and Mistress Page

Page

Now, Master Slender: love him, daughter Anne.

Why, how now! what does Master Fenton here?

You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house:

I told you, sir, my daughter is disposed of.

Fenton

Nay, Master Page, be not impatient.

Mistress Page

Good Master Fenton, come not to my child.

Page

She is no match for you.

Fenton

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.

Exeunt Page, Shallow, and Slender

Mistress Quickly

Speak to Mistress Page.

Fenton

Good Mistress Page, for that I love your daughter

In such a righteous fashion as I do,

Perforce, against all cheques, rebukes and manners,

I must advance the colours of my love

And not retire: let me have your good will.

Anne Page

Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool.

Mistress Page

I mean it not; I seek you a better husband.

Mistress Quickly

That’s my master, master doctor.

Anne Page

Alas, I had rather be set quick i’ the earth

And bowl’d to death with turnips!

Mistress Page

Come, trouble not yourself. Good Master Fenton,

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.

Fenton

Farewell, gentle mistress: farewell, Nan.

Exeunt Mistress Page and Anne Page

Mistress Quickly

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.

Fenton

I thank thee; and I pray thee, once to-night

Give my sweet Nan this ring: there’s for thy pains.

Mistress Quickly

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

Falstaff

Bardolph, I say,—

Bardolph

Here, sir.

Falstaff

Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in’t.

Exit Bardolph

Have I lived to be carried in a basket, like a barrow of butcher’s offal, and to be thrown in the Thames? 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.

Re-enter Bardolph with sack

Bardolph

Here’s Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you.

Falstaff

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.

Bardolph

Come in, woman!

Enter Mistress Quickly

Mistress Quickly

By your leave; I cry you mercy: give your worship good morrow.

Falstaff

Take away these chalices. Go brew me a pottle of sack finely.

Bardolph

With eggs, sir?

Falstaff

Simple of itself; I’ll no pullet-sperm in my brewage.

Exit Bardolph

How now!

Mistress Quickly

Marry, sir, I come to your worship from Mistress Ford.

Falstaff

Mistress Ford! I have had ford enough; I was thrown into the ford; I have my belly full of ford.

Mistress Quickly

Alas the day! good heart, that was not her fault: she does so take on with her men; they mistook their erection.

Falstaff

So did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman’s promise.

Mistress Quickly

Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would yearn your heart to see it. Her husband goes this morning a-birding; she desires you once more to come to her between eight and nine: I must carry her word quickly: she’ll make you amends, I warrant you.

Falstaff

Well, I will visit her: tell her so; and bid her think what a man is: let her consider his frailty, and then judge of my merit.

Mistress Quickly

I will tell her.

Falstaff

Do so. Between nine and ten, sayest thou?

Mistress Quickly

Eight and nine, sir.

Falstaff

Well, be gone: I will not miss her.

Mistress Quickly

Peace be with you, sir.

Exit

Falstaff

I marvel I hear not of Master Brook; he sent me word to stay within: I like his money well. O, here he comes.

Enter Ford

Ford

Bless you, sir!

Falstaff

Now, master Brook, you come to know what hath passed between me and Ford’s wife?

Ford

That, indeed, Sir John, is my business.

Falstaff

Master Brook, I will not lie to you: I was at her house the hour she appointed me.

Ford

And sped you, sir?

Falstaff

Very ill-favoredly, Master Brook.

Ford

How so, sir? Did she change her determination?

Falstaff

No, Master Brook; but the peaking Cornuto her husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual ’larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested, and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy; and at his heels a rabble of his companions, thither provoked and instigated by his distemper, and, forsooth, to search his house for his wife’s love.

Ford

What, while you were there?

Falstaff

While I was there.

Ford

And did he search for you, and could not find you?

Falstaff

You shall hear. As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page; gives intelligence of Ford’s approach; and, in her invention and Ford’s wife’s distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket.

Ford

A buck-basket!

Falstaff

By the Lord, a buck-basket! rammed me in with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, greasy napkins; that, Master Brook, there was the rankest compound of villanous smell that ever offended nostril.

Ford

And how long lay you there?

Falstaff

Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have suffered to bring this woman to evil for your good. Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple of Ford’s knaves, his hinds, were called forth by their mistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to Datchet-lane: they took me on their shoulders; met the jealous knave their master in the door, who asked them once or twice what they had in their basket: I quaked for fear, lest the lunatic knave would have searched it; but fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well: on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the sequel, Master Brook: I suffered the pangs of three several deaths; first, an intolerable fright, to be detected with a jealous rotten bell-wether; next, to be compassed, like a good bilbo, in the circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to head; and then, to be stopped in, like a strong distillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in their own grease: think of that,— a man of my kidney,— think of that,— that am as subject to heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution and thaw: it was a miracle to scape suffocation. And in the height of this bath, when I was more than half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of that,— hissing hot,— think of that, Master Brook.

Ford

In good sadness, I am sorry that for my sake you have sufferd all this. My suit then is desperate; you’ll undertake her no more?

Falstaff

Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her husband is this morning gone a-birding: I have received from her another embassy of meeting; ’twixt eight and nine is the hour, Master Brook.

Ford

’Tis past eight already, sir.

Falstaff

Is it? I will then address me to my appointment. Come to me at your convenient leisure, and you shall know how I speed; and the conclusion shall be crowned with your enjoying her. Adieu. You shall have her, Master Brook; Master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford.

Exit

Ford

Hum! ha! is this a vision? is this a dream? do I sleep? Master Ford awake! awake, Master Ford! there’s a hole made in your best coat, Master Ford. This ’tis to be married! this ’tis to have linen and buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself what I am: I will now take the lecher; he is at my house; he cannot ’scape me; ’tis impossible he should; he cannot creep into a halfpenny 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 one mad, let the proverb go with me: I’ll be horn-mad.

Exit

ACT IV

SCENE I. A STREET.

Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Quickly, and William Page

Mistress Page

Is he at Master Ford’s already, think’st thou?

Mistress Quickly

Sure he is by this, or will be presently: but, truly, he is very courageous mad about his throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly.

Mistress Page

I’ll be with her by and by; I’ll but bring my young man here to school. Look, where his master comes; ’tis a playing-day, I see.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans

How now, Sir Hugh! no school to-day?

Sir Hugh Evans

No; Master Slender is let the boys leave to play.

Mistress Quickly

Blessing of his heart!

Mistress Page

Sir Hugh, my husband says my son profits nothing in the world at his book. I pray you, ask him some questions in his accidence.

Sir Hugh Evans

Come hither, William; hold up your head; come.

Mistress Page

Come on, sirrah; hold up your head; answer your master, be not afraid.

Sir Hugh Evans

William, how many numbers is in nouns?

William Page

Two.

Mistress Quickly

Truly, I thought there had been one number more, because they say, ‘’Od’s nouns.’

Sir Hugh Evans

Peace your tattlings! What is ‘fair,’ William?

William Page

Pulcher.

Mistress Quickly

Polecats! there are fairer things than polecats, sure.

Sir Hugh Evans

You are a very simplicity ’oman: I pray you peace.

What is ‘lapis,’ William?

William Page

A stone.

Sir Hugh Evans

And what is ‘a stone,’ William?

William Page

A pebble.

Sir Hugh Evans

No, it is ‘lapis:’ I pray you, remember in your prain.

William Page

Lapis.

Sir Hugh Evans

That is a good William. What is he, William, that does lend articles?

William Page

Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and be thus declined, Singulariter, nominativo, hic, haec, hoc.

Sir Hugh Evans

Nominativo, hig, hag, hog; pray you, mark: genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusative case?

William Page

Accusativo, hinc.

Sir Hugh Evans

I pray you, have your remembrance, child, accusative, hung, hang, hog.

Mistress Quickly

‘Hang-hog’ is Latin for bacon, I warrant you.

Sir Hugh Evans

Leave your prabbles, ’oman. What is the focative case, William?

William Page

O,— vocativo, O.

Sir Hugh Evans

Remember, William; focative is caret.

Mistress Quickly

And that’s a good root.

Sir Hugh Evans

’Oman, forbear.

Mistress Page

Peace!

Sir Hugh Evans

What is your genitive case plural, William?

William Page

Genitive case!

Sir Hugh Evans

Ay.

William Page

Genitive,— horum, harum, horum.

Mistress Quickly

Vengeance of Jenny’s case! fie on her! never name her, child, if she be a whore.

Sir Hugh Evans

For shame, ’oman.

Mistress Quickly

You do ill to teach the child such words: he teaches him to hick and to hack, which they’ll do fast enough of themselves, and to call ‘horum:’ fie upon you!

Sir Hugh Evans

’Oman, art thou lunatics? hast thou no understandings for thy cases and the numbers of the genders? Thou art as foolish Christian creatures as I would desires.

Mistress Page

Prithee, hold thy peace.

Sir Hugh Evans

Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns.

William Page

Forsooth, I have forgot.

Sir Hugh Evans

It is qui, quae, quod: if you forget your ’quies,’ your ‘quaes,’ and your ‘quods,’ you must be preeches. Go your ways, and play; go.

Mistress Page

He is a better scholar than I thought he was.

Sir Hugh Evans

He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mistress Page.

Mistress Page

Adieu, good Sir Hugh.

Exit Sir Hugh Evans

Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A ROOM IN FORD’S HOUSE.

Enter Falstaff and Mistress Ford

Falstaff

Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love, and I profess requital to a hair’s breadth; not only, Mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all the accoutrement, complement and ceremony of it. But are you sure of your husband now?

Mistress Ford

He’s a-birding, sweet Sir John.

Mistress Page

[Within] What, ho, gossip Ford! what, ho!

Mistress Ford

Step into the chamber, Sir John.

Exit Falstaff

Enter Mistress Page

Mistress Page

How now, sweetheart! who’s at home besides yourself?

Mistress Ford

Why, none but mine own people.

Mistress Page

Indeed!

Mistress Ford

No, certainly.

Aside to her

Speak louder.

Mistress Page

Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here.

Mistress Ford

Why?

Mistress Page

Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again: he so takes on yonder with my husband; so rails against all married mankind; so curses all Eve’s daughters, of what complexion soever; and so buffets himself on the forehead, crying, ‘Peer out, peer out!’ that any madness I ever yet beheld seemed but tameness, civility and patience, to this his distemper he is in now: I am glad the fat knight is not here.

Mistress Ford

Why, does he talk of him?

Mistress Page

Of none but him; and swears he was carried out, the last time he searched for him, in a basket; protests to my husband he is now here, and hath drawn him and the rest of their company from their sport, to make another experiment of his suspicion: but I am glad the knight is not here; now he shall see his own foolery.

Mistress Ford

How near is he, Mistress Page?

Mistress Page

Hard by; at street end; he will be here anon.

Mistress Ford

I am undone! The knight is here.

Mistress Page

Why then you are utterly shamed, and he’s but a dead man. What a woman are you!— Away with him, away with him! better shame than murder.

Ford

Which way should be go? how should I bestow him?

Shall I put him into the basket again?

Re-enter Falstaff

Falstaff

No, I’ll come no more i’ the basket. May I not go out ere he come?

Mistress Page

Alas, three of Master Ford’s brothers watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue out; otherwise you might slip away ere he came. But what make you here?

Falstaff

What shall I do? I’ll creep up into the chimney.

Mistress Ford

There they always use to discharge their birding-pieces. Creep into the kiln-hole.

Falstaff

Where is it?

Mistress Ford

He will seek there, on my word. Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an abstract for the remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note: there is no hiding you in the house.

Falstaff

I’ll go out then.

Mistress Page

If you go out in your own semblance, you die, Sir

John. Unless you go out disguised —

Mistress Ford

How might we disguise him?

Mistress Page

Alas the day, I know not! There is no woman’s gown big enough for him otherwise he might put on a hat, a muffler and a kerchief, and so escape.

Falstaff

Good hearts, devise something: any extremity rather than a mischief.

Mistress Ford

My maid’s aunt, the fat woman of Brentford, has a gown above.

Mistress Page

On my word, it will serve him; she’s as big as he is: and there’s her thrummed hat and her muffler too. Run up, Sir John.

Mistress Ford

Go, go, sweet Sir John: Mistress Page and I will look some linen for your head.

Mistress Page

Quick, quick! we’ll come dress you straight: put on the gown the while.

Exit Falstaff

Mistress Ford

I would my husband would meet him in this shape: he cannot abide the old woman of Brentford; he swears she’s a witch; forbade her my house and hath threatened to beat her.

Mistress Page

Heaven guide him to thy husband’s cudgel, and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards!

Mistress Ford

But is my husband coming?

Mistress Page

Ah, in good sadness, is he; and talks of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence.

Mistress Ford

We’ll try that; for I’ll appoint my men to carry the basket again, to meet him at the door with it, as they did last time.

Mistress Page

Nay, but he’ll be here presently: let’s go dress him like the witch of Brentford.

Mistress Ford

I’ll first direct my men what they shall do with the basket. Go up; I’ll bring linen for him straight.

Exit

Mistress Page

Hang him, dishonest varlet! we cannot misuse him enough.

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 eat all the draff.

Exit

Re-enter Mistress Ford with two Servants

Mistress 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 Servant

Come, come, take it up.

Second Servant

Pray heaven it be not full of knight again.

First Servant

I hope not; I had as lief bear so much lead.

Enter Ford, Page, Shallow, Doctor Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans

Ford

Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, have you any way then to unfool me again? Set down the basket, villain! Somebody call my wife. Youth in a basket! O you panderly rascals! there’s a knot, a ging, a pack, a conspiracy against me: now shall the devil be shamed. What, wife, I say! Come, come forth! Behold what honest clothes you send forth to bleaching!

Page

Why, this passes, Master Ford; you are not to go loose any longer; you must be pinioned.

Sir Hugh Evans

Why, this is lunatics! this is mad as a mad dog!

Shallow

Indeed, Master Ford, this is not well, indeed.

Ford

So say I too, sir.

Re-enter Mistress Ford

Come hither, Mistress Ford; Mistress Ford the honest woman, the modest wife, the virtuous creature, that hath the jealous fool to her husband! I suspect without cause, mistress, do I?

Mistress Ford

Heaven be my witness you do, if you suspect me in any dishonesty.

Ford

Well said, brazen-face! hold it out. Come forth, sirrah!

Pulling clothes out of the basket

Page

This passes!

Mistress Ford

Are you not ashamed? let the clothes alone.

Ford

I shall find you anon.

Sir Hugh Evans

’Tis unreasonable! Will you take up your wife’s clothes? Come away.

Ford

Empty the basket, I say!

Mistress Ford

Why, man, why?

Ford

Master Page, as I am a man, there was one conveyed out of my house yesterday in this basket: why may not he be there again? In my house I am sure he is: my intelligence is true; my jealousy is reasonable. Pluck me out all the linen.

Mistress Ford

If you find a man there, he shall die a flea’s death.

Page

Here’s no man.

Shallow

By my fidelity, this is not well, Master Ford; this wrongs you.

Sir Hugh Evans

Master Ford, you must pray, and not follow the imaginations of your own heart: this is jealousies.

Ford

Well, he’s not here I seek for.

Page

No, nor nowhere else but in your brain.

Ford

Help to search my house this one time. If I find not what I seek, show no colour for my extremity; let me for ever be your table-sport; let them say of me, ‘As jealous as Ford, Chat searched a hollow walnut for his wife’s leman.’ Satisfy me once more; once more search with me.

Mistress Ford

What, ho, Mistress Page! come you and the old woman down; my husband will come into the chamber.

Ford

Old woman! what old woman’s that?

Mistress Ford

Nay, it is my maid’s aunt of Brentford.

Ford

A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean! Have I not forbid her my house? She comes of errands, does she? We are simple men; we do not know what’s brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, by the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond our element we know nothing. Come down, you witch, you hag, you; come down, I say!

Mistress Ford

Nay, good, sweet husband! Good gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman.

Re-enter Falstaff in woman’s clothes, and Mistress Page

Mistress Page

Come, Mother Prat; come, give me your hand.

Ford

I’ll prat her.

Beating him

Out of my door, you witch, you hag, you baggage, you polecat, you runyon! out, out! I’ll conjure you, I’ll fortune-tell you.

Exit Falstaff

Mistress Page

Are you not ashamed? I think you have killed the poor woman.

Mistress Ford

Nay, he will do it. ’Tis a goodly credit for you.

Ford

Hang her, witch!

Sir Hugh Evans

By the 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 his muffler.

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.

Page

Let’s obey his humour a little further: come, gentlemen.

Exeunt Ford, Page, Shallow, Doctor Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans

Mistress Page

Trust me, he beat him most pitifully.

Mistress Ford

Nay, by the mass, that he did not; he beat him most unpitifully, methought.

Mistress Page

I’ll have the cudgel hallowed and hung o’er the altar; it hath done meritorious service.

Mistress Ford

What think you? may we, with the warrant of womanhood and the witness of a good conscience, pursue him with any further revenge?

Mistress Page

The spirit of wantonness is, sure, scared out of him: if the devil have him not in fee-simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again.

Mistress Ford

Shall we tell our husbands how we have served him?

Mistress Page

Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape the figures out of your husband’s brains. If they can find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will still be the ministers.

Mistress Ford

I’ll warrant they’ll have him publicly shamed: and methinks there would be no period to the jest, should he not be publicly shamed.

Mistress Page

Come, to the forge with it then; shape it: I would not have things cool.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A ROOM IN THE GARTER INN.

Enter Host and Bardolph

Bardolph

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.

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?

Bardolph

Ay, sir; I’ll call them to you.

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

Sir Hugh Evans

’Tis one of the best discretions of a ’oman as ever

I did look upon.

Page

And did he send you both these letters at an instant?

Mistress 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

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 offence.

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.

Page

How? to send him word they’ll meet him in the park at midnight? Fie, fie! he’ll never come.

Sir Hugh Evans

You say he has been thrown in 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.

Page

So think I too.

Mistress Ford

Devise but how you’ll use him when he comes,

And let us two devise to bring him thither.

Mistress 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;

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

The superstitious idle-headed eld

Received 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

In deep of night to walk by this Herne’s oak:

But what of this?

Mistress Ford

Marry, this is our device;

That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us.

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?

Mistress Page

That likewise have we thought upon, and thus:

Nan Page my daughter and my little son

And three or four more of their growth we’ll dress

Like urchins, ouphes and fairies, green and white,

With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads,

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,

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,

In their so sacred paths he dares to tread

In shape profane.

Mistress Ford

And till he tell the truth,

Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound

And burn him with their tapers.

Mistress Page

The truth being known,

We’ll all present ourselves, dis-horn the spirit,

And mock him home to Windsor.

Ford

The children must

Be practised well to this, or they’ll ne’er do’t.

Sir Hugh Evans

I will teach the children their behaviors; and I will be like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the knight with my taber.

Ford

That will be excellent. I’ll go and buy them vizards.

Mistress Page

My Nan shall be the queen of all the fairies,

Finely attired in a robe of white.

Page

That silk will I go buy.

Aside

And in that time

Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away

And marry her at Eton. Go send to Falstaff straight.

Ford

Nay I’ll to him again in name of Brook

He’ll tell me all his purpose: sure, he’ll come.

Mistress Page

Fear not you that. Go get us properties

And tricking for our fairies.

Sir Hugh Evans

Let us about it: it is admirable pleasures and fery honest knaveries.

Exeunt Page, Ford, and Sir Hugh Evans

Mistress Page

Go, Mistress Ford,

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;

And he my husband best of all affects.

The doctor is well money’d, and his friends

Potent at court: he, none but he, shall have her,

Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her.

Exit

SCENE V. A ROOM IN THE GARTER INN.

Enter Host and Simple

Host

What wouldst thou have, boor? what: thick-skin? speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, quick, snap.

Simple

Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John Falstaff from Master Slender.

Host

There’s his chamber, his house, his castle, his standing-bed and truckle-bed; ’tis painted about with the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go knock and call; hell speak like an Anthropophaginian unto thee: knock, I say.

Simple

There’s an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into his chamber: I’ll be so bold as stay, sir, till she come down; I come to speak with her, indeed.

Host

Ha! a fat woman! the knight may be robbed: I’ll call. Bully knight! bully Sir John! speak from thy lungs military: art thou there? it is thine host, thine Ephesian, calls.

Falstaff

[Above] How now, mine host!

Host

Here’s a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming down of thy fat woman. Let her descend, bully, let her descend; my chambers are honourable: fie! privacy? fie!

Enter Falstaff

Falstaff

There was, mine host, an old fat woman even now with me; but she’s gone.

Simple

Pray you, sir, was’t not the wise woman of

Brentford?

Falstaff

Ay, marry, was it, mussel-shell: what would you with her?

Simple

My master, sir, Master Slender, sent to her, seeing her go through the streets, to know, sir, whether one Nym, sir, that beguiled him of a chain, had the chain or no.

Falstaff

I spake with the old woman about it.

Simple

And what says she, I pray, sir?

Falstaff

Marry, she says that the very same man that beguiled Master Slender of his chain cozened him of it.

Simple

I would I could have spoken with the woman herself; I had other things to have spoken with her too from him.

Falstaff

What are they? let us know.

Host

Ay, come; quick.

Simple

I may not conceal them, sir.

Host

Conceal them, or thou diest.

Simple

Why, sir, they were nothing but about Mistress Anne Page; to know if it were my master’s fortune to have her or no.

Falstaff

’Tis, ’tis his fortune.

Simple

What, sir?

Falstaff

To have her, or no. Go; say the woman told me so.

Simple

May I be bold to say so, sir?

Falstaff

Ay, sir; like who more bold.

Simple

I thank your worship: I shall make my master glad with these tidings.

Exit

Host

Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir John. Was there a wise woman with thee?

Falstaff

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.

Enter Bardolph

Bardolph

Out, alas, sir! cozenage, mere cozenage!

Host

Where be my horses? speak well of them, varletto.

Bardolph

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.

Host

They are gone but to meet the duke, villain: do not say they be fled; Germans are honest men.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans

Sir Hugh Evans

Where is mine host?

Host

What is the matter, sir?

Sir Hugh Evans

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-stocks, and ’tis not convenient you should be cozened. Fare you well.

Exit

Enter Doctor Caius

Doctor Caius

Vere is mine host de Jarteer?

Host

Here, master doctor, in perplexity and doubtful dilemma.

Doctor 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 the 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!

Exeunt Host and Bardolph

Falstaff

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.

Enter Mistress Quickly

Now, whence come you?

Mistress Quickly

From the two parties, forsooth.

Falstaff

The devil take one party and his dam the other! and so they shall be both bestowed. I have suffered more for their sakes, more than the villanous inconstancy of man’s disposition is able to bear.

Mistress Quickly

And have not they suffered? Yes, I warrant; speciously one of them; Mistress Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a white spot about her.

Falstaff

What tellest thou me of black and blue? I was beaten myself into all the colours of the rainbow; and I was like to be apprehended for the witch of Brentford: but that my admirable dexterity of wit, my counterfeiting the action of an old woman, delivered me, the knave constable had set me i’ the stocks, i’ the common stocks, for a witch.

Mistress Quickly

Sir, let me speak with you in your chamber: you shall hear how things go; and, I warrant, to your content. Here is a letter will say somewhat. Good hearts, what ado here is to bring you together! Sure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that you are so crossed.

Falstaff

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.

Fenton

Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my purpose,

And, as I am a gentleman, I’ll give thee

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.

Fenton

From time to time I have acquainted you

With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page;

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

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; fat Falstaff

Hath a great scene: the image of the jest

I’ll show you here at large. 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,

While other jests are something rank on foot,

Her father hath commanded her to slip

Away with Slender and with him at Eton

Immediately to marry: she hath consented: Now, sir,

Her mother, ever strong against that match

And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed

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

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,

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,

That quaint in green she shall be loose enrobed,

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,

The maid hath given consent to go with him.

Host

Which means she to deceive, father or mother?

Fenton

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,

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.

Fenton

So shall I evermore be bound to thee;

Besides, I’ll make a present recompense.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. A ROOM IN THE GARTER INN.

Enter Falstaff and Mistress Quickly

Falstaff

Prithee, no more prattling; go. I’ll hold. This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away I go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. Away!

Mistress Quickly

I’ll provide you a chain; and I’ll do what I can to get you a pair of horns.

Falstaff

Away, I say; time wears: hold up your head, and mince.

Exit Mistress Quickly

Enter Ford

How now, Master Brook! Master Brook, the matter will be known to-night, or never. Be you in the Park about midnight, at Herne’s oak, and you shall see wonders.

Ford

Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you told me you had appointed?

Falstaff

I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like a poor old man: but I came from her, Master Brook, like a poor old woman. That same knave Ford, her husband, hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him, Master Brook, that ever governed frenzy. I will tell you: he beat me grievously, in the shape of a woman; for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver’s beam; because I know also life is a shuttle. I am in haste; go along with me: I’ll tell you all, Master Brook. Since I plucked geese, played truant and whipped top, I knew not what ’twas to be beaten till lately. Follow me: I’ll tell you strange things of this knave Ford, on whom to-night I will be revenged, and I will deliver his wife into your hand. Follow. Strange things in hand, Master Brook! Follow.

Exeunt

SCENE II. WINDSOR PARK.

Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender

Page

Come, come; we’ll couch i’ the castle-ditch till we see the light of our fairies. Remember, son Slender, my daughter.

Slender

Ay, forsooth; I have spoke with her and we have a nay-word how to know one another: I come to her in white, and cry ‘mum;’ she cries ‘budget;’ and by that we know one another.

Shallow

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.

Page

The night is dark; light and spirits will become it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let’s away; follow me.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A STREET LEADING TO THE PARK.

Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and Doctor Caius

Mistress Page

Master doctor, my daughter is in green: when you see your time, take her by the band, away with her to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go before into the Park: we two must go together.

Doctor Caius

I know vat I have to do. Adieu.

Mistress Page

Fare you well, sir.

Exit Doctor Caius

My husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff as he will chafe at the doctor’s marrying my daughter: but ’tis no matter; better a little chiding than a great deal of heart-break.

Mistress Ford

Where is Nan now and her troop of fairies, and the

Welsh devil Hugh?

Mistress Page

They are all couched in a pit hard by Herne’s oak, with obscured lights; which, at the very instant of Falstaff’s and our meeting, they will at once display to the night.

Mistress Ford

That cannot choose but amaze him.

Mistress Page

If he be not amazed, he will be mocked; if he be amazed, he will every way be mocked.

Mistress Ford

We’ll betray him finely.

Mistress Page

Against such lewdsters and their lechery

Those that betray them do no treachery.

Mistress Ford

The hour draws on. To the oak, to the oak!

Exeunt

SCENE IV. WINDSOR PARK.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans, disguised, with others as Fairies

Sir Hugh Evans

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

Falstaff

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?

Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page

Mistress Ford

Sir John! art thou there, my deer? my male deer?

Falstaff

My doe with the black scut! Let the sky rain potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of Green Sleeves, hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes; let there come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here.

Mistress Ford

Mistress Page is come with me, sweetheart.

Falstaff

Divide me like a bribe buck, each a haunch: I will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the fellow of this walk, and my horns I bequeath your husbands. Am I a woodman, ha? Speak I like Herne the hunter? Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience; he makes restitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome!

Noise within

Mistress Page

Alas, what noise?

Mistress Ford

Heaven forgive our sins

Falstaff

What should this be?

Mistress Ford

Mistress Page

Away, away!

They run off

Falstaff

I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that’s in me should set hell on fire; he would never else cross me thus.

Enter Sir Hugh Evans, disguised as before; Pistol, as Hobgoblin; Mistress Quickly, Anne Page, and others, as Fairies, with tapers

Mistress Quickly

Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,

You moonshine revellers and shades of night,

You orphan heirs of fixed destiny,

Attend your office and your quality.

Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes.

Pistol

Elves, list your names; silence, you airy toys.

Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap:

Where fires thou find’st unraked and hearths unswept,

There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry:

Our radiant queen hates sluts and sluttery.

Falstaff

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

Sir Hugh Evans

Where’s Bede? Go you, and where you find a maid

That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said,

Raise up the organs of her fantasy;

Sleep she as sound as careless infancy:

But those as sleep and think not on their sins,

Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides and shins.

Mistress Quickly

About, about;

Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out:

Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room:

That it may stand till the perpetual doom,

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:

Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest,

With loyal blazon, evermore be blest!

And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing,

Like to the Garter’s compass, in a ring:

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;

Let sapphire, pearl and rich embroidery,

Buckled below fair knighthood’s bending knee:

Fairies use flowers for their charactery.

Away; disperse: but till ’tis one o’clock,

Our dance of custom round about the oak

Of Herne the hunter, let us not forget.

Sir Hugh Evans

Pray you, lock hand in hand; yourselves in order set

And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be,

To guide our measure round about the tree.

But, stay; I smell a man of middle-earth.

Falstaff

Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!

Pistol

Vile worm, thou wast o’erlook’d even in thy birth.

Mistress Quickly

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,

It is the flesh of a corrupted heart.

Pistol

A trial, come.

Sir Hugh Evans

Come, will this wood take fire?

They burn him with their tapers

Falstaff

Oh, Oh, Oh!

Mistress Quickly

Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire!

About him, fairies; sing a scornful rhyme;

And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time.

Song.

Fie on sinful fantasy!

Fie on lust and luxury!

Lust is but a bloody fire,

Kindled with unchaste desire,

Fed in heart, whose flames aspire

As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher.

Pinch him, fairies, mutually;

Pinch him for his villany;

Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about,

Till candles and starlight and moonshine be out.

During this song they pinch Falstaff. Doctor Caius comes one way, and steals away a boy in green; Slender another way, and takes off a boy in white; and Fenton comes and steals away Ann Page. A noise of hunting is heard within. All the Fairies run away. Falstaff pulls off his buck’s head, and rises

Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page, and Mistress Ford

Page

Nay, do not fly; I think we have watch’d you now

Will none but Herne the hunter serve your turn?

Mistress Page

I pray you, come, hold up the jest no higher

Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives?

See you these, husband? do not these fair yokes

Become the forest better than the town?

Ford

Now, sir, who’s a cuckold now? Master Brook, Falstaff’s a knave, a cuckoldly knave; here are his horns, Master Brook: and, Master Brook, he hath enjoyed nothing of Ford’s but his buck-basket, his cudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which must be paid to Master Brook; his horses are arrested for it, Master Brook.

Mistress Ford

Sir John, we have had ill luck; we could never meet. I will never take you for my love again; but I will always count you my deer.

Falstaff

I do begin to perceive that I am made an ass.

Ford

Ay, and an ox too: both the proofs are extant.

Falstaff

And these are not fairies? I was three or four times in the thought they were not fairies: and yet the guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my powers, drove the grossness of the foppery into a received belief, in despite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason, that they were fairies. See now how wit may be made a Jack-a-Lent, when ’tis upon ill employment!

Sir Hugh Evans

Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse you.

Ford

Well said, fairy Hugh.

Sir Hugh Evans

And leave your jealousies too, I pray you.

Ford

I will never mistrust my wife again till thou art able to woo her in good English.

Falstaff

Have I laid my brain in the sun and dried it, that it wants matter to prevent so gross o’erreaching as this? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too? shall I have a coxcomb of frize? ’Tis time I were choked with a piece of toasted cheese.

Sir Hugh Evans

Seese is not good to give putter; your belly is all putter.

Falstaff

‘seese’ and ‘putter’! have I lived to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English? This is enough to be the decay of lust and late-walking through the realm.

Mistress Page

Why Sir John, do you think, though we would have the virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders and have given ourselves without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could have made you our delight?

Ford

What, a hodge-pudding? a bag of flax?

Mistress Page

A puffed man?

Page

Old, cold, withered and of intolerable entrails?

Ford

And one that is as slanderous as Satan?

Page

And as poor as Job?

Ford

And as wicked as his wife?

Sir Hugh Evans

And given to fornications, and to taverns and sack and wine and metheglins, and to drinkings and swearings and starings, pribbles and prabbles?

Falstaff

Well, I am your theme: you have the start of me; I am dejected; I am not able to answer the Welsh flannel; ignorance itself is a plummet o’er me: use me as you will.

Ford

Marry, sir, we’ll bring you to Windsor, to one Master Brook, that you have cozened of money, to whom you should have been a pander: over and above that you have suffered, I think to repay that money will be a biting affliction.

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.

Mistress Page

[Aside] Doctors doubt that: if Anne Page be my daughter, she is, by this, Doctor Caius’ wife.

Enter Slender

Slender

Whoa ho! ho, father Page!

Page

Son, how now! how now, son! have you dispatched?

Slender

Dispatched! I’ll make the best in Gloucestershire know on’t; would I were hanged, la, else.

Page

Of what, son?

Slender

I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress Anne Page, and she’s a great lubberly boy. If it had not been i’ the church, I would have swinged him, or he should have swinged me. If I did not think it had been Anne Page, would I might never stir!— and ’tis a postmaster’s boy.

Page

Upon my life, then, you took the wrong.

Slender

What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took a boy for a girl. If I had been married to him, for all he was in woman’s apparel, I would not have had him.

Page

Why, this is your own folly. Did not I tell you how you should know my daughter by her garments?

Slender

I went to her in white, and cried ’mum,’ and she cried ‘budget,’ as Anne and I had appointed; and yet it was not Anne, but a postmaster’s boy.

Mistress 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.

Enter Doctor Caius

Doctor Caius

Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened: I ha’ married un garcon, a boy; un paysan, by gar, a boy; it is not Anne Page: by gar, I am cozened.

Mistress Page

Why, did you take her in green?

Doctor 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?

Page

My heart misgives me: here comes Master Fenton.

Enter Fenton and Anne Page

How now, Master Fenton!

Anne Page

Pardon, good father! good my mother, pardon!

Page

Now, mistress, how chance you went not with Master Slender?

Mistress Page

Why went you not with master doctor, maid?

Fenton

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,

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,

Since therein she doth evitate and shun

A thousand irreligious cursed hours,

Which forced marriage would have brought upon her.

Ford

Stand not amazed; here is no remedy:

In love the heavens themselves do guide the state;

Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate.

Falstaff

I am glad, though you have ta’en a special stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced.

Page

Well, what remedy? Fenton, heaven give thee joy!

What cannot be eschew’d must be embraced.

Falstaff

When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chased.

Mistress 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;

Sir John and all.

Ford

Let it be so. Sir John,

To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word

For he tonight shall lie with Mistress Ford.

Exeunt

The Merchant of Venice

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. VENICE. A STREET.

SCENE II: BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. VENICE. A PUBLIC PLACE.

ACT II

SCENE I. BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. VENICE. A STREET.

SCENE III. THE SAME. A ROOM IN SHYLOCK’S HOUSE.

SCENE IV. THE SAME. A STREET.

SCENE V. THE SAME. BEFORE SHYLOCK’S HOUSE.

SCENE VI. THE SAME.

SCENE VII. BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA’S HOUSE.

SCENE VIII. VENICE. A STREET.

SCENE IX. BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA’S HOUSE.

ACT III

SCENE I. VENICE. A STREET.

SCENE II. BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. VENICE. A STREET.

SCENE IV. BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. THE SAME. A GARDEN.

ACT IV

SCENE I. VENICE. A COURT OF JUSTICE.

SCENE II. THE SAME. A STREET.

ACT V

SCENE I. BELMONT. AVENUE TO PORTIA’S HOUSE.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

The Duke of Venice.

The Prince of Arragon and The Prince of Morocco, suitors to Portia.

Antonio, a merchant.

Bassanio, his friend.

Salanio, Salarino, and Gratiano, friends to Antonio and Bassanio.

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.

Balthasar and 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, and other Attendants.

ACT I

SCENE I. VENICE. A STREET.

Enter Antonio, Salarino, and Salanio

Antonio

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,

I am to learn;

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,

That I have much ado to know myself.

Salarino

Your mind is tossing on the ocean;

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,

That curtsy to them, do them reverence,

As they fly by them with their woven wings.

Salanio

Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,

The better part of my affections would

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

Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt

Would make me sad.

Salarino

My wind cooling my broth

Would blow me to an ague, when I thought

What harm a wind too great at sea might do.

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

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,

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

To think on this, and shall I lack the thought

That such a thing bechanced would make me sad?

But tell not me; I know, Antonio

Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

Antonio

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:

Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.

Salarino

Why, then you are in love.

Antonio

Fie, fie!

Salarino

Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad,

Because you are not merry: and ’twere as easy

For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry,

Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,

Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time:

Some that will evermore peep through their eyes

And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper,

And other of such vinegar aspect

That they’ll not show their teeth in way of smile,

Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano

Salanio

Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,

Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well:

We leave you now with better company.

Salarino

I would have stay’d till I had made you merry,

If worthier friends had not prevented me.

Antonio

Your worth is very dear in my regard.

I take it, your own business calls on you

And you embrace the occasion to depart.

Salarino

Good morrow, my good lords.

Bassanio

Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when?

You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?

Salarino

We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours.

Exeunt Salarino and Salanio

Lorenzo

My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,

We two will leave you: but at dinner-time,

I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.

Bassanio

I will not fail you.

Gratiano

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 changed.

Antonio

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;

A stage where every man must play a part,

And mine a sad one.

Gratiano

Let me play the fool:

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,

And let my liver rather heat with wine

Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,

Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice

By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio —

I love thee, and it is my love that speaks —

There are a sort of men whose visages

Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,

And do a wilful stillness entertain,

With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion

Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit,

As who should say ‘I am Sir Oracle,

And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!’

O my Antonio, I do know of these

That therefore only are reputed wise

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:

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.

Lorenzo

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.

Gratiano

Well, keep me company but two years moe,

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

Antonio

Farewell: I’ll grow a talker for this gear.

Gratiano

Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only commendable

In a neat’s tongue dried and a maid not vendible.

Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo

Antonio

Is that any thing now?

Bassanio

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search.

Antonio

Well, tell me now what lady is the same

To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,

That you to-day promised to tell me of?

Bassanio

’Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,

How much I have disabled mine estate,

By something showing a more swelling port

Than my faint means would grant continuance:

Nor do I now make moan to be abridged

From such a noble rate; but my chief care

Is to come fairly off from the great debts

Wherein my time something too prodigal

Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio,

I owe the most, in money and in love,

And from your love I have a warranty

To unburden all my plots and purposes

How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

Antonio

I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;

And if it stand, as you yourself still do,

Within the eye of honour, be assured,

My purse, my person, my extremest means,

Lie all unlock’d to your occasions.

Bassanio

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

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

And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

Antonio

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

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,

And I am prest unto it: therefore, speak.

Bassanio

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:

Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued

To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia:

Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,

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’ strand,

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,

That I should questionless be fortunate!

Antonio

Thou know’st that all my fortunes are at sea;

Neither have I money nor commodity

To raise a present sum: therefore go forth;

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,

Where money is, and I no question make

To have it of my trust or for my sake.

Exeunt

SCENE II: BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Portia and Nerissa

Portia

By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.

Nerissa

You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are: and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the mean: superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.

Portia

Good sentences and well pronounced.

Nerissa

They would be better, if well followed.

Portia

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o’er a cold decree: such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o’er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word ‘choose!’ I may neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one nor refuse none?

Nerissa

Your father was ever virtuous; and holy men at their death have good inspirations: therefore the lottery, that he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly but one who shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come?

Portia

I pray thee, over-name them; and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and, according to my description, level at my affection.

Nerissa

First, there is the Neapolitan prince.

Portia

Ay, that’s a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts, that he can shoe him himself. I am much afeard my lady his mother played false with a smith.

Nerissa

Then there is the County Palatine.

Portia

He doth nothing but frown, as who should say ‘If you will not have me, choose:’ he hears merry tales and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death’s-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two!

Nerissa

How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?

Portia

God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker: but, he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan’s, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man; if a throstle sing, he falls straight a capering: he will fence with his own shadow: if I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me I would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him.

Nerissa

What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron of England?

Portia

You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man’s picture, but, alas, who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany and his behavior every where.

Nerissa

What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?

Portia

That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman and swore he would pay him again when he was able: I think the Frenchman became his surety and sealed under for another.

Nerissa

How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony’s nephew?

Portia

Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast: and the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.

Nerissa

If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father’s will, if you should refuse to accept him.

Portia

Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a deep glass of rhenish wine on the contrary casket, for if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do any thing, Nerissa, ere I’ll be married to a sponge.

Nerissa

You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords: they have acquainted me with their determinations; which is, indeed, to return to their home and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father’s imposition depending on the caskets.

Portia

If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father’s will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable, for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a fair departure.

Nerissa

Do you not remember, lady, in your father’s time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat?

Portia

Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, he was so called.

Nerissa

True, madam: he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.

Portia

I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise.

Enter a Serving-man

How now! what news?

Servant

The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave: and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the prince his master will be here to-night.

Portia

If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach: if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gates upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.

Exeunt

SCENE III. VENICE. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter Bassanio and Shylock

Shylock

Three thousand ducats; well.

Bassanio

Ay, sir, for three months.

Shylock

For three months; well.

Bassanio

For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.

Shylock

Antonio shall become bound; well.

Bassanio

May you stead me? will you pleasure me? shall I know your answer?

Shylock

Three thousand ducats for three months and Antonio bound.

Bassanio

Your answer to that.

Shylock

Antonio is a good man.

Bassanio

Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?

Shylock

Oh, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a good man is to have you understand me that he is sufficient. Yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves, I mean pirates, and then there is the peril of waters, winds and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand ducats; I think I may take his bond.

Bassanio

Be assured you may.

Shylock

I will be assured I may; and, that I may be assured,

I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?

Bassanio

If it please you to dine with us.

Shylock

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?

Enter Antonio

Bassanio

This is Signior Antonio.

Shylock

[Aside] How like a fawning publican he looks!

I hate him for he is a Christian,

But more for that in low simplicity

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.

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,

If I forgive him!

Bassanio

Shylock, do you hear?

Shylock

I am debating of my present store,

And, by the near guess of my memory,

I cannot instantly raise up the gross

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;

Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

Antonio

Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow

By taking nor by giving of excess,

Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,

I’ll break a custom. Is he yet possess’d

How much ye would?

Shylock

Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.

Antonio

And for three months.

Shylock

I had forgot; three months; you told me so.

Well then, your bond; and let me see; but hear you;

Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow

Upon advantage.

Antonio

I do never use it.

Shylock

When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban’s sheep —

This Jacob from our holy Abram was,

As his wise mother wrought in his behalf,

The third possessor; ay, he was the third —

Antonio

And what of him? did he take interest?

Shylock

No, not take interest, not, as you would say,

Directly interest: mark what Jacob did.

When Laban and himself were compromised

That all the eanlings which were streak’d and pied

Should fall as Jacob’s hire, the ewes, being rank,

In the end of autumn turned to the rams,

And, when the work of generation was

Between these woolly breeders in the act,

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

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.

Antonio

This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served for;

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?

Shylock

I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast:

But note me, signior.

Antonio

Mark you this, Bassanio,

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.

An evil soul producing holy witness

Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,

A goodly apple rotten at the heart:

O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

Shylock

Three thousand ducats; ’tis a good round sum.

Three months from twelve; then, let me see; the rate —

Antonio

Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?

Shylock

Signior Antonio, many a time and oft

In the Rialto you have rated me

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,

And spit 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

’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

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,

With bated breath and whispering humbleness, Say this;

‘Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;

You spurn’d me such a day; another time

You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies

I’ll lend you thus much moneys’?

Antonio

I am as like to call thee so again,

To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too.

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,

Who, if he break, thou mayst with better face

Exact the penalty.

Shylock

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,

Supply your present wants and take no doit

Of usance for my moneys, and you’ll not hear me:

This is kind I offer.

Bassanio

This were kindness.

Shylock

This kindness will I show.

Go with me to a notary, seal me there

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

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.

Antonio

Content, i’ faith: I’ll seal to such a bond

And say there is much kindness in the Jew.

Bassanio

You shall not seal to such a bond for me:

I’ll rather dwell in my necessity.

Antonio

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.

Shylock

O father Abram, what these Christians are,

Whose own hard dealings 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?

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,

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.

Antonio

Yes Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.

Shylock

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

Of an unthrifty knave, and presently

I will be with you.

Antonio

Hie thee, gentle Jew.

Exit Shylock

The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.

Bassanio

I like not fair terms and a villain’s mind.

Antonio

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 train; Portia, Nerissa, and others attending

Morocco

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,

Where Phoebus’ 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

Hath fear’d the valiant: by my love I swear

The best-regarded virgins of our clime

Have loved it too: I would not change this hue,

Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.

Portia

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:

But if my father had not scanted me

And hedged 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

As any comer I have look’d on yet

For my affection.

Morocco

Even for that I thank you:

Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets

To try my fortune. By this scimitar

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,

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

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,

Miss that which one unworthier may attain,

And die with grieving.

Portia

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

In way of marriage: therefore be advised.

Morocco

Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.

Portia

First, forward to the temple: after dinner

Your hazard shall be made.

Morocco

Good fortune then!

To make me blest or cursed’st among men.

Cornets, and exeunt

SCENE II. VENICE. A STREET.

Enter Launcelot

Launcelot

Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me saying to me ‘Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,’ or ‘good Gobbo,’ or good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away. My conscience says ‘No; take heed,’ honest Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo, or, as aforesaid, ‘honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy heels.’ Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack: ‘Via!’ says the fiend; ‘away!’ says the fiend; ‘for the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,’ says the fiend, ‘and run.’ Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me ‘My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man’s son,’ or rather an honest woman’s son; for, indeed, my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste; well, my conscience says ‘Launcelot, budge not.’ ‘Budge,’ says the fiend. ‘Budge not,’ says my conscience. ‘Conscience,’ say I, ‘you counsel well;’ ’ Fiend,’ say I, ‘you counsel well:’ to be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, God bless the mark, is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnal; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your command; I will run.

Enter Old Gobbo, with a basket

Gobbo

Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew’s?

Launcelot

[Aside] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father! who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not: I will try confusions with him.

Gobbo

Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew’s?

Launcelot

Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew’s house.

Gobbo

By God’s sonties, ’twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?

Launcelot

Talk you of young Master Launcelot?

Aside

Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelot?

Gobbo

No master, sir, but a poor man’s son: his father, though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man and, God be thanked, well to live.

Launcelot

Well, let his father be what a’ will, we talk of young Master Launcelot.

Gobbo

Your worship’s friend and Launcelot, sir.

Launcelot

But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot?

Gobbo

Of Launcelot, an’t please your mastership.

Launcelot

Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.

Gobbo

Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop.

Launcelot

Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father?

Gobbo

Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman: but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead?

Launcelot

Do you not know me, father?

Gobbo

Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.

Launcelot

Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son: give me your blessing: truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man’s son may, but at the length truth will out.

Gobbo

Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not

Launcelot, my boy.

Launcelot

Pray you, let’s have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.

Gobbo

I cannot think you are my son.

Launcelot

I know not what I shall think of that: but I am Launcelot, the Jew’s man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.

Gobbo

Her name is Margery, indeed: I’ll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be! what a beard hast thou got! thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.

Launcelot

It should seem, then, that Dobbin’s tail grows backward: I am sure he had more hair of his tail than I have of my face when I last saw him.

Gobbo

Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How ’gree you now?

Launcelot

Well, well: but, for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master’s a very Jew: give him a present! give him a halter: I am famished in his service; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come: give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who, indeed, gives rare new liveries: if I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune! here comes the man: to him, father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.

Enter Bassanio, with Leonardo and other followers

Bassanio

You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered; put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.

Exit a Servant

Launcelot

To him, father.

Gobbo

God bless your worship!

Bassanio

Gramercy! wouldst thou aught with me?

Gobbo

Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy,—

Launcelot

Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew’s man; that would, sir, as my father shall specify —

Gobbo

He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve —

Launcelot

Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify —

Gobbo

His master and he, saving your worship’s reverence, are scarce cater-cousins —

Launcelot

To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being, I hope, an old man, shall frutify unto you —

Gobbo

I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship, and my suit is —

Launcelot

In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man; and, though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father.

Bassanio

One speak for both. What would you?

Launcelot

Serve you, sir.

Gobbo

That is the very defect of the matter, sir.

Bassanio

I know thee well; thou hast obtain’d thy suit:

Shylock thy master spoke with me this day,

And hath preferr’d thee, if it be preferment

To leave a rich Jew’s service, to become

The follower of so poor a gentleman.

Launcelot

The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough.

Bassanio

Thou speak’st it well. Go, father, with thy son.

Take leave of thy old master and inquire

My lodging out. Give him a livery

More guarded than his fellows’: see it done.

Launcelot

Father, in. I cannot get a service, no; I have ne’er a tongue in my head. Well, 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! eleven 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.

Exeunt Launcelot and Old Gobbo

Bassanio

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.

Leonardo

My best endeavours shall be done herein.

Enter Gratiano

Gratiano

Where is your master?

Leonardo

Yonder, sir, he walks.

Exit

Gratiano

Signior Bassanio!

Bassanio

Gratiano!

Gratiano

I have a suit to you.

Bassanio

You have obtain’d it.

Gratiano

You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont.

Bassanio

Why then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano;

Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice;

Parts that become thee happily enough

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

To allay with some cold drops of modesty

Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behavior

I be misconstrued in the place I go to,

And lose my hopes.

Gratiano

Signior Bassanio, hear me:

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.

Bassanio

Well, we shall see your bearing.

Gratiano

Nay, but I bar to-night: you shall not gauge me

By what we do to-night.

Bassanio

No, that were pity:

I would entreat you rather to put on

Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends

That purpose merriment. But fare you well:

I have some business.

Gratiano

And I must to Lorenzo and the rest:

But we will visit you at supper-time.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE SAME. A ROOM IN SHYLOCK’S HOUSE.

Enter Jessica and Launcelot

Jessica

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:

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

See me in talk with thee.

Launcelot

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 something drown my manly spirit: adieu.

Jessica

Farewell, good Launcelot.

Exit Launcelot

Alack, what heinous sin is it in me

To be ashamed 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,

Become a Christian and thy loving wife.

Exit

SCENE IV. THE SAME. A STREET.

Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Salanio

Lorenzo

Nay, we will slink away in supper-time,

Disguise us at my lodging and return,

All in an hour.

Gratiano

We have not made good preparation.

Salarino

We have not spoke us yet of torchbearers.

Salanio

’Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order’d,

And better in my mind not undertook.

Lorenzo

’Tis now but four o’clock: we have two hours

To furnish us.

Enter Launcelot, with a letter

Friend Launcelot, what’s the news?

Launcelot

An it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify.

Lorenzo

I know the hand: in faith, ’tis a fair hand;

And whiter than the paper it writ on

Is the fair hand that writ.

Gratiano

Love-news, in faith.

Launcelot

By your leave, sir.

Lorenzo

Whither goest thou?

Launcelot

Marry, sir, to bid my old master the

Jew to sup to-night with my new master the Christian.

Lorenzo

Hold here, take this: tell gentle Jessica

I will not fail her; speak it privately.

Go, gentlemen,

Exit Launcelot

Will you prepare you for this masque tonight?

I am provided of a torch-bearer.

Salanio

Ay, marry, I’ll be gone about it straight.

Salanio

And so will I.

Lorenzo

Meet me and Gratiano

At Gratiano’s lodging some hour hence.

Salarino

’Tis good we do so.

Exeunt Salarino and Salanio

Gratiano

Was not that letter from fair Jessica?

Lorenzo

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,

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,

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-beare r.

Exeunt

SCENE V. THE SAME. BEFORE SHYLOCK’S HOUSE.

Enter Shylock and Launcelot

Shylock

Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge,

The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:—

What, Jessica!— thou shalt not gormandise,

As thou hast done with me:— What, Jessica!—

And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out;—

Why, Jessica, I say!

Launcelot

Why, Jessica!

Shylock

Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.

Launcelot

Your worship was wont to tell me that

I could do nothing without bidding.

Enter Jessica

Jessica

Call you? what is your will?

Shylock

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:

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:

There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,

For I did dream of money-bags to-night.

Launcelot

I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect your reproach.

Shylock

So do I his.

Launcelot

An 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.

Shylock

What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica:

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

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,

I have no mind of feasting forth to-night:

But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah;

Say I will come.

Launcelot

I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at window, for all this, There will come a Christian boy, will be worth a Jewess’ eye.

Exit

Shylock

What says that fool of Hagar’s offspring, ha?

Jessica

His words were ‘Farewell mistress;’ nothing else.

Shylock

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;

Therefore I part with him, and part with him

To one that would have him help to waste

His borrow’d purse. Well, Jessica, go in;

Perhaps I will return immediately:

Do as I bid you; shut doors after you:

Fast bind, fast find;

A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.

Exit

Jessica

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

Gratiano

This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo

Desired us to make stand.

Salarino

His hour is almost past.

Gratiano

And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,

For lovers ever run before the clock.

Salarino

O, ten times faster Venus’ pigeons fly

To seal love’s bonds new-made, than they are wont

To keep obliged faith unforfeited!

Gratiano

That ever holds: who riseth from a feast

With that keen appetite that he sits down?

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.

How like a younker or a prodigal

The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,

Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind!

How like the prodigal doth she return,

With over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails,

Lean, rent and beggar’d by the strumpet wind!

Salarino

Here comes Lorenzo: more of this hereafter.

Enter Lorenzo

Lorenzo

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;

Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who’s within?

Enter Jessica, above, in boy’s clothes

Jessica

Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,

Albeit I’ll swear that I do know your tongue.

Lorenzo

Lorenzo, and thy love.

Jessica

Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed,

For who love I so much? And now who knows

But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?

Lorenzo

Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.

Jessica

Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.

I am glad ’tis night, you do not look on me,

For I am much ashamed of my exchange:

But love is blind and lovers cannot see

The pretty follies that themselves commit;

For if they could, Cupid himself would blush

To see me thus transformed to a boy.

Lorenzo

Descend, for you must be my torchbearer.

Jessica

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 obscured.

Lorenzo

So are you, sweet,

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.

Jessica

I will make fast the doors, and gild myself

With some more ducats, and be with you straight.

Exit above

Gratiano

Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no Jew.

Lorenzo

Beshrew me but I love her heartily;

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 proved herself,

And therefore, like herself, wise, fair and true,

Shall she be placed in my constant soul.

Enter Jessica, below

What, art thou come? On, gentlemen; away!

Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.

Exit with Jessica and Salarino

Enter Antonio

Antonio

Who’s there?

Gratiano

Signior Antonio!

Antonio

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;

Bassanio presently will go aboard:

I have sent twenty out to seek for you.

Gratiano

I am glad on’t: I desire no more delight

Than to be under sail and gone to-night.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA’S HOUSE.

Flourish of cornets. Enter Portia, with the Prince Of Morocco, and their trains

Portia

Go draw aside the curtains and discover

The several caskets to this noble prince.

Now make your choice.

Morocco

The first, of gold, who this inscription bears,

‘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.’

How shall I know if I do choose the right?

Portia

The one of them contains my picture, prince:

If you choose that, then I am yours withal.

Morocco

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.’

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;

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:

If thou be’st rated by thy estimation,

Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough

May not extend so far as to the lady:

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,

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 graved in gold

‘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

Of wide Arabia are as thoroughfares now

For princes to come view fair Portia:

The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head

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

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 immured,

Being ten times undervalued 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

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!

Portia

There, take it, prince; and if my form lie there,

Then I am yours.

He unlocks the golden casket

Morocco

O hell! what have we here?

A carrion Death, within whose empty eye

There is a written scroll! I’ll read the writing.

[Reads] All that glitters is not gold;

Often have you heard that told:

Many a man his life hath sold

But my outside to behold:

Gilded tombs do worms enfold.

Had you been as wise as bold,

Young in limbs, in judgment old,

Your answer had not been inscroll’d:

Fare you well; your suit is cold.

Cold, indeed; and labour lost:

Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!

Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart

To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.

Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets

Portia

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

Salarino

Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail:

With him is Gratiano gone along;

And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.

Salanio

The villain Jew with outcries raised the duke,

Who went with him to search Bassanio’s ship.

Salarino

He came too late, the ship was under sail:

But there the duke was given to understand

That in a gondola were seen together

Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica:

Besides, Antonio certified the duke

They were not with Bassanio in his ship.

Salanio

I never heard a passion so confused,

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, stolen from me by my daughter!

And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones,

Stolen by my daughter! Justice! find the girl;

She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats.’

Salarino

Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,

Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.

Salanio

Let good Antonio look he keep his day,

Or he shall pay for this.

Salarino

Marry, well remember’d.

I reason’d with a Frenchman yesterday,

Who told me, in the narrow seas that part

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.

Salanio

You were best to tell Antonio what you hear;

Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.

Salarino

A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.

I saw Bassanio and Antonio part:

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;

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

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

He wrung Bassanio’s hand; and so they parted.

Salanio

I think he only loves the world for him.

I pray thee, let us go and find him out

And quicken his embraced heaviness

With some delight or other.

Salarino

Do we so.

Exeunt

SCENE IX. BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Nerissa with a Servitor

Nerissa

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

Portia

Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince:

If you choose that wherein I am contain’d,

Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized:

But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,

You must be gone from hence immediately.

Arragon

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

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.

Portia

To these injunctions every one doth swear

That comes to hazard for my worthless self.

Arragon

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.’

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.’

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,

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

And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.

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:’

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.

O, that estates, degrees and offices

Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour

Were purchased by the merit of the wearer!

How many then should cover that stand bare!

How many be commanded that command!

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

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.

He opens the silver casket

Portia

Too long a pause for that which you find there.

Arragon

What’s here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,

Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.

How much unlike art thou to Portia!

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?

Portia

To offend, and judge, are distinct offices

And of opposed natures.

Arragon

What is here?

[Reads] The fire seven times tried this:

Seven times tried that judgment is,

That did never choose amiss.

Some there be that shadows kiss;

Such have but a shadow’s bliss:

There be fools alive, I wis,

Silver’d o’er; and so was this.

Take what wife you will to bed,

I will ever be your head:

So be gone: you are sped.

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.

Sweet, adieu. I’ll keep my oath,

Patiently to bear my wroth.

Exeunt Arragon and train

Portia

Thus hath the candle singed the moth.

O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose,

They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.

Nerissa

The ancient saying is no heresy,

Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.

Portia

Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.

Enter a Servant

Servant

Where is my lady?

Portia

Here: what would my lord?

Servant

Madam, there is alighted at your gate

A young Venetian, one that comes before

To signify the approaching of his lord;

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 ambassador of love:

A day in April never came so sweet,

To show how costly summer was at hand,

As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.

Portia

No more, I pray thee: I am half afeard

Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee,

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.

Nerissa

Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be!

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. VENICE. A STREET.

Enter Salanio and Salarino

Salanio

Now, what news on the Rialto?

Salarino

Why, yet it lives there uncheck’d that Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wrecked on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think they call the place; a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word.

Salanio

I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio,— O that I had a title good enough to keep his name company!—

Salarino

Come, the full stop.

Salanio

Ha! what sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship.

Salarino

I would it might prove the end of his losses.

Salanio

Let me say ‘amen’ betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.

Enter Shylock

How now, Shylock! what news among the merchants?

Shylock

You know, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter’s flight.

Salarino

That’s certain: I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal.

Salanio

And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledged; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam.

Shylock

She is damned for it.

Salanio

That’s certain, if the devil may be her judge.

Shylock

My own flesh and blood to rebel!

Salanio

Out upon it, old carrion! rebels it at these years?

Shylock

I say, my daughter is my flesh and blood.

Salarino

There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory; more between your bloods than there is between red wine and rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no?

Shylock

There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto; a beggar, that was used to come so smug upon the mart; let him look to his bond: he was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him look to his bond.

Salarino

Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh: what’s that good for?

Shylock

To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what’s his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.

Enter a Servant

Servant

Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house and desires to speak with you both.

Salarino

We have been up and down to seek him.

Enter Tubal

Salanio

Here comes another of the tribe: a third cannot be matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew.

Exeunt Salanio, Salarino, and Servant

Shylock

How now, Tubal! what news from Genoa? hast thou found my daughter?

Tubal

I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her.

Shylock

Why, there, there, there, there! a diamond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till now: two thousand ducats in that; and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin! No news of them? Why, so: and I know not what’s spent in the search: why, thou loss upon loss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge: nor no in luck stirring but what lights on my shoulders; no sighs but of my breathing; no tears but of my shedding.

Tubal

Yes, other men have ill luck too: Antonio, as I heard in Genoa,—

Shylock

What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?

Tubal

Hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis.

Shylock

I thank God, I thank God. Is’t true, is’t true?

Tubal

I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck.

Shylock

I thank thee, good Tubal: good news, good news! ha, ha! where? in Genoa?

Tubal

Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, in one night fourscore ducats.

Shylock

Thou stickest a dagger in me: I shall never see my gold again: fourscore ducats at a sitting! fourscore ducats!

Tubal

There came divers of Antonio’s creditors in my company to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break.

Shylock

I am very glad of it: I’ll plague him; I’ll torture him: I am glad of it.

Tubal

One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey.

Shylock

Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: it was my turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor: I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.

Tubal

But Antonio is certainly undone.

Shylock

Nay, that’s true, that’s very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal.

Exeunt

SCENE II. BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, and Attendants

Portia

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,

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

Before you venture for me. I could teach you

How to choose right, but I am then forsworn;

So will I never be: so may you miss me;

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,

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,

Let fortune go to hell for it, not I.

I speak too long; but ’tis to peize the time,

To eke it and to draw it out in length,

To stay you from election.

Bassanio

Let me choose

For as I am, I live upon the rack.

Portia

Upon the rack, Bassanio! then confess

What treason there is mingled with your love.

Bassanio

None but that ugly treason of mistrust,

Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love:

There may as well be amity and life

’Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love.

Portia

Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack,

Where men enforced do speak anything.

Bassanio

Promise me life, and I’ll confess the truth.

Portia

Well then, confess and live.

Bassanio

‘Confess’ and ‘love’

Had been the very sum of my confession:

O happy torment, when my torturer

Doth teach me answers for deliverance!

But let me to my fortune and the caskets.

Portia

Away, then! I am lock’d in one of them:

If you do love me, you will find me out.

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,

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

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,

With no less presence, but with much more love,

Than young Alcides, when he did redeem

The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy

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!

Live thou, I live: with much, much more dismay

I view the fight than thou that makest the fray.

Music, whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets to himself

Tell me where is fancy bred,

Or in the heart, or in the head?

How begot, how nourished?

Reply, reply.

It is engender’d in the eyes,

With gazing fed; and fancy dies

In the cradle where it lies.

Let us all ring fancy’s knell

I’ll begin it,— Ding, dong, bell.

All

Ding, dong, bell.

Bassanio

So may the outward shows be least themselves:

The world is still deceived with ornament.

In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,

But, being seasoned with a gracious voice,

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?

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

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,

And you shall see ’tis purchased 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

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.

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,

Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught,

Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence;

And here choose I; joy be the consequence!

Portia

[Aside] How all the other passions fleet to air,

As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair,

And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy! O love,

Be moderate; allay thy ecstasy,

In measure rein thy joy; scant this excess.

I feel too much thy blessing: make it less,

For fear I surfeit.

Bassanio

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,

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

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

Doth limp behind the substance. Here’s the scroll,

The continent and summary of my fortune.

[Reads] You that choose not by the view,

Chance as fair and choose as true!

Since this fortune falls to you,

Be content and seek no new,

If you be well pleased with this

And hold your fortune for your bliss,

Turn you where your lady is

And claim her with a loving kiss.

A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave;

I come by note, to give and to receive.

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

Whether these pearls 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.

Portia

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

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,

I might in virtue, beauties, livings, friends,

Exceed account; but the full sum of me

Is sum of something, which, to term in gross,

Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractised;

Happy in this, she is not yet so old

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

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

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.

Bassanio

Madam, you have bereft me of all words,

Only my blood speaks to you in my veins;

And there is such confusion in my powers,

As after some oration fairly spoke

By a beloved prince, there doth appear

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:

O, then be bold to say Bassanio’s dead!

Nerissa

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!

Gratiano

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:

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.

Bassanio

With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife.

Gratiano

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 loved, I loved for intermission.

No more pertains to me, my lord, than you.

Your fortune stood upon the casket there,

And so did mine too, as the matter falls;

For wooing here until I sweat again,

And sweating until my very roof was dry

With oaths of love, at last, if promise last,

I got a promise of this fair one here

To have her love, provided that your fortune

Achieved her mistress.

Portia

Is this true, Nerissa?

Nerissa

Madam, it is, so you stand pleased withal.

Bassanio

And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?

Gratiano

Yes, faith, my lord.

Bassanio

Our feast shall be much honour’d in your marriage.

Gratiano

We’ll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats.

Nerissa

What, and stake down?

Gratiano

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?

Enter Lorenzo, Jessica, and Salanio, a Messenger from Venice

Bassanio

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,

Sweet Portia, welcome.

Portia

So do I, my lord:

They are entirely welcome.

Lorenzo

I thank your honour. For my part, my lord,

My purpose was not to have seen you here;

But meeting with Salanio by the way,

He did entreat me, past all saying nay,

To come with him along.

Salanio

I did, my lord;

And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio

Commends him to you.

Gives Bassanio a letter

Bassanio

Ere I ope his letter,

I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth.

Salanio

Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind;

Nor well, unless in mind: his letter there

Will show you his estate.

Gratiano

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;

We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece.

Salanio

I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost.

Portia

There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper,

That steals 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,

And I must freely have the half of anything

That this same paper brings you.

Bassanio

O sweet Portia,

Here are a few of the unpleasant’st words

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;

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,

I have engaged myself to a dear friend,

Engaged my friend to his mere enemy,

To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady;

The paper as the body of my friend,

And every word in it a gaping wound,

Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salanio?

Have all his ventures fail’d? What, not one hit?

From Tripolis, from Mexico and England,

From Lisbon, Barbary and India?

And not one vessel ’scape the dreadful touch

Of merchant-marring rocks?

Salanio

Not one, my lord.

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,

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,

The duke himself, and the magnificoes

Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him;

But none can drive him from the envious plea

Of forfeiture, of justice and his bond.

Jessica

When I was with him I have heard him swear

To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen,

That he would rather have Antonio’s flesh

Than twenty times the value of the sum

That he did owe him: and I know, my lord,

If law, authority and power deny not,

It will go hard with poor Antonio.

Portia

Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble?

Bassanio

The dearest friend to me, the kindest man,

The best-condition’d and unwearied spirit

In doing courtesies, and one in whom

The ancient Roman honour more appears

Than any that draws breath in Italy.

Portia

What sum owes he the Jew?

Bassanio

For me three thousand ducats.

Portia

What, no more?

Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond;

Double six thousand, and then treble that,

Before a friend of this description

Shall lose a hair through Bassanio’s fault.

First go with me to church and call me wife,

And then away to Venice to your friend;

For never shall you lie by Portia’s side

With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold

To pay the petty debt twenty times over:

When it is paid, bring your true friend along.

My maid Nerissa and myself meantime

Will live as maids and widows. Come, away!

For you shall hence upon your wedding-day:

Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer:

Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear.

But let me hear the letter of your friend.

Bassanio

[Reads] Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are cleared between you and I, if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.

Portia

O love, dispatch all business, and be gone!

Bassanio

Since I have your good leave to go away,

I will make haste: but, till I come again,

No bed shall e’er be guilty of my stay,

No rest be interposer ’twixt us twain.

Exeunt

SCENE III. VENICE. A STREET.

Enter Shylock, Salarino, Antonio, and Gaoler

Shylock

Gaoler, look to him: tell not me of mercy;

This is the fool that lent out money gratis:

Gaoler, look to him.

Antonio

Hear me yet, good Shylock.

Shylock

I’ll have my bond; speak not against my bond:

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

To come abroad with him at his request.

Antonio

I pray thee, hear me speak.

Shylock

I’ll have my bond; I will not hear thee speak:

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;

I’ll have no speaking: I will have my bond.

Exit

Salarino

It is the most impenetrable cur

That ever kept with men.

Antonio

Let him alone:

I’ll follow him no more with bootless prayers.

He seeks my life; his reason well I know:

I oft deliver’d from his forfeitures

Many that have at times made moan to me;

Therefore he hates me.

Salarino

I am sure the duke

Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.

Antonio

The duke cannot deny the course of law:

For the commodity that strangers have

With us in Venice, if it be denied,

Will much impeach the justice of his state;

Since that the trade and profit of the city

Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go:

These griefs and losses have so bated me,

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!

Exeunt

SCENE IV. BELMONT. A ROOM IN PORTIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica, and Balthasar

Lorenzo

Madam, although I speak it in your presence,

You have a noble and a true conceit

Of godlike amity; which appears most strongly

In bearing thus the absence of your lord.

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

Than customary bounty can enforce you.

Portia

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,

There must be needs a like proportion

Of lineaments, of manners and of spirit;

Which makes me think that this Antonio,

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

From out the state of hellish misery!

This comes too near the praising of myself;

Therefore no more of it: hear other things.

Lorenzo, I commit into your hands

The husbandry and manage of my house

Until my lord’s return: for mine own part,

I have toward heaven breathed a secret vow

To live in prayer and contemplation,

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

Not to deny this imposition;

The which my love and some necessity

Now lays upon you.

Lorenzo

Madam, with all my heart;

I shall obey you in all fair commands.

Portia

My people do already know my mind,

And will acknowledge you and Jessica

In place of Lord Bassanio and myself.

And so farewell, till we shall meet again.

Lorenzo

Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you!

Jessica

I wish your ladyship all heart’s content.

Portia

I thank you for your wish, and am well pleased

To wish it back on you: fare you well Jessica.

Exeunt Jessica and Lorenzo

Now, Balthasar,

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

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 imagined speed

Unto the tranect, to the common ferry

Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,

But get thee gone: I shall be there before thee.

Balthasar

Madam, I go with all convenient speed.

Exit

Portia

Come on, Nerissa; I have work in hand

That you yet know not of: we’ll see our husbands

Before they think of us.

Nerissa

Shall they see us?

Portia

They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit,

That they shall think we are accomplished

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,

And wear my dagger with the braver grace,

And speak between the change of man and boy

With a reed voice, and turn two mincing steps

Into a manly stride, and speak of frays

Like a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint lies,

How honourable ladies sought my love,

Which I denying, they fell sick and died;

I could not do withal; then I’ll repent,

And wish for all that, that I had not killed them;

And twenty of these puny lies I’ll tell,

That men shall swear I have discontinued school

Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind

A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks,

Which I will practise.

Nerissa

Why, shall we turn to men?

Portia

Fie, what a question’s that,

If thou wert near a lewd interpreter!

But come, I’ll tell thee all my whole device

When I am in my coach, which stays for us

At the park gate; and therefore haste away,

For we must measure twenty miles to-day.

Exeunt

SCENE V. THE SAME. A GARDEN.

Enter Launcelot and Jessica

Launcelot

Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children: therefore, I promise ye, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter: therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damned. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good; and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither.

Jessica

And what hope is that, I pray thee?

Launcelot

Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not, that you are not the Jew’s daughter.

Jessica

That were a kind of bastard hope, indeed: so the sins of my mother should be visited upon me.

Launcelot

Truly then I fear you are damned both by father and mother: thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother: well, you are gone both ways.

Jessica

I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a

Christian.

Launcelot

Truly, the more to blame he: we were Christians enow before; e’en as many as could well live, one by another. This making 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.

Enter Lorenzo

Jessica

I’ll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say: here he comes.

Lorenzo

I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into corners.

Jessica

Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo: Launcelot and I are out. He tells me flatly, there is no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew’s daughter: and he says, you are no good member of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians, you raise the price of pork.

Lorenzo

I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you can the getting up of the negro’s belly: the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot.

Launcelot

It is much that the Moor should be more than reason: but if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I took her for.

Lorenzo

How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner.

Launcelot

That is done, sir; they have all stomachs.

Lorenzo

Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! then bid them prepare dinner.

Launcelot

That is done too, sir; only ‘cover’ is the word.

Lorenzo

Will you cover then, sir?

Launcelot

Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty.

Lorenzo

Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray tree, understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows; bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner.

Launcelot

For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern.

Exit

Lorenzo

O dear discretion, how his words are suited!

The fool hath planted in his memory

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 cheerest thou, Jessica?

And now, good sweet, say thy opinion,

How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio’s wife?

Jessica

Past all expressing. It is very meet

The Lord Bassanio live an upright life;

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

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.

Lorenzo

Even such a husband

Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.

Jessica

Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.

Lorenzo

I will anon: first, let us go to dinner.

Jessica

Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach.

Lorenzo

No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk;

’ Then, howso’er thou speak’st, ’mong other things

I shall digest it.

Jessica

Well, I’ll set you forth.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. VENICE. A COURT OF JUSTICE.

Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes, Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Salanio, and others

Duke

What, is Antonio here?

Antonio

Ready, so please your grace.

Duke

I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer

A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch

Uncapable of pity, void and empty

From any dram of mercy.

Antonio

I have heard

Your grace hath ta’en great pains to qualify

His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate

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,

The very tyranny and rage of his.

Duke

Go one, and call the Jew into the court.

Salanio

He is ready at the door: he comes, my lord.

Enter Shylock

Duke

Make room, and let him stand before our face.

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

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,

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,

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.

We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.

Shylock

I have possess’d your grace of what I purpose;

And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn

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

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

And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats

To have it baned? What, are you answer’d yet?

Some men there are love not a gaping pig;

Some, that are mad if they behold a cat;

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:

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 woollen bagpipe; but of force

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 lodged hate and a certain loathing

I bear Antonio, that I follow thus

A losing suit against him. Are you answer’d?

Bassanio

This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,

To excuse the current of thy cruelty.

Shylock

I am not bound to please thee with my answers.

Bassanio

Do all men kill the things they do not love?

Shylock

Hates any man the thing he would not kill?

Bassanio

Every offence is not a hate at first.

Shylock

What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?

Antonio

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;

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,

When they are fretten 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 farther means,

But with all brief and plain conveniency

Let me have judgment and the Jew his will.

Bassanio

For thy three thousand ducats here is six.

Shylock

What judgment shall I dread, doing

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?

Shylock

What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?

You have among you many a purchased slave,

Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules,

You use in abject and in slavish parts,

Because you bought them: shall I say to you,

Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?

Why sweat they under burthens? let their beds

Be made as soft as yours and let their palates

Be season’d with such viands? You will answer

‘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!

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,

Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,

Whom I have sent for to determine this,

Come here to-day.

Salanio

My lord, here stays without

A messenger with letters from the doctor,

New come from Padua.

Duke

Bring us the letter; call the messenger.

Bassanio

Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet!

The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones and all,

Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.

Antonio

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

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?

Nerissa

From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace.

Presenting a letter

Bassanio

Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?

Shylock

To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.

Gratiano

Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,

Thou makest thy knife keen; but no metal can,

No, not the hangman’s axe, bear half the keenness

Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?

Shylock

No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.

Gratiano

O, be thou damn’d, inexecrable dog!

And for thy life let justice be accused.

Thou almost makest me waver in my faith

To hold opinion with Pythagoras,

That souls of animals infuse themselves

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,

Infused itself in thee; for thy desires

Are wolvish, bloody, starved and ravenous.

Shylock

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

To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.

Duke

This letter from Bellario doth commend

A young and learned doctor to our court.

Where is he?

Nerissa

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.

Meantime the court shall hear Bellario’s letter.

Clerk

[Reads] 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 Balthasar. 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.

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. Come you from old Bellario?

Portia

I did, my lord.

Duke

You are welcome: take your place.

Are you acquainted with the difference

That holds this present question in the court?

Portia

I am informed thoroughly of the cause.

Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?

Duke

Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.

Portia

Is your name Shylock?

Shylock

Shylock is my name.

Portia

Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;

Yet in such rule that the Venetian law

Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.

You stand within his danger, do you not?

Antonio

Ay, so he says.

Portia

Do you confess the bond?

Antonio

I do.

Portia

Then must the Jew be merciful.

Shylock

On what compulsion must I? tell me that.

Portia

The quality of mercy is not strain’d,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes

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;

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,

That, in the course of justice, none of us

Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;

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.

Shylock

My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,

The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

Portia

Is he not able to discharge the money?

Bassanio

Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;

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:

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,

And curb this cruel devil of his will.

Portia

It must not be; there is no power in Venice

Can alter a decree established:

’Twill be recorded for a precedent,

And many an error by the same example

Will rush into the state: it cannot be.

Shylock

A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!

O wise young judge, how I do honour thee!

Portia

I pray you, let me look upon the bond.

Shylock

Here ’tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.

Portia

Shylock, there’s thrice thy money offer’d thee.

Shylock

An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:

Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?

No, not for Venice.

Portia

Why, this bond is forfeit;

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim

A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off

Nearest the merchant’s heart. Be merciful:

Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.

Shylock

When it is paid according to the tenor.

It doth appear you are a worthy judge;

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

There is no power in the tongue of man

To alter me: I stay here on my bond.

Antonio

Most heartily I do beseech the court

To give the judgment.

Portia

Why then, thus it is:

You must prepare your bosom for his knife.

Shylock

O noble judge! O excellent young man!

Portia

For the intent and purpose of the law

Hath full relation to the penalty,

Which here appeareth due upon the bond.

Shylock

’Tis very true: O wise and upright judge!

How much more elder art thou than thy looks!

Portia

Therefore lay bare your bosom.

Shylock

Ay, his breast:

So says the bond: doth it not, noble judge?

‘Nearest his heart:’ those are the very words.

Portia

It is so. Are there balance here to weigh

The flesh?

Shylock

I have them ready.

Portia

Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,

To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.

Shylock

Is it so nominated in the bond?

Portia

It is not so express’d: but what of that?

’Twere good you do so much for charity.

Shylock

I cannot find it; ’tis not in the bond.

Portia

You, merchant, have you any thing to say?

Antonio

But little: I am arm’d and well prepared.

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

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

Of such misery doth she cut me off.

Commend me to your honourable wife:

Tell her the process of Antonio’s end;

Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death;

And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge

Whether Bassanio had not once a love.

Repent but you that you shall lose your friend,

And he repents not that he pays your debt;

For if the Jew do cut but deep enough,

I’ll pay it presently with all my heart.

Bassanio

Antonio, I am married to a wife

Which is as dear to me as life itself;

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.

Portia

Your wife would give you little thanks for that,

If she were by, to hear you make the offer.

Gratiano

I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love:

I would she were in heaven, so she could

Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.

Nerissa

’Tis well you offer it behind her back;

The wish would make else an unquiet house.

Shylock

These be the Christian husbands. I have a daughter;

Would any of the stock of Barrabas

Had been her husband rather than a Christian!

Aside

We trifle time: I pray thee, pursue sentence.

Portia

A pound of that same merchant’s flesh is thine:

The court awards it, and the law doth give it.

Shylock

Most rightful judge!

Portia

And you must cut this flesh from off his breast:

The law allows it, and the court awards it.

Shylock

Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare!

Portia

Tarry a little; there is something else.

This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;

The words expressly are ‘a pound of flesh:’

Take then 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

Unto the state of Venice.

Gratiano

O upright judge! Mark, Jew: O learned judge!

Shylock

Is that the law?

Portia

Thyself shalt see the act:

For, as thou urgest justice, be assured

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.

Gratiano

O learned judge! Mark, Jew: a learned judge!

Shylock

I take this offer, then; pay the bond thrice

And let the Christian go.

Bassanio

Here is the money.

Portia

Soft!

The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no haste:

He shall have nothing but the penalty.

Gratiano

O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!

Portia

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 cut’st more

Or less than a just pound, be it but so much

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,

Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate.

Gratiano

A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!

Now, infidel, I have you on the hip.

Portia

Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.

Shylock

Give me my principal, and let me go.

Bassanio

I have it ready for thee; here it is.

Portia

He hath refused it in the open court:

He shall have merely justice and his bond.

Gratiano

A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel!

I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.

Shylock

Shall I not have barely my principal?

Portia

Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,

To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.

Shylock

Why, then the devil give him good of it!

I’ll stay no longer question.

Portia

Tarry, Jew:

The law hath yet another hold on you.

It is enacted in the laws of Venice,

If it be proved against an alien

That by direct or indirect attempts

He seek the life of any citizen,

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

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

Thou hast contrived against the very life

Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr’d

The danger formerly by me rehearsed.

Down therefore and beg mercy of the duke.

Gratiano

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.

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,

Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.

Portia

Ay, for the state, not for Antonio.

Shylock

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.

Portia

What mercy can you render him, Antonio?

Gratiano

A halter gratis; nothing else, for God’s sake.

Antonio

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,

Upon his death, unto the gentleman

That lately stole his daughter:

Two things provided more, that, for this favour,

He presently become a Christian;

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.

Portia

Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?

Shylock

I am content.

Portia

Clerk, draw a deed of gift.

Shylock

I pray you, give me leave to go from hence;

I am not well: send the deed after me,

And I will sign it.

Duke

Get thee gone, but do it.

Gratiano

In christening shalt thou have two god-fathers:

Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more,

To bring thee to the gallows, not the font.

Exit Shylock

Duke

Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.

Portia

I humbly do desire your grace of pardon:

I must away this night toward Padua,

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 and his train

Bassanio

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,

We freely cope your courteous pains withal.

Antonio

And stand indebted, over and above,

In love and service to you evermore.

Portia

He is well paid that is well satisfied;

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:

I wish you well, and so I take my leave.

Bassanio

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.

Portia

You press me far, and therefore I will yield.

To Antonio

Give me your gloves, I’ll wear them for your sake;

To Bassanio

And, for your love, I’ll take this ring from you:

Do not draw back your hand; I’ll take no more;

And you in love shall not deny me this.

Bassanio

This ring, good sir, alas, it is a trifle!

I will not shame myself to give you this.

Portia

I will have nothing else but only this;

And now methinks I have a mind to it.

Bassanio

There’s more depends on this than on the value.

The dearest ring in Venice will I give you,

And find it out by proclamation:

Only for this, I pray you, pardon me.

Portia

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.

Bassanio

Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife;

And when she put it on, she made me vow

That I should neither sell nor give nor lose it.

Portia

That ’scuse serves many men to save their gifts.

An if your wife be not a mad-woman,

And know how well I have deserved the ring,

She would not hold out enemy for ever,

For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you!

Exeunt Portia and Nerissa

Antonio

My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:

Let his deservings and my love withal

Be valued against your wife’s commandment.

Bassanio

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;

And in the morning early will we both

Fly toward Belmont: come, Antonio.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME. A STREET.

Enter Portia and Nerissa

Portia

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.

Enter Gratiano

Gratiano

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.

Portia

That cannot be:

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.

Gratiano

That will I do.

Nerissa

Sir, I would speak with you.

Aside to Portia

I’ll see if I can get my husband’s ring,

Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.

Portia

[Aside to Nerissa] Thou mayst, I warrant.

We shall have old swearing

That they did give the rings away to men;

But we’ll outface them, and outswear them too.

Aloud

Away! make haste: thou knowist where I will tarry.

Nerissa

Come, good sir, will you show me to this house?

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. BELMONT. AVENUE TO PORTIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Lorenzo and Jessica

Lorenzo

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

And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents,

Where Cressid lay that night.

Jessica

In such a night

Did Thisbe fearfully o’ertrip the dew

And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself

And ran dismay’d away.

Lorenzo

In such a night

Stood Dido with a willow in her hand

Upon the wild sea banks and waft her love

To come again to Carthage.

Jessica

In such a night

Medea gather’d the enchanted herbs

That did renew old Aeson.

Lorenzo

In such a night

Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew

And with an unthrift love did run from Venice

As far as Belmont.

Jessica

In such a night

Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well,

Stealing her soul with many vows of faith

And ne’er a true one.

Lorenzo

In such a night

Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,

Slander her love, and he forgave it her.

Jessica

I would out-night you, did no body come;

But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.

Enter Stephano

Lorenzo

Who comes so fast in silence of the night?

Stephano

A friend.

Lorenzo

A friend! what friend? your name, I pray you, friend?

Stephano

Stephano is my name; and I bring word

My mistress will before the break of day

Be here at Belmont; she doth stray about

By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays

For happy wedlock hours.

Lorenzo

Who comes with her?

Stephano

None but a holy hermit and her maid.

I pray you, is my master yet return’d?

Lorenzo

He is not, nor we have not heard from him.

But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica,

And ceremoniously let us prepare

Some welcome for the mistress of the house.

Enter Launcelot

Launcelot

Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!

Lorenzo

Who calls?

Launcelot

Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo?

Master Lorenzo, sola, sola!

Lorenzo

Leave hollaing, man: here.

Launcelot

Sola! where? where?

Lorenzo

Here.

Launcelot

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

Lorenzo

Sweet soul, let’s in, and there expect their coming.

And yet no matter: why should we go in?

My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,

Within the house, your mistress is at hand;

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

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,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;

Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay

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

Jessica

I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

Lorenzo

The reason is, your spirits are attentive:

For do but note a wild and wanton herd,

Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,

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,

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;

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 moved with concord of sweet sounds,

Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;

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

Portia

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.

Nerissa

When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.

Portia

So doth the greater glory dim the less:

A substitute shines brightly as a king

Unto the king be by, and then his state

Empties itself, as doth an inland brook

Into the main of waters. Music! hark!

Nerissa

It is your music, madam, of the house.

Portia

Nothing is good, I see, without respect:

Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.

Nerissa

Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.

Portia

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,

When neither is attended, and I think

The nightingale, if she should sing by day,

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!

Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion

And would not be awaked.

Music ceases

Lorenzo

That is the voice,

Or I am much deceived, of Portia.

Portia

He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo,

By the bad voice.

Lorenzo

Dear lady, welcome home.

Portia

We have been praying for our husbands’ healths,

Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.

Are they return’d?

Lorenzo

Madam, they are not yet;

But there is come a messenger before,

To signify their coming.

Portia

Go in, Nerissa;

Give order to my servants that they take

No note at all of our being absent hence;

Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you.

A tucket sounds

Lorenzo

Your husband is at hand; I hear his trumpet:

We are no tell-tales, madam; fear you not.

Portia

This night methinks is but the daylight sick;

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

Bassanio

We should hold day with the Antipodes,

If you would walk in absence of the sun.

Portia

Let me give light, but let me not be light;

For a light wife doth make a heavy husband,

And never be Bassanio so for me:

But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord.

Bassanio

I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend.

This is the man, this is Antonio,

To whom I am so infinitely bound.

Portia

You should in all sense be much bound to him.

For, as I hear, he was much bound for you.

Antonio

No more than I am well acquitted of.

Portia

Sir, you are very welcome to our house:

It must appear in other ways than words,

Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.

Gratiano

[To Nerissa] By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong;

In faith, I gave it to the judge’s clerk:

Would he were gelt that had it, for my part,

Since you do take it, love, so much at heart.

Portia

A quarrel, ho, already! what’s the matter?

Gratiano

About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring

That she did give me, whose posy was

For all the world like cutler’s poetry

Upon a knife, ‘Love me, and leave me not.’

Nerissa

What talk you of the posy or the value?

You swore to me, when I did give it you,

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.

Gratiano

He will, an if he live to be a man.

Nerissa

Ay, if a woman live to be a man.

Gratiano

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:

I could not for my heart deny it him.

Portia

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 so riveted with faith unto your flesh.

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

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.

Bassanio

[Aside] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off

And swear I lost the ring defending it.

Gratiano

My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away

Unto the judge that begg’d it and indeed

Deserved 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.

Portia

What ring gave you my lord?

Not that, I hope, which you received of me.

Bassanio

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.

Portia

Even so void is your false heart of truth.

By heaven, I will ne’er come in your bed

Until I see the ring.

Nerissa

Nor I in yours

Till I again see mine.

Bassanio

Sweet Portia,

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,

When nought would be accepted but the ring,

You would abate the strength of your displeasure.

Portia

If you had known the virtue of the ring,

Or half her worthiness that gave the ring,

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 pleased to have defended it

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.

Bassanio

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 displeased away;

Even he that did uphold the very life

Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady?

I was enforced to send it after him;

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,

Had you been there, I think you would have begg’d

The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.

Portia

Let not that doctor e’er come near my house:

Since he hath got the jewel that I loved,

And that which you did swear to keep for me,

I will become as liberal as you;

I’ll not deny him any thing I have,

No, not my body nor my husband’s bed:

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,

I’ll have that doctor for my bedfellow.

Nerissa

And I his clerk; therefore be well advised

How you do leave me to mine own protection.

Gratiano

Well, do you so; let not me take him, then;

For if I do, I’ll mar the young clerk’s pen.

Antonio

I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels.

Portia

Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwithstanding.

Bassanio

Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong;

And, in the hearing of these many friends,

I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes,

Wherein I see myself —

Portia

Mark you but that!

In both my eyes he doubly sees himself;

In each eye, one: swear by your double self,

And there’s an oath of credit.

Bassanio

Nay, but hear me:

Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear

I never more will break an oath with thee.

Antonio

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

Will never more break faith advisedly.

Portia

Then you shall be his surety. Give him this

And bid him keep it better than the other.

Antonio

Here, Lord Bassanio; swear to keep this ring.

Bassanio

By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor!

Portia

I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio;

For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me.

Nerissa

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.

Gratiano

Why, this is like the mending of highways

In summer, where the ways are fair enough:

What, are we cuckolds ere we have deserved it?

Portia

Speak not so grossly. You are all amazed:

Here is a letter; read it at your leisure;

It comes from Padua, from Bellario:

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

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

Are richly come to harbour suddenly:

You shall not know by what strange accident

I chanced on this letter.

Antonio

I am dumb.

Bassanio

Were you the doctor and I knew you not?

Gratiano

Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold?

Nerissa

Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it,

Unless he live until he be a man.

Bassanio

Sweet doctor, you shall be my bed-fellow:

When I am absent, then lie with my wife.

Antonio

Sweet lady, you have given me life and living;

For here I read for certain that my ships

Are safely come to road.

Portia

How now, Lorenzo!

My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.

Nerissa

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,

After his death, of all he dies possess’d of.

Lorenzo

Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way

Of starved people.

Portia

It is almost morning,

And yet I am sure you are not satisfied

Of these events at full. Let us go in;

And charge us there upon inter’gatories,

And we will answer all things faithfully.

Gratiano

Let it be so: the first inter’gatory

That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is,

Whether 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

So sore as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring.

Exeunt

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. ATHENS. THE PALACE OF THESEUS.

SCENE II. ATHENS. QUINCE’S HOUSE.

ACT II

SCENE I. A WOOD NEAR ATHENS.

SCENE II. ANOTHER PART OF THE WOOD.

ACT III

SCENE I. THE WOOD. TITANIA LYING ASLEEP.

SCENE II. ANOTHER PART OF THE WOOD.

ACT IV

SCENE I. THE SAME.

SCENE II. ATHENS. QUINCE’S HOUSE.

ACT V

SCENE I. ATHENS. THE PALACE OF THESEUS.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Theseus, Duke of Athens.

Egeus, father to Hermia.

Lysander, 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.

Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed, fairies.

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

Theseus

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,

Like to a step-dame or a dowager

Long withering out a young man’s revenue.

Hippolyta

Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;

Four nights will quickly dream away the time;

And then the moon, like to a silver bow

New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night

Of our solemnities.

Theseus

Go, Philostrate,

Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments;

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,

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

Egeus

Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke!

Theseus

Thanks, good Egeus: what’s the news with thee?

Egeus

Full of vexation come I, with complaint

Against my child, my daughter Hermia.

Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord,

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 rhymes,

And interchanged love-tokens with my child:

Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,

With feigning voice verses of feigning love,

And stolen the impression of her fantasy

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,

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,

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

Immediately provided in that case.

Theseus

What say you, Hermia? be advised fair maid:

To you your father should be as a god;

One that composed your beauties, yea, and one

To whom you are but as a form in wax

By him imprinted and within his power

To leave the figure or disfigure it.

Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.

Hermia

So is Lysander.

Theseus

In himself he is;

But in this kind, wanting your father’s voice,

The other must be held the worthier.

Hermia

I would my father look’d but with my eyes.

Theseus

Rather your eyes must with his judgment look.

Hermia

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,

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.

Theseus

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,

Whether, 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,

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,

Than that which withering on the virgin thorn

Grows, lives and dies in single blessedness.

Hermia

So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,

Ere I will yield my virgin patent up

Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke

My soul consents not to give sovereignty.

Theseus

Take time to pause; and, by the next new moon —

The sealing-day betwixt my love and me,

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;

Or on Diana’s altar to protest

For aye austerity and single life.

Demetrius

Relent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yield

Thy crazed title to my certain right.

Lysander

You have her father’s love, Demetrius;

Let me have Hermia’s: do you marry him.

Egeus

Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love,

And what is mine my love shall render him.

And she is mine, and all my right of her

I do estate unto Demetrius.

Lysander

I am, my lord, as well derived as he,

As well possess’d; my love is more than his;

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 beloved of beauteous Hermia:

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,

Upon this spotted and inconstant man.

Theseus

I must confess that I have heard so much,

And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof;

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.

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 —

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

Against our nuptial and confer with you

Of something nearly that concerns yourselves.

Egeus

With duty and desire we follow you.

Exeunt all but Lysander and Hermia

Lysander

How now, my love! why is your cheek so pale?

How chance the roses there do fade so fast?

Hermia

Belike for want of rain, which I could well

Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.

Lysander

Ay me! for aught that I could ever read,

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth;

But, either it was different in blood,—

Hermia

O cross! too high to be enthrall’d to low.

Lysander

Or else misgraffed in respect of years,—

Hermia

O spite! too old to be engaged to young.

Lysander

Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,—

Hermia

O hell! to choose love by another’s eyes.

Lysander

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,

War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,

Making it momentary as a sound,

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;

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:

So quick bright things come to confusion.

Hermia

If then true lovers have been ever cross’d,

It stands as an edict in destiny:

Then let us teach our trial patience,

Because it is a customary cross,

As due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs,

Wishes and tears, poor fancy’s followers.

Lysander

A good persuasion: therefore, hear me, Hermia.

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.

There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee;

And to that place the sharp Athenian law

Cannot pursue us. If thou lovest me then,

Steal forth thy father’s house to-morrow night;

And in the wood, a league without the town,

Where I did meet thee once with Helena,

To do observance to a morn of May,

There will I stay for thee.

Hermia

My good Lysander!

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,

When the false Troyan under sail was seen,

By all the vows that ever men have broke,

In number more than ever women spoke,

In that same place thou hast appointed me,

To-morrow truly will I meet with thee.

Lysander

Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena.

Enter Helena

Hermia

God speed fair Helena! whither away?

Helena

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,

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.

Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,

The rest I’d give to be to you translated.

O, teach me how you look, and with what art

You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart.

Hermia

I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.

Helena

O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill!

Hermia

I give him curses, yet he gives me love.

Helena

O that my prayers could such affection move!

Hermia

The more I hate, the more he follows me.

Helena

The more I love, the more he hateth me.

Hermia

His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.

Helena

None, but your beauty: would that fault were mine!

Hermia

Take comfort: he no more shall see my face;

Lysander and myself will fly this place.

Before the time I did Lysander see,

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!

Lysander

Helen, to you our minds we will unfold:

To-morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold

Her silver visage in the watery glass,

Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass,

A time that lovers’ flights doth still conceal,

Through Athens’ gates have we devised to steal.

Hermia

And in the wood, where often you and I

Upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie,

Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet,

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!

Keep word, Lysander: we must starve our sight

From lovers’ food till morrow deep midnight.

Lysander

I will, my Hermia.

Exit Hermia

Helena, adieu:

As you on him, Demetrius dote on you!

Exit

Helena

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:

And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes,

So I, admiring of his qualities:

Things base and vile, holding no quantity,

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 judgement taste;

Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste:

And therefore is Love said to be a child,

Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.

As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,

So the boy Love is perjured every where:

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 dissolved, and showers of oaths did melt.

I will go tell him of fair Hermia’s flight:

Then to the wood will he to-morrow night

Pursue her; and for this intelligence

If I have thanks, it is a dear expense:

But herein mean I to enrich my pain,

To have his sight thither and back again.

Exit

SCENE II. ATHENS. QUINCE’S HOUSE.

Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Starveling

Quince

Is all our company here?

Bottom

You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip.

Quince

Here is the scroll of every man’s name, which is thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the duke and the duchess, on his wedding-day at night.

Bottom

First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on, then read the names of the actors, and so grow to a point.

Quince

Marry, our play is, The most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.

Bottom

A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves.

Quince

Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver.

Bottom

Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.

Quince

You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.

Bottom

What is Pyramus? a lover, or a tyrant?

Quince

A lover, that kills himself most gallant for love.

Bottom

That will ask some tears in the true performing of it: if I do it, let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms, I will condole in some measure. To the rest: yet my chief humour is for a tyrant: I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split.

The raging rocks

And shivering shocks

Shall break the locks

Of prison gates;

And Phibbus’ car

Shall shine from far

And make and mar

The foolish Fates.

This was lofty! Now name the rest of the players. This is Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein; a lover is more condoling.

Quince

Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.

Flute

Here, Peter Quince.

Quince

Flute, you must take Thisby on you.

Flute

What is Thisby? a wandering knight?

Quince

It is the lady that Pyramus must love.

Flute

Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming.

Quince

That’s all one: you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will.

Bottom

An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too, I’ll speak in a monstrous little voice. ‘Thisne, Thisne;’ ‘Ah, Pyramus, lover dear! thy Thisby dear, and lady dear!’

Quince

No, no; you must play Pyramus: and, Flute, you Thisby.

Bottom

Well, proceed.

Quince

Robin Starveling, the tailor.

Starveling

Here, Peter Quince.

Quince

Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby’s mother. Tom Snout, the tinker.

Snout

Here, Peter Quince.

Quince

You, Pyramus’ father: myself, Thisby’s father: Snug, the joiner; you, the lion’s part: and, I hope, here is a play fitted.

Snug

Have you the lion’s part written? pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study.

Quince

You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring.

Bottom

Let me play the lion too: I will roar, that I will do any man’s heart good to hear me; I will roar, that I will make the duke say ‘Let him roar again, let him roar again.’

Quince

An you should do it too terribly, you would fright the duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek; and that were enough to hang us all.

All

That would hang us, every mother’s son.

Bottom

I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us: but I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an ’twere any nightingale.

Quince

You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; a proper man, as one shall see in a summer’s day; a most lovely gentleman-like man: therefore you must needs play Pyramus.

Bottom

Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in?

Quince

Why, what you will.

Bottom

I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow.

Quince

Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and then you will play bare-faced. But, masters, here are your parts: and I am to entreat you, request you and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night; and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight; there will we rehearse, for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogged with company, and our devices known. In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you, fail me not.

Bottom

We will meet; and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously. Take pains; be perfect: adieu.

Quince

At the duke’s oak we meet.

Bottom

Enough; hold or cut bow-strings.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. A WOOD NEAR ATHENS.

Enter, from opposite sides, a Fairy, and Puck

Puck

How now, spirit! whither wander you?

Fairy

Over hill, over dale,

Thorough bush, thorough brier,

Over park, over pale,

Thorough flood, thorough fire,

I do wander everywhere,

Swifter than the moon’s sphere;

And I serve the fairy queen,

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,

In those freckles live their savours:

I must go seek some dewdrops here

And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.

Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone:

Our queen and all our 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,

Because that she as her attendant hath

A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king;

She never had so sweet a changeling;

And jealous Oberon would have the child

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,

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.

Fairy

Either I mistake your shape and making quite,

Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite

Call’d Robin Goodfellow: are not you he

That frights the maidens of the villagery;

Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern

And bootless make the breathless housewife churn;

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:

Are not you he?

Puck

Thou speak’st aright;

I am that merry wanderer of the night.

I jest to Oberon and make him smile

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,

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;

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 laugh,

And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear

A merrier hour was never wasted there.

But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon.

Fairy

And here my mistress. Would that he were gone!

Enter, from one side, Oberon, with his train; from the other, Titania, with hers

Oberon

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

Titania

What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence:

I have forsworn his bed and company.

Oberon

Tarry, rash wanton: am not I thy lord?

Titania

Then I must be thy lady: but I know

When thou hast stolen away from fairy land,

And in the shape of Corin sat all day,

Playing on pipes of corn and versing love

To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here,

Come from the farthest 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

To give their bed joy and prosperity.

Oberon

How canst thou thus for shame, Titania,

Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,

Knowing I know thy love to Theseus?

Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night

From Perigenia, whom he ravished?

And make him with fair Aegle break his faith,

With Ariadne and Antiopa?

Titania

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,

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,

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:

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,

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:

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,

That rheumatic diseases do abound:

And thorough this distemperature we see

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts

Far in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,

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

Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,

By their increase, now knows not which is which:

And this same progeny of evils comes

From our debate, from our dissension;

We are their parents and original.

Oberon

Do you amend it then; it lies in you:

Why should Titania cross her Oberon?

I do but beg a little changeling boy,

To be my henchman.

Titania

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,

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,

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 do I rear up her boy,

And for her sake I will not part with him.

Oberon

How long within this wood intend you stay?

Titania

Perchance till after Theseus’ wedding-day.

If you will patiently dance in our round

And see our moonlight revels, go with us;

If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.

Oberon

Give me that boy, and I will go with thee.

Titania

Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away!

We shall chide downright, if I longer stay.

Exit Titania with her train

Oberon

Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove

Till I torment thee for this injury.

My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberest

Since once I sat upon a promontory,

And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back

Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath

That the rude sea grew civil at her song

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,

To hear the sea-maid’s music.

Puck

I remember.

Oberon

That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,

Flying between the cold moon and the earth,

Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took

At a fair vestal throned by the west,

And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;

But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft

Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery moon,

And the imperial votaress passed on,

In maiden meditation, fancy-free.

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.

Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew’d thee once:

The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid

Will make or man or woman madly dote

Upon the next live creature that it sees.

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

Oberon

Having once this juice,

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,

On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,

She shall pursue it with the soul of love:

And ere I take this charm from off her sight,

As I can take it with another herb,

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

Demetrius

I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.

Where is Lysander and fair Hermia?

The one I’ll slay, the other slayeth me.

Thou told’st me they were stolen unto this wood;

And here am I, and wode within this wood,

Because I cannot meet my Hermia.

Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.

Helena

You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant;

But yet you draw not iron, for my heart

Is true as steel: leave you your power to draw,

And I shall have no power to follow you.

Demetrius

Do I entice you? do I speak you fair?

Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth

Tell you, I do not, nor I cannot love you?

Helena

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:

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,—

And yet a place of high respect with me,—

Than to be used as you use your dog?

Demetrius

Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit;

For I am sick when I do look on thee.

Helena

And I am sick when I look not on you.

Demetrius

You do impeach your modesty too much,

To leave the city and commit yourself

Into the hands of one that loves you not;

To trust the opportunity of night

And the ill counsel of a desert place

With the rich worth of your virginity.

Helena

Your virtue is my privilege: for that

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:

Then how can it be said I am alone,

When all the world is here to look on me?

Demetrius

I’ll run from thee and hide me in the brakes,

And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.

Helena

The wildest hath not such a heart as you.

Run when you will, the story shall be changed:

Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase;

The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind

Makes speed to catch the tiger; bootless speed,

When cowardice pursues and valour flies.

Demetrius

I will not stay thy questions; let me go:

Or, if thou follow me, do not believe

But I shall do thee mischief in the wood.

Helena

Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,

You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!

Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex:

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

Oberon

Fare thee well, nymph: ere he do leave this grove,

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.

Oberon

I pray thee, give it me.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:

There sleeps Titania sometime 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:

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

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.

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

Titania

Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;

Then, for the third part of a minute, hence;

Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds,

Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,

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.

The Fairies sing

You spotted snakes with double tongue,

Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;

Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,

Come not near our fairy queen.

Philomel, with melody

Sing in our sweet lullaby;

Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby:

Never harm,

Nor spell nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh;

So, good night, with lullaby.

Weaving spiders, come not here;

Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!

Beetles black, approach not near;

Worm nor snail, do no offence.

Philomel, with melody, &c.

Fairy

Hence, away! now all is well:

One aloof stand sentinel.

Exeunt Fairies. Titania sleeps

Enter Oberon and squeezes the flower on Titania’s eyelids

Oberon

What thou seest when thou dost wake,

Do it for thy true-love take,

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

When thou wakest, it is thy dear:

Wake when some vile thing is near.

Exit

Enter Lysander and Hermia

Lysander

Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood;

And to speak troth, I have forgot our way:

We’ll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,

And tarry for the comfort of the day.

Hermia

Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed;

For I upon this bank will rest my head.

Lysander

One turf shall serve as pillow for us both;

One heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth.

Hermia

Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear,

Lie further off yet, do not lie so near.

Lysander

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;

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.

Hermia

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

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!

Lysander

Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I;

And then end life when I end loyalty!

Here is my bed: sleep give thee all his rest!

Hermia

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

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,

Despised the Athenian maid;

And here the maiden, sleeping sound,

On the dank and dirty ground.

Pretty soul! she durst not lie

Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.

Churl, upon thy eyes I throw

All the power this charm doth owe.

When thou wakest, let love forbid

Sleep his seat on thy eyelid:

So awake when I am gone;

For I must now to Oberon.

Exit

Enter Demetrius and Helena, running

Helena

Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.

Demetrius

I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.

Helena

O, wilt thou darkling leave me? do not so.

Demetrius

Stay, on thy peril: I alone will go.

Exit

Helena

O, I am out of breath in this fond chase!

The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.

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.

No, no, I am as ugly as a bear;

For beasts that meet me run away for fear:

Therefore no marvel though Demetrius

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!

Dead? or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.

Lysander if you live, good sir, awake.

Lysander

[Awaking] And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake.

Transparent Helena! Nature shows art,

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!

Helena

Do not say so, Lysander; say not so

What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though?

Yet Hermia still loves you: then be content.

Lysander

Content with Hermia! No; I do repent

The tedious minutes I with her have spent.

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.

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

And leads me to your eyes, where I o’erlook

Love’s stories written in love’s richest book.

Helena

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?

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.

O, that a lady, of one man refused.

Should of another therefore be abused!

Exit

Lysander

She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there:

And never mayst thou come Lysander near!

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,

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

Hermia

[Awaking] Help me, Lysander, help me! do thy best

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:

Methought a serpent eat my heart away,

And you sat smiling at his cruel pray.

Lysander! what, removed? Lysander! lord!

What, out of hearing? gone? no sound, no word?

Alack, where are you speak, an if you hear;

Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear.

No? then I well perceive you are not nigh

Either death or you I’ll find immediately.

Exit

ACT III

SCENE I. THE WOOD. TITANIA LYING ASLEEP.

Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Starveling

Bottom

Are we all met?

Quince

Pat, pat; and here’s a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn-brake our tiring-house; and we will do it in action as we will do it before the duke.

Bottom

Peter Quince,—

Quince

What sayest thou, bully Bottom?

Bottom

There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that?

Snout

By’r lakin, a parlous fear.

Starveling

I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done.

Bottom

Not a whit: I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue; and let the prologue seem to say, we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and, for the more better assurance, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver: this will put them out of fear.

Quince

Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six.

Bottom

No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight.

Snout

Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion?

Starveling

I fear it, I promise you.

Bottom

Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves: to bring in — God shield us!— a lion among ladies, is a most dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living; and we ought to look to ’t.

Snout

Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion.

Bottom

Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion’s neck: and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect,—‘Ladies,’— or ‘Fair-ladies — I would wish you,’— or ‘I would request you,’— or ‘I would entreat you,— not to fear, not to tremble: my life for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life: no I am no such thing; I am a man as other men are;’ and there indeed let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner.

Quince

Well it shall be so. But there is two hard things; that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber; for, you know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight.

Snout

Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?

Bottom

A calendar, a calendar! look in the almanac; find out moonshine, find out moonshine.

Quince

Yes, it doth shine that night.

Bottom

Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber window, where we play, open, and the moon may shine in at the casement.

Quince

Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lanthorn, and say he comes to disfigure, or to present, the person of Moonshine. Then, there is another thing: we must have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisby says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall.

Snout

You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom?

Bottom

Some man or other must present Wall: and let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper.

Quince

If that may be, then 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.

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;

An actor too, perhaps, if I see cause.

Quince

Speak, Pyramus. Thisby, stand forth.

Bottom

Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet,—

Quince

Odours, odours.

Bottom

— 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 played here.

Exit

Flute

Must I speak now?

Quince

Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again.

Flute

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,

I’ll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny’s tomb.

Quince

‘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.’

Flute

O,— As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire.

Re-enter Puck, and Bottom with an ass’s head

Bottom

If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine.

Quince

O monstrous! O strange! we are haunted. Pray, masters! fly, masters! Help!

Exeunt Quince, Snug, Flute, Snout, and Starveling

Puck

I’ll follow you, I’ll lead you about a round,

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,

Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.

Exit

Bottom

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?

Bottom

What do you see? you see an asshead of your own, do you?

Exit Snout

Re-enter Quince

Quince

Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art translated.

Exit

Bottom

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.

[Sings] The ousel cock so black of hue,

With orange-tawny bill,

The throstle with his note so true,

The wren with little quill,—

Titania

[Awaking] What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?

Bottom

[Sings] 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;—

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?

Titania

I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again:

Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note;

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.

Bottom

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.

Titania

Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.

Bottom

Not so, neither: but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.

Titania

Out of this wood do not desire to go:

Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no.

I am a spirit of no common rate;

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,

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.

Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed!

Enter Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed

Peaseblossom

Ready.

Cobweb

And I.

Moth

And I.

Mustardseed

And I.

All

Where shall we go?

Titania

Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;

Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes;

Feed him with apricocks and dewberries,

With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries;

The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees,

And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs

And light them at the fiery glow-worm’s eyes,

To have my love to bed and to arise;

And pluck the wings from Painted butterflies

To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes:

Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.

Peaseblossom

Hail, mortal!

Cobweb

Hail!

Moth

Hail!

Mustardseed

Hail!

Bottom

I cry your worship’s mercy, heartily: I beseech your worship’s name.

Cobweb

Cobweb.

Bottom

I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb: if I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you. Your name, honest gentleman?

Peaseblossom

Peaseblossom.

Bottom

I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir?

Mustardseed

Mustardseed.

Bottom

Good Master Mustardseed, 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 had made my eyes water ere now. I desire your more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed.

Titania

Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower.

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.

Exeunt

SCENE II. ANOTHER PART OF THE WOOD.

Enter Oberon

Oberon

I wonder if Titania be awaked;

Then, what it was that next came in her eye,

Which she must dote on in extremity.

Enter Puck

Here comes my messenger.

How now, mad spirit!

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,

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.

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,

An ass’s nole I fixed on his head:

Anon his Thisbe must be answered,

And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy,

As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye,

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;

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,

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:

When in that moment, so it came to pass,

Titania waked and straightway loved an ass.

Oberon

This falls out better than I could devise.

But hast thou yet latch’d the Athenian’s eyes

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 waked, of force she must be eyed.

Enter Hermia and Demetrius

Oberon

Stand close: this is the same Athenian.

Puck

This is the woman, but not this the man.

Demetrius

O, why rebuke you him that loves you so?

Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.

Hermia

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 the deep,

And kill me too.

The sun was not so true unto the day

As he to me: would he have stolen away

From sleeping Hermia? I’ll believe as soon

This whole earth may be bored and that the moon

May through the centre creep and so displease

Her brother’s noontide with Antipodes.

It cannot be but thou hast murder’d him;

So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.

Demetrius

So should the murder’d look, and so should I,

Pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty:

Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,

As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.

Hermia

What’s this to my Lysander? where is he?

Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?

Demetrius

I had rather give his carcass to my hounds.

Hermia

Out, dog! out, cur! thou drivest 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, even for my sake!

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

Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.

Demetrius

You spend your passion on a misprised mood:

I am not guilty of Lysander’s blood;

Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.

Hermia

I pray thee, tell me then that he is well.

Demetrius

An if I could, what should I get therefore?

Hermia

A privilege never to see me more.

And from thy hated presence part I so:

See me no more, whether he be dead or no.

Exit

Demetrius

There is no following her in this fierce vein:

Here therefore for a while I will remain.

So sorrow’s heaviness doth heavier grow

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

Oberon

What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken quite

And laid the love-juice on some true-love’s sight:

Of thy misprision must perforce ensue

Some true love turn’d and not a false turn’d true.

Puck

Then fate o’er-rules, that, one man holding troth,

A million fail, confounding oath on oath.

Oberon

About the wood go swifter than the wind,

And Helena of Athens look thou find:

All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer,

With sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear:

By some illusion see thou bring her here:

I’ll charm his eyes against she do appear.

Puck

I go, I go; look how I go,

Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow.

Exit

Oberon

Flower of this purple dye,

Hit with Cupid’s archery,

Sink in apple of his eye.

When his love he doth espy,

Let her shine as gloriously

As the Venus of the sky.

When thou wakest, if she be by,

Beg of her for remedy.

Re-enter Puck

Puck

Captain of our fairy band,

Helena is here at hand;

And the youth, mistook by me,

Pleading for a lover’s fee.

Shall we their fond pageant see?

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Oberon

Stand aside: the noise they make

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

That befall preposterously.

Enter Lysander and Helena

Lysander

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.

How can these things in me seem scorn to you,

Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?

Helena

You do advance your cunning more and more.

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,

Will even weigh, and both as light as tales.

Lysander

I had no judgment when to her I swore.

Helena

Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o’er.

Lysander

Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you.

Demetrius

[Awaking] O Helena, 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!

That 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

This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!

Helena

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.

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;

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:

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

A poor soul’s patience, all to make you sport.

Lysander

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;

And yours of Helena to me bequeath,

Whom I do love and will do till my death.

Helena

Never did mockers waste more idle breath.

Demetrius

Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none:

If e’er I loved her, all that love is gone.

My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn’d,

And now to Helen is it home return’d,

There to remain.

Lysander

Helen, it is not so.

Demetrius

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.

Re-enter Hermia

Hermia

Dark night, that from the eye his function takes,

The ear more quick of apprehension makes;

Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense,

It pays the hearing double recompense.

Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found;

Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound

But why unkindly didst thou leave me so?

Lysander

Why should he stay, whom love doth press to go?

Hermia

What love could press Lysander from my side?

Lysander

Lysander’s love, that would not let him bide,

Fair Helena, who more engilds the night

Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light.

Why seek’st thou me? could not this make thee know,

The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so?

Hermia

You speak not as you think: it cannot be.

Helena

Lo, she is one of this confederacy!

Now I perceive they have conjoin’d all three

To fashion this false sport, in spite of me.

Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid!

Have you conspired, have you with these contrived

To bait me with this foul derision?

Is all the counsel that we two have shared,

The sisters’ vows, the hours that we have spent,

When we have chid the hasty-footed time

For parting us,— O, is it all forgot?

All school-days’ friendship, childhood innocence?

We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,

Have with our needles 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 grow together,

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;

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:

Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it,

Though I alone do feel the injury.

Hermia

I am amazed at your passionate words.

I scorn you not: it seems that you scorn me.

Helena

Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn,

To follow me and praise my eyes and face?

And made your other love, Demetrius,

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,

And tender me, forsooth, affection,

But by your setting on, by your consent?

What though I be not so in grace as you,

So hung upon with love, so fortunate,

But miserable most, to love unloved?

This you should pity rather than despise.

Hermia

I understand not what you mean by this.

Helena

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.

If you have any pity, grace, or manners,

You would not make me such an argument.

But fare ye well: ’tis partly my own fault;

Which death or absence soon shall remedy.

Lysander

Stay, gentle Helena; hear my excuse:

My love, my life my soul, fair Helena!

Helena

O excellent!

Hermia

Sweet, do not scorn her so.

Demetrius

If she cannot entreat, I can compel.

Lysander

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,

To prove him false that says I love thee not.

Demetrius

I say I love thee more than he can do.

Lysander

If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too.

Demetrius

Quick, come!

Hermia

Lysander, whereto tends all this?

Lysander

Away, you Ethiope!

Demetrius

No, no; he’ll

Seem to break loose; take on as you would follow,

But yet come not: you are a tame man, go!

Lysander

Hang off, thou cat, thou burr! vile thing, let loose,

Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent!

Hermia

Why are you grown so rude? what change is this?

Sweet love,—

Lysander

Thy love! out, tawny Tartar, out!

Out, loathed medicine! hated potion, hence!

Hermia

Do you not jest?

Helena

Yes, sooth; and so do you.

Lysander

Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee.

Demetrius

I would I had your bond, for I perceive

A weak bond holds you: I’ll not trust your word.

Lysander

What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead?

Although I hate her, I’ll not harm her so.

Hermia

What, can you do me greater harm than hate?

Hate me! wherefore? O me! what news, my love!

Am not I Hermia? are not you Lysander?

I am as fair now as I was erewhile.

Since night you loved me; yet since night you left me:

Why, then you left me — O, the gods forbid!—

In earnest, shall I say?

Lysander

Ay, by my life;

And never did desire to see thee more.

Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt;

Be certain, nothing truer; ’tis no jest

That I do hate thee and love Helena.

Hermia

O me! you juggler! you canker-blossom!

You thief of love! what, have you come by night

And stolen my love’s heart from him?

Helena

Fine, i’faith!

Have you no modesty, no maiden shame,

No touch of bashfulness? What, will you tear

Impatient answers from my gentle tongue?

Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet, you!

Hermia

Puppet? why so? ay, that way goes the game.

Now I perceive that she hath made compare

Between our statures; she hath urged her height;

And with her personage, her tall personage,

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

But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes.

Helena

I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen,

Let her not hurt me: I was never curst;

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,

That I can match her.

Hermia

Lower! hark, again.

Helena

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,

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:

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:

You see how simple and how fond I am.

Hermia

Why, get you gone: who is’t that hinders you?

Helena

A foolish heart, that I leave here behind.

Hermia

What, with Lysander?

Helena

With Demetrius.

Lysander

Be not afraid; she shall not harm thee, Helena.

Demetrius

No, sir, she shall not, though you take her part.

Helena

O, when she’s angry, she is keen and shrewd!

She was a vixen when she went to school;

And though she be but little, she is fierce.

Hermia

‘Little’ again! nothing but ‘low’ and ‘little’!

Why will you suffer her to flout me thus?

Let me come to her.

Lysander

Get you gone, you dwarf;

You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made;

You bead, you acorn.

Demetrius

You are too officious

In her behalf that scorns your services.

Let her alone: speak not of Helena;

Take not her part; for, if thou dost intend

Never so little show of love to her,

Thou shalt aby it.

Lysander

Now she holds me not;

Now follow, if thou darest, to try whose right,

Of thine or mine, is most in Helena.

Demetrius

Follow! nay, I’ll go with thee, cheek by jole.

Exeunt Lysander and Demetrius

Hermia

You, mistress, all this coil is ’long of you:

Nay, go not back.

Helena

I will not trust you, I,

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

Hermia

I am amazed, and know not what to say.

Exit

Oberon

This is thy negligence: still thou mistakest,

Or else committ’st thy knaveries wilfully.

Puck

Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook.

Did not you tell me I should know the man

By the Athenian garment 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

As this their jangling I esteem a sport.

Oberon

Thou see’st these lovers seek a place to fight:

Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night;

The starry welkin cover thou anon

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;

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,

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,

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

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;

At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there,

Troop home to churchyards: damned spirits all,

That in crossways and floods have burial,

Already to their wormy beds are gone;

For fear lest day should look their shames upon,

They willfully themselves exile from light

And must for aye consort with black-brow’d night.

Oberon

But we are spirits of another sort:

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,

Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams.

But, notwithstanding, haste; make no delay:

We may effect this business yet ere day.

Exit

Puck

Up and down, up and down,

I will lead them up and down:

I am fear’d in field and town:

Goblin, lead them up and down.

Here comes one.

Re-enter Lysander

Lysander

Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak thou now.

Puck

Here, villain; drawn and ready. Where art thou?

Lysander

I will be with thee straight.

Puck

Follow me, then,

To plainer ground.

Exit Lysander, as following the voice

Re-enter Demetrius

Demetrius

Lysander! speak again:

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;

I’ll whip thee with a rod: he is defiled

That draws a sword on thee.

Demetrius

Yea, art thou there?

Puck

Follow my voice: we’ll try no manhood here.

Exeunt

Re-enter Lysander

Lysander

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;

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.

Sleeps

Re-enter Puck and Demetrius

Puck

Ho, ho, ho! Coward, why comest thou not?

Demetrius

Abide me, if thou darest; for well I wot

Thou runn’st before me, shifting every place,

And darest not stand, nor look me in the face.

Where art thou now?

Puck

Come hither: I am here.

Demetrius

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

To measure out my length on this cold bed.

By day’s approach look to be visited.

Lies down and sleeps

Re-enter Helena

Helena

O weary night, O long and tedious night,

Abate thy hour! Shine comforts from the east,

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.

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,

Thus to make poor females mad.

Re-enter Hermia

Hermia

Never so weary, never so in woe,

Bedabbled with the dew and torn with briers,

I can no further crawl, no further go;

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

Sleep sound:

I’ll apply

To your eye,

Gentle lover, remedy.

Squeezing the juice on Lysander’s eyes

When thou wakest,

Thou takest

True delight

In the sight

Of thy former lady’s eye:

And the country proverb known,

That every man should take his own,

In your waking shall be shown:

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. THE SAME.

Lysander, Demetrius, Helena, and Hermia lying asleep.

Enter Titania and Bottom; Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed, and other Fairies attending; Oberon behind unseen

Titania

Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed,

While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,

And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head,

And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy.

Bottom

Where’s Peaseblossom?

Peaseblossom

Ready.

Bottom

Scratch my head Peaseblossom. Where’s Mounsieur Cobweb?

Cobweb

Ready.

Bottom

Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get you your weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, mounsieur; and, good mounsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior. Where’s Mounsieur Mustardseed?

Mustardseed

Ready.

Bottom

Give me your neaf, Mounsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your courtesy, good mounsieur.

Mustardseed

What’s your Will?

Bottom

Nothing, good mounsieur, but to help Cavalery Cobweb to scratch. I must to the barber’s, monsieur; for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face; and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.

Titania

What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love?

Bottom

I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let’s have the tongs and the bones.

Titania

Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat.

Bottom

Truly, a peck of provender: I could munch your good dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay: good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.

Titania

I have a venturous fairy that shall seek

The squirrel’s hoard, and fetch thee new nuts.

Bottom

I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me: I have an exposition of sleep come upon me.

Titania

Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.

Fairies, begone, and be all ways away.

Exeunt fairies

So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle

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

Oberon

[Advancing] Welcome, good Robin.

See’st thou this sweet sight?

Her dotage now I do begin to pity:

For, meeting her of late behind the wood,

Seeking sweet favours from this hateful fool,

I did upbraid her and fall out with her;

For she his hairy temples then had rounded

With a coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers;

And that same dew, which sometime on the buds

Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls,

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,

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

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,

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.

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.

Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen.

Titania

My Oberon! what visions have I seen!

Methought I was enamour’d of an ass.

Oberon

There lies your love.

Titania

How came these things to pass?

O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now!

Oberon

Silence awhile. Robin, take off this head.

Titania, music call; and strike more dead

Than common sleep of all these five the sense.

Titania

Music, ho! music, such as charmeth sleep!

Music, still

Puck

Now, when thou wakest, with thine own fool’s eyes peep.

Oberon

Sound, music! Come, my queen, take hands with me,

And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.

Now thou and I are new in amity,

And will to-morrow midnight solemnly

Dance in Duke Theseus’ house triumphantly,

And bless it to all fair prosperity:

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.

Oberon

Then, my queen, in silence sad,

Trip we after the night’s shade:

We the globe can compass soon,

Swifter than the wandering moon.

Titania

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.

Exeunt

Horns winded within

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and train

Theseus

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.

Uncouple in the western valley; let them go:

Dispatch, I say, and find the forester.

Exit an Attendant

We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top,

And mark the musical confusion

Of hounds and echo in conjunction.

Hippolyta

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

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.

Theseus

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;

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:

Judge when you hear. But, soft! what nymphs are these?

Egeus

My lord, this is my daughter here asleep;

And this, Lysander; this Demetrius is;

This Helena, old Nedar’s Helena:

I wonder of their being here together.

Theseus

No doubt they rose up early to observe

The rite of May, and hearing our intent,

Came here in grace of our solemnity.

But speak, Egeus; is not this the day

That Hermia should give answer of her choice?

Egeus

It is, my lord.

Theseus

Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns.

Horns and shout within. Lysander, Demetrius, Helena, and Hermia wake and start up

Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past:

Begin these wood-birds but to couple now?

Lysander

Pardon, my lord.

Theseus

I pray you all, stand up.

I know you two are rival enemies:

How comes this gentle concord in the world,

That hatred is so far from jealousy,

To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity?

Lysander

My lord, I shall reply amazedly,

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 do I bethink me, so it is,—

I came with Hermia hither: our intent

Was to be gone from Athens, where we might,

Without the peril of the Athenian law.

Egeus

Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough:

I beg the law, the law, upon his head.

They would have stolen away; they would, Demetrius,

Thereby to have defeated you and me,

You of your wife and me of my consent,

Of my consent that she should be your wife.

Demetrius

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,

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 the snow, seems to me now

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,

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 I do wish it, love it, long for it,

And will for evermore be true to it.

Theseus

Fair lovers, you are fortunately met:

Of this discourse we more will hear anon.

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 purposed hunting shall be set aside.

Away with us to Athens; three and three,

We’ll hold a feast in great solemnity.

Come, Hippolyta.

Exeunt Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and train

Demetrius

These things seem small and undistinguishable,

Like far off mountains turned into clouds.

Hermia

Methinks I see these things with parted eye,

When every thing seems double.

Helena

So methinks:

And I have found Demetrius like a jewel,

Mine own, and not mine own.

Demetrius

Are you sure

That we are awake? It seems to me

That yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think

The duke was here, and bid us follow him?

Hermia

Yea; and my father.

Helena

And Hippolyta.

Lysander

And he did bid us follow to the temple.

Demetrius

Why, then, we are awake: let’s follow him

And by the way let us recount our dreams.

Exeunt

Bottom

[Awaking] When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer: my next is, ‘Most fair Pyramus.’ Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout, the tinker! Starveling! God’s my life, stolen hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was: man is but an ass, if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was — there is no man can tell what. Methought I was,— and methought I had,— but man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream: it shall be called Bottom’s Dream, because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the latter end of a play, before the duke: peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her death.

Exit

SCENE II. ATHENS. QUINCE’S HOUSE.

Enter Quince, Flute, Snout, and Starveling

Quince

Have you sent to Bottom’s house ? is he come home yet?

Starveling

He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is transported.

Flute

If he come not, then the play is marred: it goes not forward, doth it?

Quince

It is not possible: you have not a man in all

Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he.

Flute

No, he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in Athens.

Quince

Yea and the best person too; and he is a very paramour for a sweet voice.

Flute

You must say ‘paragon:’ a paramour is, God bless us, a thing of naught.

Enter Snug

Snug

Masters, the duke is coming from the temple, and there is two or three lords and ladies more married: if our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men.

Flute

O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his life; he could not have ’scaped sixpence a day: an the duke had not given him sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I’ll be hanged; he would have deserved it: sixpence a day in Pyramus, or nothing.

Enter Bottom

Bottom

Where are these lads? where are these hearts?

Quince

Bottom! O most courageous day! O most happy hour!

Bottom

Masters, I am to discourse wonders: but ask me not what; for if I tell you, I am no true Athenian. I will tell you every thing, right as it fell out.

Quince

Let us hear, sweet Bottom.

Bottom

Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the duke hath dined. Get your apparel together, good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your pumps; meet presently at the palace; every man look o’er his part; for the short and the long is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisby have clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion pair his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion’s claws. And, most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do not doubt but to hear them say, it is a sweet comedy. No more words: away! go, away!

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. ATHENS. THE PALACE OF THESEUS.

Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, Lords and Attendants

Hippolyta

’Tis strange my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

Theseus

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

More than cool reason ever comprehends.

The lunatic, the lover and the poet

Are of imagination all compact:

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 fine frenzy rolling,

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.

Such tricks hath strong imagination,

That if it would but apprehend some joy,

It comprehends some bringer of that joy;

Or in the night, imagining some fear,

How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

Hippolyta

But all the story of the night told over,

And all their minds transfigured so together,

More witnesseth than fancy’s images

And grows to something of great constancy;

But, howsoever, strange and admirable.

Theseus

Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.

Enter Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena

Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love

Accompany your hearts!

Lysander

More than to us

Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!

Theseus

Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have,

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,

To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?

Call Philostrate.

Philostrate

Here, mighty Theseus.

Theseus

Say, what abridgement have you for this evening?

What masque? what music? How shall we beguile

The lazy time, if not with some delight?

Philostrate

There is a brief how many sports are ripe:

Make choice of which your highness will see first.

Giving a paper

Theseus

[Reads] ‘The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung

By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.’

We’ll none of that: that have I told my love,

In glory of my kinsman Hercules.

Reads

‘The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,

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.

Reads

‘The thrice three Muses mourning for the death

Of Learning, late deceased in beggary.’

That is some satire, keen and critical,

Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.

Reads

‘A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus

And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.’

Merry and tragical! tedious and brief!

That is, hot ice and wondrous strange snow.

How shall we find the concord of this discord?

Philostrate

A play there is, my lord, some ten words long,

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

There is not one word apt, one player fitted:

And tragical, my noble lord, it is;

For Pyramus therein doth kill himself.

Which, when I saw rehearsed, I must confess,

Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears

The passion of loud laughter never shed.

Theseus

What are they that do play it?

Philostrate

Hard-handed men that work in Athens here,

Which never labour’d in their minds till now,

And now have toil’d their unbreathed memories

With this same play, against your nuptial.

Theseus

And we will hear it.

Philostrate

No, my noble lord;

It is not for you: I have heard it over,

And it is nothing, nothing in the world;

Unless you can find sport in their intents,

Extremely stretch’d and conn’d with cruel pain,

To do you service.

Theseus

I will hear that play;

For never anything can be amiss,

When simpleness and duty tender it.

Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies.

Exit Philostrate

Hippolyta

I love not to see wretchedness o’er charged

And duty in his service perishing.

Theseus

Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.

Hippolyta

He says they can do nothing in this kind.

Theseus

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.

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,

Throttle their practised 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;

And in the modesty of fearful duty

I read as much as from the rattling tongue

Of saucy and audacious eloquence.

Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity

In least speak most, to my capacity.

Re-enter Philostrate

Philostrate

So please your grace, the Prologue is address’d.

Theseus

Let him approach.

Flourish of trumpets

Enter Quince for the Prologue

Prologue

If we offend, it is with our good will.

That you should think, we come not to offend,

But with good will. To show our simple skill,

That is the true beginning of our end.

Consider then we come but in despite.

We do not come as minding to contest you,

Our true intent is. All for your delight

We are not here. That you should here repent you,

The actors are at hand and by their show

You shall know all that you are like to know.

Theseus

This fellow doth not stand upon points.

Lysander

He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true.

Hippolyta

Indeed he hath played on his prologue like a child on a recorder; a sound, but not in government.

Theseus

His speech, was like a tangled chain; nothing impaired, but all disordered. Who is next?

Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, Wall, Moonshine, and Lion

Prologue

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.

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

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.

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 fled, her mantle she did fall,

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,

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, Thisbe, Lion, and Moonshine

Theseus

I wonder if the lion be to speak.

Demetrius

No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do.

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,

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:

And this the cranny is, right and sinister,

Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper.

Theseus

Would you desire lime and hair to speak better?

Demetrius

It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord.

Enter Pyramus

Theseus

Pyramus draws near the wall: silence!

Pyramus

O grim-look’d night! O night with hue so black!

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,

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!

But what see I? No Thisby do I see.

O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss!

Cursed be thy stones for thus deceiving me!

Theseus

The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again.

Pyramus

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.

Enter Thisbe

Thisbe

O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans,

For parting my fair Pyramus and me!

My cherry lips have often kiss’d thy stones,

Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.

Pyramus

I see a voice: now will I to the chink,

To spy an I can hear my Thisby’s face. Thisby!

Thisbe

My love thou art, my love I think.

Pyramus

Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s grace;

And, like Limander, am I trusty still.

Thisbe

And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill.

Pyramus

Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.

Thisbe

As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.

Pyramus

O kiss me through the hole of this vile wall!

Thisbe

I kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at all.

Pyramus

Wilt thou at Ninny’s tomb meet me straightway?

Thisbe

’Tide life, ’tide death, I come without delay.

Exeunt Pyramus and Thisbe

Wall

Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so;

And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.

Exit

Theseus

Now is the mural down between the two neighbours.

Demetrius

No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning.

Hippolyta

This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.

Theseus

The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.

Hippolyta

It must be your imagination then, and not theirs.

Theseus

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.

Enter Lion and Moonshine

Lion

You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear

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

A lion-fell, nor else no lion’s dam;

For, if I should as lion come in strife

Into this place, ’twere pity on my life.

Theseus

A very gentle beast, of a good conscience.

Demetrius

The very best at a beast, my lord, that e’er I saw.

Lysander

This lion is a very fox for his valour.

Theseus

True; and a goose for his discretion.

Demetrius

Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretion; and the fox carries the goose.

Theseus

His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour; for the goose carries not the fox. It is well: leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon.

Moonshine

This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;—

Demetrius

He should have worn the horns on his head.

Theseus

He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference.

Moonshine

This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;

Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be.

Theseus

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?

Demetrius

He dares not come there for the candle; for, you see, it is already in snuff.

Hippolyta

I am aweary of this moon: would he would change!

Theseus

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.

Lysander

Proceed, Moon.

Moonshine

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.

Demetrius

Why, all these should be in the lanthorn; for all these are in the moon. But, silence! here comes Thisbe.

Enter Thisbe

Thisbe

This is old Ninny’s tomb. Where is my love?

[Enter Lion, Roaring]

Oh —

[Thisbe runs off]

Demetrius

Well roared, Lion.

Theseus

Well run, Thisbe.

Hippolyta

Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace.

The Lion shakes Thisbe’s mantle, and exits

Theseus

Well moused, Lion.

Lysander

And so the lion vanished.

Demetrius

And then came Pyramus.

Enter Pyramus

Pyramus

Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams;

I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright;

For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering gleams,

I trust to take of truest Thisby sight.

But stay, O spite!

But mark, poor knight,

What dreadful dole is here!

Eyes, do you see?

How can it be?

O dainty duck! O dear!

Thy mantle good,

What, stain’d with blood!

Approach, ye Furies fell!

O Fates, come, come,

Cut thread and thrum;

Quail, crush, conclude, and quell!

Theseus

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

Hippolyta

Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.

Pyramus

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 lived, that loved, that liked, that look’d with cheer.

Come, tears, confound;

Out, sword, and wound

The pap of Pyramus;

Ay, that left pap,

Where heart doth hop:

Stabs himself

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus.

Now am I dead,

Now am I fled;

My soul is in the sky:

Tongue, lose thy light;

Moon take thy flight:

Exit Moonshine

Now die, die, die, die, die.

Dies

Demetrius

No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.

Lysander

Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing.

Theseus

With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover, and prove an ass.

Hippolyta

How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover?

Theseus

She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play.

Re-enter Thisbe

Hippolyta

Methinks she should not use a long one for such a

Pyramus: I hope she will be brief.

Demetrius

A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better; he for a man, God warrant us; she for a woman, God bless us.

Lysander

She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.

Demetrius

And thus she means, videlicet:—

Thisbe

Asleep, my love?

What, dead, my dove?

O Pyramus, arise!

Speak, speak. Quite dumb?

Dead, dead? A tomb

Must cover thy sweet eyes.

These lily lips,

This cherry nose,

These yellow cowslip cheeks,

Are gone, are gone:

Lovers, make moan:

His eyes were green as leeks.

O Sisters Three,

Come, come to me,

With hands as pale as milk;

Lay them in gore,

Since you have shore

With shears his thread of silk.

Tongue, not a word:

Come, trusty sword;

Come, blade, my breast imbrue:

[Stabs herself]

And, farewell, friends;

Thus Thisby ends:

Adieu, adieu, adieu.

[Dies]

Theseus

Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.

Demetrius

Ay, and Wall too.

Bottom

[Starting up] No assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company?

Theseus

No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead, there needs 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.

I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn

As much as we this night have overwatch’d.

This palpable-gross play hath well beguiled

The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed.

A fortnight hold we this solemnity,

In nightly revels and new jollity.

Exeunt

Enter Puck

Puck

Now the hungry lion roars,

And the wolf behowls the moon;

Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,

All with weary task fordone.

Now the wasted brands do glow,

Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,

Puts the wretch that lies in woe

In remembrance of a shroud.

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:

And we fairies, that do run

By the triple Hecate’s team,

From the presence of the sun,

Following darkness like a dream,

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.

Enter Oberon and Titania with their train

Oberon

Through the house give gathering light,

By the dead and drowsy fire:

Every elf and fairy sprite

Hop as light as bird from brier;

And this ditty, after me,

Sing, and dance it trippingly.

Titania

First, rehearse your song by rote

To each word a warbling note:

Hand in hand, with fairy grace,

Will we sing, and bless this place.

Song and dance

Oberon

Now, until the break of day,

Through this house each fairy stray.

To the best bride-bed will we,

Which by us shall blessed be;

And the issue there create

Ever shall be fortunate.

So shall all the couples three

Ever true in loving be;

And the blots of Nature’s hand

Shall not in their issue stand;

Never mole, hare lip, nor scar,

Nor mark prodigious, such as are

Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be.

With this field-dew consecrate,

Every fairy take his gait;

And each several chamber bless,

Through this palace, with sweet peace;

And the owner of it blest

Ever shall in safety rest.

Trip away; make no stay;

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

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend:

If you pardon, we will mend:

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue,

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,

And Robin shall restore amends.

Exit

Much Ado About Nothing

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. BEFORE LEONATO’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. A ROOM IN LEONATO’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. THE SAME.

ACT II

SCENE I. A HALL IN LEONATO’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. THE SAME.

SCENE III. LEONATO’S ORCHARD.

ACT III

SCENE I. LEONATO’S GARDEN.

SCENE II. A ROOM IN LEONATO’S HOUSE

SCENE III. A STREET.

SCENE IV. HERO’S APARTMENT.

SCENE V. ANOTHER ROOM IN LEONATO’S HOUSE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. A CHURCH.

SCENE II. A PRISON.

ACT V

SCENE I. BEFORE LEONATO’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. LEONATO’S GARDEN.

SCENE III. A CHURCH.

SCENE IV. A ROOM IN LEONATO’S HOUSE.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

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.

BALTHASAR, attendant on Don Pedro.

CONRADE and BORACHIO, followers of Don John.

FRIAR FRANCIS,

DOGBERRY, a constable.

VERGES, a headborough.

A SEXTON.

A BOY.

HERO, daughter to Leonato.

BEATRICE, niece to Leonato.

MARGARET and URSULA, gentlewomen attending on Hero.

Messengers, Watch, Attendants, &c.

Scene: Messina.

ACT I

SCENE I. BEFORE LEONATO’S HOUSE.

Enter Leonato, Hero, and Beatrice, with a Messenger

Leonato

I learn in this letter that Don Peter of Arragon comes this night to Messina.

Messenger

He is very near by this: he was not three leagues off when I left him.

Leonato

How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?

Messenger

But few of any sort, and none of name.

Leonato

A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers. I find here that Don Peter hath bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio.

Messenger

Much deserved on his part and equally remembered by Don Pedro: he hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better bettered expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how.

Leonato

He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much glad of it.

Messenger

I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him; even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of bitterness.

Leonato

Did he break out into tears?

Messenger

In great measure.

Leonato

A kind overflow of kindness: there are no faces truer than those that are so washed. How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping!

Beatrice

I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned from the wars or no?

Messenger

I know none of that name, lady: there was none such in the army of any sort.

Leonato

What is he that you ask for, niece?

Hero

My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.

Messenger

O, he’s returned; and as pleasant as ever he was.

Beatrice

He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged Cupid at the flight; and my uncle’s fool, reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars? But how many hath he killed? for indeed I promised to eat all of his killing.

Leonato

Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much; but he’ll be meet with you, I doubt it not.

Messenger

He hath done good service, lady, in these wars.

Beatrice

You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it: he is a very valiant trencherman; he hath an excellent stomach.

Messenger

And a good soldier too, lady.

Beatrice

And a good soldier to a lady: but what is he to a lord?

Messenger

A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all honourable virtues.

Beatrice

It is so, indeed; he is no less than a stuffed man: but for the stuffing,— well, we are all mortal.

Leonato

You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her: they never meet but there’s a skirmish of wit between them.

Beatrice

Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one: so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left, to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother.

Messenger

Is’t possible?

Beatrice

Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block.

Messenger

I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.

Beatrice

No; an he were, I would burn my study. But, I pray you, who is his companion? Is there no young squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil?

Messenger

He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio.

Beatrice

O Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease: he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! if he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere a’ be cured.

Messenger

I will hold friends with you, lady.

Beatrice

Do, good friend.

Leonato

You will never run mad, niece.

Beatrice

No, not till a hot January.

Messenger

Don Pedro is approached.

Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Claudio, Benedick, and Balthasar

Don Pedro

Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.

Leonato

Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your grace: for trouble being gone, comfort should remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.

Don Pedro

You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this is your daughter.

Leonato

Her mother hath many times told me so.

Benedick

Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?

Leonato

Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child.

Don Pedro

You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady; for you are like an honourable father.

Benedick

If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is.

Beatrice

I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.

Benedick

What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?

Beatrice

Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.

Benedick

Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none.

Beatrice

A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.

Benedick

God keep your ladyship still in that mind! so some gentleman or other shall ’scape a predestinate scratched face.

Beatrice

Scratching could not make it worse, an ’twere such a face as yours were.

Benedick

Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

Beatrice

A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.

Benedick

I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, i’ God’s name; I have done.

Beatrice

You always end with a jade’s trick: I know you of old.

Don Pedro

That is the sum of all, Leonato. Signior Claudio and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at the least a month; and he heartily prays some occasion may detain us longer. I dare swear he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart.

Leonato

If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn. [To Don John] Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being reconciled to the prince your brother, I owe you all duty.

Don John

I thank you: I am not of many words, but I thank you.

Leonato

Please it your grace lead on?

Don Pedro

Your hand, Leonato; we will go together.

Exeunt all except Benedick and Claudio

Claudio

Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?

Benedick

I noted her not; but I looked on her.

Claudio

Is she not a modest young lady?

Benedick

Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex?

Claudio

No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment.

Benedick

Why, i’ faith, methinks she’s too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise: only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I do not like her.

Claudio

Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me truly how thou likest her.

Benedick

Would you buy her, that you inquire after her?

Claudio

Can the world buy such a jewel?

Benedick

Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a sad brow? or do you play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the song?

Claudio

In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on.

Benedick

I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such matter: there’s her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December. But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?

Claudio

I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife.

Benedick

Is’t come to this? In faith, hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again? Go to, i’ faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away Sundays. Look Don Pedro is returned to seek you.

Re-enter Don Pedro

Don Pedro

What secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato’s?

Benedick

I would your grace would constrain me to tell.

Don Pedro

I charge thee on thy allegiance.

Benedick

You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb man; I would have you think so; but, on my allegiance, mark you this, on my allegiance. He is in love. With who? now that is your grace’s part. Mark how short his answer is;— With Hero, Leonato’s short daughter.

Claudio

If this were so, so were it uttered.

Benedick

Like the old tale, my lord: ‘it is not so, nor ’twas not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be so.’

Claudio

If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise.

Don Pedro

Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy.

Claudio

You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.

Don Pedro

By my troth, I speak my thought.

Claudio

And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.

Benedick

And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine.

Claudio

That I love her, I feel.

Don Pedro

That she is worthy, I know.

Benedick

That I neither feel how she should be loved nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake.

Don Pedro

Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty.

Claudio

And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will.

Benedick

That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is, for the which I may go the finer, I will live a bachelor.

Don Pedro

I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.

Benedick

With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord, not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker’s pen and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of blind Cupid.

Don Pedro

Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument.

Benedick

If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder, and called Adam.

Don Pedro

Well, as time shall try: ‘In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.’

Benedick

The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull’s horns and set them in my forehead: and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write ‘Here is good horse to hire,’ let them signify under my sign ‘Here you may see Benedick the married man.’

Claudio

If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad.

Don Pedro

Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in

Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.

Benedick

I look for an earthquake too, then.

Don Pedro

Well, you temporize with the hours. In the meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to Leonato’s: commend me to him and tell him I will not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made great preparation.

Benedick

I have almost matter enough in me for such an embassage; and so I commit you —

Claudio

To the tuition of God: From my house, if I had it,—

Don Pedro

The sixth of July: Your loving friend, Benedick.

Benedick

Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and the guards are but slightly basted on neither: ere you flout old ends any further, examine your conscience: and so I leave you.

Exit

Claudio

My liege, your highness now may do me good.

Don 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.

Claudio

Hath Leonato any son, my lord?

Don Pedro

No child but Hero; she’s his only heir.

Dost thou affect her, Claudio?

Claudio

O, my lord,

When you went onward on this ended action,

I look’d upon her with a soldier’s eye,

That liked, 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

Come thronging soft and delicate desires,

All prompting me how fair young Hero is,

Saying, I liked her ere I went to wars.

Don Pedro

Thou wilt be like a lover presently

And tire the hearer with a book of words.

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?

Claudio

How sweetly you do minister to love,

That know love’s grief by his complexion!

But lest my liking might too sudden seem,

I would have salved it with a longer treatise.

Don 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 lovest,

And I will fit thee with the remedy.

I know we shall have revelling to-night:

I will assume thy part in some disguise

And tell fair Hero I am Claudio,

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;

And the conclusion is, she shall be thine.

In practise let us put it presently.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A ROOM IN LEONATO’S HOUSE.

Enter Leonato and Antonio, meeting

Leonato

How now, brother! Where is my cousin, your son? hath he provided this music?

Antonio

He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet dreamt not of.

Leonato

Are they good?

Antonio

As the event stamps them: but they have a good cover; they show well outward. The prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in mine orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine: the prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance: and if he found her accordant, he meant to take the present time by the top and instantly break with you of it.

Leonato

Hath the fellow any wit that told you this?

Antonio

A good sharp fellow: I will send for him; and question him yourself.

Leonato

No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it appear itself: but I will acquaint my daughter withal, that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if peradventure this be true. Go you and tell her of it.

Enter Attendants

Cousins, you know what you have to do. O, I cry you mercy, friend; go you with me, and I will use your skill. Good cousin, have a care this busy time.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE SAME.

Enter Don John and Conrade

Conrade

What the good-year, my lord! why are you thus out of measure sad?

Don John

There is no measure in the occasion that breeds; therefore the sadness is without limit.

Conrade

You should hear reason.

Don John

And when I have heard it, what blessing brings it?

Conrade

If not a present remedy, at least a patient sufferance.

Don John

I wonder that thou, being, as thou sayest thou art, born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide what I am: I must be sad when I have cause and smile at no man’s jests, eat when I have stomach and wait for no man’s leisure, sleep when I am drowsy and tend on no man’s business, laugh when I am merry and claw no man in his humour.

Conrade

Yea, but you must not make the full show of this till you may do it without controlment. You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta’en you newly into his grace; where it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself: it is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest.

Don John

I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace, and it better fits my blood to be disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob love from any: in this, though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking: in the meantime let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.

Conrade

Can you make no use of your discontent?

Don John

I make all use of it, for I use it only.

Who comes here?

Enter Borachio

What news, Borachio?

Borachio

I came yonder from a great supper: the prince your brother is royally entertained by Leonato: and I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage.

Don John

Will it serve for any model to build mischief on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquietness?

Borachio

Marry, it is your brother’s right hand.

Don John

Who? the most exquisite Claudio?

Borachio

Even he.

Don John

A proper squire! And who, and who? which way looks he?

Borachio

Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato.

Don John

A very forward March-chick! How came you to this?

Borachio

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.

Don 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?

Conrade

To the death, my lord.

Don John

Let us to the great supper: their cheer is the greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were of my mind! Shall we go prove what’s to be done?

Borachio

We’ll wait upon your lordship.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. A HALL IN LEONATO’S HOUSE.

Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatrice, and others

Leonato

Was not Count John here at supper?

Antonio

I saw him not.

Beatrice

How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heart-burned an hour after.

Hero

He is of a very melancholy disposition.

Beatrice

He were an excellent man that were made just in the midway between him and Benedick: the one is too like an image and says nothing, and the other too like my lady’s eldest son, evermore tattling.

Leonato

Then half Signior Benedick’s tongue in Count John’s mouth, and half Count John’s melancholy in Signior Benedick’s face,—

Beatrice

With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world, if a’ could get her good-will.

Leonato

By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.

Antonio

In faith, she’s too curst.

Beatrice

Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God’s sending that way; for it is said, ‘God sends a curst cow short horns;’ but to a cow too curst he sends none.

Leonato

So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns.

Beatrice

Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen.

Leonato

You may light on a husband that hath no beard.

Beatrice

What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man: and he that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him: therefore, I will even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his apes into hell.

Leonato

Well, then, go you into hell?

Beatrice

No, but to the gate; and there will the devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say ‘Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven; here’s no place for you maids:’ so deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the heavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long.

Antonio

[To Hero] Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled by your father.

Beatrice

Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy and say ‘Father, as it please you.’ But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say ‘Father, as it please me.’

Leonato

Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.

Beatrice

Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a pierce of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I’ll none: Adam’s sons are my brethren; and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.

Leonato

Daughter, remember what I told you: if the prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer.

Beatrice

The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time: if the prince be too important, tell him there is measure in every thing and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero: wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque pace: the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes repentance and, with his bad legs, falls into the cinque pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.

Leonato

Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.

Beatrice

I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church by daylight.

Leonato

The revellers are entering, brother: make good room.

All put on their masks

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthasar, Don John, Borachio, Margaret, Ursula and others, masked

Don Pedro

Lady, will you walk about with your friend?

Hero

So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing,

I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away.

Don Pedro

With me in your company?

Hero

I may say so, when I please.

Don Pedro

And when please you to say so?

Hero

When I like your favour; for God defend the lute should be like the case!

Don Pedro

My visor is Philemon’s roof; within the house is Jove.

Hero

Why, then, your visor should be thatched.

Don Pedro

Speak low, if you speak love.

Drawing her aside

Balthasar

Well, I would you did like me.

Margaret

So would not I, for your own sake; for I have many ill-qualities.

Balthasar

Which is one?

Margaret

I say my prayers aloud.

Balthasar

I love you the better: the hearers may cry, Amen.

Margaret

God match me with a good dancer!

Balthasar

Amen.

Margaret

And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done! Answer, clerk.

Balthasar

No more words: the clerk is answered.

Ursula

I know you well enough; you are Signior Antonio.

Antonio

At a word, I am not.

Ursula

I know you by the waggling of your head.

Antonio

To tell you true, I counterfeit him.

Ursula

You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were the very man. Here’s his dry hand up and down: you are he, you are he.

Antonio

At a word, I am not.

Ursula

Come, come, do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit? can virtue hide itself? Go to, mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there’s an end.

Beatrice

Will you not tell me who told you so?

Benedick

No, you shall pardon me.

Beatrice

Nor will you not tell me who you are?

Benedick

Not now.

Beatrice

That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the ‘Hundred Merry Tales:’— well this was Signior Benedick that said so.

Benedick

What’s he?

Beatrice

I am sure you know him well enough.

Benedick

Not I, believe me.

Beatrice

Did he never make you laugh?

Benedick

I pray you, what is he?

Beatrice

Why, he is the prince’s jester: a very dull fool; only his gift is in devising impossible slanders: none but libertines delight in him; and the commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany; for he both pleases men and angers them, and then they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet: I would he had boarded me.

Benedick

When I know the gentleman, I’ll tell him what you say.

Beatrice

Do, do: he’ll but break a comparison or two on me; which, peradventure not marked or not laughed at, strikes him into melancholy; and then there’s a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that night.

Music

We must follow the leaders.

Benedick

In every good thing.

Beatrice

Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning.

Dance. Then exeunt all except Don John, Borachio, and Claudio

Don John

Sure my brother is amorous on Hero and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The ladies follow her and but one visor remains.

Borachio

And that is Claudio: I know him by his bearing.

Don John

Are not you Signior Benedick?

Claudio

You know me well; I am he.

Don John

Signior, you are very near my brother in his love: he is enamoured on Hero; I pray you, dissuade him from her: she is no equal for his birth: you may do the part of an honest man in it.

Claudio

How know you he loves her?

Don John

I heard him swear his affection.

Borachio

So did I too; and he swore he would marry her to-night.

Don John

Come, let us to the banquet.

Exeunt Don John and Borachio

Claudio

Thus answer I in the name of Benedick,

But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.

’Tis certain so; the prince wooes for himself.

Friendship is constant in all other things

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

Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.

This is an accident of hourly proof,

Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero!

Re-enter Benedick

Benedick

Count Claudio?

Claudio

Yea, the same.

Benedick

Come, will you go with me?

Claudio

Whither?

Benedick

Even to the next willow, about your own business, county. What fashion will you wear the garland of? about your neck, like an usurer’s chain? or under your arm, like a lieutenant’s scarf? You must wear it one way, for the prince hath got your Hero.

Claudio

I wish him joy of her.

Benedick

Why, that’s spoken like an honest drovier: so they sell bullocks. But did you think the prince would have served you thus?

Claudio

I pray you, leave me.

Benedick

Ho! now you strike like the blind man: ’twas the boy that stole your meat, and you’ll beat the post.

Claudio

If it will not be, I’ll leave you.

Exit

Benedick

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.

Re-enter Don Pedro

Don Pedro

Now, signior, where’s the count? did you see him?

Benedick

Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren: I told him, and I think I told him true, that your grace had got the good will of this young lady; and I offered him my company to a willow-tree, either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped.

Don Pedro

To be whipped! What’s his fault?

Benedick

The flat transgression of a schoolboy, who, being overjoyed with finding a birds’ nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it.

Don Pedro

Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The transgression is in the stealer.

Benedick

Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland too; for the garland he might have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his birds’ nest.

Don Pedro

I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to the owner.

Benedick

If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, you say honestly.

Don Pedro

The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you: the gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you.

Benedick

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 bad 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 follows her.

Don Pedro

Look, here she comes.

Enter Claudio, Beatrice, Hero, and Leonato

Benedick

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 tooth-picker 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?

Don Pedro

None, but to desire your good company.

Benedick

O God, sir, here’s a dish I love not: I cannot endure my Lady Tongue.

Exit

Don Pedro

Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of

Signior Benedick.

Beatrice

Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for his single one: marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your grace may well say I have lost it.

Don Pedro

You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.

Beatrice

So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.

Don Pedro

Why, how now, count! wherefore are you sad?

Claudio

Not sad, my lord.

Don Pedro

How then? sick?

Claudio

Neither, my lord.

Beatrice

The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion.

Don Pedro

I’ faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; though, I’ll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won: I have broke with her father, and his good will obtained: name the day of marriage, and God give thee joy!

Leonato

Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes: his grace hath made the match, and an grace say Amen to it.

Beatrice

Speak, count, ’tis your cue.

Claudio

Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.

Beatrice

Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither.

Don Pedro

In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.

Beatrice

Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart.

Claudio

And so she doth, cousin.

Beatrice

Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!

Don Pedro

Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

Beatrice

I would rather have one of your father’s getting. Hath your grace ne’er a brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them.

Don Pedro

Will you have me, lady?

Beatrice

No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days: your grace is too costly to wear every day. But, I beseech your grace, pardon me: I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.

Don Pedro

Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.

Beatrice

No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born. Cousins, God give you joy!

Leonato

Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?

Beatrice

I cry you mercy, uncle. By your grace’s pardon.

Exit

Don Pedro

By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.

Leonato

There’s little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps, and not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked herself with laughing.

Don Pedro

She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.

Leonato

O, by no means: she mocks all her wooers out of suit.

Don Pedro

She were an excellent wife for Benedict.

Leonato

O Lord, my lord, if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad.

Don Pedro

County Claudio, when mean you to go to church?

Claudio

To-morrow, my lord: time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.

Leonato

Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just seven-night; and a time too brief, too, to have all things answer my mind.

Don Pedro

Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing: but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of Hercules’ labours; which is, to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection the one with the other. I would fain have it a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three will but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction.

Leonato

My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights’ watchings.

Claudio

And I, my lord.

Don Pedro

And you too, gentle Hero?

Hero

I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband.

Don Pedro

And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that I know. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble strain, of approved valour and confirmed honesty. I will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your two helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer: hi s glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME.

Enter Don John and Borachio

Don John

It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato.

Borachio

Yea, my lord; but I can cross it.

Don John

Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be medicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure to him, and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this marriage?

Borachio

Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me.

Don John

Show me briefly how.

Borachio

I think I told your lordship a year since, how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero.

Don John

I remember.

Borachio

I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to look out at her lady’s chamber window.

Don John

What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage?

Borachio

The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the prince your brother; spare not to tell him that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio — whose estimation do you mightily hold up — to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero.

Don John

What proof shall I make of that?

Borachio

Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero and kill Leonato. Look you for any other issue?

Don John

Only to despite them, I will endeavour any thing.

Borachio

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.

Don John

Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in practise. Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats.

Borachio

Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me.

Don John

I will presently go learn their day of marriage.

Exeunt

SCENE III. LEONATO’S ORCHARD.

Enter Benedick

Benedick

Boy!

Enter Boy

Boy

Signior?

Benedick

In my chamber-window lies a book: bring it hither to me in the orchard.

Boy

I am here already, sir.

Benedick

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 behaviors to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by failing 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 tabour and the pipe: I have known when he would have walked ten mile a-foot 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 orthography; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn, but love may transform me to an oyster; but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that’s certain; wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! the prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour.

Withdraws

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato

Don Pedro

Come, shall we hear this music?

Claudio

Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,

As hush’d on purpose to grace harmony!

Don Pedro

See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

Claudio

O, very well, my lord: the music ended,

We’ll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.

Enter Balthasar with Music

Don Pedro

Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again.

Balthasar

O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice

To slander music any more than once.

Don Pedro

It is the witness still of excellency

To put a strange face on his own perfection.

I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.

Balthasar

Because you talk of wooing, I will sing;

Since many a wooer doth commence his suit

To her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes,

Yet will he swear he loves.

Don Pedro

Now, pray thee, come;

Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument,

Do it in notes.

Balthasar

Note this before my notes;

There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting.

Don Pedro

Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks;

Note, notes, forsooth, and nothing.

Air

Benedick

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.

Balthasar

[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:

Then sigh not so, but let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,

Of dumps so dull and heavy;

The fraud of men was ever so,

Since summer first was leafy:

Then sigh not so, & c.

Don Pedro

By my troth, a good song.

Balthasar

And an ill singer, my lord.

Don Pedro

Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift.

Benedick

An he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him: and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it.

Don Pedro

Yea, marry, dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee, get us some excellent music; for to-morrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero’s chamber-window.

Balthasar

The best I can, my lord.

Don Pedro

Do so: farewell.

Exit Balthasar

Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?

Claudio

O, ay: stalk on. stalk on; the fowl sits. I did never think that lady would have loved any man.

Leonato

No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor.

Benedick

Is’t possible? Sits the wind in that corner?

Leonato

By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it but that she loves him with an enraged affection: it is past the infinite of thought.

Don Pedro

May be she doth but counterfeit.

Claudio

Faith, like enough.

Leonato

O God, counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it.

Don Pedro

Why, what effects of passion shows she?

Claudio

Bait the hook well; this fish will bite.

Leonato

What effects, my lord? She will sit you, you heard my daughter tell you how.

Claudio

She did, indeed.

Don Pedro

How, how, pray you? You amaze me: I would have I thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.

Leonato

I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against Benedick.

Benedick

I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.

Claudio

He hath ta’en the infection: hold it up.

Don Pedro

Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?

Leonato

No; and swears she never will: that’s her torment.

Claudio

’Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: ‘shall I,’ says she, ‘that have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him?’

Leonato

This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for she’ll be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all.

Claudio

Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of.

Leonato

O, when she had writ it and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet?

Claudio

That.

Leonato

O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence; railed at herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her; ‘I measure him,’ says she, ‘by my own spirit; for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should.’

Claudio

Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; ‘O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!’

Leonato

She doth indeed; my daughter says so: and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter is sometime afeared she will do a desperate outrage to herself: it is very true.

Don Pedro

It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it.

Claudio

To what end? He would make but a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse.

Don Pedro

An he should, it were an alms to hang him. She’s an excellent sweet lady; and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous.

Claudio

And she is exceeding wise.

Don Pedro

In every thing but in loving Benedick.

Leonato

O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian.

Don Pedro

I would she had bestowed this dotage on me: I would have daffed all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what a’ will say.

Leonato

Were it good, think you?

Claudio

Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she will die, if he love her not, and she will die, ere she make her love known, and she will die, if he woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her accustomed crossness.

Don Pedro

She doth well: if she should make tender of her love, ’tis very possible he’ll scorn it; for the man, as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit.

Claudio

He is a very proper man.

Don Pedro

He hath indeed a good outward happiness.

Claudio

Before God! and, in my mind, very wise.

Don Pedro

He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.

Claudio

And I take him to be valiant.

Don Pedro

As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear.

Leonato

If he do fear God, a’ must necessarily keep peace: if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling.

Don Pedro

And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick, and tell him of her love?

Claudio

Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with good counsel.

Leonato

Nay, that’s impossible: she may wear her heart out first.

Don Pedro

Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter: let it cool the while. I love Benedick well; and I could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady.

Leonato

My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.

Claudio

If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation.

Don Pedro

Let there be the same net spread for her; and that must your daughter and her gentlewomen carry. The sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of another’s dotage, and no such matter: that’s the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumb-show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.

Exeunt Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato

Benedick

[Coming forward] 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.

Enter Beatrice

Beatrice

Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.

Benedick

Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.

Beatrice

I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come.

Benedick

You take pleasure then in the message?

Beatrice

Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well.

Exit

Benedick

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 parlor;

There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice

Proposing with the prince and Claudio:

Whisper her ear and tell her, I and Ursula

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 honeysuckles, ripen’d by the sun,

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 purpose. This is thy office;

Bear thee well in it and leave us alone.

Margaret

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,

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

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

Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

Ursula

The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish

Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,

And greedily devour the treacherous bait:

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

Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.

Approaching the bower

No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful;

I know her spirits are as coy and wild

As haggerds of the rock.

Ursula

But are you sure

That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?

Hero

So says the prince and my new-trothed lord.

Ursula

And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?

Hero

They did entreat me to acquaint her of it;

But I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick,

To wish him wrestle with affection,

And never to let Beatrice know of it.

Ursula

Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman

Deserve as full as fortunate a bed

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:

But Nature never framed 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

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-endeared.

Ursula

Sure, I think so;

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 featured,

But she would spell him backward: if fair-faced,

She would swear the gentleman should be her sister;

If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antique,

Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed;

If low, an agate very vilely cut;

If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;

If silent, why, a block moved with none.

So turns she every man the wrong side out

And never gives to truth and virtue that

Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.

Ursula

Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

Hero

No, not to be so odd and from all fashions

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.

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.

Ursula

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

To stain my cousin with: one doth not know

How much an ill word may empoison liking.

Ursula

O, do not do your cousin such a wrong.

She cannot be so much without true judgment —

Having so swift and excellent a wit

As she is prized to have — as to refuse

So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.

Hero

He is the only man of Italy.

Always excepted my dear Claudio.

Ursula

I pray you, be not angry with me, madam,

Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,

For shape, for bearing, argument and valour,

Goes foremost in report through Italy.

Hero

Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.

Ursula

His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.

When are you married, madam?

Hero

Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in:

I’ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel

Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.

Ursula

She’s limed, I warrant you: we have caught her, madam.

Hero

If it proves so, then loving goes by haps:

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

Exeunt Hero and Ursula

Beatrice

[Coming forward]

What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?

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:

If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee

To bind our loves up in a holy band;

For others say thou dost deserve, and I

Believe it better than reportingly.

Exit

SCENE II. A ROOM IN LEONATO’S HOUSE

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Leonato

Don Pedro

I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon.

Claudio

I’ll bring you thither, my lord, if you’ll vouchsafe me.

Don Pedro

Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss of your marriage as to show a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold with Benedick for his company; for, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth: he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid’s bow-string and the little hangman dare not shoot at him; he hath a heart as sound as a bell and his tongue is the clapper, for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks.

Benedick

Gallants, I am not as I have been.

Leonato

So say I methinks you are sadder.

Claudio

I hope he be in love.

Don Pedro

Hang him, truant! there’s no true drop of blood in him, to be truly touched with love: if he be sad, he wants money.

Benedick

I have the toothache.

Don Pedro

Draw it.

Benedick

Hang it!

Claudio

You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.

Don Pedro

What! sigh for the toothache?

Leonato

Where is but a humour or a worm.

Benedick

Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.

Claudio

Yet say I, he is in love.

Don Pedro

There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as, to be a Dutchman today, a Frenchman to-morrow, or in the shape of two countries at once, as, a German from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is.

Claudio

If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs: a’ brushes his hat o’ mornings; what should that bode?

Don Pedro

Hath any man seen him at the barber’s?

Claudio

No, but the barber’s man hath been seen with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls.

Leonato

Indeed, he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard.

Don Pedro

Nay, a’ rubs himself with civet: can you smell him out by that?

Claudio

That’s as much as to say, the sweet youth’s in love.

Don Pedro

The greatest note of it is his melancholy.

Claudio

And when was he wont to wash his face?

Don Pedro

Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear what they say of him.

Claudio

Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is now crept into a lute-string and now governed by stops.

Don Pedro

Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him: conclude, conclude he is in love.

Claudio

Nay, but I know who loves him.

Don Pedro

That would I know too: I warrant, one that knows him not.

Claudio

Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in despite of all, dies for him.

Don Pedro

She shall be buried with her face upwards.

Benedick

Yet is this no charm for the toothache. Old signior, walk aside with me: I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby-horses must not hear.

Exeunt Benedick and Leonato

Don Pedro

For my life, to break with him about Beatrice.

Claudio

’Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice; and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet.

Enter Don John

Don John

My lord and brother, God save you!

Don Pedro

Good den, brother.

Don John

If your leisure served, I would speak with you.

Don Pedro

In private?

Don John

If it please you: yet Count Claudio may hear; for what I would speak of concerns him.

Don Pedro

What’s the matter?

Don John

[To Claudio] Means your lordship to be married to-morrow?

Don Pedro

You know he does.

Don John

I know not that, when he knows what I know.

Claudio

If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it.

Don John

You may think I love you not: let that appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your ensuing marriage;— surely suit ill spent and labour ill bestowed.

Don Pedro

Why, what’s the matter?

Don John

I came hither to tell you; and, circumstances shortened, for she has been too long a talking of, the lady is disloyal.

Claudio

Who, Hero?

Don Pedro

Even she; Leonato’s Hero, your Hero, every man’s Hero:

Claudio

Disloyal?

Don John

The word is too good to paint out her wickedness; I could say she were worse: think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till further warrant: go but with me to-night, you shall see her chamber-window entered, even the night before her wedding-day: if you love her then, to-morrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour to change your mind.

Claudio

May this be so?

Don Pedro

I will not think it.

Don John

If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know: if you will follow me, I will show you enough; and when you have seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly.

Claudio

If I see any thing to-night why I should not marry her to-morrow in the congregation, where I should wed, there will I shame her.

Don Pedro

And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her.

Don John

I will disparage her no farther till you are my witnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself.

Don Pedro

O day untowardly turned!

Claudio

O mischief strangely thwarting!

Don John

O plague right well prevented! so will you say when you have seen the sequel.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A STREET.

Enter Dogberry and Verges with the Watch

Dogberry

Are you good men and true?

Verges

Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul.

Dogberry

Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince’s watch.

Verges

Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry.

Dogberry

First, who think you the most desertless man to be constable?

First Watchman

Hugh Otecake, sir, or George Seacole; for they can write and read.

Dogberry

Come hither, neighbour Seacole. God hath blessed you with a good name: to be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.

Second Watchman

Both which, master constable,—

Dogberry

You have: I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear you the lantern. This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the prince’s name.

Second Watchman

How if a’ will not stand?

Dogberry

Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together and thank God you are rid of a knave.

Verges

If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the prince’s subjects.

Dogberry

True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince’s subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets; for, for the watch to babble and to talk is most tolerable and not to be endured.

Watchman

We will rather sleep than talk: we know what belongs to a watch.

Dogberry

Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman; for I cannot see how sleeping should offend: only, have a care that your bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call at all the ale-houses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.

Watchman

How if they will not?

Dogberry

Why, then, let them alone till they are sober: if they make you not then the better answer, you may say they are not the men you took them for.

Watchman

Well, sir.

Dogberry

If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why the more is for your honesty.

Watchman

If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him?

Dogberry

Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled: the most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company.

Verges

You have been always called a merciful man, partner.

Dogberry

Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him.

Verges

If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it.

Watchman

How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us?

Dogberry

Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes will never answer a calf when he bleats.

Verges

’Tis very true.

Dogberry

This is the end of the charge:— you, constable, are to present the prince’s own person: if you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him.

Verges

Nay, by’r our lady, that I think a’ cannot.

Dogberry

Five shillings to one on’t, with any man that knows the statutes, he may stay him: marry, not without the prince be willing; for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man; and it is an offence to stay a man against his will.

Verges

By’r lady, I think it be so.

Dogberry

Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your fellows’ counsels and your own; and good night. Come, neighbour.

Watchman

Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed.

Dogberry

One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you watch about Signior Leonato’s door; for the wedding being there to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night. Adieu: be vigitant, I beseech you.

Exeunt Dogberry and Verges

Enter Borachio and Conrade

Borachio

What Conrade!

Watchman

[Aside] Peace! stir not.

Borachio

Conrade, I say!

Conrade

Here, man; I am at thy elbow.

Borachio

Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought there would a scab follow.

Conrade

I will owe thee an answer for that: and now forward with thy tale.

Borachio

Stand thee close, then, under this pent-house, for it drizzles rain; and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.

Watchman

[Aside] Some treason, masters: yet stand close.

Borachio

Therefore know I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats.

Conrade

Is it possible that any villany should be so dear?

Borachio

Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villany should be so rich; for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will.

Conrade

I wonder at it.

Borachio

That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a man.

Conrade

Yes, it is apparel.

Borachio

I mean, the fashion.

Conrade

Yes, the fashion is the fashion.

Borachio

Tush! I may as well say the fool’s the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is?

Watchman

[Aside] I know that Deformed; a’ has been a vile thief this seven year; a’ goes up and down like a gentleman: I remember his name.

Borachio

Didst thou not hear somebody?

Conrade

No; ’twas the vane on the house.

Borachio

Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is? how giddily a’ turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty? sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh’s soldiers in the reeky painting, sometime like god Bel’s priests in the old church-window, sometime like the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems as massy as his club?

Conrade

All this I see; and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion?

Borachio

Not so, neither: but know that I have to-night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero’s gentlewoman, by the name of Hero: she leans me out at her mistress’ chamber-window, bids me a thousand times good night,— I tell this tale vilely:— I should first tell thee how the prince, Claudio and my master, planted and placed and possessed by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter.

Conrade

And thought they Margaret was Hero?

Borachio

Two of them did, the prince and Claudio; but the devil my master knew she was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which first possessed them, partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly by my villany, which did confirm any slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio enraged; swore he would meet her, as he was appointed, next morning at the temple, and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with what he saw o’er night and send her home again without a husband.

First Watchman

We charge you, in the prince’s name, stand!

Second Watchman

Call up the right master constable. We have here recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the commonwealth.

First Watchman

And one Deformed is one of them: I know him; a’ wears a lock.

Conrade

Masters, masters,—

Second Watchman

You’ll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you.

Conrade

Masters,—

First Watchman

Never speak: we charge you let us obey you to go with us.

Borachio

We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up of these men’s bills.

Conrade

A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we’ll obey you.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. HERO’S APARTMENT.

Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula

Hero

Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise.

Ursula

I will, lady.

Hero

And bid her come hither.

Ursula

Well.

Exit

Margaret

Troth, I think your other rabato were better.

Hero

No, pray thee, good Meg, I’ll wear this.

Margaret

By my troth, ’s not so good; and I warrant your cousin will say so.

Hero

My cousin’s a fool, and thou art another: I’ll wear none but this.

Margaret

I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner; and your gown’s a most rare fashion, i’ faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan’s gown that they praise so.

Hero

O, that exceeds, they say.

Margaret

By my troth, ’s but a night-gown in respect of yours: cloth o’ gold, and cuts, and laced with silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves, and skirts, round underborne with a bluish tinsel: but for a fine, quaint, graceful and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on ’t.

Hero

God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is exceeding heavy.

Margaret

’Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man.

Hero

Fie upon thee! art not ashamed?

Margaret

Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without marriage? I think you would have me say, ‘saving your reverence, a husband:’ and bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I’ll offend nobody: is there any harm in ‘the heavier for a husband’? None, I think, and it be the right husband and the right wife; otherwise ’tis light, and not heavy: ask my Lady Beatrice else; here she comes.

Enter Beatrice

Hero

Good morrow, coz.

Beatrice

Good morrow, sweet Hero.

Hero

Why how now? do you speak in the sick tune?

Beatrice

I am out of all other tune, methinks.

Margaret

Clap’s into ‘Light o’ love;’ that goes without a burden: do you sing it, and I’ll dance it.

Beatrice

Ye light o’ love, with your heels! then, if your husband have stables enough, you’ll see he shall lack no barns.

Margaret

O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.

Beatrice

’Tis almost five o’clock, cousin; tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill: heigh-ho!

Margaret

For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

Beatrice

For the letter that begins them all, H.

Margaret

Well, and you be not turned Turk, there’s no more sailing by the star.

Beatrice

What means the fool, trow?

Margaret

Nothing I; but God send every one their heart’s desire!

Hero

These gloves the count sent me; they are an excellent perfume.

Beatrice

I am stuffed, cousin; I cannot smell.

Margaret

A maid, and stuffed! there’s goodly catching of cold.

Beatrice

O, God help me! God help me! how long have you professed apprehension?

Margaret

Even since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely?

Beatrice

It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick.

Margaret

Get you some of this distilled Carduus Benedictus, and lay it to your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm.

Hero

There thou prickest her with a thistle.

Beatrice

Benedictus! why Benedictus? you have some moral in this Benedictus.

Margaret

Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I meant, plain holy-thistle. You may think perchance that I think you are in love: nay, by’r lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list, nor I list not to think what I can, nor indeed I cannot think, if I would think my heart out of thinking, that you are in love or that you will be in love or that you can be in love. Yet Benedick was such another, and now is he become a man: he swore he would never marry, and yet now, in despite of his heart, he eats his meat without grudging: and how you may be converted I know not, but methinks you look with your eyes as other women do.

Beatrice

What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?

Margaret

Not a false gallop.

Re-enter Ursula

Ursula

Madam, withdraw: the prince, the count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the town, are come to fetch you to church.

Hero

Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula.

Exeunt

SCENE V. ANOTHER ROOM IN LEONATO’S HOUSE.

Enter Leonato, with Dogberry and Verges

Leonato

What would you with me, honest neighbour?

Dogberry

Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you that decerns you nearly.

Leonato

Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me.

Dogberry

Marry, this it is, sir.

Verges

Yes, in truth it is, sir.

Leonato

What is it, my good friends?

Dogberry

Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows.

Verges

Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is an old man and no honester than I.

Dogberry

Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neighbour Verges.

Leonato

Neighbours, you are tedious.

Dogberry

It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor duke’s officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find it in my heart to bestow it all of your worship.

Leonato

All thy tediousness on me, ah?

Dogberry

Yea, an ’twere a thousand pound more than ’tis; for I hear as good exclamation on your worship as of any man in the city; and though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it.

Verges

And so am I.

Leonato

I would fain know what you have to say.

Verges

Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship’s presence, ha’ ta’en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina.

Dogberry

A good old man, sir; he will be talking: as they say, when the age is in, the wit is out: God help us! it is a world to see. Well said, i’ faith, neighbour Verges: well, God’s a good man; an two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest soul, i’ faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever broke bread; but God is to be worshipped; all men are not alike; alas, good neighbour!

Leonato

Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.

Dogberry

Gifts that God gives.

Leonato

I must leave you.

Dogberry

One word, sir: our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your worship.

Leonato

Take their examination yourself and bring it me: I am now in great haste, as it may appear unto you.

Dogberry

It shall be suffigance.

Leonato

Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband.

Leonato

I’ll wait upon them: I am ready.

Exeunt Leonato and Messenger

Dogberry

Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacole; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we are now to examination these men.

Verges

And we must do it wisely.

Dogberry

We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here’s that shall drive some of them to a non-come: only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication and meet me at the gaol.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. A CHURCH.

Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Leonato, Friar Francis, Claudio, Benedick, Hero, Beatrice, and Attendants

Leonato

Come, Friar Francis, be brief; only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards.

Friar Francis

You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady.

Claudio

No.

Leonato

To be married to her: friar, you come to marry her.

Friar Francis

Lady, you come hither to be married to this count.

Hero

I do.

Friar Francis

If either of you know any inward impediment why you should not be conjoined, charge you, on your souls, to utter it.

Claudio

Know you any, Hero?

Hero

None, my lord.

Friar Francis

Know you any, count?

Leonato

I dare make his answer, none.

Claudio

O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do!

Benedick

How now! interjections? Why, then, some be of laughing, as, ah, ha, he!

Claudio

Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave:

Will you with free and unconstrained soul

Give me this maid, your daughter?

Leonato

As freely, son, as God did give her me.

Claudio

And what have I to give you back, whose worth

May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?

Don Pedro

Nothing, unless you render her again.

Claudio

Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.

There, Leonato, take her back again:

Give not this rotten orange to your friend;

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!

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:

She knows the heat of a luxurious bed;

Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.

Leonato

What do you mean, my lord?

Claudio

Not to be married,

Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.

Leonato

Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,

Have vanquish’d the resistance of her youth,

And made defeat of her virginity,—

Claudio

I know what you would say: if I have known her,

You will say she did embrace me as a husband,

And so extenuate the ’forehand sin:

No, Leonato,

I never tempted her with word too large;

But, as a brother to his sister, show’d

Bashful sincerity and comely love.

Hero

And seem’d I ever otherwise to you?

Claudio

Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it:

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

That rage in savage sensuality.

Hero

Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?

Leonato

Sweet prince, why speak not you?

Don Pedro

What should I speak?

I stand dishonour’d, that have gone about

To link my dear friend to a common stale.

Leonato

Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?

Don John

Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.

Benedick

This looks not like a nuptial.

Hero

True! O God!

Claudio

Leonato, stand I here?

Is this the prince? is this the prince’s brother?

Is this face Hero’s? are our eyes our own?

Leonato

All this is so: but what of this, my lord?

Claudio

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.

Leonato

I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.

Hero

O, God defend me! how am I beset!

What kind of catechising call you this?

Claudio

To make you answer truly to your name.

Hero

Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name

With any just reproach?

Claudio

Marry, that can Hero;

Hero itself can blot out Hero’s virtue.

What man was he talk’d with you yesternight

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.

Don Pedro

Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato,

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

Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,

Confess’d the vile encounters they have had

A thousand times in secret.

Don John

Fie, fie! they are not to be named, my lord,

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.

Claudio

O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been,

If half thy outward graces had been placed

About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!

But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell,

Thou pure impiety and impious purity!

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,

And never shall it more be gracious.

Leonato

Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me?

Hero swoons

Beatrice

Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down?

Don John

Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light,

Smother her spirits up.

Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John, and Claudio

Benedick

How doth the lady?

Beatrice

Dead, I think. Help, uncle!

Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!

Leonato

O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand.

Death is the fairest cover for her shame

That may be wish’d for.

Beatrice

How now, cousin Hero!

Friar Francis

Have comfort, lady.

Leonato

Dost thou look up?

Friar Francis

Yea, wherefore should she not?

Leonato

Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing

Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny

The story that is printed in her blood?

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,

Strike at thy life. Grieved 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 my eyes?

Why had I not with charitable hand

Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates,

Who smirch’d thus and mired with infamy,

I might have said ‘No part of it is mine;

This shame derives itself from unknown loins’?

But mine and mine I loved and mine I praised

And mine that I was proud on, mine so much

That I myself was to myself not mine,

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

To her foul-tainted flesh!

Benedick

Sir, sir, be patient.

For my part, I am so attired in wonder,

I know not what to say.

Beatrice

O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!

Benedick

Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?

Beatrice

No, truly not; although, until last night,

I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

Leonato

Confirm’d, confirm’d! O, that is stronger made

Which was before barr’d up with ribs of iron!

Would the two princes lie, and Claudio lie,

Who loved her so, that, speaking of her foulness,

Wash’d it with tears? Hence from her! let her die.

Friar Francis

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

A thousand blushing apparitions

To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames

In angel whiteness beat away those blushes;

And in her eye there hath appear’d a fire,

To burn the errors that these princes hold

Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool;

Trust not my reading nor my observations,

Which with experimental seal doth warrant

The tenor of my book; trust not my age,

My reverence, calling, nor divinity,

If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here

Under some biting error.

Leonato

Friar, it cannot be.

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

That which appears in proper nakedness?

Friar Francis

Lady, what man is he you are accused of?

Hero

They know that do accuse me; I know none:

If I know more of any man alive

Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant,

Let all my sins lack mercy! O my father,

Prove you that any man with me conversed

At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight

Maintain’d the change of words with any creature,

Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death!

Friar Francis

There is some strange misprision in the princes.

Benedick

Two of them have the very bent of honour;

And if their wisdoms be misled in this,

The practise of it lives in John the bastard,

Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.

Leonato

I know not. If they speak but truth of her,

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,

Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,

Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,

But they shall find, awaked in such a kind,

Both strength of limb and policy of mind,

Ability in means and choice of friends,

To quit me of them throughly.

Friar Francis

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,

And publish it that she is dead indeed;

Maintain a mourning ostentation

And on your family’s old monument

Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites

That appertain unto a burial.

Leonato

What shall become of this? what will this do?

Friar Francis

Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf

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 so be maintain’d,

Upon the instant that she was accused,

Shall be lamented, pitied and excused

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

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

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 lived indeed; then shall he mourn,

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

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

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,

Out of all eyes, tongues, minds and injuries.

Benedick

Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you:

And though you know my inwardness and love

Is very much unto the prince and Claudio,

Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this

As secretly and justly as your soul

Should with your body.

Leonato

Being that I flow in grief,

The smallest twine may lead me.

Friar Francis

’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.

Exeunt all but Benedick and Beatrice

Benedick

Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

Beatrice

Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

Benedick

I will not desire that.

Beatrice

You have no reason; I do it freely.

Benedick

Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.

Beatrice

Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her!

Benedick

Is there any way to show such friendship?

Beatrice

A very even way, but no such friend.

Benedick

May a man do it?

Beatrice

It is a man’s office, but not yours.

Benedick

I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?

Beatrice

As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you: but believe me not; and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.

Benedick

By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.

Beatrice

Do not swear, and eat it.

Benedick

I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you.

Beatrice

Will you not eat your word?

Benedick

With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest

I love thee.

Beatrice

Why, then, God forgive me!

Benedick

What offence, sweet Beatrice?

Beatrice

You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you.

Benedick

And do it with all thy heart.

Beatrice

I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.

Benedick

Come, bid me do any thing for thee.

Beatrice

Kill Claudio.

Benedick

Ha! not for the wide world.

Beatrice

You kill me to deny it. Farewell.

Benedick

Tarry, sweet Beatrice.

Beatrice

I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go.

Benedick

Beatrice,—

Beatrice

In faith, I will go.

Benedick

We’ll be friends first.

Beatrice

You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.

Benedick

Is Claudio thine enemy?

Beatrice

Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O that I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands; and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour, — O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place.

Benedick

Hear me, Beatrice,—

Beatrice

Talk with a man out at a window! A proper saying!

Benedick

Nay, but, Beatrice,—

Beatrice

Sweet Hero! She is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.

Benedick

Beat —

Beatrice

Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly count, Count Comfect; a sweet gallant, surely! O that I were a man for his sake! or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

Benedick

Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.

Beatrice

Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.

Benedick

Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?

Beatrice

Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul.

Benedick

Enough, I am engaged; I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead: and so, farewell.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A PRISON.

Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in gowns; and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio

Dogberry

Is our whole dissembly appeared?

Verges

O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton.

Sexton

Which be the malefactors?

Dogberry

Marry, that am I and my partner.

Verges

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.

Dogberry

Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name, friend?

Borachio

Borachio.

Dogberry

Pray, write down, Borachio. Yours, sirrah?

Conrade

I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.

Dogberry

Write down, master gentleman Conrade. Masters, do you serve God?

Conrade

Borachio

Yea, sir, we hope.

Dogberry

Write down, that they hope they serve God: and write God first; for God defend but God should go before such villains! Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves; and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves?

Conrade

Marry, sir, we say we are none.

Dogberry

A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you: but I will go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah; a word in your ear: sir, I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves.

Borachio

Sir, I say to you we are none.

Dogberry

Well, stand aside. ’Fore God, they are both in a tale. Have you writ down, that they are none?

Sexton

Master constable, you go not the way to examine: you must call forth the watch that are their accusers.

Dogberry

Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way. Let the watch come forth. Masters, I charge you, in the prince’s name, accuse these men.

First Watchman

This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince’s brother, was a villain.

Dogberry

Write down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince’s brother villain.

Borachio

Master constable,—

Dogberry

Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy look,

I promise thee.

Sexton

What heard you him say else?

Second Watchman

Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of

Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.

Dogberry

Flat burglary as ever was committed.

Verges

Yea, by mass, that it is.

Sexton

What else, fellow?

First Watchman

And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly. and not marry her.

Dogberry

O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this.

Sexton

What else?

Watchman

This is all.

Sexton

And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away; Hero was in this manner accused, in this very manner refused, and upon the grief of this suddenly died. Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato’s: I will go before and show him their examination.

Exit

Dogberry

Come, let them be opinioned.

Verges

Let them be in the hands —

Conrade

Off, coxcomb!

Dogberry

God’s my life, where’s the sexton? let him write down the prince’s officer coxcomb. Come, bind them. Thou naughty varlet!

Conrade

Away! you are an ass, you are an ass.

Dogberry

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 is 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 every thing handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass!

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. BEFORE LEONATO’S HOUSE.

Enter Leonato and Antonio

Antonio

If you go on thus, you will kill yourself:

And ’tis not wisdom thus to second grief

Against yourself.

Leonato

I pray thee, cease thy counsel,

Which falls into mine ears as profitless

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 loved his child,

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,

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,

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

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,

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,

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.

Antonio

Therein do men from children nothing differ.

Leonato

I pray thee, peace. I will be flesh and blood;

For there was never yet philosopher

That could endure the toothache patiently,

However they have writ the style of gods

And made a push at chance and sufferance.

Antonio

Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself;

Make those that do offend you suffer too.

Leonato

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.

Antonio

Here comes the prince and Claudio hastily.

Enter Don Pedro and Claudio

Don Pedro

Good den, good den.

Claudio

Good day to both of you.

Leonato

Hear you. my lords,—

Don Pedro

We have some haste, Leonato.

Leonato

Some haste, my lord! well, fare you well, my lord:

Are you so hasty now? well, all is one.

Don Pedro

Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.

Antonio

If he could right himself with quarreling,

Some of us would lie low.

Claudio

Who wrongs him?

Leonato

Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dissembler, thou:—

Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword;

I fear thee not.

Claudio

Marry, beshrew my hand,

If it should give your age such cause of fear:

In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.

Leonato

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

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 forced to lay my reverence by

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,

And she lies buried with her ancestors;

O, in a tomb where never scandal slept,

Save this of hers, framed by thy villany!

Claudio

My villany?

Leonato

Thine, Claudio; thine, I say.

Don Pedro

You say not right, old man.

Leonato

My lord, my lord,

I’ll prove it on his body, if he dare,

Despite his nice fence and his active practise,

His May of youth and bloom of lustihood.

Claudio

Away! I will not have to do with you.

Leonato

Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill’d my child:

If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.

Antonio

He shall kill two of us, and men indeed:

But that’s no matter; let him kill one first;

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.

Leonato

Brother,—

Antonio

Content yourself. God knows I loved my niece;

And she is dead, slander’d to death by villains,

That dare as well answer a man indeed

As I dare take a serpent by the tongue:

Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops!

Leonato

Brother Antony,—

Antonio

Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea,

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 anticly, show outward hideousness,

And speak off half a dozen dangerous words,

How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;

And this is all.

Leonato

But, brother Antony,—

Antonio

Come, ’tis no matter:

Do not you meddle; let me deal in this.

Don Pedro

Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.

My heart is sorry for your daughter’s death:

But, on my honour, she was charged with nothing

But what was true and very full of proof.

Leonato

My lord, my lord,—

Don Pedro

I will not hear you.

Leonato

No? Come, brother; away! I will be heard.

Antonio

And shall, or some of us will smart for it.

Exeunt Leonato and Antonio

Don Pedro

See, see; here comes the man we went to seek.

Enter Benedick

Claudio

Now, signior, what news?

Benedick

Good day, my lord.

Don Pedro

Welcome, signior: you are almost come to part almost a fray.

Claudio

We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old men without teeth.

Don Pedro

Leonato and his brother. What thinkest thou? Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them.

Benedick

In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both.

Claudio

We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are high-proof melancholy and would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit?

Benedick

It is in my scabbard: shall I draw it?

Don Pedro

Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?

Claudio

Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels; draw, to pleasure us.

Don Pedro

As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick, or angry?

Claudio

What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.

Benedick

Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, and you charge it against me. I pray you choose another subject.

Claudio

Nay, then, give him another staff: this last was broke cross.

Don Pedro

By this light, he changes more and more: I think he be angry indeed.

Claudio

If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.

Benedick

Shall I speak a word in your ear?

Claudio

God bless me from a challenge!

Benedick

[Aside to Claudio] You are a villain; I jest not: I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you.

Claudio

Well, I will meet you, so I may have good cheer.

Don Pedro

What, a feast, a feast?

Claudio

I’ faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf’s head and a capon; the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife’s naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too?

Benedick

Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.

Don Pedro

I’ll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit: ‘True,’ said she, ‘a fine little one.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘a great wit:’ ‘Right,’ says she, ‘a great gross one.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘a good wit:’ ‘Just,’ said she, ‘it hurts nobody.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘the gentleman is wise:’ ‘Certain,’ said she, ‘a wise gentleman.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘he hath the tongues:’ ‘That I believe,’ said she, ‘for he swore a thing to me on Monday night, which he forswore on Tuesday morning; there’s a double tongue; there’s two tongues.’ Thus did she, an hour together, transshape thy particular virtues: yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the properest man in Italy.

Claudio

For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not.

Don Pedro

Yea, that she did: but yet, for all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly: the old man’s daughter told us all.

Claudio

All, all; and, moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden.

Don Pedro

But when shall we set the savage bull’s horns on the sensible Benedick’s head?

Claudio

Yea, and text underneath, ‘Here dwells Benedick the married man’?

Benedick

Fare you well, boy: you know my mind. I will leave you now to your gossip-like humour: you break jests as braggarts do their blades, which God be thanked, hurt not. My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you: I must discontinue your company: your brother the bastard is fled from Messina: you have among you killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lackbeard there, he and I shall meet: and, till then, peace be with him.

Exit

Don Pedro

He is in earnest.

Claudio

In most profound earnest; and, I’ll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice.

Don Pedro

And hath challenged thee.

Claudio

Most sincerely.

Don Pedro

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!

Claudio

He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a doctor to such a man.

Don Pedro

But, soft you, let me be: pluck up, my heart, and be sad. Did he not say, my brother was fled?

Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio

Dogberry

Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, she shall ne’er weigh more reasons in her balance: nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to.

Don Pedro

How now? two of my brother’s men bound! Borachio one!

Claudio

Hearken after their offence, my lord.

Don Pedro

Officers, what offence have these men done?

Dogberry

Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.

Don Pedro

First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I ask thee what’s their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge.

Claudio

Rightly reasoned, and in his own division: and, by my troth, there’s one meaning well suited.

Don Pedro

Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to your answer? this learned constable is too cunning to be understood: what’s your offence?

Borachio

Sweet prince, let me go no farther to mine answer: do you hear me, and let this count kill me. I have deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms could not discover, these shallow fools have brought to light: who in the night overheard me confessing to this man how Don John your brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero, how you were brought into the orchard and saw me court Margaret in Hero’s garments, how you disgraced her, when you should marry her: my villany they have upon record; which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my master’s false accusation; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a villain.

Don Pedro

Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?

Claudio

I have drunk poison whiles he utter’d it.

Don Pedro

But did my brother set thee on to this?

Borachio

Yea, and paid me richly for the practise of it.

Don Pedro

He is composed and framed of treachery:

And fled he is upon this villany.

Claudio

Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear

In the rare semblance that I loved it first.

Dogberry

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.

Verges

Here, here comes master Signior Leonato, and the

Sexton too.

Re-enter Leonato and Antonio, with the Sexton

Leonato

Which is the villain? let me see his eyes,

That, when I note another man like him,

I may avoid him: which of these is he?

Borachio

If you would know your wronger, look on me.

Leonato

Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill’d

Mine innocent child?

Borachio

Yea, even I alone.

Leonato

No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself:

Here stand a pair of honourable men;

A third is fled, that had a hand in it.

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.

Claudio

I know not how to pray your patience;

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.

Don Pedro

By my soul, nor I:

And yet, to satisfy this good old man,

I would bend under any heavy weight

That he’ll enjoin me to.

Leonato

I cannot bid you bid my daughter live;

That were impossible: but, I pray you both,

Possess the people in Messina here

How innocent she died; and if your love

Can labour ought in sad invention,

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,

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,

And so dies my revenge.

Claudio

O noble sir,

Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me!

I do embrace your offer; and dispose

For henceforth of poor Claudio.

Leonato

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,

Hired to it by your brother.

Borachio

No, by my soul, she was not,

Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me,

But always hath been just and virtuous

In any thing that I do know by her.

Dogberry

Moreover, sir, which indeed is not under white and black, this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered in his punishment. And also, the watch heard them talk of one Deformed: they say be wears a key in his ear and a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God’s name, the which he hath used so long and never paid that now men grow hard-hearted and will lend nothing for God’s sake: pray you, examine him upon that point.

Leonato

I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.

Dogberry

Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverend youth; and I praise God for you.

Leonato

There’s for thy pains.

Dogberry

God save the foundation!

Leonato

Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee.

Dogberry

I leave an arrant knave with your worship; which I beseech your worship to correct yourself, for the example of others. God keep your worship! I wish your worship well; God restore you to health! I humbly give you leave to depart; and if a merry meeting may be wished, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour.

Exeunt Dogberry and Verges

Leonato

Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell.

Antonio

Farewell, my lords: we look for you to-morrow.

Don Pedro

We will not fail.

Claudio

To-night I’ll mourn with Hero.

Leonato

[To the Watch] Bring you these fellows on. We’ll talk with Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.

Exeunt, severally

SCENE II. LEONATO’S GARDEN.

Enter Benedick and Margaret, meeting

Benedick

Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.

Margaret

Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty?

Benedick

In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it.

Margaret

To have no man come over me! why, shall I always keep below stairs?

Benedick

Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s mouth; it catches.

Margaret

And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils, which hit, but hurt not.

Benedick

A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice: I give thee the bucklers.

Margaret

Give us the swords; we have bucklers of our own.

Benedick

If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids.

Margaret

Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs.

Benedick

And therefore will come.

Exit Margaret

[Sings] The god of love,

That sits above,

And knows me, and knows me,

How pitiful I deserve,—

I mean in singing; but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole bookful of these quondam carpet-mangers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme; I have tried: I can find out no rhyme to ‘lady’ but ‘baby,’ an innocent rhyme; for ‘scorn,’ ‘horn,’ a hard rhyme; for, ‘school,’ ‘fool,’ a babbling rhyme; very ominous endings: no, I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms.

Enter Beatrice

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?

Beatrice

Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me.

Benedick

O, stay but till then!

Beatrice

‘Then’ is spoken; fare you well now: and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came; which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio.

Benedick

Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.

Beatrice

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.

Benedick

Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and either I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?

Beatrice

For them all together; which maintained so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?

Benedick

Suffer love! a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.

Beatrice

In spite of your heart, I think; alas, poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.

Benedick

Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

Beatrice

It appears not in this confession: there’s not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself.

Benedick

An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in the lime of good neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps.

Beatrice

And how long is that, think you?

Benedick

Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in rheum: therefore is it most expedient for the wise, if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy: and now tell me, how doth your cousin?

Beatrice

Very ill.

Benedick

And how do you?

Beatrice

Very ill too.

Benedick

Serve God, love me and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste.

Enter Ursula

Ursula

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 fed and gone. Will you come presently?

Beatrice

Will you go hear this news, signior?

Benedick

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. A CHURCH.

Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, and three or four with tapers

Claudio

Is this the monument of Leonato?

Lord

It is, my lord.

Claudio

[Reading out of a scroll]

Done to death by slanderous tongues

Was the Hero that here lies:

Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,

Gives her fame which never dies.

So the life that died with shame

Lives in death with glorious fame.

Hang thou there upon the tomb,

Praising her when I am dumb.

Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.

[Sings] Pardon, goddess of the night,

Those that slew thy virgin knight;

For the which, with songs of woe,

Round about her tomb they go.

Midnight, assist our moan;

Help us to sigh and groan,

Heavily, heavily:

Graves, yawn and yield your dead,

Till death be uttered,

Heavily, heavily.

Claudio

Now, unto thy bones good night!

Yearly will I do this rite.

Don Pedro

Good morrow, masters; put your torches out:

The wolves have prey’d; and look, the gentle day,

Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about

Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey.

Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well.

Claudio

Good morrow, masters: each his several way.

Don Pedro

Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds;

And then to Leonato’s we will go.

Claudio

And Hymen now with luckier issue speed’s

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 Francis

Did I not tell you she was innocent?

Leonato

So are the prince and Claudio, who accused her

Upon the error that you heard debated:

But Margaret was in some fault for this,

Although against her will, as it appears

In the true course of all the question.

Antonio

Well, I am glad that all things sort so well.

Benedick

And so am I, being else by faith enforced

To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.

Leonato

Well, daughter, and you gentle-women all,

Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,

And when I send for you, come hither mask’d.

Exeunt Ladies

The prince and Claudio promised by this hour

To visit me. You know your office, brother:

You must be father to your brother’s daughter

And give her to young Claudio.

Antonio

Which I will do with confirm’d countenance.

Benedick

Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.

Friar Francis

To do what, signior?

Benedick

To bind me, or undo me; one of them.

Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,

Your niece regards me with an eye of favour.

Leonato

That eye my daughter lent her: ’tis most true.

Benedick

And I do with an eye of love requite her.

Leonato

The sight whereof I think you had from me,

From Claudio and the prince: but what’s your will?

Benedick

Your answer, sir, is enigmatical:

But, for my will, my will is your good will

May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin’d

In the state of honourable marriage:

In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.

Leonato

My heart is with your liking.

Friar Francis

And my help.

Here comes the prince and Claudio.

Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, and two or three others

Don Pedro

Good morrow to this fair assembly.

Leonato

Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio:

We here attend you. Are you yet determined

To-day to marry with my brother’s daughter?

Claudio

I’ll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope.

Leonato

Call her forth, brother; here’s the friar ready.

Exit Antonio

Don Pedro

Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s the matter,

That you have such a February face,

So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

Claudio

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,

As once Europa did at lusty Jove,

When he would play the noble beast in love.

Benedick

Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low;

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.

Claudio

For this I owe you: here comes other reckonings.

Re-enter Antonio, with the Ladies masked

Which is the lady I must seize upon?

Antonio

This same is she, and I do give you her.

Claudio

Why, then she’s mine. Sweet, let me see your face.

Leonato

No, that you shall not, till you take her hand

Before this friar and swear to marry her.

Claudio

Give me your hand: before this holy friar,

I am your husband, if you like of me.

Hero

And when I lived, I was your other wife:

Unmasking

And when you loved, you were my other husband.

Claudio

Another Hero!

Hero

Nothing certainer:

One Hero died defiled, but I do live,

And surely as I live, I am a maid.

Don Pedro

The former Hero! Hero that is dead!

Leonato

She died, my lord, but whiles her slander lived.

Friar Francis

All this amazement can I qualify:

When after that the holy rites are ended,

I’ll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death:

Meantime let wonder seem familiar,

And to the chapel let us presently.

Benedick

Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice?

Beatrice

[Unmasking] I answer to that name. What is your will?

Benedick

Do not you love me?

Beatrice

Why, no; no more than reason.

Benedick

Why, then your uncle and the prince and Claudio

Have been deceived; they swore you did.

Beatrice

Do not you love me?

Benedick

Troth, no; no more than reason.

Beatrice

Why, then my cousin Margaret and Ursula

Are much deceived; for they did swear you did.

Benedick

They swore that you were almost sick for me.

Beatrice

They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.

Benedick

’Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?

Beatrice

No, truly, but in friendly recompense.

Leonato

Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.

Claudio

And I’ll be sworn upon’t that he loves her;

For here’s a paper written in his hand,

A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,

Fashion’d to Beatrice.

Hero

And here’s another

Writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her pocket,

Containing her affection unto Benedick.

Benedick

A miracle! here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.

Beatrice

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.

Benedick

Peace! I will stop your mouth.

Kissing her

Don Pedro

How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?

Benedick

I’ll tell thee what, prince; a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No: if a man will be beaten with brains, a’ shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruised and love my cousin.

Claudio

I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceedingly narrowly to thee.

Benedick

Come, come, we are friends: let’s have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives’ heels.

Leonato

We’ll have dancing afterward.

Benedick

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.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight,

And brought with armed men back to Messina.

Benedick

Think not on him till to-morrow:

I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him.

Strike up, pipers.

Dance

Exeunt

The Taming of the Shrew

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

PERSONS IN THE INDUCTION

PERSONS OF THE PLAY

INDUCTION

SCENE I. BEFORE AN ALEHOUSE ON A HEATH.

SCENE II. A BEDCHAMBER IN THE LORD’S HOUSE.

ACT I

SCENE I. PADUA. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE II. PADUA. BEFORE HORTENSIO’S HOUSE.

ACT II

SCENE I. PADUA. A ROOM IN BAPTISTA’S HOUSE.

ACT III

SCENE I. PADUA. BAPTISTA’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. PADUA. BEFORE BAPTISTA’S HOUSE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. PETRUCHIO’S COUNTRY HOUSE.

SCENE II. PADUA. BEFORE BAPTISTA’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN PETRUCHIO’S HOUSE.

SCENE IV. PADUA. BEFORE BAPTISTA’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. A PUBLIC ROAD.

ACT V

SCENE I. PADUA. BEFORE LUCENTIO’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. PADUA. LUCENTIO’S HOUSE.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

PERSONS IN THE INDUCTION

A Lord,

Christopher Sly, a tinker.

Hostess,

Page,

Players, Huntsmen, and Servants.

PERSONS OF THE PLAY

Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua, father of Bianca and Katherina.

Vincentio, an old gentleman of Pisa.

Lucentio, son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca.

Petruchio, a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to Katharina.

Gremio and Hortensio, suitors to Bianca.

Tranio and Biondello, servants to Lucentio.

Grumio, Curtis, Nathaniel, Nicholas, Joseph, Philip and Peter, servants to Petruchio.

A Pedant,

Katharina the shrew,

Bianca,

A Widow,

Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio.

Scene: Padua, and Petruchio's country house.

INDUCTION

SCENE I. BEFORE AN ALEHOUSE ON A HEATH.

Enter Hostess and Sly

Sly

I’ll pheeze you, in faith.

Hostess

A pair of stocks, you rogue!

Sly

Ye are a baggage: the Slys are no rogues; look in the chronicles; we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore paucas pallabris; let the world slide: sessa!

Hostess

You will not pay for the glasses you have burst?

Sly

No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy: go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.

Hostess

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.

Falls asleep

Horns winded. Enter a Lord from hunting, with his train

Lord

Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds:

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?

I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.

First Huntsman

Why, Belman 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.

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:

To-morrow I intend to hunt again.

First Huntsman

I will, my lord.

Lord

What’s here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe?

Second Huntsman

He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm’d with ale,

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.

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?

First Huntsman

Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.

Second Huntsman

It would seem strange unto him when he waked.

Lord

Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy.

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

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

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,

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;

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,

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.

First Huntsman

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.

Some bear out Sly. A trumpet sounds

Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds:

Exit Servingman

Belike, some noble gentleman that means,

Travelling some journey, to repose him here.

Re-enter Servingman

How now! who is it?

Servant

An’t please your honour, players

That offer service to your lordship.

Lord

Bid them come near.

Enter Players

Now, fellows, you are welcome.

Players

We thank your honour.

Lord

Do you intend to stay with me tonight?

A Player

So please your lordship to accept our duty.

Lord

With all my heart. This fellow I remember,

Since once he play’d a farmer’s eldest son:

’Twas where you woo’d the gentlewoman so well:

I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part

Was aptly fitted and naturally perform’d.

A Player

I think ’twas Soto that your honour means.

Lord

’Tis very true: thou didst it excellent.

Well, you are come to me in a happy time;

The rather for I have some sport in hand

Wherein your cunning can assist me much.

There is a lord will hear you play to-night:

But I am doubtful of your modesties;

Lest over-eyeing of his odd behavior,—

For yet his honour never heard a play —

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,

Were he the veriest antic 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.

Exit one with the Players

Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my page,

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.

Tell him from me, as he will win my love,

He bear himself with honourable action,

Such as he hath observed in noble ladies

Unto their lords, by them accomplished:

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

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

To see her noble lord restored to health,

Who for this seven years hath esteem’d him

No better than a poor and loathsome beggar:

And if the boy have not a woman’s gift

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.

See this dispatch’d with all the haste thou canst:

Anon I’ll give thee more instructions.

Exit a Servingman

I know the boy will well usurp the grace,

Voice, gait and action of a gentlewoman:

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

May well abate the over-merry spleen

Which otherwise would grow into extremes.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A BEDCHAMBER IN THE LORD’S HOUSE.

Enter aloft Sly, with Attendants; some with apparel, others with basin and ewer and appurtenances; and Lord

Sly

For God’s sake, a pot of small ale.

First Servant

Will’t please your lordship drink a cup of sack?

Second Servant

Will’t please your honour taste of these conserves?

Third Servant

What raiment will your honour wear to-day?

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, sometimes more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the over-leather.

Lord

Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour!

O, that a mighty man of such descent,

Of such possessions and so high esteem,

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 —

Third Servant

O, this it is that makes your lady mourn!

Second Servant

O, this is it 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,

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.

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

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.

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.

First Servant

Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift

As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.

Second Servant

Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee straight

Adonis painted by a running brook,

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 surprised,

As lively painted as the deed was done.

Third Servant

Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,

Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds,

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

Than any woman in this waning age.

First Servant

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;

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;

I smell sweet savours and I feel soft things:

Upon my life, I am a lord indeed

And not a tinker nor Christophero Sly.

Well, bring our lady hither to our sight;

And once again, a pot o’ the smallest ale.

Second Servant

Will’t please your mightiness to wash your hands?

O, how we joy to see your wit restored!

O, that once more you knew but what you are!

These fifteen years you have been in a dream;

Or when you waked, so waked as if you slept.

Sly

These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap.

But did I never speak of all that time?

First Servant

O, yes, my lord, but very idle words:

For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,

Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door;

And rail upon the hostess of the house;

And say you would present her at the leet,

Because she brought stone jugs and no seal’d quarts:

Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.

Sly

Ay, the woman’s maid of the house.

Third Servant

Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid,

Nor no such men as you have reckon’d up,

As Stephen Sly and did John Naps of Greece

And Peter Turph and Henry Pimpernell

And twenty more such names and men as these

Which never were nor no man ever saw.

Sly

Now Lord be thanked for my good amends!

All

Amen.

Sly

I thank thee: thou shalt not lose by it.

Enter the Page as a lady, with attendants

Page

How fares my noble lord?

Sly

Marry, I fare well for here is cheer enough.

Where is my wife?

Page

Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her?

Sly

Are you my wife and will not call me husband?

My men should call me ‘lord:’ I am your goodman.

Page

My husband and my lord, my lord and husband;

I am your wife in all obedience.

Sly

I know it well. What must I call her?

Lord

Madam.

Sly

Al’ce madam, or Joan madam?

Lord

‘Madam,’ and nothing else: so lords call ladies.

Sly

Madam wife, they say that I have dream’d

And slept above some fifteen year or more.

Page

Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,

Being all this time abandon’d from your bed.

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,

Or, if not so, until the sun be set:

For your physicians have expressly charged,

In peril to incur your former malady,

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 despite of the flesh and the blood.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

Your honour’s players, heating your amendment,

Are come to play a pleasant comedy;

For so your doctors hold it very meet,

Seeing too much sadness hath congeal’d your blood,

And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy:

Therefore they thought it good you hear a play

And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,

Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

Sly

Marry, I will, let them play it. Is not a comondy a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick?

Page

No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff.

Sly

What, household stuff?

Page

It is a kind of history.

Sly

Well, well see’t. Come, madam wife, sit by my side and let the world slip: we shall ne’er be younger.

Flourish

ACT I

SCENE I. PADUA. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter Lucentio and his man Tranio

Lucentio

Tranio, since for the great desire I had

To see fair Padua, nursery of arts,

I am arrived for fruitful Lombardy,

The pleasant garden of great Italy;

And by my father’s love and leave am arm’d

With his good will and thy good company,

My trusty servant, well approved in all,

Here let us breathe and haply institute

A course of learning and ingenious studies.

Pisa renown’d for grave citizens

Gave me my being and my father first,

A merchant of great traffic through the world,

Vincetino come of Bentivolii.

Vincetino’s son brought up in Florence

It shall become to serve all hopes conceived,

To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds:

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 achieved.

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.

Tranio

Mi perdonato, gentle master mine,

I am in all affected as yourself;

Glad that you thus continue your resolve

To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy.

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 cheques

As Ovid be an outcast quite abjured:

Balk logic with acquaintance that you have

And practise rhetoric in your common talk;

Music and poesy use to quicken you;

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.

Lucentio

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

Such friends as time in Padua shall beget.

But stay a while: what company is this?

Tranio

Master, some show to welcome us to town.

Enter Baptista, Katharina, Bianca, Gremio, and Hortensio. Lucentio and Tranio stand by

Baptista

Gentlemen, importune me no farther,

For how I firmly am resolved you know;

That is, not bestow my youngest daughter

Before I have a husband for the elder:

If either of you both love Katharina,

Because I know you well and love you well,

Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.

Gremio

[Aside] To cart her rather: she’s too rough for me.

There, There, Hortensio, will you any wife?

Katharina

I pray you, sir, is it your will

To make a stale of me amongst these mates?

Hortensio

Mates, maid! how mean you that? no mates for you,

Unless you were of gentler, milder mould.

Katharina

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.

Hortensio

From all such devils, good Lord deliver us!

Gremio

And me too, good Lord!

Tranio

Hush, master! here’s some good pastime toward:

That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward.

Lucentio

But in the other’s silence do I see

Maid’s mild behavior and sobriety.

Peace, Tranio!

Tranio

Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill.

Baptista

Gentlemen, that I may soon make good

What I have said, Bianca, get you in:

And let it not displease thee, good Bianca,

For I will love thee ne’er the less, my girl.

Katharina

A pretty peat! it is best

Put finger in the eye, an she knew why.

Bianca

Sister, content you in my discontent.

Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe:

My books and instruments shall be my company,

On them to took and practise by myself.

Lucentio

Hark, Tranio! thou may’st hear Minerva speak.

Hortensio

Signior Baptista, will you be so strange?

Sorry am I that our good will effects

Bianca’s grief.

Gremio

Why will you mew her up,

Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell,

And make her bear the penance of her tongue?

Baptista

Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolved:

Go in, Bianca:

Exit Bianca

And for I know she taketh most delight

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,

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;

For I have more to commune with Bianca.

Exit

Katharina

Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not? What, shall I be appointed hours; as though, belike, I knew not what to take and what to leave, ha?

Exit

Gremio

You may go to the devil’s dam: your gifts are so good, here’s none will hold you. Their love is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly out: our cakes dough on both sides. Farewell: yet for the love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her father.

Hortensio

So will I, Signior Gremio: but a word, I pray. Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brooked parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both, that we may yet again have access to our fair mistress and be happy rivals in Bianco’s love, to labour and effect one thing specially.

Gremio

What’s that, I pray?

Hortensio

Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister.

Gremio

A husband! a devil.

Hortensio

I say, a husband.

Gremio

I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, though her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell?

Hortensio

Tush, Gremio, though it pass your patience and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in the world, an a man could light on them, would take her with all faults, and money enough.

Gremio

I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with this condition, to be whipped at the high cross every morning.

Hortensio

Faith, as you say, there’s small choice in rotten apples. But come; since this bar in law makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly maintained all by helping Baptista’s eldest daughter to a husband we set his youngest free for a husband, and then have to’t a fresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, Signior Gremio?

Gremio

I am agreed; and would I had given him the best horse in Padua to begin his wooing that would thoroughly woo her, wed her and bed her and rid the house of her! Come on.

Exeunt Gremio and Hortensio

Tranio

I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible

That love should of a sudden take such hold?

Lucentio

O Tranio, till I found it to be true,

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,

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.

Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst;

Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt.

Tranio

Master, it is no time to chide you now;

Affection is not rated from the heart:

If love have touch’d you, nought remains but so,

‘Redime te captum quam queas minimo.’

Lucentio

Gramercies, lad, go forward; this contents:

The rest will comfort, for thy counsel’s sound.

Tranio

Master, you look’d so longly on the maid,

Perhaps you mark’d not what’s the pith of all.

Lucentio

O yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,

Such as the daughter of Agenor had,

That made great Jove to humble him to her hand.

When with his knees he kiss’d the Cretan strand.

Tranio

Saw you no more? mark’d you not how her sister

Began to scold and raise up such a storm

That mortal ears might hardly endure the din?

Lucentio

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.

Tranio

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 eldest sister is so curst and shrewd

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.

Lucentio

Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father’s he!

But art thou not advised, he took some care

To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?

Tranio

Ay, marry, am I, sir; and now ’tis plotted.

Lucentio

I have it, Tranio.

Tranio

Master, for my hand,

Both our inventions meet and jump in one.

Lucentio

Tell me thine first.

Tranio

You will be schoolmaster

And undertake the teaching of the maid:

That’s your device.

Lucentio

It is: may it be done?

Tranio

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,

Visit his countrymen and banquet them?

Lucentio

Basta; content thee, for I have it full.

We have not yet been seen in any house,

Nor can we lie distinguish’d by our faces

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,

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;

But I will charm him first to keep his tongue.

Tranio

So had you need.

In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is,

And I am tied to be obedient;

For so your father charged me at our parting,

‘Be serviceable to my son,’ quoth he,

Although I think ’twas in another sense;

I am content to be Lucentio,

Because so well I love Lucentio.

Lucentio

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.

Here comes the rogue.

Enter Biondello

Sirrah, where have you been?

Biondello

Where have I been! Nay, how now! where are you? Master, has my fellow Tranio stolen your clothes? Or you stolen his? or both? pray, what’s the news?

Lucentio

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,

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,

While I make way from hence to save my life:

You understand me?

Biondello

I, sir! ne’er a whit.

Lucentio

And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth:

Tranio is changed into Lucentio.

Biondello

The better for him: would I were so too!

Tranio

So could 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

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.

Lucentio

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 Servant

My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play.

Sly

Yes, by Saint Anne, do I. A good matter, surely: comes there any more of it?

Page

My lord, ’tis but begun.

Sly

’Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady: would ’twere done!

They sit and mark

SCENE II. PADUA. BEFORE HORTENSIO’S HOUSE.

Enter Petruchio and his man Grumio

Petruchio

Verona, for a while I take my leave,

To see my friends in Padua, but of all

My best beloved and approved friend,

Hortensio; and I trow this is his house.

Here, sirrah Grumio; knock, I say.

Grumio

Knock, sir! whom should I knock? is there man has rebused your worship?

Petruchio

Villain, I say, knock me here soundly.

Grumio

Knock you here, sir! why, sir, what am I, sir, that

I should knock you here, sir?

Petruchio

Villain, I say, knock me at this gate

And rap me well, or I’ll knock your knave’s pate.

Grumio

My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first, And then I know after who comes by the worst.

Petruchio

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.

He wrings him by the ears

Grumio

Help, masters, help! my master is mad.

Petruchio

Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain!

Enter Hortensio

Hortensio

How now! what’s the matter? My old friend Grumio! and my good friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona?

Petruchio

Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray?

‘Con tutto il cuore, ben trovato,’ may I say.

Hortensio

‘Alla nostra casa ben venuto, molto honorato signor mio Petruchio.’ Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel.

Grumio

Nay, ’tis no matter, sir, what he ’leges in Latin. if this be not a lawful case 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? Whom would to God I had well knock’d at first, Then had not Grumio come by the worst.

Petruchio

A senseless villain! Good Hortensio,

I bade the rascal knock upon your gate

And could not get him for my heart to do it.

Grumio

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’?

Petruchio

Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you.

Hortensio

Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio’s pledge:

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?

Petruchio

Such wind as scatters young men through the world,

To seek their fortunes farther than at home

Where small experience grows. But in a few,

Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me:

Antonio, my father, is deceased;

And I have thrust myself into this maze,

Haply to wive and thrive as best I may:

Crowns in my purse I have and goods at home,

And so am come abroad to see the world.

Hortensio

Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee

And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour’d wife?

Thou’ldst 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.

Petruchio

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,

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,

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.

Grumio

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.

Hortensio

Petruchio, since we are stepp’d thus far in,

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:

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,

I would not wed her for a mine of gold.

Petruchio

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.

Hortensio

Her father is Baptista Minola,

An affable and courteous gentleman:

Her name is Katharina Minola,

Renown’d in Padua for her scolding tongue.

Petruchio

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;

And therefore let me be thus bold with you

To give you over at this first encounter,

Unless you will accompany me thither.

Grumio

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 rope-tricks. 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.

Hortensio

Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee,

For in Baptista’s keep my treasure is:

He hath the jewel of my life in hold,

His youngest daughter, beautiful Binaca,

And her withholds from me and other more,

Suitors to her and rivals in my love,

Supposing it a thing impossible,

For those defects I have before rehearsed,

That ever Katharina will be woo’d;

Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en,

That none shall have access unto Bianca

Till Katharina the curst have got a husband.

Grumio

Katharina the curst!

A title for a maid of all titles the worst.

Hortensio

Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace,

And offer me disguised in sober robes

To old Baptista as a schoolmaster

Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca;

That so I may, by this device, at least

Have leave and leisure to make love to her

And unsuspected court her by herself.

Grumio

Here’s no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how the young folks lay their heads together!

Enter Gremio, and Lucentio disguised

Master, master, look about you: who goes there, ha?

Hortensio

Peace, Grumio! it is the rival of my love.

Petruchio, stand by a while.

Grumio

A proper stripling and an amorous!

Gremio

O, very well; I have perused 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

Signior Baptista’s liberality,

I’ll mend it with a largess. Take your paper too,

And let me have them very well perfumed

For she is sweeter than perfume itself

To whom they go to. What will you read to her?

Lucentio

Whate’er I read to her, I’ll plead for you

As for my patron, stand you so assured,

As firmly as yourself were still in place:

Yea, and perhaps with more successful words

Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir.

Gremio

O this learning, what a thing it is!

Grumio

O this woodcock, what an ass it is!

Petruchio

Peace, sirrah!

Hortensio

Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gremio.

Gremio

And you are well met, Signior Hortensio.

Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola.

I promised 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 behavior

Fit for her turn, well read in poetry

And other books, good ones, I warrant ye.

Hortensio

’Tis well; and I have met a gentleman

Hath promised me to help me to another,

A fine musician to instruct our mistress;

So shall I no whit be behind in duty

To fair Bianca, so beloved of me.

Gremio

Beloved of me; and that my deeds shall prove.

Grumio

And that his bags shall prove.

Hortensio

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.

Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met,

Upon agreement from us to his liking,

Will undertake to woo curst Katharina,

Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please.

Gremio

So said, so done, is well.

Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?

Petruchio

I know she is an irksome brawling scold:

If that be all, masters, I hear no harm.

Gremio

No, say’st me so, friend? What countryman?

Petruchio

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.

Gremio

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?

Petruchio

Will I live?

Grumio

Will he woo her? ay, or I’ll hang her.

Petruchio

Why came I hither but to that intent?

Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?

Have I not in my time heard lions roar?

Have I not heard the sea puff’d up with winds

Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?

Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,

And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies?

Have I not in a pitched battle heard

Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets’ clang?

And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue,

That gives not half so great a blow to hear

As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire?

Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs.

Grumio

For he fears none.

Gremio

Hortensio, hark:

This gentleman is happily arrived,

My mind presumes, for his own good and ours.

Hortensio

I promised we would be contributors

And bear his charging of wooing, whatsoe’er.

Gremio

And so we will, provided that he win her.

Grumio

I would I were as sure of a good dinner.

Enter Tranio brave, and Biondello

Tranio

Gentlemen, God save you. If I may be bold,

Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way

To the house of Signior Baptista Minola?

Biondello

He that has the two fair daughters: is’t he you mean?

Tranio

Even he, Biondello.

Gremio

Hark you, sir; you mean not her to —

Tranio

Perhaps, him and her, sir: what have you to do?

Petruchio

Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray.

Tranio

I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let’s away.

Lucentio

Well begun, Tranio.

Hortensio

Sir, a word ere you go;

Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no?

Tranio

And if I be, sir, is it any offence?

Gremio

No; if without more words you will get you hence.

Tranio

Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free

For me as for you?

Gremio

But so is not she.

Tranio

For what reason, I beseech you?

Gremio

For this reason, if you’ll know,

That she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio.

Hortensio

That she’s the chosen of Signior Hortensio.

Tranio

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;

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:

And so she shall; Lucentio shall make one,

Though Paris came in hope to speed alone.

Gremio

What! this gentleman will out-talk us all.

Lucentio

Sir, give him head: I know he’ll prove a jade.

Petruchio

Hortensio, to what end are all these words?

Hortensio

Sir, let me be so bold as ask you,

Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter?

Tranio

No, sir; but hear I do that he hath two,

The one as famous for a scolding tongue

As is the other for beauteous modesty.

Petruchio

Sir, sir, the first’s for me; let her go by.

Gremio

Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules;

And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve.

Petruchio

Sir, understand you this of me in sooth:

The younges t daughter whom you hearken for

Her father keeps from all access of suitors,

And will not promise her to any man

Until the elder sister first be wed:

The younger then is free and not before.

Tranio

If it be so, sir, that you are the man

Must stead us all and me amongst 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.

Hortensio

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,

To whom we all rest generally beholding.

Tranio

Sir, I shall not be slack: in sign whereof,

Please ye we may contrive this afternoon,

And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health,

And do as adversaries do in law,

Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

Grumio

Biondello

O excellent motion! Fellows, let’s be gone.

Hortensio

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

Bianca

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,

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.

Katharina

Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, tell

Whom thou lovest best: see thou dissemble not.

Bianca

Believe me, sister, of all the men alive

I never yet beheld that special face

Which I could fancy more than any other.

Katharina

Minion, thou liest. Is’t not Hortensio?

Bianca

If you affect him, sister, here I swear I’ll plead for you myself, but you shall have him.

Katharina

O then, belike, you fancy riches more:

You will have Gremio to keep you fair.

Bianca

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:

I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.

Katharina

If that be jest, then all the rest was so.

Strikes her

Enter Baptista

Baptista

Why, how now, dame! whence grows this insolence?

Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps.

Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her.

For shame, thou helding of a devilish spirit,

Why dost thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong thee?

When did she cross thee with a bitter word?

Katharina

Her silence flouts me, and I’ll be revenged.

Flies after Bianca

Baptista

What, in my sight? Bianca, get thee in.

Exit Bianca

Katharina

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

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

Baptista

Was ever gentleman thus grieved as I?

But who comes here?

Enter Gremio, Lucentio in the habit of a mean man; Petruchio, with Hortensio as a musician; and Tranio, with Biondello bearing a lute and books

Gremio

Good morrow, neighbour Baptista.

Baptista

Good morrow, neighbour Gremio.

God save you, gentlemen!

Petruchio

And you, good sir! Pray, have you not a daughter

Call’d Katharina, fair and virtuous?

Baptista

I have a daughter, sir, called Katharina.

Gremio

You are too blunt: go to it orderly.

Petruchio

You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me leave.

I am a gentleman of Verona, sir,

That, hearing of her beauty and her wit,

Her affability and bashful modesty,

Her wondrous qualities and mild behavior,

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.

And, for an entrance to my entertainment,

I do present you with a man of mine,

Presenting Hortensio

Cunning in music and the mathematics,

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.

Baptista

You’re welcome, sir; and he, for your good sake.

But for my daughter Katharina, this I know,

She is not for your turn, the more my grief.

Petruchio

I see you do not mean to part with her,

Or else you like not of my company.

Baptista

Mistake me not; I speak but as I find.

Whence are you, sir? what may I call your name?

Petruchio

Petruchio is my name; Antonio’s son,

A man well known throughout all Italy.

Baptista

I know him well: you are welcome for his sake.

Gremio

Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray,

Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too:

Baccare! you are marvellous forward.

Petruchio

O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain be doing.

Gremio

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 hath 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.

Baptista

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?

Tranio

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.

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,

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,

And this small packet of Greek and Latin books:

If you accept them, then their worth is great.

Baptista

Lucentio is your name; of whence, I pray?

Tranio

Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio.

Baptista

A mighty man of Pisa; by report

I know him well: you are very welcome, sir,

Take you the lute, and you the set of books;

You shall go see your pupils presently.

Holla, within!

Enter a Servant

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen

To my daughters; and tell them both,

These are their tutors: bid them use them well.

Exit Servant, with Lucentio and Hortensio, Biondello following

We will go walk a little in the orchard,

And then to dinner. You are passing welcome,

And so I pray you all to think yourselves.

Petruchio

Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,

And every day I cannot come to woo.

You knew my father well, and in him me,

Left solely heir to all his lands and goods,

Which I have better’d rather than decreased:

Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love,

What dowry shall I have with her to wife?

Baptista

After my death the one half of my lands,

And in possession twenty thousand crowns.

Petruchio

And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her of

Her widowhood, be it that she survive me,

In all my lands and leases whatsoever:

Let specialties be therefore drawn between us,

That covenants may be kept on either hand.

Baptista

Ay, when the special thing is well obtain’d,

That is, her love; for that is all in all.

Petruchio

Why, that is nothing: for I tell you, father,

I am as peremptory as she proud-minded;

And where two raging fires meet together

They do consume the thing that feeds their fury:

Though little fire grows great with little wind,

Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all:

So I to her and so she yields to me;

For I am rough and woo not like a babe.

Baptista

Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed!

But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words.

Petruchio

Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for winds,

That shake not, though they blow perpetually.

Re-enter Hortensio, with his head broke

Baptista

How now, my friend! why dost thou look so pale?

Hortensio

For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

Baptista

What, will my daughter prove a good musician?

Hortensio

I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier

Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

Baptista

Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?

Hortensio

Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me.

I did but tell her she mistook her frets,

And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering;

When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,

‘Frets, call you these?’ quoth she; ‘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,

As on a pillory, looking through the lute;

While she did call me rascal fiddler

And twangling Jack; with twenty such vile terms,

As had she studied to misuse me so.

Petruchio

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!

Baptista

Well, go with me and be not so discomfited:

Proceed in practise 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?

Petruchio

I pray you do.

Exeunt all but Petruchio

I will attend her here,

And woo her with some spirit when she comes.

Say that she rail; why then I’ll tell her plain

She sings as sweetly as a nightingale:

Say that she frown, I’ll say 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,

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

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.

Katharina

Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:

They call me Katharina that do talk of me.

Petruchio

You lie, in faith; for you are call’d plain Kate,

And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst;

But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom

Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate,

For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate,

Take this of me, Kate of my consolation;

Hearing thy mildness praised in every town,

Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,

Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,

Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife.

Katharina

Moved! in good time: let him that moved you hither

Remove you hence: I knew you at the first

You were a moveable.

Petruchio

Why, what’s a moveable?

Katharina

A join’d-stool.

Petruchio

Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me.

Katharina

Asses are made to bear, and so are you.

Petruchio

Women are made to bear, and so are you.

Katharina

No such jade as you, if me you mean.

Petruchio

Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee;

For, knowing thee to be but young and light —

Katharina

Too light for such a swain as you to catch;

And yet as heavy as my weight should be.

Petruchio

Should be! should — buzz!

Katharina

Well ta’en, and like a buzzard.

Petruchio

O slow-wing’d turtle! shall a buzzard take thee?

Katharina

Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.

Petruchio

Come, come, you wasp; i’ faith, you are too angry.

Katharina

If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

Petruchio

My remedy is then, to pluck it out.

Katharina

Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies,

Petruchio

Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail.

Katharina

In his tongue.

Petruchio

Whose tongue?

Katharina

Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell.

Petruchio

What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again,

Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

Katharina

That I’ll try.

She strikes him

Petruchio

I swear I’ll cuff you, if you strike again.

Katharina

So may you lose your arms:

If you strike me, you are no gentleman;

And if no gentleman, why then no arms.

Petruchio

A herald, Kate? O, put me in thy books!

Katharina

What is your crest? a coxcomb?

Petruchio

A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.

Katharina

No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven.

Petruchio

Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.

Katharina

It is my fashion, when I see a crab.

Petruchio

Why, here’s no crab; and therefore look not sour.

Katharina

There is, there is.

Petruchio

Then show it me.

Katharina

Had I a glass, I would.

Petruchio

What, you mean my face?

Katharina

Well aim’d of such a young one.

Petruchio

Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.

Katharina

Yet you are wither’d.

Petruchio

’Tis with cares.

Katharina

I care not.

Petruchio

Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth you scape not so.

Katharina

I chafe you, if I tarry: let me go.

Petruchio

No, not a whit: I find you passing gentle.

’Twas told me you were rough and coy and sullen,

And now I find report a very liar;

For thou are pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,

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,

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

As hazel nuts and sweeter than the kernels.

O, let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt.

Katharina

Go, fool, and whom thou keep’st command.

Petruchio

Did ever Dian so become a grove

As Kate this chamber with her princely gait?

O, be thou Dian, and let her be Kate;

And then let Kate be chaste and Dian sportful!

Katharina

Where did you study all this goodly speech?

Petruchio

It is extempore, from my mother-wit.

Katharina

A witty mother! witless else her son.

Petruchio

Am I not wise?

Katharina

Yes; keep you warm.

Petruchio

Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharina, 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;

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;

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.

Here comes your father: never make denial;

I must and will have Katharina to my wife.

Re-enter Baptista, Gremio, and Tranio

Baptista

Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?

Petruchio

How but well, sir? how but well?

It were impossible I should speed amiss.

Baptista

Why, how now, daughter Katharina! in your dumps?

Katharina

Call you me daughter? now, I promise you

You have show’d a tender fatherly regard,

To wish me wed to one half lunatic;

A mad-cup ruffian and a swearing Jack,

That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

Petruchio

Father, ’tis thus: yourself and all the world,

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;

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.

Katharina

I’ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first.

Gremio

Hark, Petruchio; she says she’ll see thee hang’d first.

Tranio

Is this your speeding? nay, then, good night our part!

Petruchio

Be patient, gentlemen; I choose her for myself:

If she and I be pleased, 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

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.

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,

To buy apparel ’gainst the wedding-day.

Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;

I will be sure my Katharina shall be fine.

Baptista

I know not what to say: but give me your hands;

God send you joy, Petruchio! ’tis a match.

Gremio

Tranio

Amen, say we: we will be witnesses.

Petruchio

Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu;

I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace:

We will have rings and things and fine array;

And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o’sunday.

Exeunt Petruchio and Katharina severally

Gremio

Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly?

Baptista

Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s part,

And venture madly on a desperate mart.

Tranio

’Twas a commodity lay fretting by you:

’Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.

Baptista

The gain I seek is, quiet in the match.

Gremio

No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch.

But now, Baptists, to your younger daughter:

Now is the day we long have looked for:

I am your neighbour, and was suitor first.

Tranio

And I am one that love Bianca more

Than words can witness, or your thoughts can guess.

Gremio

Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I.

Tranio

Graybeard, thy love doth freeze.

Gremio

But thine doth fry.

Skipper, stand back: ’tis age that nourisheth.

Tranio

But youth in ladies’ eyes that flourisheth.

Baptista

Content you, gentlemen: I will compound this strife:

’Tis deeds must win the prize; and he of both

That can assure my daughter greatest dower

Shall have my Bianca’s love.

Say, Signior Gremio, What can you assure her?

Gremio

First, as you know, my house within the city

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;

In cypress chests my arras counterpoints,

Costly apparel, tents, and canopies,

Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl,

Valance of Venice gold in needlework,

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,

Sixscore fat oxen standing in my stalls,

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.

Tranio

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,

Within rich Pisa walls, as any one

Old Signior Gremio has in Padua;

Besides two thousand ducats by the year

Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure.

What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio?

Gremio

Two thousand ducats by the year of land!

My land amounts not to so much in all:

That she shall have; besides an argosy

That now is lying in Marseilles’ road.

What, have I choked you with an argosy?

Tranio

Gremio, ’tis known my father hath no less

Than three great argosies; besides two galliases,

And twelve tight galleys: these I will assure her,

And twice as much, whate’er thou offer’st next.

Gremio

Nay, I have offer’d all, I have no more;

And she can have no more than all I have:

If you like me, she shall have me and mine.

Tranio

Why, then the maid is mine from all the world,

By your firm promise: Gremio is out-vied.

Baptista

I must confess your offer is the best;

And, let your father make her the assurance,

She is your own; else, you must pardon me,

If you should die before him, where’s her dower?

Tranio

That’s but a cavil: he is old, I young.

Gremio

And may not young men die, as well as old?

Baptista

Well, gentlemen,

I am thus resolved: on Sunday next you know

My daughter Katharina is to be married:

Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca

Be bride to you, if you this assurance;

If not, Signior Gremio:

And so, I take my leave, and thank you both.

Gremio

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!

An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy.

Exit

Tranio

A vengeance on your crafty wither’d hide!

Yet I have faced it with a card of ten.

’Tis in my head to do my master good:

I see no reason but supposed Lucentio

Must get a father, call’d ‘supposed Vincentio;’

And that’s a wonder: fathers commonly

Do get their children; but in this case of wooing,

A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning.

Exit

ACT III

SCENE I. PADUA. BAPTISTA’S HOUSE.

Enter Lucentio, Hortensio, and Bianca

Lucentio

Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir:

Have you so soon forgot the entertainment

Her sister Katharina welcomed you withal?

Hortensio

But, wrangling pedant, this is

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.

Lucentio

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?

Then give me leave to read philosophy,

And while I pause, serve in your harmony.

Hortensio

Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.

Bianca

Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong,

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.

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 tuned.

Hortensio

You’ll leave his lecture when I am in tune?

Lucentio

That will be never: tune your instrument.

Bianca

Where left we last?

Lucentio

Here, madam:

‘Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus;

Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.’

Bianca

Construe them.

Lucentio

‘Hic ibat,’ as I told you before, ‘simois,’ I am Lucentio, ‘hic est,’ son unto Vincentio of Pisa, ‘sigeia tellus,’ disguised thus to get your love; ‘Hic steterat,’ and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing, ‘Priami,’ is my man Tranio, ‘regia,’ bearing my port, ‘celsa senis,’ that we might beguile the old pantaloon.

Hortensio

Madam, my instrument’s in tune.

Bianca

Let’s hear. O fie! the treble jars.

Lucentio

Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.

Bianca

Now let me see if I can construe it: ‘Hic ibat Simois,’ I know you not, ‘hic est Sigeia tellus,’ I trust you not; ‘Hic steterat Priami,’ take heed he hear us not, ‘regia,’ presume not, ‘celsa senis,’ despair not.

Hortensio

Madam, ’tis now in tune.

Lucentio

All but the base.

Hortensio

The base is right; ’tis the base knave that jars.

Aside

How fiery and forward our pedant is!

Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love:

Pedascule, I’ll watch you better yet.

Bianca

In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.

Lucentio

Mistrust it not: for, sure, Aeacides

Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather.

Bianca

I must believe my master; else, I promise you,

I should be arguing still upon that doubt:

But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you:

Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray,

That I have been thus pleasant with you both.

Hortensio

You may go walk, and give me leave a while:

My lessons make no music in three parts.

Lucentio

Are you so formal, sir? well, I must wait,

Aside

And watch withal; for, but I be deceived,

Our fine musician groweth amorous.

Hortensio

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,

More pleasant, pithy and effectual,

Than hath been taught by any of my trade:

And there it is in writing, fairly drawn.

Bianca

Why, I am past my gamut long ago.

Hortensio

Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.

Bianca

[Reads] ‘Gamut’ I am, the ground of all accord,

‘A re,’ to Plead Hortensio’s passion;

‘B mi,’ Bianca, take him for thy lord,

‘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:

Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice,

To change true rules for old inventions.

Enter a Servant

Servant

Mistress, your father prays you leave your books

And help to dress your sister’s chamber up:

You know to-morrow is the wedding-day.

Bianca

Farewell, sweet masters both; I must be gone.

Exeunt Bianca and Servant

Lucentio

Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.

Exit

Hortensio

But I have cause to pry into this pedant:

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,

Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing.

Exit

SCENE II. PADUA. BEFORE BAPTISTA’S HOUSE.

Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katharina, Bianca, Lucentio, and others, attendants

Baptista

[To Tranio] Signior Lucentio, this is the

’pointed day.

That Katharina and Petruchio should be married,

And yet we hear not of our son-in-law.

What will be said? what mockery will it be,

To want the bridegroom when the priest attends

To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage!

What says Lucentio to this shame of ours?

Katharina

No shame but mine: I must, forsooth, be forced

To give my hand opposed 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,

Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behavior:

And, to be noted for a merry man,

He’ll woo a thousand, ’point the day of marriage,

Make feasts, invite friends, and proclaim the banns;

Yet never means to wed where he hath woo’d.

Now must the world point at poor Katharina,

And say, ‘Lo, there is mad Petruchio’s wife,

If it would please him come and marry her!’

Tranio

Patience, good Katharina, 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.

Katharina

Would Katharina had never seen him though!

Exit weeping, followed by Bianca and others

Baptista

Go, girl; I cannot blame thee now to weep;

For such an injury would vex a very saint,

Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour.

Enter Biondello

Biondello

Master, master! news, old news, and such news as you never heard of!

Baptista

Is it new and old too? how may that be?

Biondello

Why, is it not news, to hear of Petruchio’s coming?

Baptista

Is he come?

Biondello

Why, no, sir.

Baptista

What then?

Biondello

He is coming.

Baptista

When will he be here?

Biondello

When he stands where I am and sees you there.

Tranio

But say, what to thine old news?

Biondello

Why, Petruchio is coming in a new hat and an old jerkin, a pair of old breeches thrice turned, a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced, an old rusty sword ta’en out of the town-armory, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken points: his horse hipped with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessed with the glanders and like to mose in the chine; troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of wingdalls, sped with spavins, rayed with yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back and shoulder-shotten; near-legged before and with, a half-chequed bit and a head-stall of sheeps leather which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst and now repaired with knots; one girth six time pieced and a woman’s crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread.

Baptista

Who comes with him?

Biondello

O, sir, his lackey, for all the world caparisoned like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list; an old hat and ‘the humour of forty fancies’ pricked in’t for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian footboy or a gentleman’s lackey.

Tranio

’Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion;

Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell’d.

Baptista

I am glad he’s come, howsoe’er he comes.

Biondello

Why, sir, he comes not.

Baptista

Didst thou not say he comes?

Biondello

Who? that Petruchio came?

Baptista

Ay, that Petruchio came.

Biondello

No, sir, I say his horse comes, with him on his back.

Baptista

Why, that’s all one.

Biondello

Nay, by Saint Jamy,

I hold you a penny,

A horse and a man

Is more than one,

And yet not many.

Enter Petruchio and Grumio

Petruchio

Come, where be these gallants? who’s at home?

Baptista

You are welcome, sir.

Petruchio

And yet I come not well.

Baptista

And yet you halt not.

Tranio

Not so well apparell’d

As I wish you were.

Petruchio

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:

And wherefore gaze this goodly company,

As if they saw some wondrous monument,

Some comet or unusual prodigy?

Baptista

Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day:

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!

Tranio

And tells us, what occasion of import

Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife,

And sent you hither so unlike yourself?

Petruchio

Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear:

Sufficeth I am come to keep my word,

Though in some part enforced to digress;

Which, at more leisure, I will so excuse

As you shall well be satisfied withal.

But where is Kate? I stay too long from her:

The morning wears, ’tis time we were at church.

Tranio

See not your bride in these unreverent robes:

Go to my chamber; Put on clothes of mine.

Petruchio

Not I, believe me: thus I’ll visit her.

Baptista

But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.

Petruchio

Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done with words:

To me she’s married, not unto my clothes:

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,

When I should bid good morrow to my bride,

And seal the title with a lovely kiss!

Exeunt Petruchio and Grumio

Tranio

He hath some meaning in his mad attire:

We will persuade him, be it possible,

To put on better ere he go to church.

Baptista

I’ll after him, and see the event of this.

Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, and attendants

Tranio

But to her love concerneth us to add

Her father’s liking: which to bring to pass,

As I before unparted 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;

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.

Lucentio

Were it not that my fellow-school-master

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.

Tranio

That by degrees we mean to look into,

And watch our vantage in this business:

We’ll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio,

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?

Gremio

As willingly as e’er I came from school.

Tranio

And is the bride and bridegroom coming home?

Gremio

A bridegroom say you? ’tis a groom indeed,

A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find.

Tranio

Curster than she? why, ’tis impossible.

Gremio

Why he’s a devil, a devil, a very fiend.

Tranio

Why, she’s a devil, a devil, the devil’s dam.

Gremio

Tut, she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool to him!

I’ll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest

Should ask, if Katharina should be his wife,

‘Ay, by gogs-wouns,’ quoth he; and swore so loud,

That, all-amazed, the priest let fall the book;

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.’

Tranio

What said the wench when he rose again?

Gremio

Trembled and shook; for why, he stamp’d and swore,

As if the vicar meant to cozen him.

But after many ceremonies done,

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;

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

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.

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

Petruchio

Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains:

I know you think to dine with me to-day,

And have prepared great store of wedding cheer;

But so it is, my haste doth call me hence,

And therefore here I mean to take my leave.

Baptista

Is’t possible you will away to-night?

Petruchio

I must away to-day, before night come:

Make it no wonder; if you knew my business,

You would entreat me rather go than stay.

And, honest company, I thank you all,

That have beheld me give away myself

To this most patient, sweet and virtuous wife:

Dine with my father, drink a health to me;

For I must hence; and farewell to you all.

Tranio

Let us entreat you stay till after dinner.

Petruchio

It may not be.

Gremio

Let me entreat you.

Petruchio

It cannot be.

Katharina

Let me entreat you.

Petruchio

I am content.

Katharina

Are you content to stay?

Petruchio

I am content you shall entreat me stay;

But yet not stay, entreat me how you can.

Katharina

Now, if you love me, stay.

Petruchio

Grumio, my horse.

Grumio

Ay, sir, they be ready: the oats have eaten the horses.

Katharina

Nay, then,

Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day;

No, nor to-morrow, not till I please myself.

The door is open, sir; there lies your way;

You may be jogging whiles your boots are green;

For me, I’ll not be gone till I please myself:

’Tis like you’ll prove a jolly surly groom,

That take it on you at the first so roundly.

Petruchio

O Kate, content thee; prithee, be not angry.

Katharina

I will be angry: what hast thou to do?

Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure.

Gremio

Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work.

Katharina

Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner:

I see a woman may be made a fool,

If she had not a spirit to resist.

Petruchio

They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command.

Obey the bride, you that attend on her;

Go to the feast, revel and domineer,

Carouse full measure to her maidenhead,

Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves:

But for my bonny Kate, she must with me.

Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret;

I will be master of what is mine own:

She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,

My household stuff, my field, my barn,

My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing;

And here she stands, touch her whoever dare;

I’ll bring mine action on the proudest he

That stops my way in Padua. Grumio,

Draw forth thy weapon, we are beset with thieves;

Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man.

Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch thee, Kate:

I’ll buckler thee against a million.

Exeunt Petruchio, Katharina, and Grumio

Baptista

Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones.

Gremio

Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing.

Tranio

Of all mad matches never was the like.

Lucentio

Mistress, what’s your opinion of your sister?

Bianca

That, being mad herself, she’s madly mated.

Gremio

I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated.

Baptista

Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wants

For to supply the places at the table,

You know there wants no junkets at the feast.

Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom’s place:

And let Bianca take her sister’s room.

Tranio

Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it?

Baptista

She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let’s go.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. PETRUCHIO’S COUNTRY HOUSE.

Enter Grumio

Grumio

Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and all foul ways! Was ever man so beaten? was ever man so rayed? was ever man so weary? I am sent before to make a fire, and they are coming after to warm them. Now, were not I a little pot and soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me: but I, with blowing the fire, shall warm myself; for, considering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold. Holla, ho! Curtis.

Enter Curtis

Curtis

Who is that calls so coldly?

Grumio

A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou mayst slide from my shoulder to my heel with no greater a run but my head and my neck. A fire good Curtis.

Curtis

Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio?

Grumio

O, ay, Curtis, ay: and therefore fire, fire; cast on no water.

Curtis

Is she so hot a shrew as she’s reported?

Grumio

She was, good Curtis, before this frost: but, thou knowest, winter tames man, woman and beast; for it hath tamed my old master and my new mistress and myself, fellow Curtis.

Curtis

Away, you three-inch fool! I am no beast.

Grumio

Am I but three inches? why, thy horn is a foot; and so long am I at the least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complain on thee to our mistress, whose hand, she being now at hand, thou shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot office?

Curtis

I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world?

Grumio

A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; and therefore fire: do thy duty, and have thy duty; for my master and mistress are almost frozen to death.

Curtis

There’s fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news.

Grumio

Why, ‘Jack, boy! ho! boy!’ and as much news as will thaw.

Curtis

Come, you are so full of cony-catching!

Grumio

Why, therefore fire; for I have caught extreme cold. Where’s the cook? is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept; the serving-men in their new fustian, their white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on? Be the jacks fair within, the jills fair without, the carpets laid, and every thing in order?

Curtis

All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news.

Grumio

First, know, my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out.

Curtis

How?

Grumio

Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale.

Curtis

Let’s ha’t, good Grumio.

Grumio

Lend thine ear.

Curtis

Here.

Grumio

There.

Strikes him

Curtis

This is to feel a tale, not to hear a tale.

Grumio

And therefore ’tis called a sensible tale: and this cuff was but to knock at your ear, and beseech listening. Now I begin: Imprimis, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress,—

Curtis

Both of one horse?

Grumio

What’s that to thee?

Curtis

Why, a horse.

Grumio

Tell thou the tale: but hadst thou not crossed me, thou shouldst have heard how her horse fell and she under her horse; thou shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how she was bemoiled, how he left her with the horse upon her, how he beat me because her horse stumbled, how she waded through the dirt to pluck him off me, how he swore, how she prayed, that never prayed before, how I cried, how the horses ran away, how her bridle was burst, how I lost my crupper, with many things of worthy memory, which now shall die in oblivion and thou return unexperienced to thy grave.

Curtis

By this reckoning he is more shrew than she.

Grumio

Ay; and that thou and the proudest of you all shall find when he comes home. But what talk I of this? Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop and the rest: let their heads be sleekly combed their blue coats brushed and their garters of an indifferent knit: let them curtsy with their left legs and not presume to touch a hair of my master’s horse-tail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready?

Curtis

They are.

Grumio

Call them forth.

Curtis

Do you hear, ho? you must meet my master to countenance my mistress.

Grumio

Why, she hath a face of her own.

Curtis

Who knows not that?

Grumio

Thou, it seems, that calls for company to countenance her.

Curtis

I call them forth to credit her.

Grumio

Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them.

Enter four or five Serving-men

Nathaniel

Welcome home, Grumio!

Philip

How now, Grumio!

Joseph

What, Grumio!

Nicholas

Fellow Grumio!

Nathaniel

How now, old lad?

Grumio

Welcome, you;— how now, you;— what, you;— fellow, you;— and thus much for greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is all ready, and all things neat?

Nathaniel

All things is ready. How near is our master?

Grumio

E’en at hand, alighted by this; and therefore be not — Cock’s passion, silence! I hear my master.

Enter Petruchio and Katharina

Petruchio

Where be these knaves? What, no man at door

To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse!

Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip?

All Serving-Men Here, here, sir; here, sir.

Petruchio

Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir!

You logger-headed and unpolish’d grooms!

What, no attendance? no regard? no duty?

Where is the foolish knave I sent before?

Grumio

Here, sir; as foolish as I was before.

Petruchio

You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse drudge!

Did I not bid thee meet me in the park,

And bring along these rascal knaves with thee?

Grumio

Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully made,

And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ the heel;

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;

Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.

Petruchio

Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in.

Exeunt Servants

Singing

Where is the life that late I led —

Where are those — Sit down, Kate, and welcome.—

Sound, sound, sound, sound!

Re-enter Servants with supper

Why, when, I say? Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry.

Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains, when?

Sings

It was the friar of orders grey,

As he forth walked on his way:—

Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry:

Take that, and mend the plucking off the other.

Strikes him

Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho!

Where’s my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence,

And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither:

One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be acquainted with.

Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water?

Enter one with water

Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily.

You whoreson villain! will you let it fall?

Strikes him

Katharina

Patience, I pray you; ’twas a fault unwilling.

Petruchio

A whoreson beetle-headed, flap-ear’d knave!

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 Servant

Ay.

Petruchio

Who brought it?

Peter

I.

Petruchio

’Tis burnt; and so is all the meat.

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?

Theretake it to you, trenchers, cups, and all;

Throws the meat, & c. about the stage

You heedless joltheads and unmanner’d slaves!

What, do you grumble? I’ll be with you straight.

Katharina

I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet:

The meat was well, if you were so contented.

Petruchio

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,

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:

Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber.

Exeunt

Re-enter Servants severally

Nathaniel

Peter, didst ever see the like?

Peter

He kills her in her own humour.

Re-enter Curtis

Grumio

Where is he?

Curtis

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.

Away, away! for he is coming hither.

Exeunt

Re-enter Petruchio

Petruchio

Thus have I politicly begun my reign,

And ’tis my hope to end successfully.

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty;

And till she stoop she must not be full-gorged,

For then she never looks upon her lure.

Another way I have to man my haggard,

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;

Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not;

As with the meat, some undeserved fault

I’ll find about the making of the bed;

And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster,

This way the coverlet, another way the sheets:

Ay, and amid this hurly I intend

That all is done in reverend care of her;

And in conclusion she shall watch all night:

And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl

And with the clamour keep her still awake.

This is a way to kill a wife with kindness;

And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humour.

He that knows better how to tame a shrew,

Now let him speak: ’tis charity to show.

Exit

SCENE II. PADUA. BEFORE BAPTISTA’S HOUSE.

Enter Tranio and Hortensio

Tranio

Is’t possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Bianca

Doth fancy any other but Lucentio?

I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand.

Hortensio

Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said,

Stand by and mark the manner of his teaching.

Enter Bianca and Lucentio

Lucentio

Now, mistress, profit you in what you read?

Bianca

What, master, read you? first resolve me that.

Lucentio

I read that I profess, the Art to Love.

Bianca

And may you prove, sir, master of your art!

Lucentio

While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart!

Hortensio

Quick proceeders, marry! Now, tell me, I pray,

You that durst swear at your mistress Bianca

Loved none in the world so well as Lucentio.

Tranio

O despiteful love! unconstant womankind!

I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful.

Hortensio

Mistake no more: I am not Licio,

Nor a musician, as I seem to be;

But one that scorn to live in this disguise,

For such a one as leaves a gentleman,

And makes a god of such a cullion:

Know, sir, that I am call’d Hortensio.

Tranio

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,

Forswear Bianca and her love for ever.

Hortensio

See, how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio,

Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow

Never to woo her no more, but do forswear her,

As one unworthy all the former favours

That I have fondly flatter’d her withal.

Tranio

And here I take the unfeigned oath,

Never to marry with her though she would entreat:

Fie on her! see, how beastly she doth court him!

Hortensio

Would all the world but he had quite forsworn!

For me, that I may surely keep mine oath,

I will be married to a wealthy widow,

Ere three days pass, which hath as long loved me

As I have loved this proud disdainful haggard.

And so farewell, Signior Lucentio.

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,

Shall win my love: and so I take my leave,

In resolution as I swore before.

Exit

Tranio

Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace

As ’longeth to a lover’s blessed case!

Nay, I have ta’en you napping, gentle love,

And have forsworn you with Hortensio.

Bianca

Tranio, you jest: but have you both forsworn me?

Tranio

Mistress, we have.

Lucentio

Then we are rid of Licio.

Tranio

I’ faith, he’ll have a lusty widow now,

That shall be wood and wedded in a day.

Bianca

God give him joy!

Tranio

Ay, and he’ll tame her.

Bianca

He says so, Tranio.

Tranio

Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school.

Bianca

The taming-school! what, is there such a place?

Tranio

Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the master;

That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long,

To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue.

Enter Biondello

Biondello

O master, master, I have watch’d so long

That I am dog-weary: but at last I spied

An ancient angel coming down the hill,

Will serve the turn.

Tranio

What is he, Biondello?

Biondello

Master, a mercatante, or a pedant,

I know not what; but format in apparel,

In gait and countenance surely like a father.

Lucentio

And what of him, Tranio?

Tranio

If he be credulous and trust my tale,

I’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio,

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

Pedant

God save you, sir!

Tranio

And you, sir! you are welcome.

Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest?

Pedant

Sir, at the farthest for a week or two:

But then up farther, and as for as Rome;

And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life.

Tranio

What countryman, I pray?

Pedant

Of Mantua.

Tranio

Of Mantua, sir? marry, God forbid!

And come to Padua, careless of your life?

Pedant

My life, sir! how, I pray? for that goes hard.

Tranio

’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:

’Tis, marvel, but that you are but newly come,

You might have heard it else proclaim’d about.

Pedant

Alas! sir, it is worse for me than so;

For I have bills for money by exchange

From Florence and must here deliver them.

Tranio

Well, sir, to do you courtesy,

This will I do, and this I will advise you:

First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa?

Pedant

Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been,

Pisa renowned for grave citizens.

Tranio

Among them know you one Vincentio?

Pedant

I know him not, but I have heard of him;

A merchant of incomparable wealth.

Tranio

He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say,

In countenance somewhat doth resemble you.

Biondello

[Aside] As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one.

Tranio

To save your life in this extremity,

This favour will I do you for his sake;

And think it not the worst of an your fortunes

That you are like to Sir Vincentio.

His name and credit shall you undertake,

And in my house you shall be friendly lodged:

Look that you take upon you as you should;

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.

Pedant

O sir, I do; and will repute you ever

The patron of my life and liberty.

Tranio

Then go with me to make the matter good.

This, by the way, I let you understand;

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:

Go with me to clothe you as becomes you.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A ROOM IN PETRUCHIO’S HOUSE.

Enter Katharina and Grumio

Grumio

No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my life.

Katharina

The more my wrong, the more his spite appears:

What, did he marry me to famish me?

Beggars, that come unto my father’s door,

Upon entreaty have a present aims;

If not, elsewhere they meet with charity:

But I, who never knew how to entreat,

Nor never needed that I should entreat,

Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep,

With oath kept waking and with brawling fed:

And that which spites me more than all these wants,

He does it under name of perfect love;

As who 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.

Grumio

What say you to a neat’s foot?

Katharina

’Tis passing good: I prithee let me have it.

Grumio

I fear it is too choleric a meat.

How say you to a fat tripe finely broil’d?

Katharina

I like it well: good Grumio, fetch it me.

Grumio

I cannot tell; I fear ’tis choleric.

What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?

Katharina

A dish that I do love to feed upon.

Grumio

Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

Katharina

Why then, the beef, and let the mustard rest.

Grumio

Nay then, I will not: you shall have the mustard,

Or else you get no beef of Grumio.

Katharina

Then both, or one, or any thing thou wilt.

Grumio

Why then, the mustard without the beef.

Katharina

Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,

Beats him

That feed’st me with the very name of meat:

Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you,

That triumph thus upon my misery!

Go, get thee gone, I say.

Enter Petruchio and Hortensio with meat

Petruchio

How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort?

Hortensio

Mistress, what cheer?

Katharina

Faith, as cold as can be.

Petruchio

Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me.

Here love; thou see’st how diligent I am

To dress thy meat myself and bring it thee:

I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.

What, not a word? Nay, then thou lovest it not;

And all my pains is sorted to no proof.

Here, take away this dish.

Katharina

I pray you, let it stand.

Petruchio

The poorest service is repaid with thanks;

And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.

Katharina

I thank you, sir.

Hortensio

Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame.

Come, mistress Kate, I’ll bear you company.

Petruchio

[Aside] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest me.

Much good do it unto thy gentle heart!

Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love,

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 fardingales and things;

With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery,

With amber bracelets, beads and all this knavery.

What, hast thou dined? The tailor stays thy leisure,

To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure.

Enter Tailor

Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments;

Lay forth the gown.

Enter Haberdasher

What news with you, sir?

Haberdasher

Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.

Petruchio

Why, this was moulded on a porringer;

A velvet dish: fie, fie! ’tis lewd and filthy:

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.

Katharina

I’ll have no bigger: this doth fit the time,

And gentlewomen wear such caps as these

Petruchio

When you are gentle, you shall have one too,

And not till then.

Hortensio

[Aside] That will not be in haste.

Katharina

Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak;

And speak I will; I am no child, no babe:

Your betters have endured me say my mind,

And if you cannot, best you stop your ears.

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.

Petruchio

Why, thou say’st true; it is a paltry cap,

A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie:

I love thee well, in that thou likest it not.

Katharina

Love me or love me not, I like the cap;

And it I will have, or I will have none.

Exit Haberdasher

Petruchio

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, carved 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?

Hortensio

[Aside] I see she’s like to have neither cap nor gown.

Tailor

You bid me make it orderly and well,

According to the fashion and the time.

Petruchio

Marry, and did; but if you be remember’d,

I did not bid you mar it to the time.

Go, hop me over every kennel home,

For you shall hop without my custom, sir:

I’ll none of it: hence! make your best of it.

Katharina

I never saw a better-fashion’d gown,

More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable:

Belike you mean to make a puppet of me.

Petruchio

Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee.

Tailor

She says your worship means to make a puppet of her.

Petruchio

O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread, thou thimble,

Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail!

Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou!

Braved in mine own house with a skein of thread?

Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant;

Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard

As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou livest!

I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr’d her gown.

Tailor

Your worship is deceived; the gown is made

Just as my master had direction:

Grumio gave order how it should be done.

Grumio

I gave him no order; I gave him the stuff.

Tailor

But how did you desire it should be made?

Grumio

Marry, sir, with needle and thread.

Tailor

But did you not request to have it cut?

Grumio

Thou hast faced many things.

Tailor

I have.

Grumio

Face not me: thou hast braved many men; brave not me; I will neither be faced nor braved. I say unto thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown; but I did not bid him cut it to pieces: ergo, thou liest.

Tailor

Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify

Petruchio

Read it.

Grumio

The note lies in’s throat, if he say I said so.

Tailor

[Reads] ‘Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown:’

Grumio

Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in the skirts of it, and beat me to death with a bottom of brown thread: I said a gown.

Petruchio

Proceed.

Tailor

[Reads] ‘With a small compassed cape:’

Grumio

I confess the cape.

Tailor

[Reads] ‘With a trunk sleeve:’

Grumio

I confess two sleeves.

Tailor

[Reads] ‘The sleeves curiously cut.’

Petruchio

Ay, there’s the villany.

Grumio

Error i’ the bill, sir; error i’ the bill. I commanded the sleeves should be cut out and sewed up again; and that I’ll prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble.

Tailor

This is true that I say: an I had thee in place where, thou shouldst know it.

Grumio

I am for thee straight: take thou the bill, give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me.

Hortensio

God-a-mercy, Grumio! then he shall have no odds.

Petruchio

Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me.

Grumio

You are i’ the right, sir: ’tis for my mistress.

Petruchio

Go, take it up unto thy master’s use.

Grumio

Villain, not for thy life: take up my mistress’ gown for thy master’s use!

Petruchio

Why, sir, what’s your conceit in that?

Grumio

O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for:

Take up my mistress’ gown to his master’s use!

O, fie, fie, fie!

Petruchio

[Aside] Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid.

Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more.

Hortensio

Tailor, I’ll pay thee for thy gown tomorrow:

Take no unkindness of his hasty words:

Away! I say; commend me to thy master.

Exit Tailor

Petruchio

Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father’s

Even in these honest mean habiliments:

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor;

For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich;

And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,

So honour peereth in the meanest habit.

What is the jay more precious than the lark,

Because his fathers are more beautiful?

Or is the adder better than the eel,

Because his painted skin contents the eye?

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.

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.

Katharina

I dare assure you, sir, ’tis almost two;

And ’twill be supper-time ere you come there.

Petruchio

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,

It shall be what o’clock I say it is.

Hortensio

[Aside] Why, so this gallant will command the sun.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. PADUA. BEFORE BAPTISTA’S HOUSE.

Enter Tranio, and the Pedant dressed like Vincentio

Tranio

Sir, this is the house: please it you that I call?

Pedant

Ay, what else? and but I be deceived

Signior Baptista may remember me,

Near twenty years ago, in Genoa,

Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus.

Tranio

’Tis well; and hold your own, in any case,

With such austerity as ’longeth to a father.

Pedant

I warrant you.

Enter Biondello

But, sir, here comes your boy;

’Twere good he were school’d.

Tranio

Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello,

Now do your duty throughly, I advise you:

Imagine ’twere the right Vincentio.

Biondello

Tut, fear not me.

Tranio

But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?

Biondello

I told him that your father was at Venice,

And that you look’d for him this day in Padua.

Tranio

Thou’rt a tall fellow: hold thee that to drink.

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:

I pray you stand good father to me now,

Give me Bianca for my patrimony.

Pedant

Soft son!

Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua

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

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

Me shall you find ready and willing

With one consent to have her so bestow’d;

For curious I cannot be with you,

Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well.

Baptista

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

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

And pass my daughter a sufficient dower,

The match is made, and all is done:

Your son shall have my daughter with consent.

Tranio

I thank you, sir. Where then do you know best

We be affied and such assurance ta’en

As shall with either part’s agreement stand?

Baptista

Not in my house, Lucentio; for, you know,

Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants:

Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still;

And happily we might be interrupted.

Tranio

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.

Send for your daughter by your servant here:

My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently.

The worst is this, that, at so slender warning,

You are like to have a thin and slender pittance.

Baptista

It likes me well. Biondello, hie you home,

And bid Bianca make her ready straight;

And, if you will, tell what hath happened,

Lucentio’s father is arrived in Padua,

And how she’s like to be Lucentio’s wife.

Biondello

I pray the gods she may with all my heart!

Tranio

Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone.

Exit Biondello

Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way?

Welcome! one mess is like to be your cheer:

Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa.

Baptista

I follow you.

Exeunt Tranio, Pedant, and Baptista

Re-enter Biondello

Biondello

Cambio!

Lucentio

What sayest thou, Biondello?

Biondello

You saw my master wink and laugh upon you?

Lucentio

Biondello, what of that?

Biondello

Faith, nothing; but has left me here behind, to expound the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens.

Lucentio

I pray thee, moralize them.

Biondello

Then thus. Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a deceitful son.

Lucentio

And what of him?

Biondello

His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper.

Lucentio

And then?

Biondello

The old priest of Saint Luke’s church is at your command at all hours.

Lucentio

And what of all this?

Biondello

I cannot tell; expect they are busied about a counterfeit assurance: take you assurance of her, ‘cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum:’ to the church; take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest witnesses: If this be not that you look for, I have no more to say, But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day.

Lucentio

Hearest thou, Biondello?

Biondello

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

Lucentio

I may, and will, if she be so contented:

She will be pleased; then wherefore should I doubt?

Hap what hap may, I’ll roundly go about her:

It shall go hard if Cambio go without her.

Exit

SCENE V. A PUBLIC ROAD.

Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Hortensio, and Servants

Petruchio

Come on, i’ God’s name; once more toward our father’s.

Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!

Katharina

The moon! the sun: it is not moonlight now.

Petruchio

I say it is the moon that shines so bright.

Katharina

I know it is the sun that shines so bright.

Petruchio

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.

Go on, and fetch our horses back again.

Evermore cross’d and cross’d; nothing but cross’d!

Hortensio

Say as he says, or we shall never go.

Katharina

Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,

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.

Petruchio

I say it is the moon.

Katharina

I know it is the moon.

Petruchio

Nay, then you lie: it is the blessed sun.

Katharina

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.

What you will have it named, even that it is;

And so it shall be so for Katharina.

Hortensio

Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won.

Petruchio

Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run,

And not unluckily against the bias.

But, soft! company is coming here.

Enter Vincentio

To Vincentio

Good morrow, gentle mistress: where away?

Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,

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?

Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee.

Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake.

Hortensio

A’ will make the man mad, to make a woman of him.

Katharina

Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,

Whither away, or where is thy abode?

Happy the parents of so fair a child;

Happier the man, whom favourable stars

Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow!

Petruchio

Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not mad:

This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d,

And not a maiden, as thou say’st he is.

Katharina

Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes,

That have been so bedazzled with the sun

That everything I look on seemeth green:

Now I perceive thou art a reverend father;

Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking.

Petruchio

Do, good old grandsire; and withal make known

Which way thou travellest: if along with us,

We shall be joyful of thy company.

Vincentio

Fair sir, and you my merry mistress,

That with your strange encounter much amazed me,

My name is call’d Vincentio; my dwelling Pisa;

And bound I am to Padua; there to visit

A son of mine, which long I have not seen.

Petruchio

What is his name?

Vincentio

Lucentio, gentle sir.

Petruchio

Happily we met; the happier for thy son.

And now by law, as well as reverend age,

I may entitle thee my loving father:

The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman,

Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not,

Nor be grieved: she is of good esteem,

Her dowery wealthy, and of worthy birth;

Beside, so qualified as may beseem

The spouse of any noble gentleman.

Let me embrace with old Vincentio,

And wander we to see thy honest son,

Who will of thy arrival be full joyous.

Vincentio

But is it true? or else is it your pleasure,

Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest

Upon the company you overtake?

Hortensio

I do assure thee, father, so it is.

Petruchio

Come, go along, and see the truth hereof;

For our first merriment hath made thee jealous.

Exeunt all but Hortensio

Hortensio

Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart.

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.

Gremio discovered. Enter behind Biondello, Lucentio, and Bianca

Biondello

Softly and swiftly, sir; for the priest is ready.

Lucentio

I fly, Biondello: but they may chance to need thee at home; therefore leave us.

Biondello

Nay, faith, I’ll see the church o’ your back; and then come back to my master’s as soon as I can.

Exeunt Lucentio, Bianca, and Biondello

Gremio

I marvel Cambio comes not all this while.

Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Vincentio, Grumio, with Attendants

Petruchio

Sir, here’s the door, this is Lucentio’s house:

My father’s bears more toward the market-place;

Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir.

Vincentio

You shall not choose but drink before you go:

I think I shall command your welcome here,

And, by all likelihood, some cheer is toward.

Knocks

Gremio

They’re busy within; you were best knock louder.

Pedant looks out of the window

Pedant

What’s he that knocks as he would beat down the gate?

Vincentio

Is Signior Lucentio within, sir?

Pedant

He’s within, sir, but not to be spoken withal.

Vincentio

What if a man bring him a hundred pound or two, to make merry withal?

Pedant

Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall need none, so long as I live.

Petruchio

Nay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua. Do you hear, sir? To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you, tell Signior Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa, and is here at the door to speak with him.

Pedant

Thou liest: his father is come from Padua and here looking out at the window.

Vincentio

Art thou his father?

Pedant

Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe her.

Petruchio

[To Vincentio] Why, how now, gentleman! why, this is flat knavery, to take upon you another man’s name.

Pedant

Lay hands on the villain: I believe a’ means to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance.

Re-enter Biondello

Biondello

I have seen them in the church together: God send ’em good shipping! But who is here? mine old master Vincentio! now we are undone and brought to nothing.

Vincentio

[Seeing Biondello]

Come hither, crack-hemp.

Biondello

Hope I may choose, sir.

Vincentio

Come hither, you rogue. What, have you forgot me?

Biondello

Forgot you! no, sir: I could not forget you, for I never saw you before in all my life.

Vincentio

What, you notorious villain, didst thou never see thy master’s father, Vincentio?

Biondello

What, my old worshipful old master? yes, marry, sir: see where he looks out of the window.

Vincentio

Is’t so, indeed.

Beats Biondello

Biondello

Help, help, help! here’s a madman will murder me.

Exit

Pedant

Help, son! help, Signior Baptista!

Exit from above

Petruchio

Prithee, Kate, let’s stand aside and see the end of this controversy.

They retire

Re-enter Pedant below; Tranio, Baptista, and Servants

Tranio

Sir, what are you that offer to beat my servant?

Vincentio

What am I, sir! nay, what are you, sir? O immortal gods! O fine villain! A silken doublet! a velvet hose! a scarlet cloak! and a copatain hat! O, I am undone! I am undone! while I play the good husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at the university.

Tranio

How now! what’s the matter?

Baptista

What, is the man lunatic?

Tranio

Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, but your words show you a madman. Why, sir, what ’cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able to maintain it.

Vincentio

Thy father! O villain! he is a sailmaker in Bergamo.

Baptista

You mistake, sir, you mistake, sir. Pray, what do you think is his name?

Vincentio

His name! as if I knew not his name: I have brought him up ever since he was three years old, and his name is Tranio.

Pedant

Away, away, mad ass! his name is Lucentio and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio.

Vincentio

Lucentio! O, he hath murdered his master! Lay hold on him, I charge you, in the duke’s name. O, my son, my son! Tell me, thou villain, where is my son Lucentio?

Tranio

Call forth an officer.

Enter one with an Officer

Carry this mad knave to the gaol. Father Baptista,

I charge you see that he be forthcoming.

Vincentio

Carry me to the gaol!

Gremio

Stay, officer: he shall not go to prison.

Baptista

Talk not, Signior Gremio: I say he shall go to prison.

Gremio

Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched in this business: I dare swear this is the right Vincentio.

Pedant

Swear, if thou darest.

Gremio

Nay, I dare not swear it.

Tranio

Then thou wert best say that I am not Lucentio.

Gremio

Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio.

Baptista

Away with the dotard! to the gaol with him!

Vincentio

Thus strangers may be hailed and abused: O monstrous villain!

Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio and Bianca

Biondello

O! we are spoiled and — yonder he is: deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone.

Lucentio

[Kneeling] Pardon, sweet father.

Vincentio

Lives my sweet son?

Exeunt Biondello, Tranio, and Pedant, as fast as may be

Bianca

Pardon, dear father.

Baptista

How hast thou offended?

Where is Lucentio?

Lucentio

Here’s Lucentio,

Right son to the right Vincentio;

That have by marriage made thy daughter mine,

While counterfeit supposes bleared thine eyne.

Gremio

Here’s packing, with a witness to deceive us all!

Vincentio

Where is that damned villain Tranio,

That faced and braved me in this matter so?

Baptista

Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio?

Bianca

Cambio is changed into Lucentio.

Lucentio

Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s love

Made me exchange my state with Tranio,

While he did bear my countenance in the town;

And happily I have arrived at the last

Unto the wished haven of my bliss.

What Tranio did, myself enforced him to;

Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.

Vincentio

I’ll slit the villain’s nose, that would have sent me to the gaol.

Baptista

But do you hear, sir? have you married my daughter without asking my good will?

Vincentio

Fear not, Baptista; we will content you, go to: but

I will in, to be revenged for this villany.

Exit

Baptista

And I, to sound the depth of this knavery.

Exit

Lucentio

Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not frown.

Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca

Gremio

My cake is dough; but I’ll in among the rest,

Out of hope of all, but my share of the feast.

Exit

Katharina

Husband, let’s follow, to see the end of this ado.

Petruchio

First kiss me, Kate, and we will.

Katharina

What, in the midst of the street?

Petruchio

What, art thou ashamed of me?

Katharina

No, sir, God forbid; but ashamed to kiss.

Petruchio

Why, then let’s home again. Come, sirrah, let’s away.

Katharina

Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay.

Petruchio

Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate:

Better once than never, for never too late.

Exeunt

SCENE II. PADUA. LUCENTIO’S HOUSE.

Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Gremio, the Pedant, Lucentio, Bianca, Petruchio, Katharina, Hortensio, and Widow, Tranio, Biondello, and Grumio the Serving-men with Tranio bringing in a banquet

Lucentio

At last, though long, our jarring notes agree:

And time it is, when raging war is done,

To smile at scapes and perils overblown.

My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome,

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,

After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down;

For now we sit to chat as well as eat.

Petruchio

Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat!

Baptista

Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio.

Petruchio

Padua affords nothing but what is kind.

Hortensio

For both our sakes, I would that word were true.

Petruchio

Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow.

Widow

Then never trust me, if I be afeard.

Petruchio

You are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense:

I mean, Hortensio is afeard of you.

Widow

He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.

Petruchio

Roundly replied.

Katharina

Mistress, how mean you that?

Widow

Thus I conceive by him.

Petruchio

Conceives by me! How likes Hortensio that?

Hortensio

My widow says, thus she conceives her tale.

Petruchio

Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow.

Katharina

‘He that is giddy thinks the world turns round:’

I pray you, tell me what you meant by that.

Widow

Your husband, being troubled with a shrew,

Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe:

And now you know my meaning,

Katharina

A very mean meaning.

Widow

Right, I mean you.

Katharina

And I am mean indeed, respecting you.

Petruchio

To her, Kate!

Hortensio

To her, widow!

Petruchio

A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down.

Hortensio

That’s my office.

Petruchio

Spoke like an officer; ha’ to thee, lad!

Drinks to Hortensio

Baptista

How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks?

Gremio

Believe me, sir, they butt together well.

Bianca

Head, and butt! an hasty-witted body

Would say your head and butt were head and horn.

Vincentio

Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken’d you?

Bianca

Ay, but not frighted me; therefore I’ll sleep again.

Petruchio

Nay, that you shall not: since you have begun,

Have at you for a bitter jest or two!

Bianca

Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush;

And then pursue me as you draw your bow.

You are welcome all.

Exeunt Bianca, Katharina, and Widow

Petruchio

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.

Tranio

O, sir, Lucentio slipp’d me like his greyhound,

Which runs himself and catches for his master.

Petruchio

A good swift simile, but something currish.

Tranio

’Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself:

’Tis thought your deer does hold you at a bay.

Baptista

O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now.

Lucentio

I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio.

Hortensio

Confess, confess, hath he not hit you here?

Petruchio

A’ has a little gall’d me, I confess;

And, as the jest did glance away from me,

’Tis ten to one it maim’d you two outright.

Baptista

Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,

I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all.

Petruchio

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,

Shall win the wager which we will propose.

Hortensio

Content. What is the wager?

Lucentio

Twenty crowns.

Petruchio

Twenty crowns!

I’ll venture so much of my hawk or hound,

But twenty times so much upon my wife.

Lucentio

A hundred then.

Hortensio

Content.

Petruchio

A match! ’tis done.

Hortensio

Who shall begin?

Lucentio

That will I.

Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me.

Biondello

I go.

Exit

Baptista

Son, I’ll be your half, Bianca comes.

Lucentio

I’ll have no halves; I’ll bear it all myself.

Re-enter Biondello

How now! what news?

Biondello

Sir, my mistress sends you word

That she is busy and she cannot come.

Petruchio

How! she is busy and she cannot come!

Is that an answer?

Gremio

Ay, and a kind one too:

Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse.

Petruchio

I hope better.

Hortensio

Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife

To come to me forthwith.

Exit Biondello

Petruchio

O, ho! entreat her!

Nay, then she must needs come.

Hortensio

I am afraid, sir,

Do what you can, yours will not be entreated.

Re-enter Biondello

Now, where’s my wife?

Biondello

She says you have some goodly jest in hand:

She will not come: she bids you come to her.

Petruchio

Worse and worse; she will not come! O vile,

Intolerable, not to be endured!

Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress;

Say, I command her to come to me.

Exit Grumio

Hortensio

I know her answer.

Petruchio

What?

Hortensio

She will not.

Petruchio

The fouler fortune mine, and there an end.

Baptista

Now, by my holidame, here comes Katharina!

Re-enter Katharina

Katharina

What is your will, sir, that you send for me?

Petruchio

Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife?

Katharina

They sit conferring by the parlor fire.

Petruchio

Go fetch them hither: if they deny to come.

Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands:

Away, I say, and bring them hither straight.

Exit Katharina

Lucentio

Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder.

Hortensio

And so it is: I wonder what it bodes.

Petruchio

Marry, peace it bodes, and love and quiet life,

And awful rule and right supremacy;

And, to be short, what not, that’s sweet and happy?

Baptista

Now, fair befal thee, good Petruchio!

The wager thou hast won; and I will add

Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns;

Another dowry to another daughter,

For she is changed, as she had never been.

Petruchio

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

As prisoners to her womanly persuasion.

Re-enter Katharina, with Bianca and Widow

Katharina, that cap of yours becomes you not:

Off with that bauble, throw it under-foot.

Widow

Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh,

Till I be brought to such a silly pass!

Bianca

Fie! what a foolish duty call you this?

Lucentio

I would your duty were as foolish too:

The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca,

Hath cost me an hundred crowns since supper-time.

Bianca

The more fool you, for laying on my duty.

Petruchio

Katharina, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women

What duty they do owe their lords and husbands.

Widow

Come, come, you’re mocking: we will have no telling.

Petruchio

Come on, I say; and first begin with her.

Widow

She shall not.

Petruchio

I say she shall: and first begin with her.

Katharina

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,

Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,

And in no sense is meet or amiable.

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,

Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;

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,

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;

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

Even such a woman oweth to her husband;

And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

And not obedient to his honest will,

What is she but a foul contending rebel

And graceless traitor to her loving lord?

I am ashamed that women are so simple

To offer war where they should kneel for peace;

Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway,

When they are bound to serve, love and obey.

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

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,

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.

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.

Petruchio

Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.

Lucentio

Well, go thy ways, old lad; for thou shalt ha’t.

Vincentio

’Tis a good hearing when children are toward.

Lucentio

But a harsh hearing when women are froward.

Petruchio

Come, Kate, we’ll to bed.

We three are married, but you two are sped.

To Lucentio

’Twas I won the wager, though you hit the white;

And, being a winner, God give you good night!

Exeunt Petruchio and Katharina

Hortensio

Now, go thy ways; thou hast tamed a curst shrew.

Lucentio

’Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tamed so.

Exeunt

Twelfth Night

or, What You Will

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. DUKE ORSINO’S PALACE.

SCENE II. THE SEA-COAST.

SCENE III. OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

SCENE IV. DUKE ORSINO’S PALACE.

SCENE V. OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

ACT II

SCENE I. THE SEA-COAST.

SCENE II. A STREET.

SCENE III. OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

SCENE IV. DUKE ORSINO’S PALACE.

SCENE V. OLIVIA’S GARDEN.

ACT III

SCENE I. OLIVIA’S GARDEN.

SCENE II. OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. A STREET.

SCENE IV. OLIVIA’S GARDEN.

ACT IV

SCENE I. BEFORE OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

SCENE II. OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. OLIVIA’S GARDEN.

ACT V

SCENE I. BEFORE OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Orsino, Duke of Illyria.

Sebastian, brother to Viola.

Antonio, a sea captain, friend to Sebastian.

A Sea Captain, friend to Viola.

Valentine and Curio, gentlemen attending on the Duke.

Sir Toby Belch, uncle to Olivia.

Sir Andrew Aguecheek.

Malvolio, steward to Olivia.

Fabian and Feste, a Clown, servants to Olivia.

Olivia.

Viola.

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. DUKE ORSINO’S PALACE.

Enter Duke Orsino, Curio, and other Lords; Musicians attending

Duke Orsino

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:

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.

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,

But falls into abatement and low price,

Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy

That it alone is high fantastical.

Curio

Will you go hunt, my lord?

Duke Orsino

What, Curio?

Curio

The hart.

Duke Orsino

Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:

O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,

Methought she purged the air of pestilence!

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?

Valentine

So please my lord, I might not be admitted;

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

And water once a day her chamber round

With eye-offending brine: all this to season

A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh

And lasting in her sad remembrance.

Duke Orsino

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

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:

Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SEA-COAST.

Enter Viola, a Captain, and Sailors

Viola

What country, friends, is this?

Captain

This is Illyria, lady.

Viola

And what should I do in Illyria?

My brother he is in Elysium.

Perchance he is not drown’d: what think you, sailors?

Captain

It is perchance that you yourself were saved.

Viola

O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.

Captain

True, madam: and, to comfort you with chance,

Assure yourself, after our ship did split,

When you and those poor number saved with you

Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,

Most provident in peril, bind himself,

Courage and hope both teaching him the practise,

To a strong mast that lived 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.

Viola

For saying so, there’s gold:

Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,

Whereto thy speech serves for authority,

The like of him. Know’st thou this country?

Captain

Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born

Not three hours’ travel from this very place.

Viola

Who governs here?

Captain

A noble duke, in nature as in name.

Viola

What is the name?

Captain

Orsino.

Viola

Orsino! I have heard my father name him:

He was a bachelor then.

Captain

And so is now, or was so very late;

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.

Viola

What’s she?

Captain

A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count

That died some twelvemonth since, then leaving her

In the protection of his son, her brother,

Who shortly also died: for whose dear love,

They say, she hath abjured the company

And sight of men.

Viola

O that I served that lady

And might not be delivered to the world,

Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,

What my estate is!

Captain

That were hard to compass;

Because she will admit no kind of suit,

No, not the duke’s.

Viola

There is a fair behavior 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

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

The form of my intent. I’ll serve this duke:

Thou shall present me as an eunuch to him:

It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing

And speak to him in many sorts of music

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.

Captain

Be you his eunuch, and your mute I’ll be:

When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

Viola

I thank thee: lead me on.

Exeunt

SCENE III. OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria

Sir Toby Belch

What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure care’s an enemy to life.

Maria

By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o’ nights: your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.

Sir Toby Belch

Why, let her except, before excepted.

Maria

Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

Sir Toby Belch

Confine! I’ll confine myself no finer than I am: these clothes are good enough to drink in; and so be these boots too: an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.

Maria

That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer.

Sir Toby Belch

Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek?

Maria

Ay, he.

Sir Toby Belch

He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria.

Maria

What’s that to the purpose?

Sir Toby Belch

Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

Maria

Ay, but he’ll have but a year in all these ducats: he’s a very fool and a prodigal.

Sir Toby Belch

Fie, that you’ll say so! he plays o’ the viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature.

Maria

He hath indeed, almost natural: for besides that he’s a fool, he’s a great quarreller: and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, ’tis thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

Sir Toby Belch

By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that say so of him. Who are they?

Maria

They that add, moreover, he’s drunk nightly in your company.

Sir Toby Belch

With drinking healths to my niece: I’ll drink to her as long as there is a passage in my throat and drink in Illyria: he’s a coward and a coystrill that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o’ the toe like a parish-top. What, wench! Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.

Enter Sir Andrew

Sir Andrew

Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch!

Sir Toby Belch

Sweet Sir Andrew!

Sir Andrew

Bless you, fair shrew.

Maria

And you too, sir.

Sir Toby Belch

Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

Sir Andrew

What’s that?

Sir Toby Belch

My niece’s chambermaid.

Sir Andrew

Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

Maria

My name is Mary, sir.

Sir Andrew

Good Mistress Mary Accost,—

Sir Toby Belch

You mistake, knight; ‘accost’ is front her, board her, woo her, assail her.

Sir Andrew

By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of ‘accost’?

Maria

Fare you well, gentlemen.

Sir Toby Belch

An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword again.

Sir Andrew

An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

Maria

Sir, I have not you by the hand.

Sir Andrew

Marry, but you shall have; and here’s my hand.

Maria

Now, sir, ‘thought is free:’ I pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar and let it drink.

Sir Andrew

Wherefore, sweet-heart? what’s your metaphor?

Maria

It’s dry, sir.

Sir Andrew

Why, I think so: I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what’s your jest?

Maria

A dry jest, sir.

Sir Andrew

Are you full of them?

Maria

Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.

Exit

Sir Toby Belch

O knight thou lackest a cup of canary: when did I see thee so put down?

Sir Andrew

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.

Sir Toby Belch

No question.

Sir Andrew

An I thought that, I’ld forswear it. I’ll ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby.

Sir Toby Belch

Pourquoi, my dear knight?

Sir Andrew

What is ‘Pourquoi’? do or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing and bear-baiting: O, had I but followed the arts!

Sir Toby Belch

Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

Sir Andrew

Why, would that have mended my hair?

Sir Toby Belch

Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.

Sir Andrew

But it becomes me well enough, does’t not?

Sir Toby Belch

Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs and spin it off.

Sir Andrew

Faith, I’ll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece will not be seen; or if she be, it’s four to one she’ll none of me: the count himself here hard by woos her.

Sir Toby Belch

She’ll none o’ the count: she’ll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear’t. Tut, there’s life in’t, man.

Sir Andrew

I’ll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o’ the strangest mind i’ the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.

Sir Toby Belch

Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight?

Sir Andrew

As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.

Sir Toby Belch

What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

Sir Andrew

Faith, I can cut a caper.

Sir Toby Belch

And I can cut the mutton to’t.

Sir Andrew

And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria.

Sir Toby Belch

Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before ’em? are they like to take dust, like Mistress Mall’s picture? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.

Sir Andrew

Ay, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels?

Sir Toby Belch

What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

Sir Andrew

Taurus! That’s sides and heart.

Sir Toby Belch

No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see the caper; ha! higher: ha, ha! excellent!

Exeunt

SCENE IV. DUKE ORSINO’S PALACE.

Enter Valentine and Viola in man’s attire

Valentine

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.

Viola

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?

Valentine

No, believe me.

Viola

I thank you. Here comes the count.

Enter Duke Orsino, Curio, and Attendants

Duke Orsino

Who saw Cesario, ho?

Viola

On your attendance, my lord; here.

Duke Orsino

Stand you a while aloof, Cesario,

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,

And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow

Till thou have audience.

Viola

Sure, my noble lord,

If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow

As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

Duke Orsino

Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds

Rather than make unprofited return.

Viola

Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?

Duke Orsino

O, then unfold the passion of my love,

Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:

It shall become thee well to act my woes;

She will attend it better in thy youth

Than in a nuncio’s of more grave aspect.

Viola

I think not so, my lord.

Duke Orsino

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,

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

When least in company. Prosper well in this,

And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,

To call his fortunes thine.

Viola

I’ll do my best

To woo your lady:

Aside

yet, a barful strife!

Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife.

Exeunt

SCENE V. OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Maria and Clown

Maria

Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence.

Clown

Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colours.

Maria

Make that good.

Clown

He shall see none to fear.

Maria

A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that saying was born, of ‘I fear no colours.’

Clown

Where, good Mistress Mary?

Maria

In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.

Clown

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.

Maria

Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or, to be turned away, is not that as good as a hanging to you?

Clown

Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it out.

Maria

You are resolute, then?

Clown

Not so, neither; but I am resolved on two points.

Maria

That if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your gaskins fall.

Clown

Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve’s flesh as any in Illyria.

Maria

Peace, you rogue, no more o’ that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best.

Exit

Clown

Wit, an’t be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus? ‘Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.’

Enter Olivia with Malvolio

God bless thee, lady!

Olivia

Take the fool away.

Clown

Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.

Olivia

Go to, you’re a dry fool; I’ll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest.

Clown

Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry: bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Any thing that’s mended is but patched: virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty’s a flower. The lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away.

Olivia

Sir, I bade them take away you.

Clown

Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus non facit monachum; that’s as much to say as I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

Olivia

Can you do it?

Clown

Dexterously, good madonna.

Olivia

Make your proof.

Clown

I must catechise you for it, madonna: good my mouse of virtue, answer me.

Olivia

Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I’ll bide your proof.

Clown

Good madonna, why mournest thou?

Olivia

Good fool, for my brother’s death.

Clown

I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

Olivia

I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

Clown

The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother’s soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.

Olivia

What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?

Malvolio

Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death shake him: infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.

Clown

God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for two pence that you are no fool.

Olivia

How say you to that, Malvolio?

Malvolio

I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal: I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he’s out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools’ zanies.

Olivia

Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets: there is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.

Clown

Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools!

Re-enter Maria

Maria

Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you.

Olivia

From the Count Orsino, is it?

Maria

I know not, madam: ’tis a fair young man, and well attended.

Olivia

Who of my people hold him in delay?

Maria

Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

Olivia

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.

Clown

Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool; whose skull Jove cram with brains! for,— here he comes,— one of thy kin has a most weak pia mater.

Enter Sir Toby Belch

Olivia

By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin?

Sir Toby Belch

A gentleman.

Olivia

A gentleman! what gentleman?

Sir Toby Belch

’Tis a gentle man here — a plague o’ these pickle-herring! How now, sot!

Clown

Good Sir Toby!

Olivia

Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

Sir Toby Belch

Lechery! I defy lechery. There’s one at the gate.

Olivia

Ay, marry, what is he?

Sir Toby Belch

Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it’s all one.

Exit

Olivia

What’s a drunken man like, fool?

Clown

Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.

Olivia

Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o’ my coz; for he’s in the third degree of drink, he’s drowned: go, look after him.

Clown

He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman.

Exit

Re-enter Malvolio

Malvolio

Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he’s fortified against any denial.

Olivia

Tell him he shall not speak with me.

Malvolio

Has been told so; and he says, he’ll stand at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he’ll speak with you.

Olivia

What kind o’ man is he?

Malvolio

Why, of mankind.

Olivia

What manner of man?

Malvolio

Of very ill manner; he’ll speak with you, will you or no.

Olivia

Of what personage and years is he?

Malvolio

Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before ’tis a peascod, or a cooling when ’tis almost an apple: ’tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think his mother’s milk were scarce out of him.

Olivia

Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman.

Malvolio

Gentlewoman, my lady calls.

Exit

Re-enter Maria

Olivia

Give me my veil: come, throw it o’er my face.

We’ll once more hear Orsino’s embassy.

Enter Viola, and Attendants

Viola

The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

Olivia

Speak to me; I shall answer for her.

Your will?

Viola

Most radiant, exquisite and unmatchable beauty,— I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech, for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage.

Olivia

Whence came you, sir?

Viola

I can say little more than I have studied, and that question’s out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.

Olivia

Are you a comedian?

Viola

No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?

Olivia

If I do not usurp myself, I am.

Viola

Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.

Olivia

Come to what is important in’t: I forgive you the praise.

Viola

Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’tis poetical.

Olivia

It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: ’tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

Maria

Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.

Viola

No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind: I am a messenger.

Olivia

Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

Viola

It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my hand; my words are as fun of peace as matter.

Olivia

Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?

Viola

The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maidenhead; to your ears, divinity, to any other’s, profanation.

Olivia

Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.

Exeunt Maria and Attendants

Now, sir, what is your text?

Viola

Most sweet lady,—

Olivia

A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it.

Where lies your text?

Viola

In Orsino’s bosom.

Olivia

In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?

Viola

To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

Olivia

O, I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

Viola

Good madam, let me see your face.

Olivia

Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this present: is’t not well done?

Unveiling

Viola

Excellently done, if God did all.

Olivia

’Tis in grain, sir; ’twill endure wind and weather.

Viola

’Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white

Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on:

Lady, you are the cruell’st she alive,

If you will lead these graces to the grave

And leave the world no copy.

Olivia

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?

Viola

I see you what you are, you are too proud;

But, if you were the devil, you are fair.

My lord and master loves you: O, such love

Could be but recompensed, though you were crown’d

The nonpareil of beauty!

Olivia

How does he love me?

Viola

With adorations, fertile tears,

With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

Olivia

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;

In voices well divulged, 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.

Viola

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.

Olivia

Why, what would you?

Viola

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;

Halloo your name to the reverberate hills

And make the babbling gossip of the air

Cry out ‘Olivia!’ O, You should not rest

Between the elements of air and earth,

But you should pity me!

Olivia

You might do much.

What is your parentage?

Viola

Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman.

Olivia

Get you to your lord;

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.

Viola

I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse:

My master, not myself, lacks recompense.

Love make his heart of flint that you shall love;

And let your fervor, like my master’s, be

Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.

Exit

Olivia

‘What is your parentage?’

‘Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman.’ I’ll be sworn thou art;

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?

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

Malvolio

Here, madam, at your service.

Olivia

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,

Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:

If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,

I’ll give him reasons for’t: hie thee, Malvolio.

Malvolio

Madam, I will.

Exit

Olivia

I do I know not what, and fear to find

Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.

Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;

What is decreed must be, and be this so.

Exit

ACT II

SCENE I. THE SEA-COAST.

Enter Antonio and Sebastian

Antonio

Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you?

Sebastian

By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me: the malignancy of my fate might perhaps distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone: it were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. Antonio: Let me yet know of you whither you are bound.

Sebastian

No, sooth, sir: my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Roderigo. My father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard of. He left behind him myself and a sister, both born in an hour: if the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that; for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned.

Antonio

Alas the day!

Sebastian

A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not with such estimable wonder overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her; she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.

Antonio

Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

Sebastian

O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

Antonio

If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.

Sebastian

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

Antonio

The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!

I have many enemies in Orsino’s court,

Else would I very shortly see thee there.

But, come what may, I do adore thee so,

That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

Exit

SCENE II. A STREET.

Enter Viola, Malvolio following

Malvolio

Were not you even now with the Countess Olivia?

Viola

Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.

Malvolio

She returns this ring to you, sir: you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him: and one thing more, that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord’s taking of this. Receive it so.

Viola

She took the ring of me: I’ll none of it.

Malvolio

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

Viola

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,

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.

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,

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!

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.

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;

It is too hard a knot for me to untie!

Exit

SCENE III. OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew

Sir Toby Belch

Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be abed after midnight is to be up betimes; and ‘diluculo surgere,’ thou know’st,—

Sir Andrew

Nay, my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late is to be up late.

Sir Toby Belch

A false conclusion: I hate it as an unfilled can. To be up after midnight and to go to bed then, is early: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the four elements?

Sir Andrew

Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking.

Sir Toby Belch

Thou’rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.

Marian, I say! a stoup of wine!

Enter Clown

Sir Andrew

Here comes the fool, i’ faith.

Clown

How now, my hearts! did you never see the picture of ‘we three’?

Sir Toby Belch

Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch.

Sir Andrew

By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus: ’twas very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman: hadst it?

Clown

I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio’s nose is no whipstock: my lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.

Sir Andrew

Excellent! why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.

Sir Toby Belch

Come on; there is sixpence for you: let’s have a song.

Sir Andrew

There’s a testril of me too: if one knight give a —

Clown

Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

Sir Toby Belch

A love-song, a love-song.

Sir Andrew

Ay, ay: I care not for good life.

Clown

[Sings]

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?

O, stay and hear; your true love’s coming,

That can sing both high and low:

Trip no further, pretty sweeting;

Journeys end in lovers meeting,

Every wise man’s son doth know.

Sir Andrew

Excellent good, i’ faith.

Sir Toby Belch

Good, good.

Clown

[Sings]

What is love? ’tis not hereafter;

Present mirth hath present laughter;

What’s to come is still unsure:

In delay there lies no plenty;

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,

Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

Sir Andrew

A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

Sir Toby Belch

A contagious breath.

Sir Andrew

Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith.

Sir Toby Belch

To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that?

Sir Andrew

An you love me, let’s do’t: I am dog at a catch.

Clown

By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

Sir Andrew

Most certain. Let our catch be, ‘Thou knave.’

Clown

‘Hold thy peace, thou knave,’ knight? I shall be constrained in’t to call thee knave, knight.

Sir Andrew

’Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins ‘Hold thy peace.’

Clown

I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

Sir Andrew

Good, i’ faith. Come, begin.

Catch sung

Enter Maria

Maria

What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.

Sir Toby Belch

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!

Sings

‘There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!’

Clown

Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling.

Sir Andrew

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 Toby Belch

[Sings] ‘O, the twelfth day of December,’—

Maria

For the love o’ God, peace!

Enter Malvolio

Malvolio

My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have ye no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady’s house, that ye squeak out your coziers’ catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?

Sir Toby Belch

We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

Malvolio

Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she’s nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

Sir Toby Belch

‘Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.’

Maria

Nay, good Sir Toby.

Clown

‘His eyes do show his days are almost done.’

Malvolio

Is’t even so?

Sir Toby Belch

‘But I will never die.’

Clown

Sir Toby, there you lie.

Malvolio

This is much credit to you.

Sir Toby Belch

‘shall I bid him go?’

Clown

‘What an if you do?’

Sir Toby Belch

‘shall I bid him go, and spare not?’

Clown

‘O no, no, no, no, you dare not.’

Sir Toby Belch

Out o’ tune, sir: ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

Clown

Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth too.

Sir Toby Belch

Thou’rt i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria!

Malvolio

Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand.

Exit

Maria

Go shake your ears.

Sir Andrew

’Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man’s a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him and make a fool of him.

Sir Toby Belch

Do’t, knight: I’ll write thee a challenge: or I’ll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

Maria

Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight: since the youth of the count’s was today with thy lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed: I know I can do it.

Sir Toby Belch

Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.

Maria

Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.

Sir Andrew

O, if I thought that I’ld beat him like a dog!

Sir Toby Belch

What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

Sir Andrew

I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I have reason good enough.

Maria

The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass, that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.

Sir Toby Belch

What wilt thou do?

Maria

I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece: on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.

Sir Toby Belch

Excellent! I smell a device.

Sir Andrew

I have’t in my nose too.

Sir Toby Belch

He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she’s in love with him.

Maria

My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.

Sir Andrew

And your horse now would make him an ass.

Maria

Ass, I doubt not.

Sir Andrew

O, ’twill be admirable!

Maria

Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter: observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.

Exit

Sir Toby Belch

Good night, Penthesilea.

Sir Andrew

Before me, she’s a good wench.

Sir Toby Belch

She’s a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me: what o’ that?

Sir Andrew

I was adored once too.

Sir Toby Belch

Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.

Sir Andrew

If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.

Sir Toby Belch

Send for money, knight: if thou hast her not i’ the end, call me cut.

Sir Andrew

If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.

Sir Toby Belch

Come, come, I’ll go burn some sack; ’tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. DUKE ORSINO’S PALACE.

Enter Duke Orsino, Viola, Curio, and others

Duke Orsino

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,

More than light airs and recollected terms

Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:

Come, but one verse.

Curio

He is not here, so please your lordship that should sing it.

Duke Orsino

Who was it?

Curio

Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady

Olivia’s father took much delight in. He is about the house.

Duke Orsino

Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

Exit Curio. Music plays

Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love,

In the sweet pangs of it remember me;

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 beloved. How dost thou like this tune?

Viola

It gives a very echo to the seat

Where Love is throned.

Duke Orsino

Thou dost speak masterly:

My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye

Hath stay’d upon some favour that it loves:

Hath it not, boy?

Viola

A little, by your favour.

Duke Orsino

What kind of woman is’t?

Viola

Of your complexion.

Duke Orsino

She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith?

Viola

About your years, my lord.

Duke Orsino

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,

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,

Than women’s are.

Viola

I think it well, my lord.

Duke Orsino

Then let thy love be younger than thyself,

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;

For women are as roses, whose fair flower

Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour.

Viola

And so they are: alas, that they are so;

To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Re-enter Curio and Clown

Duke Orsino

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

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.

Clown

Are you ready, sir?

Duke Orsino

Ay; prithee, sing.

Music

Song.

Clown

Come away, come away, death,

And in sad cypress let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

O, prepare it!

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;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

To weep there!

Duke Orsino

There’s for thy pains.

Clown

No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir.

Duke Orsino

I’ll pay thy pleasure then.

Clown

Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.

Duke Orsino

Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clown

Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be every thing and their intent every where; for that’s it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.

Exit

Duke Orsino

Let all the rest give place.

Curio and Attendants retire

Once more, Cesario,

Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:

Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,

Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;

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.

Viola

But if she cannot love you, sir?

Duke Orsino

I cannot be so answer’d.

Viola

Sooth, but you must.

Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,

Hath for your love a great a pang of heart

As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;

You tell her so; must she not then be answer’d?

Duke Orsino

There is no woman’s sides

Can bide the beating of so strong a passion

As love doth give my heart; no woman’s heart

So big, to hold so much; they lack retention

Alas, their love may be call’d appetite,

No motion of the liver, but the palate,

That suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt;

But mine is all as hungry as the sea,

And can digest as much: make no compare

Between that love a woman can bear me

And that I owe Olivia.

Viola

Ay, but I know —

Duke Orsino

What dost thou know?

Viola

Too well what love women to men may owe:

In faith, they are as true of heart as we.

My father had a daughter loved a man,

As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,

I should your lordship.

Duke Orsino

And what’s her history?

Viola

A blank, my lord. She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,

And with a green and yellow melancholy

She sat like patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?

We men may say more, swear more: but indeed

Our shows are more than will; for still we prove

Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Duke Orsino

But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

Viola

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 Orsino

Ay, that’s the theme.

To her in haste; give her this jewel; say,

My love can give no place, bide no denay.

Exeunt

SCENE V. OLIVIA’S GARDEN.

Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew, and Fabian

Sir Toby Belch

Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

Fabian

Nay, I’ll come: if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

Sir Toby Belch

Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

Fabian

I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here.

Sir Toby Belch

To anger him we’ll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue: shall we not, Sir Andrew?

Sir Andrew

An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

Sir Toby Belch

Here comes the little villain.

Enter Maria

How now, my metal of India!

Maria

Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio’s coming down this walk: he has been yonder i’ the sun practising behavior to his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there,

Throws down a letter

for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

Exit

Enter Malvolio

Malvolio

’Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that follows her. What should I think on’t?

Sir Toby Belch

Here’s an overweening rogue!

Fabian

O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him: how he jets under his advanced plumes!

Sir Andrew

’Slight, I could so beat the rogue!

Sir Toby Belch

Peace, I say.

Malvolio

To be Count Malvolio!

Sir Toby Belch

Ah, rogue!

Sir Andrew

Pistol him, pistol him.

Sir Toby Belch

Peace, peace!

Malvolio

There is example for’t; the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

Sir Andrew

Fie on him, Jezebel!

Fabian

O, peace! now he’s deeply in: look how imagination blows him.

Malvolio

Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,—

Sir Toby Belch

O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!

Malvolio

Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping,—

Sir Toby Belch

Fire and brimstone!

Fabian

O, peace, peace!

Malvolio

And then to have the humour of state; and after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know my place as I would they should do theirs, to for my kinsman Toby,—

Sir Toby Belch

Bolts and shackles!

Fabian

O peace, peace, peace! now, now.

Malvolio

Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him: I frown the while; and perchance wind up watch, or play with my — some rich jewel. Toby approaches; courtesies there to me,—

Sir Toby Belch

Shall this fellow live?

Fabian

Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.

Malvolio

I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control,—

Sir Toby Belch

And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the lips then?

Malvolio

Saying, ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece give me this prerogative of speech,’—

Sir Toby Belch

What, what?

Malvolio

‘You must amend your drunkenness.’

Sir Toby Belch

Out, scab!

Fabian

Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

Malvolio

‘Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight,’—

Sir Andrew

That’s me, I warrant you.

Malvolio

‘One Sir Andrew,’—

Sir Andrew

I knew ’twas I; for many do call me fool.

Malvolio

What employment have we here?

Taking up the letter

Fabian

Now is the woodcock near the gin.

Sir Toby Belch

O, peace! and the spirit of humour intimate reading aloud to him!

Malvolio

By my life, this is my lady’s hand these be her very C’s, her U’s and her T’s and thus makes she her great P’s. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.

Sir Andrew

Her C’s, her U’s and her T’s: why that?

Malvolio

[Reads] ‘To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes:’— her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: ’tis my lady. To whom should this be?

Fabian

This wins him, liver and all.

Malvolio

[Reads] Jove knows I love: 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 Toby Belch

Marry, hang thee, brock!

Malvolio

[Reads]

I may command where I adore;

But silence, like a Lucrece knife,

With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore:

M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.

Fabian

A fustian riddle!

Sir Toby Belch

Excellent wench, say I.

Malvolio

‘M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.’ Nay, but first, let me see, let me see, let me see.

Fabian

What dish o’ poison has she dressed him!

Sir Toby Belch

And with what wing the staniel cheques at it!

Malvolio

‘I may command where I adore.’ Why, she may command me: I serve her; she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity; there is no obstruction in this: and the end,— what should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something in me,— Softly! M, O, A, I,—

Sir Toby Belch

O, ay, make up that: he is now at a cold scent.

Fabian

Sowter will cry upon’t for all this, though it be as rank as a fox.

Malvolio

M,— Malvolio; M,— why, that begins my name.

Fabian

Did not I say he would work it out? the cur is excellent at faults.

Malvolio

M,— but then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation A should follow but O does.

Fabian

And O shall end, I hope.

Sir Toby Belch

Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him cry O!

Malvolio

And then I comes behind.

Fabian

Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.

Malvolio

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.

Reads

‘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 ’em. 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,

The Fortunate-Unhappy.’

Daylight and champaign 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.

Reads

‘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

Fabian

I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

Sir Toby Belch

I could marry this wench for this device.

Sir Andrew

So could I too.

Sir Toby Belch

And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.

Sir Andrew

Nor I neither.

Fabian

Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

Re-enter Maria

Sir Toby Belch

Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck?

Sir Andrew

Or o’ mine either?

Sir Toby Belch

Shall I play my freedom at traytrip, and become thy bond-slave?

Sir Andrew

I’ faith, or I either?

Sir Toby Belch

Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him he must run mad.

Maria

Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?

Sir Toby Belch

Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

Maria

If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me.

Sir Toby Belch

To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!

Sir Andrew

I’ll make one too.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. OLIVIA’S GARDEN.

Enter Viola, and Clown with a tabour

Viola

Save thee, friend, and thy music: dost thou live by thy tabour?

Clown

No, sir, I live by the church.

Viola

Art thou a churchman?

Clown

No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.

Viola

So thou mayst say, the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him; or, the church stands by thy tabour, if thy tabour stand by the church.

Clown

You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit: how quickly the wrong side may be turned outward!

Viola

Nay, that’s certain; they that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton.

Clown

I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.

Viola

Why, man?

Clown

Why, sir, her name’s a word; and to dally with that word might make my sister wanton. But indeed words are very rascals since bonds disgraced them.

Viola

Thy reason, man?

Clown

Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and words are grown so false, I am loath to prove reason with them.

Viola

I warrant thou art a merry fellow and carest for nothing.

Clown

Not so, sir, I do care for something; but in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you: if that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible.

Viola

Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool?

Clown

No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings; the husband’s the bigger: I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words.

Viola

I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s.

Clown

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun, it shines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my mistress: I think I saw your wisdom there.

Viola

Nay, an thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with thee.

Hold, there’s expenses for thee.

Clown

Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!

Viola

By my troth, I’ll tell thee, I am almost sick for one;

Aside

though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?

Clown

Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?

Viola

Yes, being kept together and put to use.

Clown

I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus.

Viola

I understand you, sir; ’tis well begged.

Clown

The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will construe 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 over-worn.

Exit

Viola

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;

And to do that well craves a kind of wit:

He must observe their mood on whom he jests,

The quality of persons, and the time,

And, like the haggard, cheque at every feather

That comes before his eye. This is a practise

As full of labour as a wise man’s art

For folly that he wisely shows is fit;

But wise men, folly-fall’n, quite taint their wit.

Enter Sir Toby Belch, and Sir Andrew

Sir Toby Belch

Save you, gentleman.

Viola

And you, sir.

Sir Andrew

Dieu vous garde, monsieur.

Viola

Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.

Sir Andrew

I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.

Sir Toby Belch

Will you encounter the house? my niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her.

Viola

I am bound to your niece, sir; I mean, she is the list of my voyage.

Sir Toby Belch

Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.

Viola

My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs.

Sir Toby Belch

I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

Viola

I will answer you with gait and entrance. But we are prevented.

Enter Olivia and Maria

Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!

Sir Andrew

That youth’s a rare courtier: ‘Rain odours;’ well.

Viola

My matter hath no voice, to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear.

Sir Andrew

‘Odours,’ ‘pregnant’ and ‘vouchsafed:’ I’ll get ’em all three all ready.

Olivia

Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.

Exeunt Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew, and Maria

Give me your hand, sir.

Viola

My duty, madam, and most humble service.

Olivia

What is your name?

Viola

Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess.

Olivia

My servant, sir! ’Twas never merry world

Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment:

You’re servant to the Count Orsino, youth.

Viola

And he is yours, and his must needs be yours:

Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam.

Olivia

For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,

Would they were blanks, rather than fill’d with me!

Viola

Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts

On his behalf.

Olivia

O, by your leave, I pray you,

I bade you never speak again of him:

But, would you undertake another suit,

I had rather hear you to solicit that

Than music from the spheres.

Viola

Dear lady,—

Olivia

Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,

After the last enchantment you did here,

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,

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 the unmuzzled thoughts

That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving

Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,

Hideth my heart. So, let me hear you speak.

Viola

I pity you.

Olivia

That’s a degree to love.

Viola

No, not a grize; for ’tis a vulgar proof,

That very oft we pity enemies.

Olivia

Why, then, methinks ’tis time to smile again.

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 were is alike to reap a proper man:

There lies your way, due west.

Viola

Then westward-ho! Grace and good disposition

Attend your ladyship!

You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

Olivia

Stay:

I prithee, tell me what thou thinkest of me.

Viola

That you do think you are not what you are.

Olivia

If I think so, I think the same of you.

Viola

Then think you right: I am not what I am.

Olivia

I would you were as I would have you be!

Viola

Would it be better, madam, than I am?

I wish it might, for now I am your fool.

Olivia

O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful

In the contempt and anger of his lip!

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,

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,

Love sought is good, but given unsought better.

Viola

By innocence I swear, and by my youth

I have one heart, one bosom and one truth,

And that no woman has; nor never none

Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.

And so adieu, good madam: never more

Will I my master’s tears to you deplore.

Olivia

Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst move

That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.

Exeunt

SCENE II. OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew, and Fabian

Sir Andrew

No, faith, I’ll not stay a jot longer.

Sir Toby Belch

Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.

Fabian

You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.

Sir Andrew

Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the count’s serving-man than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw’t i’ the orchard.

Sir Toby Belch

Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.

Sir Andrew

As plain as I see you now.

Fabian

This was a great argument of love in her toward you.

Sir Andrew

’Slight, will you make an ass o’ me?

Fabian

I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason.

Sir Toby Belch

And they have been grand-jury-men since before Noah was a sailor.

Fabian

She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver. You should then have accosted her; and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have banged the youth into dumbness. This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady’s opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman’s beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt either of valour or policy.

Sir Andrew

An’t be any way, it must be with valour; for policy I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.

Sir Toby Belch

Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour. Challenge me the count’s youth to fight with him; hurt him in eleven places: my niece shall take note of it; and assure thyself, there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man’s commendation with woman than report of valour.

Fabian

There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.

Sir Andrew

Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

Sir Toby Belch

Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink: if thou thou’st him some thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, set ’em down: go, about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter: about it.

Sir Andrew

Where shall I find you?

Sir Toby Belch

We’ll call thee at the cubiculo: go.

Exit Sir Andrew

Fabian

This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby.

Sir Toby Belch

I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so.

Fabian

We shall have a rare letter from him: but you’ll not deliver’t?

Sir Toby Belch

Never trust me, then; and by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I’ll eat the rest of the anatomy.

Fabian

And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty.

Enter Maria

Sir Toby Belch

Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.

Maria

If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself 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.

Sir Toby Belch

And cross-gartered?

Maria

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 is 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.

Sir Toby Belch

Come, bring us, bring us where he is.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A STREET.

Enter Sebastian and Antonio

Sebastian

I would not by my will have troubled you;

But, since you make your pleasure of your pains,

I will no further chide you.

Antonio

I could not stay behind you: my desire,

More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;

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,

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,

Set forth in your pursuit.

Sebastian

My kind Antonio,

I can no other answer make but thanks,

And thanks; and ever [ ... ] oft good turns

Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay:

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?

Antonio

To-morrow, sir: best first go see your lodging.

Sebastian

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.

Antonio

Would you’ld pardon me;

I do not without danger walk these streets:

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.

Sebastian

Belike you slew great number of his people.

Antonio

The offence is not of such a bloody nature;

Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel

Might well have given us bloody argument.

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,

I shall pay dear.

Sebastian

Do not then walk too open.

Antonio

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,

Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge

With viewing of the town: there shall you have me.

Sebastian

Why I your purse?

Antonio

Haply your eye shall light upon some toy

You have desire to purchase; and your store,

I think, is not for idle markets, sir.

Sebastian

I’ll be your purse-bearer and leave you

For an hour.

Antonio

To the Elephant.

Sebastian

I do remember.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. OLIVIA’S GARDEN.

Enter Olivia and Maria

Olivia

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.

Where is Malvolio? he is sad and civil,

And suits well for a servant with my fortunes:

Where is Malvolio?

Maria

He’s coming, madam; but in very strange manner. He is, sure, possessed, madam.

Olivia

Why, what’s the matter? does he rave?

Maria

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.

Olivia

Go call him hither.

Exit Maria

I am as mad as he,

If sad and merry madness equal be.

Re-enter Maria, with Malvolio

How now, Malvolio!

Malvolio

Sweet lady, ho, ho.

Olivia

Smilest thou?

I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.

Malvolio

Sad, lady! I could be sad: this does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering; but what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is, ‘Please one, and please all.’

Olivia

Why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter with thee?

Malvolio

Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed: I think we do know the sweet Roman hand.

Olivia

Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?

Malvolio

To bed! ay, sweet-heart, and I’ll come to thee.

Olivia

God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so and kiss thy hand so oft?

Maria

How do you, Malvolio?

Malvolio

At your request! yes; nightingales answer daws.

Maria

Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?

Malvolio

‘Be not afraid of greatness:’ ’twas well writ.

Olivia

What meanest thou by that, Malvolio?

Malvolio

‘some are born great,’—

Olivia

Ha!

Malvolio

‘some achieve greatness,’—

Olivia

What sayest thou?

Malvolio

‘And some have greatness thrust upon them.’

Olivia

Heaven restore thee!

Malvolio

‘Remember who commended thy yellow stocking s,’—

Olivia

Thy yellow stockings!

Malvolio

‘And wished to see thee cross-gartered.’

Olivia

Cross-gartered!

Malvolio

‘Go to thou art made, if thou desirest to be so;’—

Olivia

Am I made?

Malvolio

‘If not, let me see thee a servant still.’

Olivia

Why, this is very midsummer madness.

Enter Servant

Servant

Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino’s is returned: I could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship’s pleasure.

Olivia

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.

Exeunt Olivia and Maria

Malvolio

O, ho! do you come near me now? no worse man than Sir Toby to look to me! This concurs directly with the letter: she sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. ‘Cast thy humble slough,’ says she; ‘be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let thy tongue tang with arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity;’ and consequently sets down the manner how; as, a sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her; but it is Jove’s doing, and Jove make me thankful! And when she went away now, ‘Let this fellow be looked to:’ fellow! not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing adheres together, that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circumstance — What can be said? Nothing that can be can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked.

Re-enter Maria, with Sir Toby Belch and Fabian

Sir Toby Belch

Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I’ll speak to him.

Fabian

Here he is, here he is. How is’t with you, sir? how is’t with you, man?

Malvolio

Go off; I discard you: let me enjoy my private: go off.

Maria

Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him.

Malvolio

Ah, ha! does she so?

Sir Toby Belch

Go to, go to; peace, peace; we must deal gently with him: let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? how is’t with you? What, man! defy the devil: consider, he’s an enemy to mankind.

Malvolio

Do you know what you say?

Maria

La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray God, he be not bewitched!

Fabian

Carry his water to the wise woman.

Maria

Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him for more than I’ll say.

Malvolio

How now, mistress!

Maria

O Lord!

Sir Toby Belch

Prithee, hold thy peace; this is not the way: do you not see you move him? let me alone with him.

Fabian

No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used.

Sir Toby Belch

Why, how now, my bawcock! how dost thou, chuck?

Malvolio

Sir!

Sir Toby Belch

Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man! ’tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: hang him, foul collier!

Maria

Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray.

Malvolio

My prayers, minx!

Maria

No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.

Malvolio

Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I am not of your element: you shall know more hereafter.

Exit

Sir Toby Belch

Is’t possible?

Fabian

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

Sir Toby Belch

His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man.

Maria

Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint.

Fabian

Why, we shall make him mad indeed.

Maria

The house will be the quieter.

Sir Toby Belch

Come, we’ll have him in a dark room and bound. My niece is already in the belief that he’s mad: we may carry it thus, for our pleasure and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt us to have mercy on him: at which time we will bring the device to the bar and crown thee for a finder of madmen. But see, but see.

Enter Sir Andrew

Fabian

More matter for a May morning.

Sir Andrew

Here’s the challenge, read it: warrant there’s vinegar and pepper in’t.

Fabian

Is’t so saucy?

Sir Andrew

Ay, is’t, I warrant him: do but read.

Sir Toby Belch

Give me.

Reads

‘Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow.’

Fabian

Good, and valiant.

Sir Toby Belch

[Reads] ‘Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for’t.’

Fabian

A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law.

Sir Toby Belch

[Reads] ‘Thou comest to the lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat; that is not the matter I challenge thee for.’

Fabian

Very brief, and to exceeding good sense — less.

Sir Toby Belch

[Reads] ‘I will waylay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me,’—

Fabian

Good.

Sir Toby Belch

[Reads] ‘Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain.’

Fabian

Still you keep o’ the windy side of the law: good.

Sir Toby Belch

[Reads] ‘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.

Maria

You may have very fit occasion for’t: he is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.

Sir Toby Belch

Go, Sir Andrew: scout me for him at the corner 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 Andrew

Nay, let me alone for swearing.

Exit

Sir Toby Belch

Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behavior 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.

Re-enter Olivia, with Viola

Fabian

Here he comes with your niece: give them way till he take leave, and presently after him.

Sir Toby Belch

I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge.

Exeunt Sir Toby Belch, Fabian, and Maria

Olivia

I have said too much unto a heart of stone

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.

Viola

With the same ’havior that your passion bears

Goes on my master’s grief.

Olivia

Here, wear this jewel for me, ’tis my picture;

Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you;

And I beseech you come again to-morrow.

What shall you ask of me that I’ll deny,

That honour saved may upon asking give?

Viola

Nothing but this; your true love for my master.

Olivia

How with mine honour may I give him that

Which I have given to you?

Viola

I will acquit you.

Olivia

Well, come again to-morrow: fare thee well:

A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.

Exit

Re-enter Sir Toby Belch and Fabian

Sir Toby Belch

Gentleman, God save thee.

Viola

And you, sir.

Sir Toby Belch

That defence thou hast, betake thee to’t: of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard-end: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful and deadly.

Viola

You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me: my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man.

Sir Toby Belch

You’ll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill and wrath can furnish man withal.

Viola

I pray you, sir, what is he?

Sir Toby Belch

He is knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier and on carpet consideration; but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and bodies hath he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre. Hob, nob, is his word; give’t or take’t.

Viola

I will return again into the house and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others, to taste their valour: belike this is a man of that quirk.

Sir Toby Belch

Sir, no; his indignation derives itself out of a very competent injury: therefore, get you on and give him his desire. Back you shall not to the house, unless you undertake that with me which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on, or strip your sword stark naked; for meddle you must, that’s certain, or forswear to wear iron about you.

Viola

This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is: it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.

Sir Toby Belch

I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return.

Exit

Viola

Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?

Fabian

I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.

Viola

I beseech you, what manner of man is he?

Fabian

Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him if I can.

Viola

I shall be much bound to you for’t: I am one that had rather go with sir priest than sir knight: I care not who knows so much of my mettle.

Exeunt

Re-enter Sir Toby Belch, with Sir Andrew

Sir Toby Belch

Why, man, he’s a very devil; I have not seen such a firago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard and all, and he gives me the stuck in with such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable; and on the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet hit the ground they step on. They say he has been fencer to the Sophy.

Sir Andrew

Pox on’t, I’ll not meddle with him.

Sir Toby Belch

Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder.

Sir Andrew

Plague on’t, an I thought he had been valiant and so cunning in fence, I’ld have seen him damned ere I’ld have challenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I’ll give him my horse, grey Capilet.

Sir Toby Belch

I’ll make the motion: stand here, make a good show on’t: this shall end without the perdition of souls.

Aside

Marry, I’ll ride your horse as well as I ride you.

Re-enter Fabian and Viola

To Fabian

I have his horse to take up the quarrel:

I have persuaded him the youth’s a devil.

Fabian

He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels.

Sir Toby Belch

[To Viola] There’s no remedy, sir; he will fight with you for’s oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you.

Viola

[Aside] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.

Fabian

Give ground, if you see him furious.

Sir Toby Belch

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.

Sir Andrew

Pray God, he keep his oath!

Viola

I do assure you, ’tis against my will.

They draw

Enter Antonio

Antonio

Put up your sword. If this young gentleman

Have done offence, I take the fault on me:

If you offend him, I for him defy you.

Sir Toby Belch

You, sir! why, what are you?

Antonio

One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more

Than you have heard him brag to you he will.

Sir Toby Belch

Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.

They draw

Enter Officers

Fabian

O good Sir Toby, hold! here come the officers.

Sir Toby Belch

I’ll be with you anon.

Viola

Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.

Sir Andrew

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.

First Officer

This is the man; do thy office.

Second Officer

Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit of Count Orsino.

Antonio

You do mistake me, sir.

First Officer

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.

Antonio

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

Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed;

But be of comfort.

Second Officer

Come, sir, away.

Antonio

I must entreat of you some of that money.

Viola

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

I’ll lend you something: my having is not much;

I’ll make division of my present with you:

Hold, there’s half my coffer.

Antonio

Will you deny me now?

Is’t possible that my deserts to you

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.

Viola

I know of none;

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

Inhabits our frail blood.

Antonio

O heavens themselves!

Second Officer

Come, sir, I pray you, go.

Antonio

Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here

I snatch’d one half out of the jaws of death,

Relieved him with such sanctity of love,

And to his image, which methought did promise

Most venerable worth, did I devotion.

First Officer

What’s that to us? The time goes by: away!

Antonio

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:

Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil

Are empty trunks o’erflourish’d by the devil.

First Officer

The man grows mad: away with him! Come, come, sir.

Antonio

Lead me on.

Exit with Officers

Viola

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!

Sir Toby Belch

Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian: we’ll whisper o’er a couplet or two of most sage saws.

Viola

He named Sebastian: I my brother know

Yet living in my glass; even such and so

In favour was my brother, and he went

Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,

For him I imitate: O, if it prove,

Tempests are kind and salt waves fresh in love.

Exit

Sir Toby Belch

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.

Fabian

A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.

Sir Andrew

’Slid, I’ll after him again and beat him.

Sir Toby Belch

Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.

Sir Andrew

An I do not,—

Fabian

Come, let’s see the event.

Sir Toby Belch

I dare lay any money ’twill be nothing yet.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. BEFORE OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Sebastian and Clown

Clown

Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?

Sebastian

Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow:

Let me be clear of thee.

Clown

Well held out, i’ faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so is so.

Sebastian

I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else: Thou know’st not me.

Clown

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?

Sebastian

I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me: There’s money for thee: if you tarry longer, I shall give worse payment.

Clown

By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good report — after fourteen years’ purchase.

Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby Belch, and Fabian

Sir Andrew

Now, sir, have I met you again? there’s for you.

Sebastian

Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there. Are all the people mad?

Sir Toby Belch

Hold, sir, or I’ll throw your dagger o’er the house.

Clown

This will I tell my lady straight: I would not be in some of your coats for two pence.

Exit

Sir Toby Belch

Come on, sir; hold.

Sir Andrew

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.

Sebastian

Let go thy hand.

Sir Toby Belch

Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed; come on.

Sebastian

I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now? If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword.

Sir Toby Belch

What, what? Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.

Enter Olivia

Olivia

Hold, Toby; on thy life I charge thee, hold!

Sir Toby Belch

Madam!

Olivia

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!

Be not offended, dear Cesario.

Rudesby, be gone!

Exeunt Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew, and Fabian

I prithee, gentle friend,

Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway

In this uncivil and thou 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:

Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,

He started one poor heart of mine in thee.

Sebastian

What relish is in this? how runs the stream?

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!

Olivia

Nay, come, I prithee; would thou’ldst be ruled by me!

Sebastian

Madam, I will.

Olivia

O, say so, and so be!

Exeunt

SCENE II. OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Maria and Clown

Maria

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

Clown

Well, I’ll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in’t; and I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not tall enough to become the function well, nor lean enough to be thought a good student; but to be said an honest man and a good housekeeper goes as fairly as to say a careful man and a great scholar. The competitors enter.

Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria

Sir Toby Belch

Jove bless thee, master Parson.

Clown

Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for, as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, ‘That that is is;’ so I, being Master Parson, am Master Parson; for, what is ‘that’ but ‘that,’ and ‘is’ but ‘is’?

Sir Toby Belch

To him, Sir Topas.

Clown

What, ho, I say! peace in this prison!

Sir Toby Belch

The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.

Malvolio

[Within] Who calls there?

Clown

Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic.

Malvolio

Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.

Clown

Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man! talkest thou nothing but of ladies?

Sir Toby Belch

Well said, Master Parson.

Malvolio

Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged: good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad: they have laid me here in hideous darkness.

Clown

Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy: sayest thou that house is dark?

Malvolio

As hell, Sir Topas.

Clown

Why it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the clearstores toward the south north are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest thou of obstruction?

Malvolio

I am not mad, Sir Topas: I say to you, this house is dark.

Clown

Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no darkness but ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog.

Malvolio

I say, this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say, there was never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you are: make the trial of it in any constant question.

Clown

What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild fowl?

Malvolio

That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.

Clown

What thinkest thou of his opinion?

Malvolio

I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.

Clown

Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well.

Malvolio

Sir Topas, Sir Topas!

Sir Toby Belch

My most exquisite Sir Topas!

Clown

Nay, I am for all waters.

Maria

Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown: he sees thee not.

Sir Toby Belch

To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou findest him: I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently delivered, I would he were, for I am now so far in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.

Exeunt Sir Toby Belch and Maria

Clown

[Singing]

‘Hey, Robin, jolly Robin,

Tell me how thy lady does.’

Malvolio

Fool!

Clown

‘My lady is unkind, perdy.’

Malvolio

Fool!

Clown

‘Alas, why is she so?’

Malvolio

Fool, I say!

Clown

‘She loves another’— Who calls, ha?

Malvolio

Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink and paper: as I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for’t.

Clown

Master Malvolio?

Malvolio

Ay, good fool.

Clown

Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?

Malvolio

Fool, there was never a man so notoriously abused: I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art.

Clown

But as well? then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool.

Malvolio

They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my wits.

Clown

Advise you what you say; the minister is here. Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore! endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble babble.

Malvolio

Sir Topas!

Clown

Maintain no words with him, good fellow. Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God be wi’ you, good Sir Topas. Merry, amen. I will, sir, I will.

Malvolio

Fool, fool, fool, I say!

Clown

Alas, sir, be patient. What say you sir? I am shent for speaking to you.

Malvolio

Good fool, help me to some light and some paper: I tell thee, I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.

Clown

Well-a-day that you were, sir

Malvolio

By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink, paper and light; and convey what I will set down to my lady: it shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did.

Clown

I will help you to’t. But tell me true, are you not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit?

Malvolio

Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true.

Clown

Nay, I’ll ne’er believe a madman till I see his brains. I will fetch you light and paper and ink.

Malvolio

Fool, I’ll requite it in the highest degree: I prithee, be gone.

Clown

[Singing]

I am gone, sir,

And anon, sir,

I’ll be with you again,

In a trice,

Like to the old Vice,

Your need to sustain;

Who, with dagger of lath,

In his rage and his wrath,

Cries, ah, ha! to the devil:

Like a mad lad,

Pare thy nails, dad;

Adieu, good man devil.

Exit

SCENE III. OLIVIA’S GARDEN.

Enter Sebastian

Sebastian

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:

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;

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,

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,

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 deceiveable. But here the lady comes.

Enter Olivia and Priest

Olivia

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,

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

Whiles you are willing it shall come to note,

What time we will our celebration keep

According to my birth. What do you say?

Sebastian

I’ll follow this good man, and go with you;

And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.

Olivia

Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine,

That they may fairly note this act of mine!

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. BEFORE OLIVIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Clown and Fabian

Fabian

Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter.

Clown

Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.

Fabian

Any thing.

Clown

Do not desire to see this letter.

Fabian

This is, to give a dog, and in recompense desire my dog again.

Enter Duke Orsino, Viola, Curio, and Lords

Duke Orsino

Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?

Clown

Ay, sir; we are some of her trappings.

Duke Orsino

I know thee well; how dost thou, my good fellow?

Clown

Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse for my friends.

Duke Orsino

Just the contrary; the better for thy friends.

Clown

No, sir, the worse.

Duke Orsino

How can that be?

Clown

Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me; now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir I profit in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends, I am abused: so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives why then, the worse for my friends and the better for my foes.

Duke Orsino

Why, this is excellent.

Clown

By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends.

Duke Orsino

Thou shalt not be the worse for me: there’s gold.

Clown

But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could make it another.

Duke Orsino

O, you give me ill counsel.

Clown

Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it.

Duke Orsino

Well, I will be so much a sinner, to be a double-dealer: there’s another.

Clown

Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and the old saying is, the third pays for all: the triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind; one, two, three.

Duke Orsino

You can fool no more money out of me at this throw: if you will let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake my bounty further.

Clown

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

Viola

Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.

Enter Antonio and Officers

Duke Orsino

That face of his I do remember well;

Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear’d

As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war:

A bawbling vessel was he captain of,

For shallow draught and bulk unprizable;

With which such scathful grapple did he make

With the most noble bottom of our fleet,

That very envy and the tongue of loss

Cried fame and honour on him. What’s the matter?

First Officer

Orsino, this is that Antonio

That took the Phoenix 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,

In private brabble did we apprehend him.

Viola

He did me kindness, sir, drew on my side;

But in conclusion put strange speech upon me:

I know not what ’twas but distraction.

Duke Orsino

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?

Antonio

Orsino, noble sir,

Be pleased 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,

From the rude sea’s enraged and foamy mouth

Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was:

His life I gave him and did thereto add

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;

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,

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.

Viola

How can this be?

Duke Orsino

When came he to this town?

Antonio

To-day, my lord; and for three months before,

No interim, not a minute’s vacancy,

Both day and night did we keep company.

Enter Olivia and Attendants

Duke Orsino

Here comes the countess: now heaven walks on earth.

But for thee, fellow; fellow, thy words are madness:

Three months this youth hath tended upon me;

But more of that anon. Take him aside.

Olivia

What would my lord, but that he may not have,

Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?

Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.

Viola

Madam!

Duke Orsino

Gracious Olivia,—

Olivia

What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord,—

Viola

My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.

Olivia

If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,

It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear

As howling after music.

Duke Orsino

Still so cruel?

Olivia

Still so constant, lord.

Duke Orsino

What, to perverseness? you uncivil lady,

To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars

My soul the faithfull’st offerings hath breathed out

That e’er devotion tender’d! What shall I do?

Olivia

Even what it please my lord, that shall become him.

Duke Orsino

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:

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;

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.

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.

Viola

And I, most jocund, apt and willingly,

To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.

Olivia

Where goes Cesario?

Viola

After him I love

More than I love these eyes, more than my life,

More, by all mores, than e’er I shall love wife.

If I do feign, you witnesses above

Punish my life for tainting of my love!

Olivia

Ay me, detested! how am I beguiled!

Viola

Who does beguile you? who does do you wrong?

Olivia

Hast thou forgot thyself? is it so long?

Call forth the holy father.

Duke Orsino

Come, away!

Olivia

Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.

Duke Orsino

Husband!

Olivia

Ay, husband: can he that deny?

Duke Orsino

Her husband, sirrah!

Viola

No, my lord, not I.

Olivia

Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear

That makes thee strangle thy propriety:

Fear not, Cesario; take thy fortunes up;

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

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,

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

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 Orsino

O thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou be

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

Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.

Viola

My lord, I do protest —

Olivia

O, do not swear!

Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear.

Enter Sir Andrew

Sir Andrew

For the love of God, a surgeon! Send one presently to Sir Toby.

Olivia

What’s the matter?

Sir Andrew

He has broke my head across and has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too: for the love of God, your help! I had rather than forty pound I were at home.

Olivia

Who has done this, Sir Andrew?

Sir Andrew

The count’s gentleman, one Cesario: we took him for a coward, but he’s the very devil incardinate.

Duke Orsino

My gentleman, Cesario?

Sir Andrew

’Od’s lifelings, here he is! You broke my head for nothing; and that that I did, I was set on to do’t by Sir Toby.

Viola

Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you:

You drew your sword upon me without cause;

But I bespoke you fair, and hurt you not.

Sir Andrew

If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me: I think you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb.

Enter Sir Toby Belch and Clown

Here comes Sir Toby halting; you shall hear more: but if he had not been in drink, he would have tickled you othergates than he did.

Duke Orsino

How now, gentleman! how is’t with you?

Sir Toby Belch

That’s all one: has hurt me, and there’s the end on’t. Sot, didst see Dick surgeon, sot?

Clown

O, he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes were set at eight i’ the morning.

Sir Toby Belch

Then he’s a rogue, and a passy measures panyn: I hate a drunken rogue.

Olivia

Away with him! Who hath made this havoc with them?

Sir Andrew

I’ll help you, Sir Toby, because well be dressed together.

Sir Toby Belch

Will you help? an ass-head and a coxcomb and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull!

Olivia

Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look’d to.

Exeunt Clown, Fabian, Sir Toby Belch, and Sir Andrew

Enter Sebastian

Sebastian

I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman:

But, had it been the brother of my blood,

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

We made each other but so late ago.

Duke Orsino

One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons,

A natural perspective, that is and is not!

Sebastian

Antonio, O my dear Antonio!

How have the hours rack’d and tortured me,

Since I have lost thee!

Antonio

Sebastian are you?

Sebastian

Fear’st thou that, Antonio?

Antonio

How have you made division of yourself?

An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin

Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?

Olivia

Most wonderful!

Sebastian

Do I stand there? I never had a brother;

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?

What countryman? what name? what parentage?

Viola

Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father;

Such a Sebastian was my brother too,

So went he suited to his watery tomb:

If spirits can assume both form and suit

You come to fright us.

Sebastian

A spirit I am indeed;

But am in that dimension grossly clad

Which from the womb I did participate.

Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,

I should my tears let fall upon your cheek,

And say ‘Thrice-welcome, drowned Viola!’

Viola

My father had a mole upon his brow.

Sebastian

And so had mine.

Viola

And died that day when Viola from her birth

Had number’d thirteen years.

Sebastian

O, that record is lively in my soul!

He finished indeed his mortal act

That day that made my sister thirteen years.

Viola

If nothing lets to make us happy both

But this my masculine usurp’d attire,

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,

Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help

I was preserved to serve this noble count.

All the occurrence of my fortune since

Hath been between this lady and this lord.

Sebastian

[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, deceived,

You are betroth’d both to a maid and man.

Duke Orsino

Be not amazed; right noble is his blood.

If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,

I shall have share in this most happy wreck.

To Viola

Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times

Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.

Viola

And all those sayings will I overswear;

And those swearings keep as true in soul

As doth that orbed continent the fire

That severs day from night.

Duke Orsino

Give me thy hand;

And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds.

Viola

The captain that did bring me first on shore

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.

Olivia

He shall enlarge him: fetch Malvolio hither:

And yet, alas, now I remember me,

They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract.

Re-enter Clown with a letter, and Fabian

A most extracting frenzy of mine own

From my remembrance clearly banish’d his.

How does he, sirrah?

Clown

Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the staves’s end as well as a man in his case may do: has here writ a letter to you; I should have given’t you to-day morning, but as a madman’s epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are delivered.

Olivia

Open’t, and read it.

Clown

Look then to be well edified when the fool delivers the madman.

Reads

‘By the Lord, madam,’—

Olivia

How now! art thou mad?

Clown

No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you must allow Vox.

Olivia

Prithee, read i’ thy right wits.

Clown

So I do, madonna; but to read his right wits is to read thus: therefore perpend, my princess, and give ear.

Olivia

Read it you, sirrah.

To Fabian

Fabian

[Reads] ‘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.’

Olivia

Did he write this?

Clown

Ay, madam.

Duke Orsino

This savours not much of distraction.

Olivia

See him deliver’d, Fabian; bring him hither.

Exit Fabian

My lord so please you, these things further thought on,

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 Orsino

Madam, I am most apt to embrace your offer.

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,

Here is my hand: you shall from this time be

Your master’s mistress.

Olivia

A sister! you are she.

Re-enter Fabian, with Malvolio

Duke Orsino

Is this the madman?

Olivia

Ay, my lord, this same.

How now, Malvolio!

Malvolio

Madam, you have done me wrong,

Notorious wrong.

Olivia

Have I, Malvolio? no.

Malvolio

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:

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,

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,

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.

Olivia

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

First told me thou wast mad; then camest in smiling,

And in such forms which here were presupposed

Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content:

This practise hath most shrewdly pass’d upon thee;

But when we know the grounds and authors of it,

Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge

Of thine own cause.

Fabian

Good madam, hear me speak,

And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come

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,

Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts

We had conceived 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,

May rather pluck on laughter than revenge;

If that the injuries be justly weigh’d

That have on both sides pass’d.

Olivia

Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!

Clown

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.

Malvolio

I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you.

Exit

Olivia

He hath been most notoriously abused.

Duke Orsino

Pursue him and entreat him to a peace:

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,

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.

Exeunt all, except Clown

Clown

[Sings]

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.

But when I came to man’s estate,

With hey, ho, & c.

’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,

For the rain, & c.

But when I came, alas! to wive,

With hey, ho, & c.

By swaggering could I never thrive,

For the rain, & c.

But when I came unto my beds,

With hey, ho, & c.

With toss-pots still had drunken heads,

For the rain, & c.

A great while ago the world begun,

With hey, ho, & c.

But that’s all one, our play is done,

And we’ll strive to please you every day.

Exit

The Two Gentlemen of Verona

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. VERONA. AN OPEN PLACE.

SCENE II. THE SAME. GARDEN OF JULIA’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. THE SAME. ANTONIO’S HOUSE.

ACT II

SCENE I. MILAN. THE DUKE’S PALACE.

SCENE II. VERONA. JULIA’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. THE SAME. A STREET.

SCENE IV. MILAN. THE DUKE’S PALACE.

SCENE V. THE SAME. A STREET.

SCENE VI. THE SAME. THE DUKE’S PALACE.

SCENE VII. VERONA. JULIA’S HOUSE.

ACT III

SCENE I. MILAN. THE DUKE’S PALACE.

SCENE II. THE SAME. THE DUKE’S PALACE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. THE FRONTIERS OF MANTUA. A FOREST.

SCENE II. MILAN. OUTSIDE THE DUKE’S PALACE, UNDER SILVIA’S CHAMBER.

SCENE III. THE SAME.

SCENE IV. THE SAME.

ACT V

SCENE I. MILAN. AN ABBEY.

SCENE II. THE SAME. THE DUKE’S PALACE.

SCENE III. THE FRONTIERS OF MANTUA. THE FOREST.

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FOREST.

Characters of the Play

Duke Of Milan, Father to Silvia.

Valentine and Proteus, two Gentlemen.

Antonio, Father to Proteus.

Thurio, a foolish rival to Valentine.

Eglamour, agent for Silvia in her escape.

Host, where Julia lodges.

Outlaws with Valentine.

Speed, a clownish servant to Valentine.

Launce, the like to Proteus.

Panthino, servant to Antonio.

Julia, beloved of Proteus.

Silvia, beloved of Valentine.

Lucetta, waiting-woman to Julia.

Servants, Musicians.

Scene: Verona; Milan; the frontiers of Mantua.

ACT I

SCENE I. VERONA. AN OPEN PLACE.

Enter Valentine and Proteus

Valentine

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,

I rather would entreat thy company

To see the wonders of the world abroad,

Than, living dully sluggardized at home,

Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.

But since thou lovest, love still and thrive therein,

Even as I would when I to love begin.

Proteus

Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu!

Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest

Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel:

Wish me partaker in thy happiness

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

If ever danger do environ thee,

Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,

For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.

Valentine

And on a love-book pray for my success?

Proteus

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

Valentine

That’s on some shallow story of deep love:

How young Leander cross’d the Hellespont.

Proteus

That’s a deep story of a deeper love:

For he was more than over shoes in love.

Valentine

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

And yet you never swum the Hellespont.

Proteus

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

Valentine

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

Proteus

What?

Valentine

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

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

With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights:

If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;

If lost, why then a grievous labour won;

However, but a folly bought with wit,

Or else a wit by folly vanquished.

Proteus

So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.

Valentine

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

Proteus

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

Valentine

Love is your master, for he masters you:

And he that is so yoked by a fool,

Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise.

Proteus

Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud

The eating canker dwells, so eating love

Inhabits in the finest wits of all.

Valentine

And writers say, as the most forward bud

Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,

Even so by love the young and tender wit

Is turn’d to folly, blasting in the bud,

Losing his verdure even in the prime

And all the fair effects of future hopes.

But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee,

That art a votary to fond desire?

Once more adieu! my father at the road

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

Proteus

And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.

Valentine

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

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 likewise will visit thee with mine.

Proteus

All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!

Valentine

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

Exit

Proteus

He after honour hunts, I after love:

He leaves his friends to dignify them more,

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

Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me,

Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,

War with good counsel, set the world at nought;

Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.

Enter Speed

Speed

Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my master?

Proteus

But now he parted hence, to embark for Milan.

Speed

Twenty to one then he is shipp’d already,

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

Proteus

Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray,

An if the shepherd be a while away.

Speed

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

Proteus

I do.

Speed

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

Proteus

A silly answer and fitting well a sheep.

Speed

This proves me still a sheep.

Proteus

True; and thy master a shepherd.

Speed

Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance.

Proteus

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

Speed

The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me: therefore I am no sheep.

Proteus

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

Speed

Such another proof will make me cry ‘baa.’

Proteus

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

Speed

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

Proteus

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

Speed

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

Proteus

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

Speed

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

Proteus

You mistake; I mean the pound,— a pinfold.

Speed

From a pound to a pin? fold it over and over, ’Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover.

Proteus

But what said she?

Speed

[First nodding] Ay.

Proteus

Nod — Ay — why, that’s noddy.

Speed

You mistook, sir; I say, she did nod: and you ask me if she did nod; and I say, ‘Ay.’

Proteus

And that set together is noddy.

Speed

Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take it for your pains.

Proteus

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

Speed

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

Proteus

Why sir, how do you bear with me?

Speed

Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly; having nothing but the word ‘noddy’ for my pains.

Proteus

Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit.

Speed

And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse.

Proteus

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

Speed

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

Proteus

Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said she?

Speed

Truly, sir, I think you’ll hardly win her.

Proteus

Why, couldst thou perceive so much from her?

Speed

Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter: and being so hard to me that brought your mind, I fear she’ll prove as hard to you in telling your mind. Give her no token but stones; for she’s as hard as steel.

Proteus

What said she? nothing?

Speed

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

Proteus

Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck,

Which cannot perish having thee aboard,

Being destined to a drier death on shore.

Exit Speed

I must go send some better messenger:

I fear my Julia would not deign my lines,

Receiving them from such a worthless post.

Exit

SCENE II. THE SAME. GARDEN OF JULIA’S HOUSE.

Enter JullA and Lucetta

Julia

But say, Lucetta, now we are alone,

Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love?

Lucetta

Ay, madam, so you stumble not unheedfully.

Julia

Of all the fair resort of gentlemen

That every day with parle encounter me,

In thy opinion which is worthiest love?

Lucetta

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

According to my shallow simple skill.

Julia

What think’st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?

Lucetta

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

But, were I you, he never should be mine.

Julia

What think’st thou of the rich Mercatio?

Lucetta

Well of his wealth; but of himself, so so.

Julia

What think’st thou of the gentle Proteus?

Lucetta

Lord, Lord! to see what folly reigns in us!

Julia

How now! what means this passion at his name?

Lucetta

Pardon, dear madam: ’tis a passing shame

That I, unworthy body as I am,

Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.

Julia

Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest?

Lucetta

Then thus: of many good I think him best.

Julia

Your reason?

Lucetta

I have no other, but a woman’s reason;

I think him so because I think him so.

Julia

And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him?

Lucetta

Ay, if you thought your love not cast away.

Julia

Why he, of all the rest, hath never moved me.

Lucetta

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

Julia

His little speaking shows his love but small.

Lucetta

Fire that’s closest kept burns most of all.

Julia

They do not love that do not show their love.

Lucetta

O, they love least that let men know their love.

Julia

I would I knew his mind.

Lucetta

Peruse this paper, madam.

Julia

‘To Julia.’ Say, from whom?

Lucetta

That the contents will show.

Julia

Say, say, who gave it thee?

Lucetta

Valentine’s page; and sent, I think, from Proteus.

He would have given it you; but I, being in the way,

Did in your name receive it: pardon the fault I pray.

Julia

Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!

Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines?

To whisper and conspire against my youth?

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

And you an officer fit for the place.

Or else return no more into my sight.

Lucetta

To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.

Julia

Will ye be gone?

Lucetta

That you may ruminate.

Exit

Julia

And yet I would I had o’erlooked the letter:

It were a shame to call her back again

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

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

And would not force the letter to my view!

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

Which they would have the profferer construe ‘ay.’

Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love

That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse

And presently all humbled kiss the rod!

How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence,

When willingly I would have had her here!

How angerly I taught my brow to frown,

When inward joy enforced my heart to smile!

My penance is to call Lucetta back

And ask remission for my folly past.

What ho! Lucetta!

Re-enter Lucetta

Lucetta

What would your ladyship?

Julia

Is’t near dinner-time?

Lucetta

I would it were,

That you might kill your stomach on your meat

And not upon your maid.

Julia

What is’t that you took up so gingerly?

Lucetta

Nothing.

Julia

Why didst thou stoop, then?

Lucetta

To take a paper up that I let fall.

Julia

And is that paper nothing?

Lucetta

Nothing concerning me.

Julia

Then let it lie for those that it concerns.

Lucetta

Madam, it will not lie where it concerns

Unless it have a false interpeter.

Julia

Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme.

Lucetta

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

Give me a note: your ladyship can set.

Julia

As little by such toys as may be possible.

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

Lucetta

It is too heavy for so light a tune.

Julia

Heavy! belike it hath some burden then?

Lucetta

Ay, and melodious were it, would you sing it.

Julia

And why not you?

Lucetta

I cannot reach so high.

Julia

Let’s see your song. How now, minion!

Lucetta

Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out:

And yet methinks I do not like this tune.

Julia

You do not?

Lucetta

No, madam; it is too sharp.

Julia

You, minion, are too saucy.

Lucetta

Nay, now you are too flat

And mar the concord with too harsh a descant:

There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.

Julia

The mean is drown’d with your unruly bass.

Lucetta

Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.

Julia

This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.

Here is a coil with protestation!

Tears the letter

Go get you gone, and let the papers lie:

You would be fingering them, to anger me.

Lucetta

She makes it strange; but she would be best pleased

To be so anger’d with another letter.

Exit

Julia

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

O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!

Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey

And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!

I’ll kiss each several paper for amends.

Look, here is writ ‘kind Julia.’ Unkind Julia!

As in revenge of thy ingratitude,

I throw thy name against the bruising stones,

Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.

And here is writ ‘love-wounded Proteus.’

Poor wounded name! my bosom as a bed

Shall lodge thee till thy wound be thoroughly heal’d;

And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.

But twice or thrice was ‘Proteus’ written down.

Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away

Till I have found each letter in the letter,

Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear

Unto a ragged fearful-hanging rock

And throw it thence into the raging sea!

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

‘Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,

To the sweet Julia:’ that I’ll tear away.

And yet I will not, sith so prettily

He couples it to his complaining names.

Thus will I fold them one on another:

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

Re-enter Lucetta

Lucetta

Madam,

Dinner is ready, and your father stays.

Julia

Well, let us go.

Lucetta

What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here?

Julia

If you respect them, best to take them up.

Lucetta

Nay, I was taken up for laying them down:

Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.

Julia

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

Lucetta

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

I see things too, although you judge I wink.

Julia

Come, come; will’t please you go?

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE SAME. ANTONIO’S HOUSE.

Enter Antonio and Panthino

Antonio

Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that

Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?

Panthino

’Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.

Antonio

Why, what of him?

Panthino

He wonder’d that your lordship

Would suffer him to spend his youth at home,

While other men, of slender reputation,

Put forth their sons to seek preferment out:

Some to the wars, to try their fortune there;

Some to discover islands far away;

Some to the studious universities.

For any or for all these exercises,

He said that Proteus your son was meet,

And did request me to importune you

To let him spend his time no more at home,

Which would be great impeachment to his age,

In having known no travel in his youth.

Antonio

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,

Not being tried and tutor’d in the world:

Experience is by industry achieved

And perfected by the swift course of time.

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

Panthino

I think your lordship is not ignorant

How his companion, youthful Valentine,

Attends the emperor in his royal court.

Antonio

I know it well.

Panthino

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

There shall he practise tilts and tournaments,

Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen.

And be in eye of every exercise

Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth.

Antonio

I like thy counsel; well hast thou advised:

And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it,

The execution of it shall make known.

Even with the speediest expedition

I will dispatch him to the emperor’s court.

Panthino

To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso,

With other gentlemen of good esteem,

Are journeying to salute the emperor

And to commend their service to his will.

Antonio

Good company; with them shall Proteus go:

And, in good time! now will we break with him.

Enter Proteus

Proteus

Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life!

Here is her hand, the agent of her heart;

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

O, that our fathers would applaud our loves,

To seal our happiness with their consents!

O heavenly Julia!

Antonio

How now! what letter are you reading there?

Proteus

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

Of commendations sent from Valentine,

Deliver’d by a friend that came from him.

Antonio

Lend me the letter; let me see what news.

Proteus

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

How happily he lives, how well beloved

And daily graced by the emperor;

Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune.

Antonio

And how stand you affected to his wish?

Proteus

As one relying on your lordship’s will

And not depending on his friendly wish.

Antonio

My will is something sorted with his wish.

Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed;

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

I am resolved that thou shalt spend some time

With Valentinus in the emperor’s court:

What maintenance he from his friends receives,

Like exhibition thou shalt have from me.

To-morrow be in readiness to go:

Excuse it not, for I am peremptory.

Proteus

My lord, I cannot be so soon provided:

Please you, deliberate a day or two.

Antonio

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

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

Come on, Panthino: you shall be employ’d

To hasten on his expedition.

Exeunt Antonio and Panthino

Proteus

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

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

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

Lest he should take exceptions to my love;

And with the vantage of mine own excuse

Hath he excepted most against my love.

O, how this spring of love resembleth

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

Panthino

Sir Proteus, your father calls for you:

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

Proteus

Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto,

And yet a thousand times it answers ‘no.’

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. MILAN. THE DUKE’S PALACE.

Enter Valentine and Speed

Speed

Sir, your glove.

Valentine

Not mine; my gloves are on.

Speed

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

Valentine

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

Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine!

Ah, Silvia, Silvia!

Speed

Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia!

Valentine

How now, sirrah?

Speed

She is not within hearing, sir.

Valentine

Why, sir, who bade you call her?

Speed

Your worship, sir; or else I mistook.

Valentine

Well, you’ll still be too forward.

Speed

And yet I was last chidden for being too slow.

Valentine

Go to, sir: tell me, do you know Madam Silvia?

Speed

She that your worship loves?

Valentine

Why, how know you that I am in love?

Speed

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

Valentine

Are all these things perceived in me?

Speed

They are all perceived without ye.

Valentine

Without me? they cannot.

Speed

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

Valentine

But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia?

Speed

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

Valentine

Hast thou observed that? even she, I mean.

Speed

Why, sir, I know her not.

Valentine

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

Speed

Is she not hard-favoured, sir?

Valentine

Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured.

Speed

Sir, I know that well enough.

Valentine

What dost thou know?

Speed

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

Valentine

I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour infinite.

Speed

That’s because the one is painted and the other out of all count.

Valentine

How painted? and how out of count?

Speed

Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no man counts of her beauty.

Valentine

How esteemest thou me? I account of her beauty.

Speed

You never saw her since she was deformed.

Valentine

How long hath she been deformed?

Speed

Ever since you loved her.

Valentine

I have loved her ever since I saw her; and still I see her beautiful.

Speed

If you love her, you cannot see her.

Valentine

Why?

Speed

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

Valentine

What should I see then?

Speed

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

Valentine

Belike, boy, then, you are in love; for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes.

Speed

True, sir; I was in love with my bed: I thank you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours.

Valentine

In conclusion, I stand affected to her.

Speed

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

Valentine

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

Speed

And have you?

Valentine

I have.

Speed

Are they not lamely writ?

Valentine

No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace! here she comes.

Speed

[Aside] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet!

Now will he interpret to her.

Enter Silvia

Valentine

Madam and mistress, a thousand good-morrows.

Speed

[Aside] O, give ye good even! here’s a million of manners.

Silvia

Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand.

Speed

[Aside] He should give her interest and she gives it him.

Valentine

As you enjoin’d me, I have writ your letter

Unto the secret nameless friend of yours;

Which I was much unwilling to proceed in

But for my duty to your ladyship.

Silvia

I thank you gentle servant: ’tis very clerkly done.

Valentine

Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off;

For being ignorant to whom it goes

I writ at random, very doubtfully.

Silvia

Perchance you think too much of so much pains?

Valentine

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

Please you command, a thousand times as much; And yet —

Silvia

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.

Speed

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

Valentine

What means your ladyship? do you not like it?

Silvia

Yes, yes; the lines are very quaintly writ;

But since unwillingly, take them again.

Nay, take them.

Valentine

Madam, they are for you.

Silvia

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

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

I would have had them writ more movingly.

Valentine

Please you, I’ll write your ladyship another.

Silvia

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

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

Valentine

If it please me, madam, what then?

Silvia

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

And so, good morrow, servant.

Exit

Speed

O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,

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

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

He being her pupil, to become her tutor.

O excellent device! was there ever heard a better,

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

Valentine

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

Speed

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

Valentine

To do what?

Speed

To be a spokesman for Madam Silvia.

Valentine

To whom?

Speed

To yourself: why, she wooes you by a figure.

Valentine

What figure?

Speed

By a letter, I should say.

Valentine

Why, she hath not writ to me?

Speed

What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest?

Valentine

No, believe me.

Speed

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

Valentine

She gave me none, except an angry word.

Speed

Why, she hath given you a letter.

Valentine

That’s the letter I writ to her friend.

Speed

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

Valentine

I would it were no worse.

Speed

I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well:

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

Or else for want of idle 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.

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

Why muse you, sir? ’tis dinner-time.

Valentine

I have dined.

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. JULIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Proteus and Julia

Proteus

Have patience, gentle Julia.

Julia

I must, where is no remedy.

Proteus

When possibly I can, I will return.

Julia

If you turn not, you will return the sooner.

Keep this remembrance for thy Julia’s sake.

Giving a ring

Proteus

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

Julia

And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.

Proteus

Here is my hand for my true constancy;

And when that hour o’erslips me in the day

Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake,

The next ensuing hour some foul mischance

Torment me for my love’s forgetfulness!

My father stays my coming; answer not;

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

That tide will stay me longer than I should.

Julia, farewell!

Exit Julia

What, gone without a word?

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

For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

Enter Panthino

Panthino

Sir Proteus, you are stay’d for.

Proteus

Go; I come, I come.

Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb.

Exeunt

SCENE III. THE SAME. A STREET.

Enter Launce, leading a dog

Launce

Nay, ’twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I have received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial’s court. I think Crab, my dog, be the sourest-natured dog that lives: my mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear: he is a stone, a very pebble stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog: a Jew would have wept to have seen our parting; why, my grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I’ll show you the manner of it. This shoe is my father: no, this left shoe is my father: no, no, this left shoe is my mother: nay, that cannot be so neither: yes, it is so, it is so, it hath the worser sole. This shoe, with the hole in it, is my mother, and this my father; a vengeance on’t! there ’tis: now, sit, this staff is my sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small as a wand: this hat is Nan, our maid: I am the dog: no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog — Oh! the dog is me, and I am myself; ay, so, so. Now come I to my father; Father, your blessing: now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping: now should I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother: O, that she could speak now like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her; why, there ’tis; here’s my mother’s breath up and down. Now come I to my sister; mark the moan she makes. Now the dog all this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears.

Enter Panthino

Panthino

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

Launce

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

Panthino

What’s the unkindest tide?

Launce

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

Panthino

Tut, man, I mean thou’lt lose the flood, and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy master, lose thy service, and, in losing thy service,— Why dost thou stop my mouth?

Launce

For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.

Panthino

Where should I lose my tongue?

Launce

In thy tale.

Panthino

In thy tail!

Launce

Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and the service, and the tied! Why, man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs.

Panthino

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

Launce

Sir, call me what thou darest.

Panthino

Wilt thou go?

Launce

Well, I will go.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. MILAN. THE DUKE’S PALACE.

Enter Silvia, Valentine, Thurio, and Speed

Silvia

Servant!

Valentine

Mistress?

Speed

Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.

Valentine

Ay, boy, it’s for love.

Speed

Not of you.

Valentine

Of my mistress, then.

Speed

’Twere good you knocked him.

Exit

Silvia

Servant, you are sad.

Valentine

Indeed, madam, I seem so.

Thurio

Seem you that you are not?

Valentine

Haply I do.

Thurio

So do counterfeits.

Valentine

So do you.

Thurio

What seem I that I am not?

Valentine

Wise.

Thurio

What instance of the contrary?

Valentine

Your folly.

Thurio

And how quote you my folly?

Valentine

I quote it in your jerkin.

Thurio

My jerkin is a doublet.

Valentine

Well, then, I’ll double your folly.

Thurio

How?

Silvia

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

Valentine

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

Thurio

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

Valentine

You have said, sir.

Thurio

Ay, sir, and done too, for this time.

Valentine

I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin.

Silvia

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

Valentine

’Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver.

Silvia

Who is that, servant?

Valentine

Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship’s looks, and spends what he borrows kindly in your company.

Thurio

Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.

Valentine

I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer of words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers, for it appears by their bare liveries, that they live by your bare words.

Silvia

No more, gentlemen, no more:— here comes my father.

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

Of much good news?

Valentine

My lord, I will be thankful.

To any happy messenger from thence.

Duke

Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman?

Valentine

Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman

To be of worth and worthy estimation

And not without desert so well reputed.

Duke

Hath he not a son?

Valentine

Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves

The honour and regard of such a father.

Duke

You know him well?

Valentine

I know him as myself; for from our infancy

We have conversed and spent our hours together:

And though myself have been an idle truant,

Omitting the sweet benefit of time

To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,

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

Made use and fair advantage of his days;

His years but young, but his experience old;

His head unmellow’d, but his judgment ripe;

And, in a word, for far behind his worth

Comes 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,

He is as worthy for an empress’ love

As meet to be an emperor’s counsellor.

Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me,

With commendation from great potentates;

And here he means to spend his time awhile:

I think ’tis no unwelcome news to you.

Valentine

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

Duke

Welcome him then according to his worth.

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

For Valentine, I need not cite him to it:

I will send him hither to you presently.

Exit

Valentine

This is the gentleman I told your ladyship

Had come along with me, but that his mistress

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

Silvia

Belike that now she hath enfranchised them

Upon some other pawn for fealty.

Valentine

Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still.

Silvia

Nay, then he should be blind; and, being blind

How could he see his way to seek out you?

Valentine

Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes.

Thurio

They say that Love hath not an eye at all.

Valentine

To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself:

Upon a homely object Love can wink.

Silvia

Have done, have done; here comes the gentleman.

Exit Thurio

Enter Proteus

Valentine

Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you,

Confirm his welcome with some special favour.

Silvia

His worth is warrant for his welcome hither,

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

Valentine

Mistress, it is: sweet lady, entertain him

To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.

Silvia

Too low a mistress for so high a servant.

Proteus

Not so, sweet lady: but too mean a servant

To have a look of such a worthy mistress.

Valentine

Leave off discourse of disability:

Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.

Proteus

My duty will I boast of; nothing else.

Silvia

And duty never yet did want his meed:

Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.

Proteus

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

Silvia

That you are welcome?

Proteus

That you are worthless.

Re-enter Thurio

Thurio

Madam, my lord your father would speak with you.

Silvia

I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir Thurio,

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

I’ll leave you to confer of home affairs;

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

Proteus

We’ll both attend upon your ladyship.

Exeunt Silvia and Thurio

Valentine

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

Proteus

Your friends are well and have them much commended.

Valentine

And how do yours?

Proteus

I left them all in health.

Valentine

How does your lady? and how thrives your love?

Proteus

My tales of love were wont to weary you;

I know you joy not in a love discourse.

Valentine

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,

With nightly tears and daily heart-sore sighs;

For in revenge of my contempt of love,

Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes

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

O gentle Proteus, Love’s a mighty lord,

And hath so humbled me, as, I confess,

There is no woe to his correction,

Nor to his service no such joy on earth.

Now no discourse, except it be of love;

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

Upon the very naked name of love.

Proteus

Enough; I read your fortune in your eye.

Was this the idol that you worship so?

Valentine

Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint?

Proteus

No; but she is an earthly paragon.

Valentine

Call her divine.

Proteus

I will not flatter her.

Valentine

O, flatter me; for love delights in praises.

Proteus

When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills,

And I must minister the like to you.

Valentine

Then speak the truth by her; if not divine,

Yet let her be a principality,

Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth.

Proteus

Except my mistress.

Valentine

Sweet, except not any;

Except thou wilt except against my love.

Proteus

Have I not reason to prefer mine own?

Valentine

And I will help thee to prefer her too:

She shall be dignified with this high honour —

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

Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss

And, of so great a favour growing proud,

Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower

And make rough winter everlastingly.

Proteus

Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this?

Valentine

Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing

To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing;

She is alone.

Proteus

Then let her alone.

Valentine

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

And I as rich in having such a jewel

As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar and the rocks pure gold.

Forgive me that I do not dream on thee,

Because thou see’st me dote upon my love.

My foolish rival, that her father likes

Only for his possessions are so huge,

Is gone with her along, and I must after,

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

Proteus

But she loves you?

Valentine

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

With all the cunning manner of our flight,

Determined of; how I must climb her window,

The ladder made of cords, and all the means

Plotted and ‘greed on for my happiness.

Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber,

In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.

Proteus

Go on before; I shall inquire you forth:

I must unto the road, to disembark

Some necessaries that I needs must use,

And then I’ll presently attend you.

Valentine

Will you make haste?

Proteus

I will.

Exit Valentine

Even as one heat another heat expels,

Or as one nail by strength drives out another,

So the remembrance of my former love

Is by a newer object quite forgotten.

Is it mine, or Valentine’s praise,

Her true perfection, or my false transgression,

That makes me reasonless to reason thus?

She is fair; and so is Julia that I love —

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

Which, like a waxen image, ’gainst a fire,

Bears no impression of the thing it was.

Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,

And that I love him not as I was wont.

O, but I love his lady too too much,

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

How shall I dote on her with more advice,

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,

There is no reason but I shall be blind.

If I can cheque my erring love, I will;

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

Exit

SCENE V. THE SAME. A STREET.

Enter Speed and Launce severally

Speed

Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan!

Launce

Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hanged, nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid and the hostess say ‘Welcome!’

Speed

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

Launce

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

Speed

But shall she marry him?

Launce

No.

Speed

How then? shall he marry her?

Launce

No, neither.

Speed

What, are they broken?

Launce

No, they are both as whole as a fish.

Speed

Why, then, how stands the matter with them?

Launce

Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it stands well with her.

Speed

What an ass art thou! I understand thee not.

Launce

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

Speed

What thou sayest?

Launce

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

Speed

It stands under thee, indeed.

Launce

Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one.

Speed

But tell me true, will’t be a match?

Launce

Ask my dog: if he say ay, it will! if he say no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.

Speed

The conclusion is then that it will.

Launce

Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable.

Speed

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

Launce

I never knew him otherwise.

Speed

Than how?

Launce

A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be.

Speed

Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me.

Launce

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

Speed

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

Launce

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

Speed

Why?

Launce

Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go?

Speed

At thy service.

Exeunt

SCENE VI. THE SAME. THE DUKE’S PALACE.

Enter Proteus

Proteus

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

Provokes me to this threefold perjury;

Love bade me swear and Love bids me forswear.

O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinned,

Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it!

At first I did adore a twinkling star,

But now I worship a celestial sun.

Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken,

And he wants wit that wants resolved will

To learn his wit 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;

But there I leave to love where I should love.

Julia I lose and Valentine I lose:

If I keep them, I needs must lose myself;

If I lose them, 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;

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;

And Valentine I’ll hold an enemy,

Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend.

I cannot now prove constant to myself,

Without some treachery used to Valentine.

This night he meaneth with a corded ladder

To climb celestial Silvia’s chamber-window,

Myself in counsel, his competitor.

Now presently I’ll give her father notice

Of their disguising and pretended flight;

Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine;

For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter;

But, Valentine being gone, I’ll quickly cross

By some sly trick blunt Thurio’s dull proceeding.

Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,

As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!

Exit

SCENE VII. VERONA. JULIA’S HOUSE.

Enter Julia and Lucetta

Julia

Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me;

And even in kind love I do conjure thee,

Who art the table wherein all my thoughts

Are visibly character’d and engraved,

To lesson me and tell me some good mean

How, with my honour, I may undertake

A journey to my loving Proteus.

Lucetta

Alas, the way is wearisome and long!

Julia

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,

Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.

Lucetta

Better forbear till Proteus make return.

Julia

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

Pity the dearth that I have pined in,

By longing for that food so long a time.

Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,

Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow

As seek to quench the fire of love with words.

Lucetta

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.

Julia

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

The current that with gentle murmur glides,

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

But when his fair course is not hindered,

He makes sweet music with the enamell’ed stones,

Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge

He overtaketh in his pilgrimage,

And so by many winding nooks he strays

With willing sport to the wild ocean.

Then let me go and hinder not my course

I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream

And make a pastime of each weary step,

Till the last step have brought me to my love;

And there I’ll rest, as after much turmoil

A blessed soul doth in Elysium.

Lucetta

But in what habit will you go along?

Julia

Not like a woman; for I would prevent

The loose encounters of lascivious men:

Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds

As may beseem some well-reputed page.

Lucetta

Why, then, your ladyship must cut your hair.

Julia

No, girl, I’ll knit it up in silken strings

With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots.

To be fantastic may become a youth

Of greater time than I shall show to be.

Lucetta

What fashion, madam shall I make your breeches?

Julia

That fits as well as ‘Tell me, good my lord,

What compass will you wear your farthingale?’

Why even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta.

Lucetta

You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam.

Julia

Out, out, Lucetta! that would be ill-favour’d.

Lucetta

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

Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.

Julia

Lucetta, as thou lovest me, let me have

What thou thinkest meet and is most mannerly.

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

For undertaking so unstaid a journey?

I fear me, it will make me scandalized.

Lucetta

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

Julia

Nay, that I will not.

Lucetta

Then never dream on infamy, but go.

If Proteus like your journey when you come,

No matter who’s displeased when you are gone:

I fear me, he will scarce be pleased withal.

Julia

That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear:

A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears

And instances of infinite of love

Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.

Lucetta

All these are servants to deceitful men.

Julia

Base men, that use them to so base effect!

But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth

His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,

His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate,

His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,

His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.

Lucetta

Pray heaven he prove so, when you come to him!

Julia

Now, as thou lovest me, do him not that wrong

To bear a hard opinion of his truth:

Only deserve my love by loving him;

And presently go with me to my chamber,

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

To furnish me upon my longing journey.

All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,

My goods, my lands, my reputation;

Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.

Come, answer not, but to it presently!

I am impatient of my tarriance.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. MILAN. 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?

Proteus

My gracious lord, that which I would discover

The law of friendship bids me to conceal;

But when I call to mind your gracious favours

Done to me, undeserving as I am,

My duty pricks me on to utter that

Which else no worldly good should draw from me.

Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend,

This night intends to steal away your daughter:

Myself am one made privy to the plot.

I know you have determined to bestow her

On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates;

And should she thus be stol’n away from you,

It would be much vexation to your age.

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

To cross my friend in his intended drift

Than, by concealing it, heap on your head

A pack of sorrows which would press you down,

Being unprevented, to your timeless grave.

Duke

Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care;

Which to requite, command me while I live.

This love of theirs myself have often seen,

Haply when they have judged me fast asleep,

And oftentimes have purposed to forbid

Sir Valentine her company and my court:

But fearing lest my jealous aim might err

And so unworthily disgrace the man,

A rashness that I ever yet have shunn’d,

I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find

That which thyself hast now disclosed to me.

And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this,

Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested,

I nightly lodge her in an upper tower,

The key whereof myself have ever kept;

And thence she cannot be convey’d away.

Proteus

Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean

How he her chamber-window will ascend

And with a corded ladder fetch her down;

For which the youthful lover now is gone

And this way comes he with it presently;

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

But, good my Lord, do it so cunningly

That my discovery be not aimed at;

For love of you, not hate unto my friend,

Hath made me publisher of this pretence.

Duke

Upon mine honour, he shall never know

That I had any light from thee of this.

Proteus

Adieu, my Lord; Sir Valentine is coming.

Exit

Enter Valentine

Duke

Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?

Valentine

Please it your grace, there is a messenger

That stays to bear my letters to my friends,

And I am going to deliver them.

Duke

Be they of much import?

Valentine

The tenor of them doth but signify

My health and happy being at your court.

Duke

Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile;

I am to break with thee of some affairs

That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret.

’Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought

To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.

Valentine

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

Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman

Is full of virtue, bounty, worth and qualities

Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter:

Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him?

Duke

No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, froward,

Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty,

Neither regarding that she is my child

Nor fearing me as if I were her father;

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

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 resolved to take a wife

And turn her out to who will take her in:

Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower;

For me and my possessions she esteems not.

Valentine

What would your Grace have me to do in this?

Duke

There is a lady in 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;

Besides, the fashion of the time is changed —

How and which way I may bestow myself

To be regarded in her sun-bright eye.

Valentine

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.

Valentine

A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her.

Send her another; never give her o’er;

For scorn at first makes after-love the more.

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

But rather to beget more love in you:

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

For why, the fools are mad, if left alone.

Take no repulse, whatever she doth say;

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

Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces;

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

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

If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

Duke

But she I mean is promised by her friends

Unto a youthful gentleman of worth,

And kept severely from resort of men,

That no man hath access by day to her.

Valentine

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.

Valentine

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.

Valentine

Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords,

To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks,

Would serve to scale another Hero’s tower,

So bold Leander would adventure it.

Duke

Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood,

Advise me where I may have such a ladder.

Valentine

When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me that.

Duke

This very night; for Love is like a child,

That longs for every thing that he can come by.

Valentine

By seven o’clock I’ll get you such a ladder.

Duke

But, hark thee; I will go to her alone:

How shall I best convey the ladder thither?

Valentine

It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it

Under a cloak that is of any length.

Duke

A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn?

Valentine

Ay, my good lord.

Duke

Then let me see thy cloak:

I’ll get me one of such another length.

Valentine

Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord.

Duke

How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak?

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

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

And here an engine fit for my proceeding.

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

Reads

‘My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly,

And slaves they are to me that send them flying:

O, could their master come and go as lightly,

Himself would lodge where senseless they are lying!

My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them:

While I, their king, that hither them importune,

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

Because myself do want my servants’ fortune:

I curse myself, for they are sent by me,

That they should harbour where their lord would be.’

What’s here?

‘Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.’

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

Why, Phaeton,— 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?

Go, base intruder! overweening slave!

Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates,

And think my patience, more than thy desert,

Is privilege for thy departure hence:

Thank me for this more than for all the favours

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

But if thou linger in my territories

Longer than swiftest expedition

Will give thee time to leave our royal court,

By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love

I ever bore my daughter or thyself.

Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse;

But, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from hence.

Exit

Valentine

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

Is self from self: a deadly banishment!

What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?

What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?

Unless it be to think that she is by

And feed upon the shadow of perfection

Except I be by Silvia in the night,

There is no music in the nightingale;

Unless I look on Silvia in the day,

There is no day for me to look upon;

She is my essence, and I leave to be,

If I be not by her fair influence

Foster’d, illumined, cherish’d, kept alive.

I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom:

Tarry I here, I but attend on death:

But, fly I hence, I fly away from life.

Enter Proteus and Launce

Proteus

Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out.

Launce

Soho, soho!

Proteus

What seest thou?

Launce

Him we go to find: there’s not a hair on’s head but ’tis a Valentine.

Proteus

Valentine?

Valentine

No.

Proteus

Who then? his spirit?

Valentine

Neither.

Proteus

What then?

Valentine

Nothing.

Launce

Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike?

Proteus

Who wouldst thou strike?

Launce

Nothing.

Proteus

Villain, forbear.

Launce

Why, sir, I’ll strike nothing: I pray you,—

Proteus

Sirrah, I say, forbear. Friend Valentine, a word.

Valentine

My ears are stopt and cannot hear good news,

So much of bad already hath possess’d them.

Proteus

Then in dumb silence will I bury mine,

For they are harsh, untuneable and bad.

Valentine

Is Silvia dead?

Proteus

No, Valentine.

Valentine

No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia.

Hath she forsworn me?

Proteus

No, Valentine.

Valentine

No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me.

What is your news?

Launce

Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished.

Proteus

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

From hence, from Silvia and from me thy friend.

Valentine

O, I have fed upon this woe already,

And now excess of it will make me surfeit.

Doth Silvia know that I am banished?

Proteus

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

Which, unreversed, stands in effectual force —

A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears:

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

With them, upon her knees, her humble self;

Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them

As if but now they waxed pale for woe:

But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,

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

Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire;

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

Besides, her intercession chafed him so,

When she for thy repeal was suppliant,

That to close prison he commanded her,

With many bitter threats of biding there.

Valentine

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

Have some malignant power upon my life:

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

As ending anthem of my endless dolour.

Proteus

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,

And study help for that which thou lament’st.

Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.

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

Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life.

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

And manage it against despairing thoughts.

Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence;

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

Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.

The time now serves not to expostulate:

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

And, ere I part with thee, confer at large

Of all that may concern thy love-affairs.

As thou lovest Silvia, though not for thyself,

Regard thy danger, and along with me!

Valentine

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

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

Proteus

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

Valentine

O my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine!

Exeunt Valentine and Proteus

Launce

I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have the wit to think my master is a kind of a knave: but that’s all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love; yet I am in love; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me; nor who ’tis I love; and yet ’tis a woman; but what woman, I will not tell myself; and yet ’tis a milkmaid; yet ’tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet ’tis a maid, for she is her master’s maid, and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel; which is much in a bare Christian.

Pulling out a paper

Here is the cate-log of her condition. ‘Imprimis: She can fetch and carry.’ Why, a horse can do no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a jade. ‘Item: She can milk;’ look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands.

Enter Speed

Speed

How now, Signior Launce! what news with your mastership?

Launce

With my master’s ship? why, it is at sea.

Speed

Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. What news, then, in your paper?

Launce

The blackest news that ever thou heardest.

Speed

Why, man, how black?

Launce

Why, as black as ink.

Speed

Let me read them.

Launce

Fie on thee, jolt-head! thou canst not read.

Speed

Thou liest; I can.

Launce

I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee?

Speed

Marry, the son of my grandfather.

Launce

O illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy grandmother: this proves that thou canst not read.

Speed

Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper.

Launce

There; and St. Nicholas be thy speed!

Speed

[Reads] ‘Imprimis: She can milk.’

Launce

Ay, that she can.

Speed

‘Item: She brews good ale.’

Launce

And thereof comes the proverb: ‘Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale.’

Speed

‘Item: She can sew.’

Launce

That’s as much as to say, Can she so?

Speed

‘Item: She can knit.’

Launce

What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock?

Speed

‘Item: She can wash and scour.’

Launce

A special virtue: for then she need not be washed and scoured.

Speed

‘Item: She can spin.’

Launce

Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living.

Speed

‘Item: She hath many nameless virtues.’

Launce

That’s as much as to say, bastard virtues; that, indeed, know not their fathers and therefore have no names.

Speed

‘Here follow her vices.’

Launce

Close at the heels of her virtues.

Speed

‘Item: She is not to be kissed fasting in respect of her breath.’

Launce

Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on.

Speed

‘Item: She hath a sweet mouth.’

Launce

That makes amends for her sour breath.

Speed

‘Item: She doth talk in her sleep.’

Launce

It’s no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk.

Speed

‘Item: She is slow in words.’

Launce

O villain, that set this down among her vices! To be slow in words is a woman’s only virtue: I pray thee, out with’t, and place it for her chief virtue.

Speed

‘Item: She is proud.’

Launce

Out with that too; it was Eve’s legacy, and cannot be ta’en from her.

Speed

‘Item: She hath no teeth.’

Launce

I care not for that neither, because I love crusts.

Speed

‘Item: She is curst.’

Launce

Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite.

Speed

‘Item: She will often praise her liquor.’

Launce

If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, I will; for good things should be praised.

Speed

‘Item: She is too liberal.’

Launce

Of her tongue she cannot, for that’s writ down she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I’ll keep shut: now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed.

Speed

‘Item: She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.’

Launce

Stop there; I’ll have her: she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more.

Speed

‘Item: She hath more hair than wit,’—

Launce

More hair than wit? It may be; I’ll prove it. The cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What’s next?

Speed

‘And more faults than hairs,’—

Launce

That’s monstrous: O, that that were out!

Speed

‘And more wealth than faults.’

Launce

Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I’ll have her; and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible,—

Speed

What then?

Launce

Why, then will I tell thee — that thy master stays for thee at the North-gate.

Speed

For me?

Launce

For thee! ay, who art thou? he hath stayed for a better man than thee.

Speed

And must I go to him?

Launce

Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn.

Speed

Why didst not tell me sooner? pox of your love letters!

Exit

Launce

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

Exit

SCENE II. THE SAME. 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.

Thurio

Since his exile she hath despised me most,

Forsworn my company and rail’d at me,

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.

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?

Proteus

Gone, my good lord.

Duke

My daughter takes his going grievously.

Proteus

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

Duke

So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so.

Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee —

For thou hast shown some sign of good desert —

Makes me the better to confer with thee.

Proteus

Longer than I prove loyal to your grace

Let me not live to look upon your grace.

Duke

Thou know’st how willingly I would effect

The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter.

Proteus

I do, my lord.

Duke

And also, I think, thou art not ignorant

How she opposes her against my will

Proteus

She did, my lord, when Valentine was here.

Duke

Ay, and perversely she persevers so.

What might we do to make the girl forget

The love of Valentine and love Sir Thurio?

Proteus

The best way is to slander Valentine

With falsehood, cowardice and poor descent,

Three things that women highly hold in hate.

Duke

Ay, but she’ll think that it is spoke in hate.

Proteus

Ay, if his enemy deliver it:

Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken

By one whom she esteemeth as his friend.

Duke

Then you must undertake to slander him.

Proteus

And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do:

’Tis an ill office for a gentleman,

Especially against his very friend.

Duke

Where your good word cannot advantage him,

Your slander never can endamage him;

Therefore the office is indifferent,

Being entreated to it by your friend.

Proteus

You have prevail’d, my lord; if I can do it

By ought that I can speak in his dispraise,

She shall not long continue love to him.

But say this weed her love from Valentine,

It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio.

Thurio

Therefore, as you unwind her love from him,

Lest it should ravel and be good to none,

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,

Because we know, on Valentine’s report,

You are already Love’s firm votary

And cannot soon revolt and change your mind.

Upon this warrant shall you have access

Where you with Silvia may confer at large;

For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy,

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

Where you may temper her by your persuasion

To hate young Valentine and love my friend.

Proteus

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

By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes

Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows.

Duke

Ay,

Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.

Proteus

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

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

Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands.

After your dire-lamenting elegies,

Visit by night your lady’s chamber-window

With some sweet concert; 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.

Thurio

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

Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver,

Let us into the city presently

To sort some gentlemen well skill’d in music.

I have a sonnet that will serve the turn

To give the onset to thy good advice.

Duke

About it, gentlemen!

Proteus

We’ll wait upon your grace till after supper,

And afterward determine our proceedings.

Duke

Even now about it! I will pardon you.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. THE FRONTIERS OF MANTUA. A FOREST.

Enter certain Outlaws

First Outlaw

Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger.

Second Outlaw

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

Enter Valentine and Speed

Third Outlaw

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

If not: we’ll make you sit and rifle you.

Speed

Sir, we are undone; these are the villains

That all the travellers do fear so much.

Valentine

My friends,—

First Outlaw

That’s not so, sir: we are your enemies.

Second Outlaw

Peace! we’ll hear him.

Third Outlaw

Ay, by my beard, will we, for he’s a proper man.

Valentine

Then know that I have little wealth to lose:

A man I am cross’d with adversity;

My riches are these poor habiliments,

Of which if you should here disfurnish me,

You take the sum and substance that I have.

Second Outlaw

Whither travel you?

Valentine

To Verona.

First Outlaw

Whence came you?

Valentine

From Milan.

Third Outlaw

Have you long sojourned there?

Valentine

Some sixteen months, and longer might have stay’d,

If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.

First Outlaw

What, were you banish’d thence?

Valentine

I was.

Second Outlaw

For what offence?

Valentine

For that which now torments me to rehearse:

I kill’d a man, whose death I much repent;

Bu t yet I slew him manfully in fight,

Without false vantage or base treachery.

First Outlaw

Why, ne’er repent it, if it were done so.

But were you banish’d for so small a fault?

Valentine

I was, and held me glad of such a doom.

Second Outlaw

Have you the tongues?

Valentine

My youthful travel therein made me happy,

Or else I often had been miserable.

Third Outlaw

By the bare scalp of Robin Hood’s fat friar,

This fellow were a king for our wild faction!

First Outlaw

We’ll have him. Sirs, a word.

Speed

Master, be one of them; it’s an honourable kind of thievery.

Valentine

Peace, villain!

Second Outlaw

Tell us this: have you any thing to take to?

Valentine

Nothing but my fortune.

Third Outlaw

Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen,

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,

An heir, and near allied unto the duke.

Second Outlaw

And I from Mantua, for a gentleman,

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

First Outlaw

And I for such like petty crimes as these,

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

A linguist and a man of such perfection

As we do in our quality much want —

Second Outlaw

Indeed, because you are a banish’d man,

Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you:

Are you content to be our general?

To make a virtue of necessity

And live, as we do, in this wilderness?

Third Outlaw

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

Say ay, and be the captain of us all:

We’ll do thee homage and be ruled by thee,

Love thee as our commander and our king.

First Outlaw

But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest.

Second Outlaw

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

Valentine

I take your offer and will live with you,

Provided that you do no outrages

On silly women or poor passengers.

Third Outlaw

No, we detest such vile base practises.

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.

Exeunt

SCENE II. MILAN. OUTSIDE THE DUKE’S PALACE, UNDER SILVIA’S CHAMBER.

Enter Proteus

Proteus

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:

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;

When to her beauty I commend my vows,

She bids me think how I have been forsworn

In breaking faith with Julia whom I loved:

And notwithstanding all her sudden quips,

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,

And give some evening music to her ear.

Enter Thurio and Musicians

Thurio

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

Proteus

Ay, gentle Thurio: for you know that love

Will creep in service where it cannot go.

Thurio

Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here.

Proteus

Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence.

Thurio

Who? Silvia?

Proteus

Ay, Silvia; for your sake.

Thurio

I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen,

Let’s tune, and to it lustily awhile.

Enter, at a distance, Host, and Julia in boy’s clothes

Host

Now, my young guest, methinks you’re allycholly: I pray you, why is it?

Julia

Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry.

Host

Come, we’ll have you merry: I’ll bring you where you shall hear music and see the gentleman that you asked for.

Julia

But shall I hear him speak?

Host

Ay, that you shall.

Julia

That will be music.

Music plays

Host

Hark, hark!

Julia

Is he among these?

Host

Ay: but, peace! let’s hear ’em.

Song.

Who is Silvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her,

That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness.

Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness,

And, being help’d, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,

That Silvia is excelling;

She excels each mortal thing

Upon the dull earth dwelling:

To her let us garlands bring.

Host

How now! are you sadder than you were before? How do you, man? the music likes you not.

Julia

You mistake; the musician likes me not.

Host

Why, my pretty youth?

Julia

He plays false, father.

Host

How? out of tune on the strings?

Julia

Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heart-strings.

Host

You have a quick ear.

Julia

Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart.

Host

I perceive you delight not in music.

Julia

Not a whit, when it jars so.

Host

Hark, what fine change is in the music!

Julia

Ay, that change is the spite.

Host

You would have them always play but one thing?

Julia

I would always have one play but one thing.

But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on

Often resort unto this gentlewoman?

Host

I tell you what Launce, his man, told me: he loved her out of all nick.

Julia

Where is Launce?

Host

Gone to seek his dog; which tomorrow, by his master’s command, he must carry for a present to his lady.

Julia

Peace! stand aside: the company parts.

Proteus

Sir Thurio, fear not you: I will so plead

That you shall say my cunning drift excels.

Thurio

Where meet we?

Proteus

At Saint Gregory’s well.

Thurio

Farewell.

Exeunt Thurio and Musicians

Enter Silvia above

Proteus

Madam, good even to your ladyship.

Silvia

I thank you for your music, gentlemen.

Who is that that spake?

Proteus

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

You would quickly learn to know him by his voice.

Silvia

Sir Proteus, as I take it.

Proteus

Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.

Silvia

What’s your will?

Proteus

That I may compass yours.

Silvia

You have your wish; my will is even this:

That presently you hie you home to bed.

Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man!

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

To be seduced by thy flattery,

That hast deceived so many with thy vows?

Return, return, and make thy love amends.

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

I am so far from granting thy request

That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit,

And by and by intend to chide myself

Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.

Proteus

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

But she is dead.

Julia

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

For I am sure she is not buried.

Silvia

Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend

Survives; to whom, thyself art witness,

I am betroth’d: and art thou not ashamed

To wrong him with thy importunacy?

Proteus

I likewise hear that Valentine is dead.

Silvia

And so suppose am I; for in his grave

Assure thyself my love is buried.

Proteus

Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.

Silvia

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

Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine.

Julia

[Aside] He heard not that.

Proteus

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.

Julia

[Aside] If ’twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it, And make it but a shadow, as I am.

Silvia

I am very loath to be your idol, sir;

But since your falsehood shall become you well

To worship shadows and adore false shapes,

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

And so, good rest.

Proteus

As wretches have o’ernight

That wait for execution in the morn.

Exeunt Proteus and Silvia severally

Julia

Host, will you go?

Host

By my halidom, I was fast asleep.

Julia

Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus?

Host

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

Julia

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

Eglamour

This is the hour that Madam Silvia

Entreated me to call and know her mind:

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

Madam, madam!

Enter Silvia above

Silvia

Who calls?

Eglamour

Your servant and your friend;

One that attends your ladyship’s command.

Silvia

Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow.

Eglamour

As many, worthy lady, to yourself:

According to your ladyship’s impose,

I am thus early come to know what service

It is your pleasure to command me in.

Silvia

O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman —

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

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

Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors.

Thyself hast loved; and I have heard thee say

No grief did ever come so near thy heart

As when thy lady and thy true love died,

Upon whose grave thou vow’dst pure chastity.

Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine,

To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode;

And, for the ways are dangerous to pass,

I do desire thy worthy company,

Upon whose faith and honour I repose.

Urge not my father’s anger, Eglamour,

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

And on the justice of my flying hence,

To keep me from a most unholy match,

Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues.

I do desire thee, even from a heart

As full of sorrows as the sea of sands,

To bear me company and go with me:

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

That I may venture to depart alone.

Eglamour

Madam, I pity much your grievances;

Which since I know they virtuously are placed,

I give consent to go along with you,

Recking as little what betideth me

As much I wish all good befortune you.

When will you go?

Silvia

This evening coming.

Eglamour

Where shall I meet you?

Silvia

At Friar Patrick’s cell,

Where I intend holy confession.

Eglamour

I will not fail your ladyship. Good morrow, gentle lady.

Silvia

Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour.

Exeunt severally

SCENE IV. THE SAME.

Enter Launce, with his 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 I would teach a dog.’ I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master; and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber but he steps me to her trencher 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 gentlemanlike 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?

Enter Proteus and Julia

Proteus

Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well

And will employ thee in some service presently.

Julia

In what you please: I’ll do what I can.

Proteus

I hope thou wilt.

To Launce

How now, you whoreson peasant!

Where have you been these two days loitering?

Launce

Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me.

Proteus

And what says she to my little jewel?

Launce

Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells you currish thanks is good enough for such a present.

Proteus

But she received my dog?

Launce

No, indeed, did she not: here have I brought him back again.

Proteus

What, didst thou offer her this from me?

Launce

Ay, sir: the other squirrel was stolen from me by the hangman boys in the market-place: and then I offered her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the greater.

Proteus

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?

Exit Launce

A slave, that still an end turns me to shame!

Sebastian, I have entertained thee,

Partly that I have need of such a youth

That can with some discretion do my business,

For ’tis no trusting to yond foolish lout,

But chiefly for thy face and thy behavior,

Which, if my augury deceive me not,

Witness good bringing up, fortune and truth:

Therefore know thou, for this I entertain thee.

Go presently and take this ring with thee,

Deliver it to Madam Silvia:

She loved me well deliver’d it to me.

Julia

It seems you loved not her, to leave her token.

She is dead, belike?

Proteus

Not so; I think she lives.

Julia

Alas!

Proteus

Why dost thou cry ‘alas’?

Julia

I cannot choose

But pity her.

Proteus

Wherefore shouldst thou pity her?

Julia

Because methinks that she loved you as well

As you do love your lady Silvia:

She dreams of him that has forgot her love;

You dote on her that cares not for your love.

’Tis pity love should be so contrary;

And thinking of it makes me cry ‘alas!’

Proteus

Well, give her that ring and therewithal

This letter. That’s her chamber. Tell my lady

I claim the promise for her heavenly picture.

Your message done, hie home unto my chamber,

Where thou shalt find me, sad and solitary.

Exit

Julia

How many women would do such a message?

Alas, poor Proteus! thou hast entertain’d

A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs.

Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him

That with his very heart despiseth me?

Because he loves her, he despiseth me;

Because I love him I must pity him.

This ring I gave him when he parted from me,

To bind him to remember my good will;

And now am I, unhappy messenger,

To plead for that which I would not obtain,

To carry that which I would have refused,

To praise his faith which I would have dispraised.

I am my master’s true-confirmed love;

But cannot be true servant to my master,

Unless I prove false traitor to myself.

Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly

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

Enter Silvia, attended

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

To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia.

Silvia

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

Julia

If you be she, I do entreat your patience

To hear me speak the message I am sent on.

Silvia

From whom?

Julia

From my master, Sir Proteus, madam.

Silvia

O, he sends you for a picture.

Julia

Ay, madam.

Silvia

Ursula, bring my picture here.

Go give your master this: tell him from me,

One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget,

Would better fit his chamber than this shadow.

Julia

Madam, please you peruse this letter.—

Pardon me, madam; I have unadvised

Deliver’d you a paper that I should not:

This is the letter to your ladyship.

Silvia

I pray thee, let me look on that again.

Julia

It may not be; good madam, pardon me.

Silvia

There, hold!

I will not look upon your master’s lines:

I know they are stuff’d with protestations

And full of new-found oaths; which he will break

As easily as I do tear his paper.

Julia

Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring.

Silvia

The more shame for him that he sends it me;

For I have heard him say a thousand times

His Julia gave it him at his departure.

Though his false finger have profaned the ring,

Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong.

Julia

She thanks you.

Silvia

What say’st thou?

Julia

I thank you, madam, that you tender her.

Poor gentlewoman! my master wrongs her much.

Silvia

Dost thou know her?

Julia

Almost as well as I do know myself:

To think upon her woes I do protest

That I have wept a hundred several times.

Silvia

Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her.

Julia

I think she doth; and that’s her cause of sorrow.

Silvia

Is she not passing fair?

Julia

She hath been fairer, madam, than she is:

When she did think my master loved her well,

She, in my judgment, was as fair as you:

But since she did neglect her looking-glass

And threw her sun-expelling mask away,

The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks

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

That now she is become as black as I.

Silvia

How tall was she?

Julia

About my stature; for at Pentecost,

When all our pageants of delight were play’d,

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

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

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

As if the garment had been made for me:

Therefore I know she is about my height.

And at that time I made her weep agood,

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

That my poor mistress, moved therewithal,

Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead

If I in thought felt not her very sorrow!

Silvia

She is beholding to thee, gentle youth.

Alas, poor lady, desolate and left!

I weep myself to think upon thy words.

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

For thy sweet mistress’ sake, because thou lovest her.

Farewell.

Exit Silvia, with attendants

Julia

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

A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful

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

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

Were full as lovely as is this of hers:

And yet the painter flatter’d her a little,

Unless I flatter with myself too much.

Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow:

If that be all the difference in his love,

I’ll get me such a colour’d periwig.

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

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,

Thou shalt be worshipp’d, kiss’d, loved and adored!

And, were there sense in his idolatry,

My substance should be statue in thy stead.

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

That used me so; or else, by Jove I vow,

I should have scratch’d out your unseeing eyes

To make my master out of love with thee!

Exit

ACT V

SCENE I. MILAN. AN ABBEY.

Enter Eglamour

Eglamour

The sun begins to gild the western sky;

And now it is about the very hour

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

She will not fail, for lovers break not hours,

Unless it be to come before their time;

So much they spur their expedition.

See where she comes.

Enter Silvia

Lady, a happy evening!

Silvia

Amen, amen! Go on, good Eglamour,

Out at the postern by the abbey-wall:

I fear I am attended by some spies.

Eglamour

Fear not: the forest is not three leagues off;

If we recover that, we are sure enough.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME. THE DUKE’S PALACE.

Enter Thurio, Proteus, and Julia

Thurio

Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit?

Proteus

O, sir, I find her milder than she was;

And yet she takes exceptions at your person.

Thurio

What, that my leg is too long?

Proteus

No; that it is too little.

Thurio

I’ll wear a boot, to make it somewhat rounder.

Julia

[Aside] But love will not be spurr’d to what it loathes.

Thurio

What says she to my face?

Proteus

She says it is a fair one.

Thurio

Nay then, the wanton lies; my face is black.

Proteus

But pearls are fair; and the old saying is,

Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes.

Julia

[Aside] ’Tis true; such pearls as put out ladies’ eyes; For I had rather wink than look on them.

Thurio

How likes she my discourse?

Proteus

Ill, when you talk of war.

Thurio

But well, when I discourse of love and peace?

Julia

[Aside] But better, indeed, when you hold your peace.

Thurio

What says she to my valour?

Proteus

O, sir, she makes no doubt of that.

Julia

[Aside] She needs not, when she knows it cowardice.

Thurio

What says she to my birth?

Proteus

That you are well derived.

Julia

[Aside] True; from a gentleman to a fool.

Thurio

Considers she my possessions?

Proteus

O, ay; and pities them.

Thurio

Wherefore?

Julia

[Aside] That such an ass should owe them.

Proteus

That they are out by lease.

Julia

Here comes the duke.

Enter Duke

Duke

How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio!

Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late?

Thurio

Not I.

Proteus

Nor I.

Duke

Saw you my daughter?

Proteus

Neither.

Duke

Why then,

She’s fled unto that peasant Valentine;

And Eglamour is in her company.

’Tis true; for Friar Laurence met them both,

As he in penance wander’d through the forest;

Him he knew well, and guess’d that it was she,

But, being mask’d, he was not sure of it;

Besides, she did intend confession

At Patrick’s cell this even; and there she was not;

These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence.

Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse,

But mount you presently and meet with me

Upon the rising of the mountain-foot

That leads towards Mantua, whither they are fled:

Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me.

Exit

Thurio

Why, this it is to be a peevish girl,

That flies her fortune when it follows her.

I’ll after, more to be revenged on Eglamour

Than for the love of reckless Silvia.

Exit

Proteus

And I will follow, more for Silvia’s love

Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her.

Exit

Julia

And I will follow, more to cross that love

Than hate for Silvia that is gone for love.

Exit

SCENE III. THE FRONTIERS OF MANTUA. THE FOREST.

Enter Outlaws with Silvia

First Outlaw

Come, come,

Be patient; we must bring you to our captain.

Silvia

A thousand more mischances than this one

Have learn’d me how to brook this patiently.

Second Outlaw

Come, bring her away.

First Outlaw

Where is the gentleman that was with her?

Third Outlaw

Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us,

But Moyses and Valerius follow him.

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.

First Outlaw

Come, I must bring you to our captain’s cave:

Fear not; he bears an honourable mind,

And will not use a woman lawlessly.

Silvia

O Valentine, this I endure for thee!

Exeunt

SCENE IV. ANOTHER PART OF THE FOREST.

Enter Valentine

Valentine

How use doth breed a habit in a man!

This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,

I better brook than flourishing peopled towns:

Here can I sit alone, unseen of any,

And to the nightingale’s complaining notes

Tune my distresses and record my woes.

O thou that dost inhabit in my breast,

Leave not the mansion so long tenantless,

Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall

And leave no memory of what it was!

Repair me with thy presence, Silvia;

Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain!

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

To keep them from uncivil outrages.

Withdraw thee, Valentine: who’s this comes here?

Enter Proteus, Silvia, and Julia

Proteus

Madam, this service I have done for you,

Though you respect not aught your servant doth,

To hazard life and rescue you from him

That would have forced your honour and your love;

Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look;

A smaller boon than this I cannot beg

And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give.

Valentine

[Aside] How like a dream is this I see and hear!

Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile.

Silvia

O miserable, unhappy that I am!

Proteus

Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came;

But by my coming I have made you happy.

Silvia

By thy approach thou makest me most unhappy.

Julia

[Aside] And me, when he approacheth to your presence.

Silvia

Had I been seized by a hungry lion,

I would have been a breakfast to the beast,

Rather than have false Proteus rescue me.

O, Heaven be judge how I love Valentine,

Whose life’s as tender to me as my soul!

And full as much, for more there cannot be,

I do detest false perjured Proteus.

Therefore be gone; solicit me no more.

Proteus

What dangerous action, stood it next to death,

Would I not undergo for one calm look!

O, ’tis the curse in love, and still approved,

When women cannot love where they’re beloved!

Silvia

When Proteus cannot love where he’s beloved.

Read over Julia’s heart, thy first best love,

For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith

Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths

Descended into perjury, to love me.

Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou’dst two;

And that’s far worse than none; better have none

Than plural faith which is too much by one:

Thou counterfeit to thy true friend!

Proteus

In love

Who respects friend?

Silvia

All men but Proteus.

Proteus

Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words

Can no way change you to a milder form,

I’ll woo you like a soldier, at arms’ end,

And love you ’gainst the nature of love,— force ye.

Silvia

O heaven!

Proteus

I’ll force thee yield to my desire.

Valentine

Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch,

Thou friend of an ill fashion!

Proteus

Valentine!

Valentine

Thou common friend, that’s without faith or love,

For such is a friend now; treacherous man!

Thou hast beguiled my hopes; nought but mine eye

Could have persuaded me: now I dare not say

I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me.

Who should be trusted, when one’s own right hand

Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus,

I am sorry I must never trust thee more,

But count the world a stranger for thy sake.

The private wound is deepest: O time most accurst,

’Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!

Proteus

My shame and guilt confounds me.

Forgive me, Valentine: if hearty sorrow

Be a sufficient ransom for offence,

I tender ’t here; I do as truly suffer

As e’er I did commit.

Valentine

Then I am paid;

And once again I do receive thee honest.

Who by repentance is not satisfied

Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased.

By penitence the Eternal’s wrath’s appeased:

And, that my love may appear plain and free,

All that was mine in Silvia I give thee.

Julia

O me unhappy!

Swoons

Proteus

Look to the boy.

Valentine

Why, boy! why, wag! how now! what’s the matter?

Look up; speak.

Julia

O good sir, my master charged me to deliver a ring to Madam Silvia, which, out of my neglect, was never done.

Proteus

Where is that ring, boy?

Julia

Here ’tis; this is it.

Proteus

How! let me see:

Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia.

Julia

O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook:

This is the ring you sent to Silvia.

Proteus

But how camest thou by this ring? At my depart

I gave this unto Julia.

Julia

And Julia herself did give it me;

And Julia herself hath brought it hither.

Proteus

How! Julia!

Julia

Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths,

And entertain’d ’em deeply in her heart.

How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!

O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush!

Be thou ashamed that I have took upon me

Such an immodest raiment, if shame live

In a disguise of love:

It is the lesser blot, modesty finds,

Women to change their shapes than men their minds.

Proteus

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:

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?

Valentine

Come, come, a hand from either:

Let me be blest to make this happy close;

’Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.

Proteus

Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for ever.

Julia

And I mine.

Enter Outlaws, with Duke and Thurio

Outlaws

A prize, a prize, a prize!

Valentine

Forbear, forbear, I say! it is my lord the duke.

Your grace is welcome to a man disgraced,

Banished Valentine.

Duke

Sir Valentine!

Thurio

Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia’s mine.

Valentine

Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death;

Come not within the measure of my wrath;

Do not name Silvia thine; if once again,

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.

Thurio

Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I;

I hold him but a fool that will endanger

His body for a girl that loves him not:

I claim her not, and therefore she is thine.

Duke

The more degenerate and base art thou,

To make such means for her as thou hast done

And leave her on such slight conditions.

Now, by the honour of my ancestry,

I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine,

And think thee worthy of an empress’ love:

Know then, I here forget all former griefs,

Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again,

Plead a new state in thy unrivall’d merit,

To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine,

Thou art a gentleman and well derived;

Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her.

Valentine

I thank your grace; the gift hath made me happy.

I now beseech you, for your daughter’s sake,

To grant one boom that I shall ask of you.

Duke

I grant it, for thine own, whate’er it be.

Valentine

These banish’d men that I have kept withal

Are men endued with worthy qualities:

Forgive them what they have committed here

And let them be recall’d from their exile:

They are reformed, civil, full of good

And fit for great employment, worthy lord.

Duke

Thou hast prevail’d; I pardon them and thee:

Dispose of them as thou know’st their deserts.

Come, let us go: we will include all jars

With triumphs, mirth and rare solemnity.

Valentine

And, as we walk along, I dare be bold

With our discourse to make your grace to smile.

What think you of this page, my lord?

Duke

I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes.

Valentine

I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy.

Duke

What mean you by that saying?

Valentine

Please you, I’ll tell you as we pass along,

That you will wonder what hath fortuned.

Come, Proteus; ’tis your penance but to hear

The story of your loves discovered:

That done, our day of marriage shall be yours;

One feast, one house, one mutual happiness.

Exeunt

The Complete Romances

By

William Shakespeare

PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE

CYMBELINE

THE WINTER’S TALE

THE TEMPEST

PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE

CYMBELINE

THE WINTER’S TALE

THE TEMPEST

Pericles, Prince of Tyre

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

PROLOGUE

SCENE I. ANTIOCH. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

SCENE II. TYRE. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

SCENE III. TYRE. AN ANTE-CHAMBER IN THE PALACE.

SCENE IV. TARSUS. A ROOM IN THE GOVERNOR’S HOUSE.

ACT II

PROLOGUE

SCENE I. PENTAPOLIS. AN OPEN PLACE BY THE SEA-SIDE.

SCENE II. THE SAME. A PUBLIC WAY OR PLATFORM LEADING TO THE

SCENE III. THE SAME. A HALL OF STATE: A BANQUET PREPARED.

SCENE IV. TYRE. A ROOM IN THE GOVERNOR’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. PENTAPOLIS. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

ACT III

PROLOGUE

SCENE II. EPHESUS. A ROOM IN CERIMON’S HOUSE.

SCENE III. TARSUS. A ROOM IN CLEON’S HOUSE.

SCENE IV. EPHESUS. A ROOM IN CERIMON’S HOUSE.

ACT IV

PROLOGUE

SCENE I. TARSUS. AN OPEN PLACE NEAR THE SEA-SHORE.

SCENE II. MYTILENE. A ROOM IN A BROTHEL.

SCENE III. TARSUS. A ROOM IN CLEON’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. MYTILENE. A STREET BEFORE THE BROTHEL.

SCENE VI. THE SAME. A ROOM IN THE BROTHEL.

ACT V

PROLOGUE

SCENE I. ON BOARD PERICLES’ SHIP, OFF MYTILENE. A CLOSE

SCENE III. THE TEMPLE OF DIANA AT EPHESUS; THAISA STANDING

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Gower, as Chorus

Antiochus, King of Antioch Pericles, Prince of Tyre

Escanes and Helicanus, two lords of Tyre

Simonides, King of Pentapolis Cleon, Governor of Tharsus Lysimachus, Governor of Mytilene Cerimon, a lord of Ephesus Thaliard, a lord of AntiochPhilemon, servant to Cerimon Leonine, servant to Dionyza Marshal A PandarBoult, 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

Diana

Lords, Ladies, Knights, Gentlemen, Sailors, Pirates, Fishermen, and Messengers

Scene: Dispersedly in various countries

ACT I

PROLOGUE

Enter Gower

Before the palace of Antioch

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.

It hath been sung at festivals,

On ember-eves and holy-ales;

And lords and ladies in their lives

Have read it for restoratives:

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 rhymes.

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.

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:

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;

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:

But custom what they did begin

Was with long use account no sin.

The beauty of this sinful dame

Made many princes thither frame,

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,

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.

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, Prince Pericles, and followers

Antiochus

Young prince of Tyre, you have at large received

The danger of the task you undertake.

Pericles

I have, Antiochus, and, with a soul

Embolden’d with the glory of her praise,

Think death no hazard in this enterprise.

Antiochus

Bring in our daughter, clothed like a bride,

For the embracements even of Jove himself;

At whose conception, till Lucina reign’d,

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

Pericles

See where she comes, apparell’d like the spring,

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 razed and testy wrath

Could never be her mild companion.

You gods that made me man, and sway in love,

That have inflamed desire in my breast

To taste the fruit of yon 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!

Antiochus

Prince Pericles,—

Pericles

That would be son to great Antiochus.

Antiochus

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

Presumes to reach, all thy whole heap must die.

Yon sometimes famous princes, like thyself,

Drawn by report, adventurous by desire,

Tell thee, with speechless tongues and semblance pale,

That without covering, save yon field of stars,

Here they stand martyrs, slain in Cupid’s wars;

And with dead cheeks advise thee to desist

For going on death’s net, whom none resist.

Pericles

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;

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,

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;

But my unspotted fire of love to you.

To the Daughter of Antiochus

Thus ready for the way of life or death,

I wait the sharpest blow, Antiochus.

Antiochus

Scorning advice, read the conclusion then:

Which read and not expounded, ’tis decreed,

As these before thee thou thyself shalt bleed.

Daughter

Of all say’d yet, mayst thou prove prosperous!

Of all say’d yet, I wish thee happiness!

Pericles

Like a bold champion, I assume the lists,

Nor ask advice of any other thought

But faithfulness and courage.

He reads the riddle

I am no viper, yet I feed

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;

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

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 loved you, and could still,

Takes hold of the hand of the Daughter of Antiochus

Were not this glorious casket stored with ill:

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 are a fair viol, and your sense the strings;

Who, finger’d to make man his lawful music,

Would draw heaven down, and all the gods, to hearken:

But being play’d upon before your time,

Hell only danceth at so harsh a chime.

Good sooth, I care not for you.

Antiochus

Prince Pericles, touch not, upon thy life.

For that’s an article within our law,

As dangerous as the rest. Your time’s expired:

Either expound now, or receive your sentence.

Pericles

Great king,

Few love to hear the sins they love to act;

’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.

Blows dust in other’s 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

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,

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.

Antiochus

[Aside] Heaven, that I had thy head! he has found the meaning:

But I will gloze with him.— Young prince of Tyre,

Though by the tenor of our strict edict,

Your exposition misinterpreting,

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;

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.

Exeunt all but Pericles

Pericles

How courtesy would seem to cover sin,

When what is done is like an hypocrite,

The which is good in nothing but in sight!

If it be true that I interpret false,

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 an 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

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.

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:

Then, lest my lie be cropp’d to keep you clear,

By flight I’ll shun the danger which I fear.

Exit

Re-enter Antiochus

Antiochus

He hath found the meaning, for which we mean

To have his head.

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:

For by his fall my honour must keep high.

Who attends us there?

Enter Thaliard

Thaliard

Doth your highness call?

Antiochus

Thaliard,

You are of our chamber, and our mind partakes

Her private actions to your secrecy;

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:

It fits thee not to ask the reason why,

Because we bid it. Say, is it done?

Thaliard

My lord,

’Tis done.

Antiochus

Enough.

Enter a Messenger

Let your breath cool yourself, telling your haste.

Messenger

My lord, prince Pericles is fled.

Exit

Antiochus

As thou

Wilt live, fly after: and like an arrow shot

From a well-experienced archer hits the mark

His eye doth level at, so thou ne’er return

Unless thou say ‘Prince Pericles is dead.’

Thaliard

My lord,

If I can get him within my pistol’s length,

I’ll make him sure enough: so, farewell to your highness.

Antiochus

Thaliard, adieu!

Exit Thaliard

Till Pericles be dead,

My heart can lend no succor to my head.

Exit

SCENE II. TYRE. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.

Enter Pericles

Pericles

[To Lords without] Let none disturb us.— Why should this change of thoughts,

The sad companion, dull-eyed melancholy,

Be my so used a guest as not an hour,

In the day’s glorious walk, or peaceful night,

The tomb where grief should sleep, can breed me quiet?

Here pleasures court mine eyes, and mine eyes shun them,

And danger, which I fear’d, is at Antioch,

Whose aim seems far too short to hit me here:

Yet neither pleasure’s art can joy my spirits,

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,

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,

’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.

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,

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:

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,

Makes both my body pine and soul to languish,

And punish that before that he would punish.

Enter Helicanus, with other Lords

First Lord

Joy and all comfort in your sacred breast!

Second Lord

And keep your mind, till you return to us,

Peaceful and comfortable!

Helicanus

Peace, peace, and give experience tongue.

They do abuse the king that flatter him:

For flattery is the bellows blows up sin;

The thing which is flatter’d, but a spark,

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.

Prince, pardon me, or strike me, if you please;

I cannot be much lower than my knees.

Pericles

All leave us else; but let your cares o’erlook

What shipping and what lading’s in our haven,

And then return to us.

Exeunt Lords

Helicanus, thou

Hast moved us: what seest thou in our looks?

Helicanus

An angry brow, dread lord.

Pericles

If there be such a dart in princes’ frowns,

How durst thy tongue move anger to our face?

Helicanus

How dare the plants look up to heaven, from whence

They have their nourishment?

Pericles

Thou know’st I have power

To take thy life from thee.

Helicanus

[Kneeling]

I have ground the axe myself;

Do you but strike the blow.

Pericles

Rise, prithee, rise.

Sit down: thou art no flatterer:

I thank thee for it; and heaven forbid

That kings should let their ears hear their faults hid!

Fit counsellor and servant for a prince,

Who by thy wisdom makest a prince thy servant,

What wouldst thou have me do?

Helicanus

To bear with patience

Such griefs as you yourself do lay upon yourself.

Pericles

Thou speak’st like a physician, Helicanus,

That minister’st a potion unto me

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.

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.

Such fear so grew in me, I hither fled,

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

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,

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 offence,

Must feel war’s blow, who spares not innocence:

Which love to all, of which thyself art one,

Who now reprovest me for it,—

Helicanus

Alas, sir!

Pericles

Drew sleep out of mine eyes, blood from my cheeks,

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.

Helicanus

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

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.

Your rule direct to any; if to me.

Day serves not light more faithful than I’ll be.

Pericles

I do not doubt thy faith;

But should he wrong my liberties in my absence?

Helicanus

We’ll mingle our bloods together in the earth,

From whence we had our being and our birth.

Pericles

Tyre, I now look from thee then, and to Tarsus

Intend my travel, where I’ll hear from thee;

And by whose letters I’ll dispose myself.

The care I had and have of subjects’ good

On thee I 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:

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. TYRE. AN ANTE-CHAMBER IN THE PALACE.

Enter Thaliard

Thaliard

So, this is Tyre, and this the court. Here must I kill King Pericles; and if I do it 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’t; for if a king bid a man be a villain, he’s bound by the indenture of his oath to be one! Hush! here come the lords of Tyre.

Enter Helicanus and Escanes, with other Lords of Tyre

Helicanus

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,

Doth speak sufficiently he’s gone to travel.

Thaliard

[Aside] How! the king gone!

Helicanus

If further yet you will be satisfied,

Why, as it were unlicensed of your loves,

He would depart, I’ll give some light unto you.

Being at Antioch —

Thaliard

[Aside] What from Antioch?

Helicanus

Royal Antiochus — on what cause I know not —

Took some displeasure at him; at least he judged so:

And doubting lest that he had err’d or sinn’d,

To show his sorrow, he’ld correct himself;

So puts himself unto the shipman’s toil,

With whom each minute threatens life or death.

Thaliard

[Aside] Well, I perceive

I shall not be hang’d now, although I would;

But since he’s gone, the king’s seas must please:

He ’scaped the land, to perish at the sea.

I’ll present myself. Peace to the lords of Tyre!

Helicanus

Lord Thaliard from Antiochus is welcome.

Thaliard

From him I come

With message unto princely Pericles;

But since my landing I have understood

Your lord has betook himself to unknown travels,

My message must return from whence it came.

Helicanus

We have no reason to desire it,

Commended to our master, not to us:

Yet, ere you shall depart, this we desire,

As friends to Antioch, we may feast in Tyre.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. TARSUS. A ROOM IN THE GOVERNOR’S HOUSE.

Enter Cleon, the governor of Tarsus, with Dionyza, and others

Cleon

My Dionyza, shall we rest us here,

And by relating tales of others’ griefs,

See if ’twill teach us to forget our own?

Dionyza

That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it;

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,

But like to groves, being topp’d, they higher rise.

Cleon

O Dionyza,

Who wanteth food, and will not say he wants it,

Or can conceal his hunger till he famish?

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,

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.

Dionyza

I’ll do my best, sir.

Cleon

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,

And strangers ne’er beheld but wondered at;

Whose men and dames so jetted and adorn’d,

Like one another’s glass to trim them by:

Their tables were stored full, to glad the sight,

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.

Dionyza

O, ’tis too true.

Cleon

But see what heaven can do! By this our change,

These mouths, who but of late, earth, sea, and air,

Were all too little to content and please,

Although they gave their creatures in abundance,

As houses are defiled for want of use,

They are now starved for want of exercise:

Those palates who, not yet two summers younger,

Must have inventions to delight the taste,

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 loved.

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.

Is not this true?

Dionyza

Our cheeks and hollow eyes do witness it.

Cleon

O, let those cities that of plenty’s cup

And her prosperities so largely taste,

With their superfluous riots, hear these tears!

The misery of Tarsus may be theirs.

Enter a Lord

Lord

Where’s the lord governor?

Cleon

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,

A portly sail of ships make hitherward.

Cleon

I thought as much.

One sorrow never comes but brings an heir,

That may succeed as his inheritor;

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,

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,

And come to us as favourers, not as foes.

Cleon

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,

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,

And what he craves.

Lord

I go, my lord.

Exit

Cleon

Welcome is peace, if he on peace consist;

If wars, we are unable to resist.

Enter Pericles with Attendants

Pericles

Lord governor, for so we hear you are,

Let not our ships and number of our men

Be like a beacon fired to amaze your eyes.

We have heard your miseries as far as Tyre,

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

Are like the Trojan horse was stuff’d within

With bloody veins, expecting overthrow,

Are stored with corn to make your needy bread,

And give them life whom hunger starved half dead.

All

The gods of Greece protect you!

And we’ll pray for you.

Pericles

Arise, I pray you, rise:

We do not look for reverence, but to love,

And harbourage for ourself, our ships, and men.

Cleon

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,—

Your grace is welcome to our town and us.

Pericles

Which welcome we’ll accept; feast here awhile,

Until our stars that frown lend us a smile.

Exeunt

ACT II

PROLOGUE

Enter Gower

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.

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.

The good in conversation,

To whom I give my benison,

Is still at Tarsus, where each man

Thinks all is writ he speken can;

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 at one door Pericles talking with Cleon; all the train with them. Enter at another door a Gentleman, with a letter to Pericles; Pericles shows the letter to Cleon; gives the Messenger a reward, and knights him. Exit Pericles at one door, and Cleon at another

Good Helicane, that stay’d at home,

Not to eat honey like a drone

From others’ labours; for though he strive

To killen bad, keep good alive;

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;

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;

Thunder above and deeps below

Make such unquiet, that the ship

Should house him safe is wreck’d and split;

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;

Till fortune, tired 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

Pericles

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:

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

To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes;

And having thrown him from your watery grave,

Here to have death in peace is all he’ll crave.

Enter three Fishermen

First Fisherman

What, ho, Pilch!

Second Fisherman

Ha, come and bring away the nets!

First Fisherman

What, Patch-breech, I say!

Third Fisherman

What say you, master?

First Fisherman

Look how thou stirrest now! come away, or I’ll fetch thee with a wanion.

Third Fisherman

Faith, master, I am thinking of the poor men that were cast away before us even now.

First Fisherman

Alas, poor souls, it grieved my heart to hear what pitiful cries they made to us to help them, when, well-a-day, we could scarce help ourselves.

Third Fisherman

Nay, master, said not I as much when I saw the porpus how he bounced and tumbled? they say they’re half fish, half flesh: a plague on them, they ne’er come but I look to be washed. Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea.

First Fisherman

Why, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones: I can compare our rich misers to nothing so fitly as to a whale; a’ plays and tumbles, driving the poor fry before him, and at last devours them all at a mouthful: such whales have I heard on o’ the land, who never leave gaping till they’ve swallowed the whole parish, church, steeple, bells, and all.

Pericles

[Aside] A pretty moral.

Third Fisherman

But, master, if I had been the sexton, I would have been that day in the belfry.

Second Fisherman

Why, man?

Third Fisherman

Because he should have swallowed me too: and when I had been in his belly, I would have kept such a jangling of the bells, that he should never have left, till he cast bells, steeple, church, and parish up again. But if the good King Simonides were of my mind,—

Pericles

[Aside] Simonides!

Third Fisherman

We would purge the land of these drones, that rob the bee of her honey.

Pericles

[Aside] How from the finny subject of the sea

These fishers tell the infirmities of men;

And from their watery empire recollect

All that may men approve or men detect!

Peace be at your labour, honest fishermen.

Second Fisherman

Honest! good fellow, what’s that? If it be a day fits you, search out of the calendar, and nobody look after it.

Pericles

May see the sea hath cast upon your coast.

Second Fisherman

What a drunken knave was the sea to cast thee in our way!

Pericles

A man whom both the waters and the wind,

In that vast tennis-court, have made the ball

For them to play upon, entreats you pity him:

He asks of you, that never used to beg.

First Fisherman

No, friend, cannot you beg? Here’s them in our country Greece gets more with begging than we can do with working.

Second Fisherman

Canst thou catch any fishes, then?

Pericles

I never practised it.

Second Fisherman

Nay, then thou wilt starve, sure; for here’s nothing to be got now-a-days, unless thou canst fish for’t.

Pericles

What I have been I have forgot to know;

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,

For that I am a man, pray see me buried.

First Fisherman

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.

Pericles

I thank you, sir.

Second Fisherman

Hark you, my friend; you said you could not beg.

Pericles

I did but crave.

Second Fisherman

But crave! Then I’ll turn craver too, and so I shall ’scape whipping.

Pericles

Why, are all your beggars whipped, then?

Second Fisherman

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.

Exit with Third Fisherman

Pericles

[Aside] How well this honest mirth becomes their labour!

First Fisherman

Hark you, sir, do you know where ye are?

Pericles

Not well.

First Fisherman

Why, I’ll tell you: this is called Pentapolis, and our king the good Simonides.

Pericles

The good King Simonides, do you call him.

First Fisherman

Ay, sir; and he deserves so to be called for his peaceable reign and good government.

Pericles

He is a happy king, since he gains from his subjects the name of good by his government. How far is his court distant from this shore?

First Fisherman

Marry, sir, half a day’s journey: and I’ll tell you, he hath a fair daughter, and to-morrow is her birth-day; and there are princes and knights come from all parts of the world to just and tourney for her love.

Pericles

Were my fortunes equal to my desires, I could wish to make one there.

First Fisherman

O, sir, things must be as they may; and what a man cannot get, he may lawfully deal for — his wife’s soul.

Re-enter Second and Third Fishermen, drawing up a net

Second Fisherman

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.

Pericles

An armour, friends! I pray you, let me see it.

Thanks, fortune, yet, that, after all my crosses,

Thou givest me somewhat to repair myself;

And though it was mine own, part of my 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

Twixt me and death;’— and pointed to this brace;—

‘For that it saved me, keep it; in like necessity —

The which the gods protect thee from!— may defend thee.’

It kept where I kept, I so dearly loved it;

Till the rough seas, that spare not any man,

Took it in rage, though calm’d have given’t again:

I thank thee for’t: my shipwreck now’s no ill,

Since I have here my father’s gift in’s will.

First Fisherman

What mean you, sir?

Pericles

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 loved me dearly,

And for his sake I wish the having of it;

And that you’ld guide me to your sovereign’s court,

Where with it I may appear a gentleman;

And if that ever my low fortune’s better,

I’ll pay your bounties; till then rest your debtor.

First Fisherman

Why, wilt thou tourney for the lady?

Pericles

I’ll show the virtue I have borne in arms.

First Fisherman

Why, do ’e take it, and the gods give thee good on’t!

Second Fisherman

Ay, but hark you, my friend; ’twas we that made up this garment through the rough seams of the waters: there are certain condolements, certain vails. I hope, sir, if you thrive, you’ll remember from whence you had it.

Pericles

Believe ’t, I will.

By your furtherance I am clothed in steel;

And, spite of all the rapture of the sea,

This jewel holds his building on my arm:

Unto thy value I will mount myself

Upon a courser, whose delightful steps

Shall make the gazer joy to see him tread.

Only, my friend, I yet am unprovided

Of a pair of bases.

Second Fisherman

We’ll sure provide: thou shalt have my best gown to make thee a pair; and I’ll bring thee to the court myself.

Pericles

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 OR PLATFORM LEADING TO THE

lists. A pavilion by the side of it for the reception of King, Princess, Lords, & c.

Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Lords, and Attendants

Simonides

Are the knights ready to begin the triumph?

First Lord

They are, my liege;

And stay your coming to present themselves.

Simonides

Return them, we are ready; and our daughter,

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

Thaisa

It pleaseth you, my royal father, to express

My commendations great, whose merit’s less.

Simonides

It’s fit it should be so; for princes are

A model which heaven makes like to itself:

As jewels lose their glory if neglected,

So princes their renowns if not respected.

’Tis now your honour, daughter, to explain

The labour of each knight in his device.

Thaisa

Which, to preserve mine honour, I’ll perform.

Enter a Knight; he passes over, and his Squire presents his shield to the Princess

Simonides

Who is the first that doth prefer himself?

Thaisa

A knight of Sparta, my renowned father;

And the device he bears upon his shield

Is a black Ethiope reaching at the sun

The word, ‘Lux tua vita mihi.’

Simonides

He loves you well that holds his life of you.

The Second Knight passes over

Who is the second that presents himself?

Thaisa

A prince of Macedon, my royal father;

And the device he bears upon his shield

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

Simonides

And what’s the third?

Thaisa

The third of Antioch;

And his device, a wreath of chivalry;

The word, ‘Me pompae provexit apex.’

The Fourth Knight passes over

Simonides

What is the fourth?

Thaisa

A burning torch that’s turned upside down;

The word, ‘Quod me alit, me extinguit.’

Simonides

Which shows that beauty hath his power and will,

Which can as well inflame as it can kill.

The Fifth Knight passes over

Thaisa

The fifth, an hand environed with clouds,

Holding out gold that’s by the touchstone tried;

The motto thus, ‘sic spectanda fides.’

The Sixth Knight, Pericles, passes over

Simonides

And what’s

The sixth and last, the which the knight himself

With such a graceful courtesy deliver’d?

Thaisa

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.’

Simonides

A pretty moral;

From the dejected state wherein he is,

He hopes by you his fortunes yet may flourish.

First Lord

He had need mean better than his outward show

Can any way speak in his just commend;

For by his rusty outside he appears

To have practised more the whipstock than the lance.

Second Lord

He well may be a stranger, for he comes

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.

Simonides

Opinion’s but a fool, that makes us scan

The outward habit by the inward man.

But stay, the knights are coming: we will withdraw

Into the gallery.

Exeunt

Great shouts within and all cry ‘The mean knight!’

SCENE III. THE SAME. A HALL OF STATE: A BANQUET PREPARED.

Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Lords, Attendants, and Knights, from tilting

Simonides

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,

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.

Thaisa

But you, my knight and guest;

To whom this wreath of victory I give,

And crown you king of this day’s happiness.

Pericles

’Tis more by fortune, lady, than by merit.

Simonides

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;

And you are 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.

Simonides

Your presence glads our days: honour we love;

For who hates honour hates the gods above.

Marshal

Sir, yonder is your place.

Pericles

Some other is more fit.

First Knight

Contend not, sir; for we are gentlemen

That neither in our hearts nor outward eyes

Envy the great nor do the low despise.

Pericles

You are right courteous knights.

Simonides

Sit, sir, sit.

Pericles

By Jove, I wonder, that is king of thoughts,

These cates resist me, she but thought upon.

Thaisa

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.

Simonides

He’s but a country gentleman;

Has done no more than other knights have done;

Has broken a staff or so; so let it pass.

Thaisa

To me he seems like diamond to glass.

Pericles

Yon king’s to me like to my father’s picture,

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;

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,

He’s both their parent, and he is their grave,

And gives them what he will, not what they crave.

Simonides

What, are you merry, knights?

Knights

Who can be other in this royal presence?

Simonides

Here, with a cup that’s stored unto the brim,—

As you do love, fill to your mistress’ lips,—

We drink this health to you.

Knights

We thank your grace.

Simonides

Yet pause awhile:

Yon knight doth sit too melancholy,

As if the entertainment in our court

Had not a show might countervail his worth.

Note it not you, Thaisa?

Thaisa

What is it

To me, my father?

Simonides

O, attend, my daughter:

Princes in this should live like gods above,

Who freely give to every one that comes

To honour them:

And princes not doin g so are like to gnats,

Which make a sound, but kill’d are wonder’d at.

Therefore to make his entrance more sweet,

Here, say we drink this standing-bowl of wine to him.

Thaisa

Alas, my father, it befits not me

Unto a stranger knight to be so bold:

He may my proffer take for an offence,

Since men take women’s gifts for impudence.

Simonides

How!

Do as I bid you, or you’ll move me else.

Thaisa

[Aside] Now, by the gods, he could not please me better.

Simonides

And furthermore tell him, we desire to know of him,

Of whence he is, his name and parentage.

Thaisa

The king my father, sir, has drunk to you.

Pericles

I thank him.

Thaisa

Wishing it so much blood unto your life.

Pericles

I thank both him and you, and pledge him freely.

Thaisa

And further he desires to know of you,

Of whence you are, your name and parentage.

Pericles

A gentleman of Tyre; my name, Pericles;

My education been in arts and arms;

Who, looking for adventures in the world,

Was by the rough seas reft of ships and men,

And after shipwreck driven upon this shore.

Thaisa

He thanks your grace; names himself Pericles,

A gentleman of Tyre,

Who only by misfortune of the seas

Bereft of ships and men, cast on this shore.

Simonides

Now, by the gods, I pity his misfortune,

And will awake him from his melancholy.

Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles,

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

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;

Here is a lady that wants breathing too:

And I have heard, you knights of Tyre

Are excellent in making ladies trip;

And that their measures are as excellent.

Pericles

In those that practise them they are, my lord.

Simonides

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

These knights unto their several lodgings!

To Pericles

Yours, sir,

We have given order to be next our own.

Pericles

I am at your grace’s pleasure.

Simonides

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.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. TYRE. A ROOM IN THE GOVERNOR’S HOUSE.

Enter Helicanus and Escanes

Helicanus

No, Escanes, know this of me,

Antiochus from incest lived not free:

For which, the most high gods not minding longer

To withhold the vengeance that they had in store,

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,

A fire from heaven came and shrivell’d up

Their bodies, even to loathing; for they so stunk,

That all those eyes adored them ere their fall

Scorn now their hand should give them burial.

Escanes

’Twas very strange.

Helicanus

And yet but justice; for though

This king were great, his greatness was no guard

To bar heaven’s shaft, but sin had his reward.

Escanes

’Tis very true.

Enter two or three Lords

First Lord

See, not a man in private conference

Or council has respect with him but he.

Second Lord

It shall no longer grieve without reproof.

Third Lord

And cursed be he that will not second it.

First Lord

Follow me, then. Lord Helicane, a word.

Helicanus

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.

Helicanus

Your griefs! for what? wrong not your 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.

If in the world he live, we’ll seek him out;

If in his grave he rest, we’ll find him there;

And be resolved he lives to govern us,

Or dead, give’s cause to mourn his funeral,

And leave us to our free election.

Second Lord

Whose death indeed’s the strongest in our censure:

And knowing this kingdom is without a head,—

Like goodly buildings left without a roof

Soon fall to ruin,— your noble self,

That best know how to rule and how to reign,

We thus submit unto,— our sovereign.

All

Live, noble Helicane!

Helicanus

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.

A twelvemonth longer, let me entreat you to

Forbear the absence of your king:

If in which time expired, he not return,

I shall with aged patience bear your yoke.

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,

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 us.

Helicanus

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, at one door: the Knights meet him

First Knight

Good morrow to the good Simonides.

Simonides

Knights, from my daughter this I let you know,

That for this twelvemonth she’ll not undertake

A married life.

Her reason to herself is only known,

Which yet from her by no means can I get.

Second Knight

May we not get access to her, my lord?

Simonides

’Faith, by no means; she has so strictly tied

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.

Third Knight

Loath to bid farewell, we take our leaves.

Exeunt Knights

Simonides

So,

They are well dispatch’d; now to my daughter’s letter:

She tells me here, she’d wed the stranger knight,

Or never more to view nor day nor light.

’Tis well, mistress; your choice agrees with mine;

I like that well: nay, how absolute she’s in’t,

Not minding whether I dislike or no!

Well, I do commend her choice;

And will no longer have it be delay’d.

Soft! here he comes: I must dissemble it.

Enter Pericles

Pericles

All fortune to the good Simonides!

Simonides

To you as much, sir! I am beholding to you

For your sweet music this last night: I do

Protest my ears were never better fed

With such delightful pleasing harmony.

Pericles

It is your grace’s pleasure to commend;

Not my desert.

Simonides

Sir, you are music’s master.

Pericles

The worst of all her scholars, my good lord.

Simonides

Let me ask you one thing:

What do you think of my daughter, sir?

Pericles

A most virtuous princess.

Simonides

And she is fair too, is she not?

Pericles

As a fair day in summer, wondrous fair.

Simonides

Sir, my daughter thinks very well of you;

Ay, so well, that you must be her master,

And she will be your scholar: therefore look to it.

Pericles

I am unworthy for her schoolmaster.

Simonides

She thinks not so; peruse this writing else.

Pericles

[Aside] What’s here?

A letter, that she loves the knight of Tyre!

’Tis the king’s subtlety to have my life.

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.

Simonides

Thou hast bewitch’d my daughter, and thou art

A villain.

Pericles

By the gods, I have not:

Never did thought of mine levy offence;

Nor never did my actions yet commence

A deed might gain her love or your displeasure.

Simonides

Traitor, thou liest.

Pericles

Traitor!

Simonides

Ay, traitor.

Pericles

Even in his throat — unless it be the king —

That calls me traitor, I return the lie.

Simonides

[Aside] Now, by the gods, I do applaud his courage.

Pericles

My actions are as noble as my thoughts,

That never relish’d of a base descent.

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.

Simonides

No?

Here comes my daughter, she can witness it.

Enter Thaisa

Pericles

Then, as you are as virtuous as fair,

Resolve your angry father, if my tongue

Did ere solicit, or my hand subscribe

To any syllable that made love to you.

Thaisa

Why, sir, say if you had,

Who takes offence at that would make me glad?

Simonides

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,

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.—

Therefore hear you, mistress; either frame

Your will to mine,— and you, sir, hear you,

Either be ruled by me, or I will make you —

Man and wife:

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 pleased?

Thaisa

Yes, if you love me, sir.

Pericles

Even as my life, or blood that fosters it.

Simonides

What, are you both agreed?

Both

Yes, if it please your majesty.

Simonides

It pleaseth me so well, that I will see you wed;

And then with what haste you can get you to bed.

Exeunt

ACT III

PROLOGUE

Enter Gower

Gower

Now sleep y-slaked hath the rout;

No din but snores the house about,

Made louder by the o’er-fed breast

Of this most pompous marriage-feast.

The cat, with eyne of burning coal,

Now crouches fore the mouse’s hole;

And crickets sing at the oven’s mouth,

E’er the blither for their drouth.

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

With your fine fancies quaintly eche:

What’s dumb in show I’ll plain with speech.

Dumb Show.

Enter, Pericles and Simonides at one door, with Attendants; a Messenger meets them, kneels, and gives Pericles a letter: Pericles shows it Simonides; the Lords kneel to him. Then enter Thaisa with child, with Lychorida a nurse. The King shows her the letter; she rejoices: she and Pericles takes leave of her father, and depart with Lychorida and their Attendants. Then exeunt Simonides and the rest

By many a dern and painful perch

Of Pericles the careful search,

By the four opposing coigns

Which the world together joins,

Is made with all due diligence

That horse and sail and high expense

Can stead the quest. At last from Tyre,

Fame answering the most strange inquire,

To the court of King Simonides

Are letters brought, the tenor these:

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:

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,

Will take the crown. The sum of this,

Brought hither to Pentapolis,

Y-ravished the regions round,

And every one with claps can sound,

‘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 —

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

On Neptune’s billow; half the flood

Hath their keel cut: but fortune’s mood

Varies again; the grisly north

Disgorges such a tempest forth,

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:

And what ensues in this fell storm

Shall for itself itself perform.

I nill relate, action may

Conveniently the rest convey;

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.

Exit

Scene I:

Enter Pericles, on shipboard

Pericles

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

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,

Unheard. Lychorida!— Lucina, O

Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle

To those that cry by night, convey thy deity

Aboard our dancing boat; make swift the pangs

Of my queen’s travails!

Enter Lychorida, with an Infant

Now, Lychorida!

Lychorida

Here is a thing too young for such a place,

Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I

Am like to do: take in your arms this piece

Of your dead queen.

Pericles

How, how, Lychorida!

Lychorida

Patience, good sir; do not assist the storm.

Here’s all that is left living of your queen,

A little daughter: for the sake of it,

Be manly, and take comfort.

Pericles

O you gods!

Why do you make us love your goodly gifts,

And snatch them straight away? We here below

Recall not what we give, and therein may

Use honour with you.

Lychorida

Patience, good sir,

Even for this charge.

Pericles

Now, mild may be thy life!

For a more blustrous birth had never babe:

Quiet and gentle thy conditions! for

Thou art the rudeliest welcome to this world

That ever was prince’s child. Happy what follows!

Thou hast as chiding a nativity

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

Throw their best eyes upon’t!

Enter two Sailors

First Sailor

What courage, sir? God save you!

Pericles

Courage enough: I do not fear the flaw;

It hath done to me the worst. Yet, for the love

Of this poor infant, this fresh-new sea-farer,

I would it would be quiet.

First Sailor

Slack the bolins there! Thou wilt not, wilt thou?

Blow, and split thyself.

Second Sailor

But sea-room, an the brine and cloudy billow kiss the moon, I care not.

First Sailor

Sir, your queen must overboard: the sea works high, the wind is loud, and will not lie till the ship be cleared of the dead.

Pericles

That’s your superstition.

First Sailor

Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it hath been still observed: and we are strong in custom. Therefore briefly yield her; for she must overboard straight.

Pericles

As you think meet. Most wretched queen!

Lychorida

Here she lies, sir.

Pericles

A terrible childbed 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;

Where, for a monument upon thy bones,

And e’er-remaining lamps, the belching whale

And humming water must o’erwhelm thy corpse,

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

Upon the pillow: hie thee, whiles I say

A priestly farewell to her: suddenly, woman.

Exit Lychorida

Second Sailor

Sir, we have a chest beneath the hatches, caulked and bitumed ready.

Pericles

I thank thee. Mariner, say what coast is this?

Second Sailor

We are near Tarsus.

Pericles

Thither, gentle mariner.

Alter thy course for Tyre. When canst thou reach it?

Second Sailor

By break of day, if the wind cease.

Pericles

O, make for Tarsus!

There will I visit Cleon, for the babe

Cannot hold out to Tyrus: there I’ll leave it

At careful nursing. Go thy ways, good mariner:

I’ll bring the body presently.

Exeunt

SCENE II. EPHESUS. A ROOM IN CERIMON’S HOUSE.

Enter Cerimon, with a Servant, and some Persons who have been shipwrecked

Cerimon

Philemon, ho!

Enter Philemon

Philemon

Doth my lord call?

Cerimon

Get fire and meat for these poor men:

’T has been a turbulent and stormy night.

Servant

I have been in many; but such a night as this,

Till now, I ne’er endured.

Cerimon

Your master will be dead ere you return;

There’s nothing can be minister’d to nature

That can recover him.

To Philemon

Give this to the ’pothecary,

And tell me how it works.

Exeunt all but Cerimon

Enter two Gentlemen

First Gentleman

Good morrow.

Second Gentleman

Good morrow to your lordship.

Cerimon

Gentlemen,

Why do you stir so early?

First Gentleman

Sir,

Our lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea,

Shook as the earth did quake;

The very principals did seem to rend,

And all-to topple: pure surprise and fear

Made me to quit the house.

Second Gentleman

That is the cause we trouble you so early;

’Tis not our husbandry.

Cerimon

O, you say well.

First Gentleman

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,

Nature should be so conversant with pain,

Being thereto not compell’d.

Cerimon

I hold it ever,

Virtue and cunning were endowments greater

Than nobleness and riches: careless heirs

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,

Together with my practise, made familiar

To me and to my aid the blest infusions

That dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones;

And I 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,

Or tie my treasure up in silken bags,

To please the fool and death.

Second Gentleman

Your honour has through Ephesus pour’d forth

Your charity, and hundreds call themselves

Your creatures, who by you have been restored:

And not your knowledge, your personal pain, but even

Your purse, still open, hath built Lord Cerimon

Such strong renown as time shall ne’er decay.

Enter two or three Servants with a chest

First Servant

So; lift there.

Cerimon

What is that?

First Servant

Sir, even now

Did the sea toss upon our shore this chest:

’Tis of some wreck.

Cerimon

Set ’t down, let’s look upon’t.

Second Gentleman

’Tis like a coffin, sir.

Cerimon

Whate’er it be,

’Tis wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight:

If the sea’s stomach be o’ercharged with gold,

’Tis a good constraint of fortune it belches upon us.

Second Gentleman

’Tis so, my lord.

Cerimon

How close ’tis caulk’d and bitumed!

Did the sea cast it up?

First Servant

I never saw so huge a billow, sir,

As toss’d it upon shore.

Cerimon

Wrench it open;

Soft! it smells most sweetly in my sense.

Second Gentleman

A delicate odour.

Cerimon

As ever hit my nostril. So, up with it.

O you most potent gods! what’s here? a corse!

First Gentleman

Most strange!

Cerimon

Shrouded in cloth of state; balm’d and entreasured

With full bags of spices! A passport too!

Apollo, perfect me in the characters!

Reads from a scroll

‘Here I give to understand,

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;

She was the daughter of a king:

Besides this treasure for a fee,

The gods requite his charity!’

If thou livest, Pericles, thou hast a heart

That even cracks for woe! This chanced tonight.

Second Gentleman

Most likely, sir.

Cerimon

Nay, certainly to-night;

For look how fresh she looks! They were too rough

That threw her in the sea. Make a fire within:

Fetch hither all my boxes in my closet.

Exit a Servant

Death may usurp on nature many hours,

And yet the fire of life kindle again

The o’erpress’d spirits. I heard of an Egyptian

That had nine hours lien dead,

Who was by good appliance recovered.

Re-enter a Servant, with boxes, napkins, and fire

Well said, well said; the fire and cloths.

The rough and woeful music that we have,

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.

This queen will live: nature awakes; a warmth

Breathes out of her: she hath not been entranced

Above five hours: see how she gins to blow

Into life’s flower again!

First Gentleman

The heavens,

Through you, increase our wonder and set up

Your fame forever.

Cerimon

She is alive; behold,

Her eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewels

Which Pericles hath lost,

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,

Rare as you seem to be.

She moves

Thaisa

O dear Diana,

Where am I? Where’s my lord? What world is this?

Second Gentleman

Is not this strange?

First Gentleman

Most rare.

Cerimon

Hush, my gentle neighbours!

Lend me your hands; to the next chamber bear her.

Get linen: now this matter must be look’d to,

For her relapse is mortal. Come, come;

And Aesculapius guide us!

Exeunt, carrying her away

SCENE III. TARSUS. A ROOM IN CLEON’S HOUSE.

Enter Pericles, Cleon, Dionyza, and Lychorida with Marina in her arms

Pericles

Most honour’d Cleon, I must needs be gone;

My twelve months are expired, 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!

Cleon

Your shafts of fortune, though they hurt you mortally,

Yet glance full wanderingly on us.

Dionyza

O your sweet queen!

That the strict fates had pleased you had brought her hither,

To have bless’d mine eyes with her!

Pericles

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,

For she was born at sea, I have named so, here

I charge your charity withal, leaving her

The infant of your care; beseeching you

To give her princely training, that she may be

Manner’d as she is born.

Cleon

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,

Must in your child be thought on. If neglection

Should therein make me vile, the common body,

By you relieved, would force me to my duty:

But if to that my nature need a spur,

The gods revenge it upon me and mine,

To the end of generation!

Pericles

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

Unscissor’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.

Dionyza

I have one myself,

Who shall not be more dear to my respect

Than yours, my lord.

Pericles

Madam, my thanks and prayers.

Cleon

We’ll bring your grace e’en to the edge o’ the shore,

Then give you up to the mask’d Neptune and

The gentlest winds of heaven.

Pericles

I will embrace

Your offer. Come, dearest madam. O, no tears,

Lychorida, no tears:

Look to your little mistress, on whose grace

You may depend hereafter. Come, my lord.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. EPHESUS. A ROOM IN CERIMON’S HOUSE.

Enter Cerimon and Thaisa

Cerimon

Madam, this letter, and some certain jewels,

Lay with you in your coffer: which are now

At your command. Know you the character?

Thaisa

It is my lord’s.

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,

My wedded lord, I ne’er shall see again,

A vestal livery will I take me to,

And never more have joy.

Cerimon

Madam, if this you purpose as ye speak,

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.

Thaisa

My recompense is thanks, that’s all;

Yet my good will is great, though the gift small.

Exeunt

ACT IV

PROLOGUE

Enter Gower

Gower

Imagine Pericles arrived at Tyre,

Welcomed and settled to his own desire.

His woeful queen we leave at Ephesus,

Unto Diana there a votaress.

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

Of education all the grace,

Which makes her both the heart and place

Of general wonder. But, alack,

That monster envy, oft the wrack

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,

Even ripe for marriage-rite; this maid

Hight Philoten: and it is said

For certain in our story, she

Would ever with Marina be:

Be’t when she weaved the sleided silk

With fingers long, small, white as milk;

Or when she would with sharp needle wound

The cambric, which she made more sound

By hurting it; or 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

Vail to her mistress Dian; still

This Philoten contends in skill

With absolute Marina: so

With the dove of Paphos might the crow

Vie feathers white. Marina gets

All praises, which are paid as debts,

And not as given. This so darks

In Philoten all graceful marks,

That Cleon’s wife, with envy rare,

A present murderer does prepare

For good Marina, that her daughter

Might stand peerless by this slaughter.

The sooner her vile thoughts to stead,

Lychorida, our nurse, is dead:

And cursed Dionyza hath

The pregnant instrument of wrath

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 rhyme;

Which never could I so convey,

Unless your thoughts went on my way.

Dionyza does appear,

With Leonine, a murderer.

Exit

SCENE I. TARSUS. AN OPEN PLACE NEAR THE SEA-SHORE.

Enter Dionyza and Leonine

Dionyza

Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do’t:

’Tis but a blow, which never shall be known.

Thou canst not do a thing in the world so soon,

To yield thee so much profit. Let not conscience,

Which is but cold, inflaming love i’ thy bosom,

Inflame too nicely; nor let pity, which

Even women have cast off, melt thee, but be

A soldier to thy purpose.

Leonine

I will do’t; but yet she is a goodly creature.

Dionyza

The fitter, then, the gods should have her. Here she comes weeping for her only mistress’ death. Thou art resolved?

Leonine

I am resolved.

Enter Marina, with a basket of flowers

Marina

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,

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.

Dionyza

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 changed

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,

Leonine, take her by the arm, walk with her.

Marina

No, I pray you;

I’ll not bereave you of your servant.

Dionyza

Come, come;

I love the king your father, and yourself,

With more than foreign heart. We every day

Expect him here: when he shall come and find

Our paragon to all reports thus blasted,

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

The eyes of young and old. Care not for me

I can go home alone.

Marina

Well, I will go;

But yet I have no desire to it.

Dionyza

Come, come, I know ’tis good for you.

Walk half an hour, Leonine, at the least:

Remember what I have said.

Leonine

I warrant you, madam.

Dionyza

I’ll leave you, my sweet lady, for a while:

Pray, walk softly, do not heat your blood:

What! I must have a care of you.

Marina

My thanks, sweet madam.

Exit Dionyza

Is this wind westerly that blows?

Leonine

South-west.

Marina

When I was born, the wind was north.

Leonine

Was’t so?

Marina

My father, as nurse said, did never fear,

But cried ‘Good seaman!’ to the sailors, galling

His kingly hands, haling ropes;

And, clasping to the mast, endured a sea

That almost burst the deck.

Leonine

When was this?

Marina

When I was born:

Never was waves nor wind more violent;

And from the ladder-tackle washes off

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.

Leonine

Come, say your prayers.

Marina

What mean you?

Leonine

If you require a little space for prayer,

I grant it: pray; but be not tedious,

For the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn

To do my work with haste.

Marina

Why will you kill me?

Leonine

To satisfy my lady.

Marina

Why would she have me kill’d?

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,

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?

Leonine

My commission

Is not to reason of the deed, but do it.

Marina

You will not do’t for all the world, I hope.

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,

And save poor me, the weaker.

Leonine

I am sworn,

And will dispatch.

He seizes her

Enter Pirates

First Pirate

Hold, villain!

Leonine runs away

Second 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

Leonine

These roguing thieves serve the great pirate Valdes;

And they have seized Marina. Let her go:

There’s no hope she will 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,

Not carry her aboard. If she remain,

Whom they have ravish’d must by me be slain.

Exit

SCENE II. MYTILENE. A ROOM IN A BROTHEL.

Enter Pandar, Bawd, and Boult

Pandar

Boult!

Boult

Sir?

Pandar

Search the market narrowly; Mytilene is full of gallants. We lost too much money this mart by being too wenchless.

Bawd

We were never so much out of creatures. We have but poor three, and they can do no more than they can do; and they with continual action are even as good as rotten.

Pandar

Therefore let’s have fresh ones, whate’er we pay for them. If there be not a conscience to be used in every trade, we shall never prosper.

Bawd

Thou sayest true: ’tis not our bringing up of poor bastards,— as, I think, I have brought up some eleven —

Boult

Ay, to eleven; and brought them down again. But shall I search the market?

Bawd

What else, man? The stuff we have, a strong wind will blow it to pieces, they are so pitifully sodden.

Pandar

Thou sayest true; they’re too unwholesome, o’ conscience. The poor Transylvanian is dead, that lay with the little baggage.

Boult

Ay, she quickly pooped him; she made him roast-meat for worms. But I’ll go search the market.

Exit

Pandar

Three or four thousand chequins were as pretty a proportion to live quietly, and so give over.

Bawd

Why to give over, I pray you? is it a shame to get when we are old?

Pandar

O, our credit comes not in like the commodity, nor the commodity wages not with the danger: therefore, if in our youths we could pick up some pretty estate, ’twere not amiss to keep our door hatched. Besides, the sore terms we stand upon with the gods will be strong with us for giving over.

Bawd

Come, other sorts offend as well as we.

Pandar

As well as we! ay, and better too; we offend worse. Neither is our profession any trade; it’s no calling. But here comes Boult.

Re-enter Boult, with the Pirates and Marina

Boult

[To Marina] Come your ways. My masters, you say she’s a virgin?

First Pirate

O, sir, we doubt it not.

Boult

Master, I have gone through for this piece, you see: if you like her, so; if not, I have lost my earnest.

Bawd

Boult, has she any qualities?

Boult

She has a good face, speaks well, and has excellent good clothes: there’s no further necessity of qualities can make her be refused.

Bawd

What’s her price, Boult?

Boult

I cannot be bated one doit of a thousand pieces.

Pandar

Well, follow me, my masters, you shall have your money presently. Wife, take her in; instruct her what she has to do, that she may not be raw in her entertainment.

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 maidenhead were no cheap thing, if men were as they have been. Get this done as I command you.

Boult

Performance shall follow.

Exit

Marina

Alack that Leonine was so slack, so slow!

He should have struck, not spoke; or that these pirates,

Not enough barbarous, had not o’erboard thrown me

For to seek my mother!

Bawd

Why lament you, pretty one?

Marina

That I am pretty.

Bawd

Come, the gods have done their part in you.

Marina

I accuse them not.

Bawd

You are light into my hands, where you are like to live.

Marina

The more my fault

To scape his hands where I was like to die.

Bawd

Ay, and you shall live in pleasure.

Marina

No.

Bawd

Yes, indeed shall you, and taste gentlemen of all fashions: you shall fare well; you shall have the difference of all complexions. What! do you stop your ears?

Marina

Are you a woman?

Bawd

What would you have me be, an I be not a woman?

Marina

An honest woman, or not a woman.

Bawd

Marry, whip thee, gosling: I think I shall have something to do with you. Come, you’re a young foolish sapling, and must be bowed as I would have you.

Marina

The gods defend me!

Bawd

If it please the gods to defend you by men, then men must comfort you, men must feed you, men must stir you up. Boult’s returned.

Re-enter Boult

Now, sir, hast thou cried her through the market?

Boult

I have cried her almost to the number of her hairs;

I have drawn her picture with my voice.

Bawd

And I prithee tell me, how dost thou find the inclination of the people, especially of the younger sort?

Boult

’Faith, they listened to me as they would have hearkened to their father’s testament. There was a Spaniard’s mouth so watered, that he went to bed to her very description.

Bawd

We shall have him here to-morrow with his best ruff on.

Boult

To-night, to-night. But, mistress, do you know the

French knight that cowers i’ the hams?

Bawd

Who, Monsieur Veroles?

Boult

Ay, he: he offered to cut a caper at the proclamation; but he made a groan at it, and swore he would see her to-morrow.

Bawd

Well, well; as for him, he brought his disease hither: here he does but repair it. I know he will come in our shadow, to scatter his crowns in the sun.

Boult

Well, if we had of every nation a traveller, we should lodge them with this sign.

Bawd

[To Marina] Pray you, come hither awhile. You have fortunes coming upon you. Mark me: you must seem to do that fearfully which you commit willingly, despise profit where you have most gain. To weep that you live as ye do makes pity in your lovers: seldom but that pity begets you a good opinion, and that opinion a mere profit.

Marina

I understand you not.

Boult

O, take her home, mistress, take her home: these blushes of hers must be quenched with some present practise.

Bawd

Thou sayest true, i’ faith, so they must; for your bride goes to that with shame which is her way to go with warrant.

Boult

’Faith, some do, and some do not. But, mistress, if

I have bargained for the joint,—

Bawd

Thou mayst cut a morsel off the spit.

Boult

I may so.

Bawd

Who should deny it? Come, young one, I like the manner of your garments well.

Boult

Ay, by my faith, they shall not be changed yet.

Bawd

Boult, spend thou that in the town: report what a sojourner we have; you’ll lose nothing by custom. When nature flamed this piece, she meant thee a good turn; therefore say what a paragon she is, and thou hast the harvest out of thine own report.

Boult

I warrant you, mistress, thunder shall not so awake the beds of eels as my giving out her beauty stir up the lewdly-inclined. I’ll bring home some to-night.

Bawd

Come your ways; follow me.

Marina

If fires be hot, knives sharp, or waters deep,

Untied I still my virgin knot will keep.

Diana, aid my purpose!

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

Dionyza

Why, are you foolish? Can it be undone?

Cleon

O Dionyza, such a piece of slaughter

The sun and moon ne’er look’d upon!

Dionyza

I think

You’ll turn a child again.

Cleon

Were I chief lord of all this spacious world,

I’ld 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

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

When noble Pericles shall demand his child?

Dionyza

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,

And for an honest attribute cry out

‘she died by foul play.’

Cleon

O, go to. Well, well,

Of all the faults beneath the heavens, the gods

Do like this worst.

Dionyza

Be one of those that think

The petty wrens of Tarsus will fly hence,

And open this to Pericles. I do shame

To think of what a noble strain you are,

And of how coward a spirit.

Cleon

To such proceeding

Who ever but his approbation added,

Though not his prime consent, he did not flow

From honourable sources.

Dionyza

Be it so, then:

Yet none does know, but you, how she came dead,

Nor none can know, Leonine being gone.

She did disdain my child, and stood between

Her and her fortunes: none would look on her,

But cast their gazes on Marina’s face;

Whilst ours was blurted at and held a malkin

Not worth the time of day. It pierced me through;

And though you call my course unnatural,

You not your child well loving, yet I find

It greets me as an enterprise of kindness

Perform’d to your sole daughter.

Cleon

Heavens forgive it!

Dionyza

And as for Pericles,

What should he say? We wept after her hearse,

And yet we mourn: her monument

Is almost finish’d, and her epitaphs

In glittering golden characters express

A general praise to her, and care in us

At whose expense ’tis done.

Cleon

Thou art like the harpy,

Which, to betray, dost, with thine angel’s face,

Seize with thine eagle’s talons.

Dionyza

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:

Enter Gower, before the monument of Marina at Tarsus

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.

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,

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.

Old Escanes, whom Helicanus late

Advanced in time to great and high estate,

Is left to govern. Bear you it in mind,

Old Helicanus goes along behind.

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.

Like motes and shadows see them move awhile;

Your ears unto your eyes I’ll reconcile.

Dumb Show.

Enter Pericles, at one door, with all his train; Cleon and Dionyza, at the other. Cleon shows Pericles the tomb; whereat Pericles makes lamentation, puts on sackcloth, and in a mighty passion departs. Then 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,

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:

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

By wicked Dionyza.

Reads the 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;

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,

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

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

In her unholy service. Patience, then,

And think you now are all in Mytilene.

Exit

SCENE V. MYTILENE. A STREET BEFORE THE BROTHEL.

Enter, from the brothel, two Gentlemen

First Gentleman

Did you ever hear the like?

Second Gentleman

No, nor never shall do in such a place as this, she being once gone.

First Gentleman

But to have divinity preached there! did you ever dream of such a thing?

Second Gentleman

No, no. Come, I am for no more bawdy-houses: shall’s go hear the vestals sing?

First Gentleman

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

Pandar

Well, I had rather than twice the worth of her she had ne’er come here.

Bawd

Fie, fie upon her! she’s 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 our swearers priests.

Pandar

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.

Enter Lysimachus

Lysimachus

How now! How a dozen of virginities?

Bawd

Now, the gods to-bless your honour!

Boult

I am glad to see your honour in good health.

Lysimachus

You may so; ’tis the better for you that your resorters stand upon sound legs. How now! wholesome iniquity have you that a man may deal withal, and defy the surgeon?

Bawd

We have here one, sir, if she would — but there never came her like in Mytilene.

Lysimachus

If she’ld do the deed of darkness, thou wouldst say.

Bawd

Your honour knows what ’tis to say well enough.

Lysimachus

Well, call forth, call forth.

Boult

For flesh and blood, sir, white and red, you shall see a rose; and she were a rose indeed, if she had but —

Lysimachus

What, prithee?

Boult

O, sir, I can be modest.

Lysimachus

That dignifies the renown of a bawd, no less than it gives a good report to a number to be chaste.

Exit Boult

Bawd

Here comes that which grows to the stalk; never plucked yet, I can assure you.

Re-enter Boult with Marina

Is she not a fair creature?

Lysimachus

’Faith, she would serve after a long voyage at sea.

Well, there’s for you: leave us.

Bawd

I beseech your honour, give me leave: a word, and

I’ll have done presently.

Lysimachus

I beseech you, do.

Bawd

[To Marina] First, I would have you note, this is an honourable man.

Marina

I desire to find him so, that I may worthily note him.

Bawd

Next, he’s the governor of this country, and a man whom I am bound to.

Marina

If he govern the country, you are bound to him indeed; but how honourable he is in that, I know not.

Bawd

Pray you, without any more virginal fencing, will you use him kindly? He will line your apron with gold.

Marina

What he will do graciously, I will thankfully receive.

Lysimachus

Ha’ you done?

Bawd

My lord, she’s not paced yet: you must take some pains to work her to your manage. Come, we will leave his honour and her together. Go thy ways.

Exeunt Bawd, Pandar, and Boult

Lysimachus

Now, pretty one, how long have you been at this trade?

Marina

What trade, sir?

Lysimachus

Why, I cannot name’t but I shall offend.

Marina

I cannot be offended with my trade. Please you to name it.

Lysimachus

How long have you been of this profession?

Marina

E’er since I can remember.

Lysimachus

Did you go to ’t so young? Were you a gamester at five or at seven?

Marina

Earlier too, sir, if now I be one.

Lysimachus

Why, the house you dwell in proclaims you to be a creature of sale.

Marina

Do you know this house to be a place of such resort, and will come into ’t? I hear say you are of honourable parts, and are the governor of this place.

Lysimachus

Why, hath your principal made known unto you who I am?

Marina

Who is my principal?

Lysimachus

Why, your herb-woman; she that sets seeds and roots of shame and iniquity. O, you have heard something of my power, and so stand aloof for more serious wooing. But I protest to thee, pretty one, my authority shall not see thee, or else look friendly upon thee. Come, bring me to some private place: come, come.

Marina

If you were born to honour, show it now;

If put upon you, make the judgment good

That thought you worthy of it.

Lysimachus

How’s this? how’s this? Some more; be sage.

Marina

For me,

That am a maid, though most ungentle fortune

Have placed me in this sty, where, since I came,

Diseases have been sold dearer than physic,

O, that the gods

Would set me free from this unhallow’d place,

Though they did change me to the meanest bird

That flies i’ the purer air!

Lysimachus

I did not think

Thou couldst have spoke so well; ne’er dream’d thou couldst.

Had I brought hither a corrupted mind,

Thy speech had alter’d it. Hold, here’s gold for thee:

Persever in that clear way thou goest,

And the gods strengthen thee!

Marina

The good gods preserve you!

Lysimachus

For me, be you thoughten

That I came with no ill intent; for to me

The very doors and windows savour vilely.

Fare thee well. Thou art a piece of virtue, and

I doubt not but thy training hath been noble.

Hold, here’s more gold for thee.

A curse upon him, die he like a thief,

That robs thee of thy goodness! If thou dost

Hear from me, it shall be for thy good.

Re-enter Boult

Boult

I beseech your honour, one piece for me.

Lysimachus

Avaunt, thou damned door-keeper!

Your house, but for this virgin that doth prop it,

Would sink and overwhelm you. Away!

Exit

Boult

How’s this? We must take another course with you. If your peevish chastity, which is not worth a breakfast in the cheapest country under the cope, shall undo a whole household, let me be gelded like a spaniel. Come your ways.

Marina

Whither would you have me?

Boult

I must have your maidenhead taken off, or the common hangman shall execute it. Come your ways. We’ll have no more gentlemen driven away. Come your ways, I say.

Re-enter Bawd

Bawd

How now! what’s the matter?

Boult

Worse and worse, mistress; she has here spoken holy words to the Lord Lysimachus.

Bawd

O abominable!

Boult

She makes our profession as it were to stink afore the face of the gods.

Bawd

Marry, hang her up for ever!

Boult

The nobleman would have dealt with her like a nobleman, and she sent him away as cold as a snowball; saying his prayers too.

Bawd

Boult, take her away; use her at thy pleasure: crack the glass of her virginity, and make the rest malleable.

Boult

An if she were a thornier piece of ground than she is, she shall be ploughed.

Marina

Hark, hark, you gods!

Bawd

She conjures: away with her! Would she had never come within my doors! Marry, hang you! She’s born to undo us. Will you not go the way of women-kind? Marry, come up, my dish of chastity with rosemary and bays!

Exit

Boult

Come, mistress; come your ways with me.

Marina

Whither wilt thou have me?

Boult

To take from you the jewel you hold so dear.

Marina

Prithee, tell me one thing first.

Boult

Come now, your one thing.

Marina

What canst thou wish thine enemy to be?

Boult

Why, I could wish him to be my master, or rather, my mistress.

Marina

Neither of these are so bad as thou art,

Since they do better thee in their command.

Thou hold’st a place, for which the pained’st fiend

Of hell would not in reputation change:

Thou art the damned doorkeeper to every

Coistrel 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.

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?

Marina

Do any thing but this thou doest. Empty

Old receptacles, or common shores, of filth;

Serve by indenture to the common hangman:

Any of these ways are yet better than this;

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!

Here, here’s gold for thee.

If that thy master would gain by thee,

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.

I doubt not but this populous city will

Yield many scholars.

Boult

But can you teach all this you speak of?

Marina

Prove that I cannot, take me home again,

And prostitute me to the basest groom

That doth frequent your house.

Boult

Well, I will see what I can do for thee: if I can place thee, I will.

Marina

But amongst honest women.

Boult

’Faith, my acquaintance lies little amongst them. But since my master and mistress have bought you, there’s no going but by their consent: therefore I will make them acquainted with your purpose, and I doubt not but I shall find them tractable enough. Come, I’ll do for thee what I can; come your ways.

Exeunt

ACT V

PROLOGUE

Enter Gower

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;

Deep clerks she dumbs; and with her needle 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:

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,

Where we left him, on the sea. We there him lost;

Whence, driven before the winds, he is arrived

Here where his daughter dwells; and on this coast

Suppose him now at anchor. The city strived

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 fervor hies.

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 MYTILENE. A CLOSE

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

Tyrian Sailor

[To the Sailor of Mytilene] Where is lord Helicanus? he can resolve you.

O, here he is.

Sir, there’s a barge put off from Mytilene,

And in it is Lysimachus the governor,

Who craves to come aboard. What is your will?

Helicanus

That he have his. Call up some gentlemen.

Tyrian Sailor

Ho, gentlemen! my lord calls.

Enter two or three Gentlemen

First Gentleman

Doth your lordship call?

Helicanus

Gentlemen, there’s some of worth would come aboard;

I pray ye, greet them fairly.

The Gentlemen and the two Sailors descend, and go on board the barge

Enter, from thence, Lysimachus and Lords; with the Gentlemen and the two Sailors

Tyrian Sailor

Sir,

This is the man that can, in aught you would,

Resolve you.

Lysimachus

Hail, reverend sir! the gods preserve you!

Helicanus

And you, sir, to outlive the age I am,

And die as I would do.

Lysimachus

You wish me well.

Being on shore, honouring of Neptune’s triumphs,

Seeing this goodly vessel ride before us,

I made to it, to know of whence you are.

Helicanus

First, what is your place?

Lysimachus

I am the governor of this place you lie before.

Helicanus

Sir,

Our vessel is of Tyre, in it the king;

A man who for this three months hath not spoken

To any one, nor taken sustenance

But to prorogue his grief.

Lysimachus

Upon what ground is his distemperature?

Helicanus

’Twould be too tedious to repeat;

But the main grief springs from the loss

Of a beloved daughter and a wife.

Lysimachus

May we not see him?

Helicanus

You may;

But bootless is your sight: he will not speak To any.

Lysimachus

Yet let me obtain my wish.

Helicanus

Behold him.

Pericles discovered

This was a goodly person,

Till the disaster that, one mortal night,

Drove him to this.

Lysimachus

Sir king, all hail! the gods preserve you!

Hail, royal sir!

Helicanus

It is in vain; he will not speak to you.

First Lord

Sir,

We have a maid in Mytilene, I durst wager,

Would win some words of him.

Lysimachus

’Tis well bethought.

She questionless with her sweet harmony

And other chosen attractions, would allure,

And make a battery through his deafen’d parts,

Which now are midway stopp’d:

She is all happy as the fairest of all,

And, with her fellow maids is now upon

The leafy shelter that abuts against

The island’s side.

Whispers a Lord, who goes off in the barge of Lysimachus

Helicanus

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,

Wherein we are not destitute for want,

But weary for the staleness.

Lysimachus

O, sir, a courtesy

Which if we should deny, the most just gods

For every graff would send a caterpillar,

And so afflict our province. Yet once more

Let me entreat to know at large the cause

Of your king’s sorrow.

Helicanus

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

Lysimachus

O, here is

The lady that I sent for. Welcome, fair one!

Is’t not a goodly presence?

Helicanus

She’s a gallant lady.

Lysimachus

She’s such a one, that, were I well assured

Came of a gentle kind and noble stock,

I’ld 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

Can draw him but to answer thee in aught,

Thy sacred physic shall receive such pay

As thy desires can wish.

Marina

Sir, I will use

My utmost skill in his recovery, Provided

That none but I and my companion maid

Be suffer’d to come near him.

Lysimachus

Come, let us leave her;

And the gods make her prosperous!

Marina sings

Lysimachus

Mark’d he your music?

Marina

No, nor look’d on us.

Lysimachus

See, she will speak to him.

Marina

Hail, sir! my lord, lend ear.

Pericles

Hum, ha!

Marina

I am a maid,

My lord, that ne’er before invited eyes,

But have been gazed on like a comet: she speaks,

My lord, that, may be, hath endured a grief

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:

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.’

Pericles

My fortunes — parentage — good parentage —

To equal mine!— was it not thus? what say you?

Marina

I said, my lord, if you did know my parentage,

You would not do me violence.

Pericles

I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes upon me.

You are like something that — What country-woman?

Here of these shores?

Marina

No, nor of any shores:

Yet I was mortally brought forth, and am

No other than I appear.

Pericles

I am great with woe, and shall deliver weeping.

My dearest wife was like this maid, and such a one

My daughter might have been: my queen’s square brows;

Her stature to an inch; as wand-like straight;

As silver-voiced; her eyes as jewel-like

And cased as richly; in pace another Juno;

Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them hungry,

The more she gives them speech. Where do you live?

Marina

Where I am but a stranger: from the deck

You may discern the place.

Pericles

Where were you bred?

And how achieved you these endowments, which

You make more rich to owe?

Marina

If I should tell my history, it would seem

Like lies disdain’d in the reporting.

Pericles

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 will believe thee,

And make my senses credit thy relation

To points that seem impossible; for thou look’st

Like one I loved indeed. What were thy friends?

Didst thou not say, when I did push thee back —

Which was when I perceived thee — that thou camest

From good descending?

Marina

So indeed I did.

Pericles

Report thy parentage. I think thou said’st

Thou hadst been toss’d from wrong to injury,

And that thou thought’st thy griefs might equal mine,

If both were open’d.

Marina

Some such thing

I said, and said no more but what my thoughts

Did warrant me was likely.

Pericles

Tell thy story;

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

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.

Marina

My name is Marina.

Pericles

O, I am mock’d,

And thou by some incensed god sent hither

To make the world to laugh at me.

Marina

Patience, good sir,

Or here I’ll cease.

Pericles

Nay, I’ll be patient.

Thou little know’st how thou dost startle me,

To call thyself Marina.

Marina

The name

Was given me by one that had some power,

My father, and a king.

Pericles

How! a king’s daughter?

And call’d Marina?

Marina

You said you would believe me;

But, not to be a troubler of your peace,

I will end here.

Pericles

But are you flesh and blood?

Have you a working pulse? and are no fairy?

Motion! Well; speak on. Where were you born?

And wherefore call’d Marina?

Marina

Call’d Marina

For I was born at sea.

Pericles

At sea! what mother?

Marina

My mother was the daughter of a king;

Who died the minute I was born,

As my good nurse Lychorida hath oft

Deliver’d weeping.

Pericles

O, stop there a little!

Aside

This is the rarest dream that e’er dull sleep

Did mock sad fools withal: this cannot be:

My daughter’s buried. Well: where were you bred?

I’ll hear you more, to the bottom of your story,

And never interrupt you.

Marina

You scorn: believe me, ’twere best I did give o’er.

Pericles

I will believe you by the syllable

Of what you shall deliver. Yet, give me leave:

How came you in these parts? where were you bred?

Marina

The king my father did in Tarsus leave me;

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 rescued me;

Brought me to Mytilene. 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,

If good King Pericles be.

Pericles

Ho, Helicanus!

Helicanus

Calls my lord?

Pericles

Thou art a grave and noble counsellor,

Most wise in general: tell me, if thou canst,

What this maid is, or what is like to be,

That thus hath made me weep?

Helicanus

I know not; but

Here is the regent, sir, of Mytilene

Speaks nobly of her.

Lysimachus

She would never tell

Her parentage; being demanded that,

She would sit still and weep.

Pericles

O Helicanus, strike me, honour’d sir;

Give me a gash, put me to present pain;

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,

Thou that beget’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

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.

Marina

First, sir, I pray,

What is your title?

Pericles

I am Pericles of Tyre: but tell me now

My drown’d queen’s name, as in the rest you said

Thou hast been godlike perfect,

The heir of kingdoms and another like

To Pericles thy father.

Marina

Is it no more to be your daughter than

To say my mother’s name was Thaisa?

Thaisa was my mother, who did end

The minute I began.

Pericles

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,

By savage Cleon: she shall tell thee all;

When thou shalt kneel, and justify in knowledge

She is thy very princess. Who is this?

Helicanus

Sir, ’tis the governor of Mytilene,

Who, hearing of your melancholy state,

Did come to see you.

Pericles

I embrace you.

Give me my robes. I am wild in my beholding.

O heavens bless my girl! But, hark, what music?

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?

Helicanus

My lord, I hear none.

Pericles

None!

The music of the spheres! List, my Marina.

Lysimachus

It is not good to cross him; give him way.

Pericles

Rarest sounds! Do ye not hear?

Lysimachus

My lord, I hear.

Music

Pericles

Most heavenly music!

It nips me unto listening, and thick slumber

Hangs upon mine eyes: let me rest.

Sleeps

Lysimachus

A pillow for his head:

So, leave him all. Well, my companion friends,

If this but answer to my just belief,

I’ll well remember you.

Exeunt all but Pericles

Diana appears to Pericles as in a vision

Diana

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,

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.

Or perform my bidding, or thou livest in woe;

Do it, and happy; by my silver bow!

Awake, and tell thy dream.

Disappears

Pericles

Celestial Dian, goddess argentine,

I will obey thee. Helicanus!

Re-enter Helicanus, Lysimachus, and Marina

Helicanus

Sir?

Pericles

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.

To Lysimachus

Shall we refresh us, sir, upon your shore,

And give you gold for such provision

As our intents will need?

Lysimachus

Sir,

With all my heart; and, when you come ashore,

I have another suit.

Pericles

You shall prevail,

Were it to woo my daughter; for it seems

You have been noble towards her.

Lysimachus

Sir, lend me your arm.

Pericles

Come, my Marina.

Exeunt

Scene II:

Enter Gower, before the temple of Diana at Ephesus

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,

That you aptly will suppose

What pageantry, what feats, what shows,

What minstrelsy, and pretty din,

The regent made in Mytilene

To greet the king. So he thrived,

That he is promised to be wived

To fair Marina; but in no wise

Till he had done his sacrifice,

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.

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

Pericles

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.

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 nursed with Cleon; who at fourteen years

He sought to murder: but her better stars

Brought her to Mytilene; ’gainst whose shore

Riding, her fortunes brought the maid aboard us,

Where, by her own most clear remembrance, she

Made known herself my daughter.

Thaisa

Voice and favour!

You are, you are — O royal Pericles!

Faints

Pericles

What means the nun? she dies! help, gentlemen!

Cerimon

Noble sir,

If you have told Diana’s altar true,

This is your wife.

Pericles

Reverend appearer, no;

I threw her overboard with these very arms.

Cerimon

Upon this coast, I warrant you.

Pericles

’Tis most certain.

Cerimon

Look to the lady; O, she’s but o’erjoy’d.

Early in blustering morn this lady was

Thrown upon this shore. I oped the coffin,

Found there rich jewels; recover’d her, and placed her

Here in Diana’s temple.

Pericles

May we see them?

Cerimon

Great sir, they shall be brought you to my house,

Whither I invite you. Look, Thaisa is recovered.

Thaisa

O, let me look!

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 spake,

Like him you are: did you not name a tempest,

A birth, and death?

Pericles

The voice of dead Thaisa!

Thaisa

That Thaisa am I, supposed dead

And drown’d.

Pericles

Immortal Dian!

Thaisa

Now I know you better.

When we with tears parted Pentapolis,

The king my father gave you such a ring.

Shows a ring

Pericles

This, this: no more, you gods! your present kindness

Makes my past miseries sports: 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.

Marina

My heart

Leaps to be gone into my mother’s bosom.

Kneels to Thaisa

Pericles

Look, who kneels here! Flesh of thy flesh, Thaisa;

Thy burden at the sea, and call’d Marina

For she was yielded there.

Thaisa

Blest, and mine own!

Helicanus

Hail, madam, and my queen!

Thaisa

I know you not.

Pericles

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?

I have named him oft.

Thaisa

’Twas Helicanus then.

Pericles

Still confirmation:

Embrace him, dear Thaisa; this is he.

Now do I long to hear how you were found;

How possibly preserved; and who to thank,

Besides the gods, for this great miracle.

Thaisa

Lord Cerimon, my lord; this man,

Through whom the gods have shown their power; that can

From first to last resolve you.

Pericles

Reverend sir,

The gods can have no mortal officer

More like a god than you. Will you deliver

How this dead queen re-lives?

Cerimon

I will, my lord.

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.

Pericles

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,

This ornament

Makes me look dismal will I clip to form;

And what this fourteen years no razor touch’d,

To grace thy marriage-day, I’ll beautify.

Thaisa

Lord Cerimon hath letters of good credit, sir,

My father’s dead.

Pericles

Heavens make a star of him! Yet there, my queen,

We’ll celebrate their nuptials, and ourselves

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.

Exeunt

Enter Gower

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,

Virtue preserved 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:

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

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.

So, on your patience evermore attending,

New joy wait on you! Here our play has ending.

Exit

Cymbeline

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. BRITAIN. THE GARDEN OF CYMBELINE’S PALACE.

SCENE II. THE SAME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN CYMBELINE’S PALACE.

SCENE IV. ROME. PHILARIO’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. BRITAIN. A ROOM IN CYMBELINE’S PALACE.

SCENE VI. THE SAME. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE PALACE.

ACT II

SCENE I. BRITAIN. BEFORE CYMBELINE’S PALACE.

SCENE II. IMOGEN’S BEDCHAMBER IN CYMBELINE’S PALACE: A TRUNK IN ONE CORNER OF IT.

SCENE III. AN ANTE-CHAMBER ADJOINING IMOGEN’S APARTMENTS.

SCENE IV. ROME. PHILARIO’S HOUSE.

SCENE V. ANOTHER ROOM IN PHILARIO’S HOUSE.

ACT III

SCENE I. BRITAIN. A HALL IN CYMBELINE’S PALACE.

SCENE II. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE PALACE.

SCENE III. WALES: A MOUNTAINOUS COUNTRY WITH A CAVE.

SCENE IV. COUNTRY NEAR MILFORD-HAVEN.

SCENE V. A ROOM IN CYMBELINE’S PALACE.

SCENE VI. WALES. BEFORE THE CAVE OF BELARIUS.

SCENE VII. ROME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

ACT IV

SCENE I. WALES: NEAR THE CAVE OF BELARIUS.

SCENE II. BEFORE THE CAVE OF BELARIUS.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN CYMBELINE’S PALACE.

SCENE IV. WALES: BEFORE THE CAVE OF BELARIUS.

ACT V

SCENE I. BRITAIN. THE ROMAN CAMP.

SCENE II. FIELD OF BATTLE BETWEEN THE BRITISH AND ROMAN CAMPS.

SCENE III. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

SCENE IV. A BRITISH PRISON.

SCENE V. CYMBELINE’S TENT.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

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,Arviragus, sons to Cymbeline, disguised under the names of Polydote and Cadwal, supposed sons to Morgan.

Philario, friend to Posthumus, and Iachimo, friend to Philario, Italians.

Caius Lucius, general of the Roman forces.

Pisanio, servant to Posthumus.

Cornelius, a physician.

A Roman Captain. Two British Captains.

A Frenchman, friend to Philario.

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 Soothsayer, a Dutchman, a Spaniard, Musicians, Officers, Captains, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants.

Apparitions.

Scene: Britain; Rome.

ACT I

SCENE I. BRITAIN. THE GARDEN OF CYMBELINE’S PALACE.

Enter two Gentlemen

First Gentleman

You do not meet a man but frowns: our bloods

No more obey the heavens than our courtiers

Still seem as does the king.

Second Gentleman

But what’s the matter?

First Gentleman

His daughter, and the heir of’s kingdom, whom

He purposed to his wife’s sole son — a widow

That late he married — hath referr’d herself

Unto a poor but worthy gentleman: she’s wedded;

Her husband banish’d; she imprison’d: all

Is outward sorrow; though I think the king

Be touch’d at very heart.

Second Gentleman

None but the king?

First Gentleman

He that hath lost her too; so is the queen,

That most desired the match; but not a courtier,

Although they wear their faces to the bent

Of the king’s look’s, hath a heart that is not

Glad at the thing they scowl at.

Second Gentleman

And why so?

First Gentleman

He that hath miss’d the princess is a thing

Too bad for bad report: and he that hath her —

I mean, that married her, alack, good man!

And therefore banish’d — is a creature such

As, to seek through the regions of the earth

For one his like, there would be something failing

In him that should compare. I do not think

So fair an outward and such stuff within

Endows a man but he.

Second Gentleman

You speak him far.

First Gentleman

I do extend him, sir, within himself,

Crush him together rather than unfold

His measure duly.

Second Gentleman

What’s his name and birth?

First Gentleman

I cannot delve him to the root: his father

Was call’d Sicilius, who did join his honour

Against the Romans with Cassibelan,

But had his titles by Tenantius whom

He served with glory and admired success,

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,

Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow

That he quit being, and his gentle lady,

Big of this gentleman our theme, deceased

As he was born. The king he takes the babe

To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus,

Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber,

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,

And in’s spring became a harvest, lived in court —

Which rare it is to do — most praised, most loved,

A sample to the youngest, to the more mature

A glass that feated them, and to the graver

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

What kind of man he is.

Second Gentleman

I honour him

Even out of your report. But, pray you, tell me,

Is she sole child to the king?

First Gentleman

His only child.

He had two sons: 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

Which way they went.

Second Gentleman

How long is this ago?

First Gentleman

Some twenty years.

Second Gentleman

That a king’s children should be so convey’d,

So slackly guarded, and the search so slow,

That could not trace them!

First Gentleman

Howsoe’er ’tis strange,

Or that the negligence may well be laugh’d at,

Yet is it true, sir.

Second Gentleman

I do well believe you.

First Gentleman

We must forbear: here comes the gentleman,

The queen, and princess.

Exeunt

Enter the Queen, Posthumus Leonatus, and Imogen

Queen

No, be assured you shall not find me, daughter,

After the slander of most stepmothers,

Evil-eyed unto you: you’re my prisoner, but

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

The fire of rage is in him, and ’twere good

You lean’d unto his sentence with what patience

Your wisdom may inform you.

Posthumus Leonatus

Please your highness,

I will from hence to-day.

Queen

You know the peril.

I’ll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying

The pangs of barr’d affections, though the king

Hath charged you should not speak together.

Exit

Imogen

O

Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant

Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband,

I something fear my father’s wrath; but nothing —

Always reserved my holy duty — what

His rage can do on me: you must be gone;

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.

Posthumus Leonatus

My queen! my mistress!

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,

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,

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,

But he does buy my injuries, to be friends;

Pays dear for my offences.

Exit

Posthumus Leonatus

Should we be taking leave

As long a term as yet we have to live,

The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu!

Imogen

Nay, stay a little:

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,

When Imogen is dead.

Posthumus Leonatus

How, how! another?

You gentle gods, give me but this I have,

And sear up my embracements from a next

With bonds of death!

Putting on the ring

Remain, remain thou here

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

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 upon her arm

Imogen

O the gods!

When shall we see again?

Enter Cymbeline and Lords

Posthumus Leonatus

Alack, the king!

Cymbeline

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.

Posthumus Leonatus

The gods protect you!

And bless the good remainders of the court! I am gone.

Exit

Imogen

There cannot be a pinch in death

More sharp than this is.

Cymbeline

O disloyal thing,

That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st

A year’s age on me.

Imogen

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.

Cymbeline

Past grace? obedience?

Imogen

Past hope, and in despair; that way, past grace.

Cymbeline

That mightst have had the sole son of my queen!

Imogen

O blest, that I might not! I chose an eagle,

And did avoid a puttock.

Cymbeline

Thou took’st a beggar; wouldst have made my throne

A seat for baseness.

Imogen

No; I rather added

A lustre to it.

Cymbeline

O thou vile one!

Imogen

Sir,

It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus:

You bred him as my playfellow, and he is

A man worth any woman, overbuys me

Almost the sum he pays.

Cymbeline

What, art thou mad?

Imogen

Almost, sir: heaven restore me! Would I were

A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus

Our neighbour shepherd’s son!

Cymbeline

Thou foolish thing!

Re-enter Queen

They were again together: you have done

Not after our command. Away with her,

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.

Cymbeline

Nay, let her languish

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?

Pisanio

My lord your son drew on my master.

Queen

Ha!

No harm, I trust, is done?

Pisanio

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.

Imogen

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

The goer-back. Why came you from your master?

Pisanio

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,

When ’t pleased you to employ me.

Queen

This hath been

Your faithful servant: I dare lay mine honour

He will remain so.

Pisanio

I humbly thank your highness.

Queen

Pray, walk awhile.

Imogen

About some half-hour hence,

I pray you, speak with me: you shall at least

Go see my lord aboard: for this time leave me.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE SAME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter Cloten and two Lords

First Lord

Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice: where air comes out, air comes in: there’s none abroad so wholesome as that you vent.

Cloten

If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him?

Second Lord

[Aside] No, ’faith; not so much as his patience.

First Lord

Hurt him! his body’s a passable carcass, if he be not hurt: it is a thoroughfare for steel, if it be not hurt.

Second Lord

[Aside] His steel was in debt; it went o’ the backside the town.

Cloten

The villain would not stand me.

Second Lord

[Aside] No; but he fled forward still, toward your face.

First Lord

Stand you! You have land enough of your own: but he added to your having; gave you some ground.

Second Lord

[Aside] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies!

Cloten

I would they had not come between us.

Second Lord

[Aside] So would I, till you had measured how long a fool you were upon the ground.

Cloten

And that she should love this fellow and refuse me!

Second Lord

[Aside] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damned.

First Lord

Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together: she’s a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit.

Second Lord

[Aside] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her.

Cloten

Come, I’ll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done!

Second Lord

[Aside] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt.

Cloten

You’ll go with us?

First Lord

I’ll attend your lordship.

Cloten

Nay, come, let’s go together.

Second Lord

Well, my lord.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A ROOM IN CYMBELINE’S PALACE.

Enter Imogen and Pisanio

Imogen

I would thou grew’st unto the shores o’ the haven,

And question’dst every sail: if he should write

And not have it, ’twere a paper lost,

As offer’d mercy is. What was the last

That he spake to thee?

Pisanio

It was his queen, his queen!

Imogen

Then waved his handkerchief?

Pisanio

And kiss’d it, madam.

Imogen

Senseless Linen! happier therein than I!

And that was all?

Pisanio

No, madam; for so long

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

Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on,

How swift his ship.

Imogen

Thou shouldst have made him

As little as a crow, or less, ere left

To after-eye him.

Pisanio

Madam, so I did.

Imogen

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

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?

Pisanio

Be assured, madam,

With his next vantage.

Imogen

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

The shes of Italy should not betray

Mine interest and his honour, or have charged him,

At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight,

To encounter me with orisons, for then

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,

Desires your highness’ company.

Imogen

Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch’d.

I will attend the queen.

Pisanio

Madam, I shall.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. ROME. PHILARIO’S HOUSE.

Enter Philario, Iachimo, a Frenchman, a Dutchman, and a Spaniard

Iachimo

Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain: he was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of; but I could then have looked on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side and I to peruse him by items.

Philario

You speak of him when he was less furnished than now he is with that which makes him both without and within.

Frenchman

I have seen him in France: we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he.

Iachimo

This matter of marrying his king’s daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter.

Frenchman

And then his banishment.

Iachimo

Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him; be it but to fortify her judgment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance?

Philario

His father and I were soldiers together; to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life. Here comes the Briton: let him be so entertained amongst you as suits, with gentlemen of your knowing, to a stranger of his quality.

Enter Posthumus Leonatus

I beseech you all, be better known to this gentleman; whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine: how worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing.

Frenchman

Sir, we have known together in Orleans.

Posthumus Leonatus

Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still.

Frenchman

Sir, you o’er-rate my poor kindness: I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature.

Posthumus Leonatus

By your pardon, sir, I was then a young traveller; rather shunned to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others’ experiences: but upon my mended judgment — if I offend not to say it is mended — my quarrel was not altogether slight.

Frenchman

’Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other, or have fallen both.

Iachimo

Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference?

Frenchman

Safely, I think: ’twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching — and upon warrant of bloody affirmation — his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant-qualified and less attemptable than any the rarest of our ladies in France.

Iachimo

That lady is not now living, or this gentleman’s opinion by this worn out.

Posthumus Leonatus

She holds her virtue still and I my mind.

Iachimo

You must not so far prefer her ’fore ours of Italy.

Posthumus Leonatus

Being so far provoked as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend.

Iachimo

As fair and as good — a kind of hand-in-hand comparison — had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen, as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld. I could not but believe she excelled many: but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady.

Posthumus Leonatus

I praised her as I rated her: so do I my stone.

Iachimo

What do you esteem it at?

Posthumus Leonatus

More than the world enjoys.

Iachimo

Either your unparagoned mistress is dead, or she’s outprized by a trifle.

Posthumus Leonatus

You are mistaken: the one may be sold, or given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase, or merit for the gift: the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods.

Iachimo

Which the gods have given you?

Posthumus Leonatus

Which, by their graces, I will keep.

Iachimo

You may wear her in title yours: but, you know, strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stolen too: so your brace of unprizable estimations; the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that way accomplished courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last.

Posthumus Leonatus

Your Italy contains none so accomplished a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if, in the holding or loss of that, you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring.

Philario

Let us leave here, gentlemen.

Posthumus Leonatus

Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first.

Iachimo

With five times so much conversation, I should get ground of your fair mistress, make her go back, even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend.

Posthumus Leonatus

No, no.

Iachimo

I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring; which, in my opinion, o’ervalues it something: but I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation: and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world.

Posthumus Leonatus

You are a great deal abused in too bold a persuasion; and I doubt not you sustain what you’re worthy of by your attempt.

Iachimo

What’s that?

Posthumus Leonatus

A repulse: though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more; a punishment too.

Philario

Gentlemen, enough of this: it came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and, I pray you, be better acquainted.

Iachimo

Would I had put my estate and my neighbour’s on the approbation of what I have spoke!

Posthumus Leonatus

What lady would you choose to assail?

Iachimo

Yours; whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring, that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserved.

Posthumus Leonatus

I will wage against your gold, gold to it: my ring

I hold dear as my finger; ’tis part of it.

Iachimo

You are afraid, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies’ flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting: but I see you have some religion in you, that you fear.

Posthumus Leonatus

This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I hope.

Iachimo

I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what’s spoken, I swear.

Posthumus Leonatus

Will you? I shall but lend my diamond till your return: let there be covenants drawn between’s: my mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking: I dare you to this match: here’s my ring.

Philario

I will have it no lay.

Iachimo

By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoyed the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too: if I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours: provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment.

Posthumus Leonatus

I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her and give me directly to understand you have prevailed, I am no further your enemy; she is not worth our debate: if she remain unseduced, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and the assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword.

Iachimo

Your hand; a covenant: we will have these things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve: I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded.

Posthumus Leonatus

Agreed.

Exeunt Posthumus Leonatus and Iachimo

Frenchman

Will this hold, think you?

Philario

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?

Cornelius

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 those most poisonous compounds,

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

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

That I did amplify my judgment in

Other conclusions? I will try the forces

Of these thy compounds on such creatures as

We count not worth the hanging, but none human,

To try the vigour of them and apply

Allayments to their act, and by them gather

Their several virtues and effects.

Cornelius

Your highness

Shall from this practise but make hard your heart:

Besides, the seeing these effects will be

Both noisome and infectious.

Queen

O, content thee.

Enter Pisanio

Aside

Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him

Will I first work: he’s for his master,

An enemy to my son. How now, Pisanio!

Doctor, your service for this time is ended;

Take your own way.

Cornelius

[Aside] I do suspect you, madam;

But you shall do no harm.

Queen

[To Pisanio] Hark thee, a word.

Cornelius

[Aside] I do not like her. She doth think she has

Strange lingering poisons: I do know her spirit,

And will not trust one of her malice with

A drug of such damn’d nature. Those she has

Will stupefy and dull the sense awhile;

Which first, perchance, she’ll prove on cats and dogs,

Then afterward up higher: but there is

No danger in what show of death it makes,

More than the locking-up the spirits a time,

To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool’d

With a most false effect; and I the truer,

So to be false with her.

Queen

No further service, doctor,

Until I send for thee.

Cornelius

I humbly take my leave.

Exit

Queen

Weeps she still, say’st thou? Dost thou think in time

She will not quench and let instructions enter

Where folly now possesses? Do thou work:

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

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

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 takest up

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 prethee, take it;

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

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,

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 shaked; the agent for his master

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 liegers for her sweet, and which she after,

Except she bend her humour, shall be assured

To taste of too.

Re-enter Pisanio and Ladies

So, so: well done, well done:

The violets, cowslips, and the primroses,

Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio;

Think on my words.

Exeunt Queen and Ladies

Pisanio

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

Imogen

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,

As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable

Is the desire that’s glorious: blest be those,

How mean soe’er, that have their honest wills,

Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie!

Enter Pisanio and Iachimo

Pisanio

Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome,

Comes from my lord with letters.

Iachimo

Change you, madam?

The worthy Leonatus is in safety

And greets your highness dearly.

Presents a letter

Imogen

Thanks, good sir:

You’re kindly welcome.

Iachimo

[Aside] All of her that is out of door most rich!

If she be furnish’d with a mind so rare,

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;

Rather directly fly.

Imogen

[Reads] ‘He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust — Leonatus.’

So far I read aloud:

But even the very middle of my heart

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.

Iachimo

Thanks, fairest lady.

What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes

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

Partition make with spectacles so precious

’Twixt fair and foul?

Imogen

What makes your admiration?

Iachimo

It cannot be i’ the eye, for apes and monkeys

’Twixt two such shes would chatter this way and

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 opposed

Should make desire vomit emptiness,

Not so allured to feed.

Imogen

What is the matter, trow?

Iachimo

The cloyed will,

That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub

Both fill’d and running, ravening first the lamb

Longs after for the garbage.

Imogen

What, dear sir,

Thus raps you? Are you well?

Iachimo

Thanks, madam; well.

To Pisanio

Beseech you, sir, desire

My man’s abode where I did leave him: he

Is strange and peevish.

Pisanio

I was going, sir,

To give him welcome.

Exit

Imogen

Continues well my lord? His health, beseech you?

Iachimo

Well, madam.

Imogen

Is he disposed to mirth? I hope he is.

Iachimo

Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there

So merry and so gamesome: he is call’d

The Briton reveller.

Imogen

When he was here,

He did incline to sadness, and oft-times

Not knowing why.

Iachimo

I never saw him sad.

There is a Frenchman his companion, one

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,

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

Assured bondage?’

Imogen

Will my lord say so?

Iachimo

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,

Some men are much to blame.

Imogen

Not he, I hope.

Iachimo

Not he: but yet heaven’s bounty towards him might

Be used more thankfully. In himself, ’tis much;

In you, which I account his beyond all talents,

Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound

To pity too.

Imogen

What do you pity, sir?

Iachimo

Two creatures heartily.

Imogen

Am I one, sir?

You look on me: what wreck discern you in me

Deserves your pity?

Iachimo

Lamentable! What,

To hide me from the radiant sun and solace

I’ the dungeon by a snuff?

Imogen

I pray you, sir,

Deliver with more openness your answers

To my demands. Why do you pity me?

Iachimo

That others do —

I was about to say — enjoy your — But

It is an office of the gods to venge it,

Not mine to speak on ’t.

Imogen

You do seem to know

Something of me, or what concerns me: pray you,—

Since doubling things go ill often hurts more

Than to be sure they do; for certainties

Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing,

The remedy then born — discover to me

What both you spur and stop.

Iachimo

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

Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,

Fixing it only here; should I, damn’d then,

Slaver with lips as common as the stairs

That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands

Made hard with hourly falsehood — falsehood, as

With labour; then by-peeping in an eye

Base and unlustrous 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.

Imogen

My lord, I fear,

Has forgot Britain.

Iachimo

And himself. Not I,

Inclined to this intelligence, pronounce

The beggary of his change; but ’tis your graces

That from pay mutest conscience to my tongue

Charms this report out.

Imogen

Let me hear no more.

Iachimo

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,

Would make the great’st king double,— to be partner’d

With tomboys hired with that self-exhibition

Which your own coffers yield! with diseased ventures

That play with all infirmities for gold

Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil’d stuff

As well might poison poison! Be revenged;

Or she that bore you was no queen, and you

Recoil from your great stock.

Imogen

Revenged!

How should I be revenged? 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 revenged?

Iachimo

Should he make me

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,

More noble than that runagate to your bed,

And will continue fast to your affection,

Still close as sure.

Imogen

What, ho, Pisanio!

Iachimo

Let me my service tender on your lips.

Imogen

Away! I do condemn mine ears that have

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.

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!

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

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!

Iachimo

O happy Leonatus! I may say

The credit that thy lady hath of thee

Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness

Her assured credit. Blessed live you long!

A lady to the worthiest sir that ever

Country call’d his! and you his mistress, only

For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon.

I have spoke 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

The truest manner’d; such a holy witch

That he enchants societies into him;

Half all men’s hearts are his.

Imogen

You make amends.

Iachimo

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 adventured

To try your taking 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

Made me to fan you thus, but the gods made you,

Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon.

Imogen

All’s well, sir: take my power i’ the court for yours.

Iachimo

My humble thanks. I had almost forgot

To entreat your grace but in a small request,

And yet of moment to, for it concerns

Your lord; myself and other noble friends,

Are partners in the business.

Imogen

Pray, what is’t?

Iachimo

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

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

To take them in protection?

Imogen

Willingly;

And pawn mine honour for their safety: since

My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them

In my bedchamber.

Iachimo

They are in a trunk,

Attended by my men: I will make bold

To send them to you, only for this night;

I must aboard to-morrow.

Imogen

O, no, no.

Iachimo

Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word

By lengthening my return. From Gallia

I cross’d the seas on purpose and on promise

To see your grace.

Imogen

I thank you for your pains:

But not away to-morrow!

Iachimo

O, I must, madam:

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.

Imogen

I will write.

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

Cloten

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.

Second Lord

[Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out.

Cloten

When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths, ha?

Second Lord

No my lord;

Aside

nor crop the ears of them.

Cloten

Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction?

Would he had been one of my rank!

Second Lord

[Aside] To have smelt like a fool.

Cloten

I am not vexed more at any thing in the earth: a pox on’t! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the queen my mother: every Jack-slave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match.

Second Lord

[Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on.

Cloten

Sayest thou?

Second Lord

It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to.

Cloten

No, I know that: but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors.

Second Lord

Ay, it is fit for your lordship only.

Cloten

Why, so I say.

First Lord

Did you hear of a stranger that’s come to court to-night?

Cloten

A stranger, and I not know on’t!

Second Lord

[Aside] He’s a strange fellow himself, and knows it not.

First Lord

There’s an Italian come; and, ’tis thought, one of

Leonatus’ friends.

Cloten

Leonatus! a banished rascal; and he’s another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger?

First Lord

One of your lordship’s pages.

Cloten

Is it fit I went to look upon him? is there no derogation in’t?

Second Lord

You cannot derogate, my lord.

Cloten

Not easily, I think.

Second Lord

[Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate.

Cloten

Come, I’ll go see this Italian: what I have lost to-day at bowls I’ll win to-night of him. Come, go.

Second Lord

I’ll attend your lordship.

Exeunt Cloten and First Lord

That such a crafty devil as is his mother

Should yield the world this ass! a woman that

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 endurest,

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

Of the divorce he’ld make! The heavens hold firm

The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshaked

That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand,

To enjoy thy banish’d lord and this great land!

Exit

SCENE II. IMOGEN’S BEDCHAMBER IN CYMBELINE’S PALACE: A TRUNK IN ONE CORNER OF IT.

Imogen in bed, reading; a Lady attending

Imogen

Who’s there? my woman Helen?

Lady

Please you, madam

Imogen

What hour is it?

Lady

Almost midnight, madam.

Imogen

I have read three hours then: mine eyes are weak:

Fold down the leaf where I have left: to bed:

Take not away the taper, leave it burning;

And if thou canst awake by four o’ the clock,

I prithee, call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly

Exit Lady

To your protection I commend me, gods.

From fairies and the tempters of the night

Guard me, beseech ye.

Sleeps. Iachimo comes from the trunk

Iachimo

The crickets sing, and man’s o’er-labour’d sense

Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus

Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken’d

The chastity he wounded. Cytherea,

How bravely thou becomest thy bed, fresh lily,

And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!

But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon’d,

How dearly they do’t! ’Tis her breathing that

Perfumes the chamber thus: the flame o’ the taper

Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids,

To see the enclosed lights, now canopied

Under these windows, white and azure laced

With blue of heaven’s own tinct. But my design,

To note the chamber: I will write all down:

Such and such pictures; there the window; such

The 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,

Above ten thousand meaner moveables

Would testify, to enrich mine inventory.

O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her!

And be her sense but as a monument,

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,

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

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

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

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.

Cloten

It would make any man cold to lose.

First Lord

But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win.

Cloten

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.

Cloten

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.

Song

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,

And Phoebus ’gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes:

With every thing that pretty is,

My lady sweet, arise:

Arise, arise.

Cloten

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

Second Lord

Here comes the king.

Cloten

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.

Cymbeline

Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?

Will she not forth?

Cloten

I have assailed her with music, but she vouchsafes no notice.

Cymbeline

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,

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

With aptness of the season; make denials

Increase your services; so seem as if

You were inspired to do those duties which

You tender to her; that you in all obey her,

Save when command to your dismission tends,

And therein you are senseless.

Cloten

Senseless! not so.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome;

The one is Caius Lucius.

Cymbeline

A worthy fellow,

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,

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

Cloten

If she be up, I’ll speak with her; if not,

Let her lie still and dream.

Knocks

By your leave, ho!

I Know her women are about her: what

If I do line one of their hands? ’Tis gold

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;

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.

Knocks

By your leave.

Enter a Lady

Lady

Who’s there that knocks?

Cloten

A gentleman.

Lady

No more?

Cloten

Yes, and a gentlewoman’s son.

Lady

That’s more

Than some, whose tailors are as dear as yours,

Can justly boast of. What’s your lordship’s pleasure?

Cloten

Your lady’s person: is she ready?

Lady

Ay,

To keep her chamber.

Cloten

There is gold for you;

Sell me your good report.

Lady

How! my good name? or to report of you

What I shall think is good?— The princess!

Enter Imogen

Cloten

Good morrow, fairest: sister, your sweet hand.

Exit Lady

Imogen

Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains

For purchasing but trouble; the thanks I give

Is telling you that I am poor of thanks

And scarce can spare them.

Cloten

Still, I swear I love you.

Imogen

If you but said so, ’twere as deep with me:

If you swear still, your recompense is still

That I regard it not.

Cloten

This is no answer.

Imogen

But that you shall not say I yield being silent,

I would not speak. I pray you, spare me: ’faith,

I shall unfold equal discourtesy

To your best kindness: one of your great knowing

Should learn, being taught, forbearance.

Cloten

To leave you in your madness, ’twere my sin:

I will not.

Imogen

Fools are not mad folks.

Cloten

Do you call me fool?

Imogen

As I am mad, I do:

If you’ll be patient, I’ll no more be mad;

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,

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.

Cloten

You sin against

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:

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 dependency

But brats and beggary, in self-figured knot;

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,

A pantler, not so eminent.

Imogen

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

Comparative for your virtues, to be styled

The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated

For being preferred so well.

Cloten

The south-fog rot him!

Imogen

He never can meet more mischance than come

To be but named of thee. His meanest garment,

That ever hath but clipp’d his body, is dearer

In my respect than all the hairs above thee,

Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio!

Enter Pisanio

Cloten

‘His garment!’ Now the devil —

Imogen

To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently —

Cloten

‘His garment!’

Imogen

I am sprited with a fool.

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

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

That I kiss aught but he.

Pisanio

’Twill not be lost.

Imogen

I hope so: go and search.

Exit Pisanio

Cloten

You have abused me:

‘His meanest garment!’

Imogen

Ay, I said so, sir:

If you will make’t an action, call witness to’t.

Cloten

I will inform your father.

Imogen

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

Cloten

I’ll be revenged:

‘His meanest garment!’ Well.

Exit

Cymbeline

SCENE IV. ROME. PHILARIO’S HOUSE.

Enter Posthumus and Philario

Posthumus Leonatus

Fear it not, sir: I would I were so sure

To win the king as I am bold her honour

Will remain hers.

Philario

What means do you make to him?

Posthumus Leonatus

Not any, but abide the change of time,

Quake in the present winter’s state and wish

That warmer days would come: in these sear’d hopes,

I barely gratify your love; they failing,

I must die much your debtor.

Philario

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,

Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance

Is yet fresh in their grief.

Posthumus Leonatus

I do believe,

Statist though I am none, nor like to be,

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

Are men more order’d than when Julius Caesar

Smiled at their lack of skill, but found their courage

Worthy his frowning at: their discipline,

Now mingled with their courages, will make known

To their approvers they are people such

That mend upon the world.

Enter Iachimo

Philario

See! Iachimo!

Posthumus Leonatus

The swiftest harts have posted you by land;

And winds of all the corners kiss’d your sails,

To make your vessel nimble.

Philario

Welcome, sir.

Posthumus Leonatus

I hope the briefness of your answer made

The speediness of your return.

Iachimo

Your lady

Is one of the fairest that I have look’d upon.

Posthumus Leonatus

And therewithal the best; or let her beauty

Look through a casement to allure false hearts

And be false with them.

Iachimo

Here are letters for you.

Posthumus Leonatus

Their tenor good, I trust.

Iachimo

’Tis very like.

Philario

Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court

When you were there?

Iachimo

He was expected then,

But not approach’d.

Posthumus Leonatus

All is well yet.

Sparkles this stone as it was wont? or is’t not

Too dull for your good wearing?

Iachimo

If I had 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

Was mine in Britain, for the ring is won.

Posthumus Leonatus

The stone’s too hard to come by.

Iachimo

Not a whit,

Your lady being so easy.

Posthumus Leonatus

Make not, sir,

Your loss your sport: I hope you know that we

Must not continue friends.

Iachimo

Good sir, we must,

If you keep covenant. Had I not brought

The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant

We were to question further: but I now

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.

Posthumus Leonatus

If you can make’t apparent

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

To who shall find them.

Iachimo

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,

You’ll give me leave to spare, when you shall find

You need it not.

Posthumus Leonatus

Proceed.

Iachimo

First, her bedchamber,—

Where, I confess, I slept not, but profess

Had that was well worth watching — it was hang’d

With tapesty 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

So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive

In workmanship and value; which I wonder’d

Could be so rarely and exactly wrought,

Since the true life on’t was —

Posthumus Leonatus

This is true;

And this you might have heard of here, by me,

Or by some other.

Iachimo

More particulars

Must justify my knowledge.

Posthumus Leonatus

So they must,

Or do your honour injury.

Iachimo

The chimney

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,

Motion and breath left out.

Posthumus Leonatus

This is a thing

Which you might from relation likewise reap,

Being, as it is, much spoke of.

Iachimo

The roof o’ the chamber

With golden cherubins is fretted: her andirons —

I had forgot them — were two winking Cupids

Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely

Depending on their brands.

Posthumus Leonatus

This is her honour!

Let it be granted you have seen all this — and praise

Be given to your remembrance — the description

Of what is in her chamber nothing saves

The wager you have laid.

Iachimo

Then, if you can,

Showing the bracelet

Be pale: I beg but leave to air this jewel; see!

And now ’tis up again: it must be married

To that your diamond; I’ll keep them.

Posthumus Leonatus

Jove!

Once more let me behold it: is it that

Which I left with her?

Iachimo

Sir — I thank her — that:

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 prized it once.

Posthumus Leonatus

May be she pluck’d it off

To send it me.

Iachimo

She writes so to you, doth she?

Posthumus Leonatus

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,

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.

O, above measure false!

Philario

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,

Hath stol’n it from her?

Posthumus Leonatus

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 stolen.

Iachimo

By Jupiter, I had it from her arm.

Posthumus Leonatus

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

All sworn and honourable:— they induced to steal it!

And by a stranger!— No, he hath enjoyed her:

The cognizance of her incontinency

Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly.

There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell

Divide themselves between you!

Philario

Sir, be patient:

This is not strong enough to be believed

Of one persuaded well of —

Posthumus Leonatus

Never talk on’t;

She hath been colted by him.

Iachimo

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,

I kiss’d it; and it gave me present hunger

To feed again, though full. You do remember

This stain upon her?

Posthumus Leonatus

Ay, and it doth confirm

Another stain, as big as hell can hold,

Were there no more but it.

Iachimo

Will you hear more?

Posthumus Leonatus

Spare your arithmetic: never count the turns;

Once, and a million!

Iachimo

I’ll be sworn —

Posthumus Leonatus

No swearing.

If you will swear you have not done’t, you lie;

And I will kill thee, if thou dost deny

Thou’st made me cuckold.

Iachimo

I’ll deny nothing.

Posthumus Leonatus

O, that I had her here, to tear her limb-meal!

I will go there and do’t, i’ the court, before

Her father. I’ll do something —

Exit

Philario

Quite besides

The government of patience! You have won:

Let’s follow him, and pervert the present wrath

He hath against himself.

Iachimo

With an my heart.

Exeunt

SCENE V. ANOTHER ROOM IN PHILARIO’S HOUSE.

Enter Posthumus Leonatus

Posthumus Leonatus

Is there no way for men to be but women

Must be half-workers? We are all bastards;

And that most venerable man which I

Did call my father, was I know not where

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!

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

As chaste as unsunn’d snow. O, all the devils!

This yellow Iachimo, in an hour,— wast not?—

Or less,— at first?— perchance he spoke not, but,

Like a full-acorn’d boar, a German one,

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

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;

Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain,

Nice longing, slanders, mutability,

All faults that may be named, nay, that hell knows,

Why, hers, in part or all; but rather, all;

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

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 in state, Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, and Lords at one door, and at another, Caius Lucius and Attendants

Cymbeline

Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with us?

Caius Lucius

When Julius Caesar, 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,—

Famous in Caesar’s praises, no whit less

Than in his feats deserving it — for him

And his succession granted Rome a tribute,

Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately

Is left untender’d.

Queen

And, to kill the marvel,

Shall be so ever.

Cloten

There be many Caesars,

Ere such another Julius. Britain is

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,

The kings your ancestors, together with

The natural bravery of your isle, which stands

As Neptune’s park, ribbed and paled in

With rocks unscalable and roaring waters,

With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boats,

But suck them up to the topmast. A kind of conquest

Caesar made here; but made not here his brag

Of ‘Came’ and ‘saw’ and ‘overcame’ with shame —

That first that ever touch’d him — he was carried

From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping —

Poor ignorant baubles!— upon our terrible seas,

Like egg-shells moved upon their surges, crack’d

As easily ’gainst our rocks: for joy whereof

The famed Cassibelan, who was once at point —

O giglot fortune!— to master Caesar’s sword,

Made Lud’s town with rejoicing fires bright

And Britons strut with courage.

Cloten

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 Caesars: other of them may have crook’d noses, but to owe such straight arms, none.

Cymbeline

Son, let your mother end.

Cloten

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 Caesar 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.

Cymbeline

You must know,

Till the injurious Romans did extort

This tribute from us, we were free:

Caesar’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

Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon

Ourselves to be.

Cloten

Lords

We do.

Cymbeline

Say, then, to Caesar,

Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which

Ordain’d our laws, whose use the sword of Caesar

Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise

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

His brows within a golden crown and call’d

Himself a king.

Caius Lucius

I am sorry, Cymbeline,

That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar —

Caesar, that hath more kings his servants than

Thyself domestic officers — thine enemy:

Receive it from me, then: war and confusion

In Caesar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee: look

For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied,

I thank thee for myself.

Cymbeline

Thou art welcome, Caius.

Thy Caesar knighted me; my youth I spent

Much under him; of him I gather’d honour;

Which he to seek of me again, perforce,

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 Caesar shall not find them.

Caius Lucius

Let proof speak.

Cloten

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.

Caius Lucius

So, sir.

Cymbeline

I know your master’s pleasure and he mine:

All the remain is ‘Welcome!’

Exeunt

SCENE II. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE PALACE.

Enter Pisanio, with a letter

Pisanio

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,

As poisonous-tongued 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

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

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

So much as this fact comes to?

Reading

‘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,

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

Imogen

How now, Pisanio!

Pisanio

Madam, here is a letter from my lord.

Imogen

Who? thy lord? that is my lord, Leonatus!

O, learn’d indeed were that astronomer

That knew the stars as I his characters;

He’ld 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,

For it doth physic love: of his content,

All but in that! Good wax, thy leave. Blest be

You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers

And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike:

Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet

You clasp young Cupid’s tables. Good news, gods!

Reads

‘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 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?

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

Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio,—

Who long’st, like me, to see thy lord; who long’st,—

Let me bate,— but not like me — yet long’st,

But in a fainter kind:— O, not like me;

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

To 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 hence-going

And our return, to excuse: but first, how get hence:

Why should excuse be born or e’er begot?

We’ll talk of that hereafter. Prithee, speak,

How many score of miles may we well ride

’Twixt hour and hour?

Pisanio

One score ’twixt sun and sun,

Madam, ’s enough for you:

Aside

and too much too.

Imogen

Why, one that rode to’s execution, man,

Could never go so slow: I have heard of riding wagers,

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

A riding-suit, no costlier than would fit

A franklin’s housewife.

Pisanio

Madam, you’re best consider.

Imogen

I see before me, man: nor here, nor here,

Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them,

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 following

Belarius

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

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!

We house i’ the rock, yet use thee not so hardly

As prouder livers do.

Guiderius

Hail, heaven!

Arviragus

Hail, heaven!

Belarius

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,

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,

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

Than is the full-wing’d eagle. O, this life

Is nobler than attending for a cheque,

Richer than doing nothing for a bauble,

Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk:

Such gain the cap of him that makes ’em fine,

Yet keeps his book uncross’d: no life to ours.

Guiderius

Out of your proof you speak: we, poor unfledged,

Have never wing’d from view o’ the nest, nor know not

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

A cell of ignorance; travelling a-bed;

A prison for a debtor, that not dares

To stride a limit.

Arviragus

What should we speak of

When we are old as you? when we shall hear

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,

Like warlike 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.

Belarius

How you speak!

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

The fear’s as bad as falling; the toil o’ 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

As record of fair act; nay, many times,

Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse,

Must court’sy 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 loved me,

And when a soldier was the theme, my name

Was not far off: then was I as a tree

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.

Guiderius

Uncertain favour!

Belarius

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

Follow’d my banishment, and this twenty years

This rock and these demesnes have been my world;

Where I have lived at honest freedom, paid

More pious debts to heaven than in all

The fore-end of my time. But up to the mountains!

This is not hunters’ language: he that strikes

The venison first shall be the lord o’ the feast;

To him the other two shall minister;

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.

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

Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,

The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who

The king his father call’d Guiderius,— Jove!

When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell

The warlike 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

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,

Strikes life into my speech and shows much more

His own conceiving.— Hark, the game is roused!

O Cymbeline! heaven and my conscience knows

Thou didst unjustly banish me: whereon,

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,

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. COUNTRY NEAR MILFORD-HAVEN.

Enter Pisanio and Imogen

Imogen

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,

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

Into a havior 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,

Smile to’t before; if winterly, thou need’st

But keep that countenance 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

May take off some extremity, which to read

Would be even mortal to me.

Pisanio

Please you, read;

And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing

The most disdain’d of fortune.

Imogen

[Reads] ‘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.’

Pisanio

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

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

This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?

Imogen

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,

To break it with a fearful dream of him

And cry myself awake? that’s false to’s bed, is it?

Pisanio

Alas, good lady!

Imogen

I false! Thy conscience witness: Iachimo,

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:

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,

By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought

Put on for villany; not born where’t grows,

But worn a bait for ladies.

Pisanio

Good madam, hear me.

Imogen

True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,

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;

Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjured

From thy great fall. Come, fellow, be thou honest:

Do thou thy master’s bidding: when thou see’st him,

A little witness my obedience: look!

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

The riches of it: do his bidding; strike

Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause;

But now thou seem’st a coward.

Pisanio

Hence, vile instrument!

Thou shalt not damn my hand.

Imogen

Why, I must die;

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.

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,

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

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

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 disedged by her

That now thou tirest 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.

Pisanio

O gracious lady,

Since I received command to do this business

I have not slept one wink.

Imogen

Do’t, and to bed then.

Pisanio

I’ll wake mine eye-balls blind first.

Imogen

Wherefore then

Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abused

So many miles with a pretence? this place?

Mine action and thine own? our horses’ labour?

The time inviting thee? the perturb’d court,

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?

Pisanio

But to win time

To lose so bad employment; in the which

I have consider’d of a course. Good lady,

Hear me with patience.

Imogen

Talk thy tongue weary; speak

I have heard I am a strumpet; and mine ear

Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,

Nor tent to bottom that. But speak.

Pisanio

Then, madam,

I thought you would not back again.

Imogen

Most like;

Bringing me here to kill me.

Pisanio

Not so, neither:

But if I were as wise as honest, then

My purpose would prove well. It cannot be

But that my master is abused:

Some villain, ay, and singular in his art.

Hath done you both this cursed injury.

Imogen

Some Roman courtezan.

Pisanio

No, on my life.

I’ll give but notice you are dead and send him

Some bloody sign of it; for ’tis commanded

I should do so: you shall be miss’d at court,

And that will well confirm it.

Imogen

Why good fellow,

What shall I do the where? where bide? how live?

Or in my life what comfort, when I am

Dead to my husband?

Pisanio

If you’ll back to the court —

Imogen

No court, no father; nor no more ado

With that harsh, noble, simple nothing,

That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me

As fearful as a siege.

Pisanio

If not at court,

Then not in Britain must you bide.

Imogen

Where then

Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,

Are they not but in Britain? I’ the world’s volume

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.

Pisanio

I am most glad

You think of other place. The ambassador,

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, to appear itself, must not yet be

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

Report should render him hourly to your ear

As truly as he moves.

Imogen

O, for such means!

Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t,

I would adventure.

Pisanio

Well, then, here’s the point:

You must forget to be a woman; change

Command into obedience: fear and niceness —

The handmaids of all women, or, more truly,

Woman its pretty self — into a waggish courage:

Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy and

As quarrelous as the weasel; nay, you must

Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,

Exposing it — but, O, the harder heart!

Alack, no remedy!— to the greedy touch

Of common-kissing Titan, and forget

Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein

You made great Juno angry.

Imogen

Nay, be brief

I see into thy end, and am almost

A man already.

Pisanio

First, make yourself but like one.

Fore-thinking this, I have already fit —

’Tis in my cloak-bag — doublet, hat, hose, all

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

Wherein you’re 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,

You have me, rich; and I will never fail

Beginning nor supplyment.

Imogen

Thou art all the comfort

The gods will diet me with. Prithee, away:

There’s more to be consider’d; but we’ll even

All that good time will give us: this attempt

I am soldier to, and will abide it with

A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.

Pisanio

Well, madam, we must take a short farewell,

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,

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!

Imogen

Amen: I thank thee.

Exeunt, severally

SCENE V. A ROOM IN CYMBELINE’S PALACE.

Enter Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, Lucius, Lords, and Attendants

Cymbeline

Thus far; and so farewell.

Caius Lucius

Thanks, royal sir.

My emperor hath wrote, I must from hence;

And am right sorry that I must report ye

My master’s enemy.

Cymbeline

Our subjects, sir,

Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself

To show less sovereignty than they, must needs

Appear unkinglike.

Caius Lucius

So, sir: I desire of you

A conduct over-land to Milford-Haven.

Madam, all joy befal your grace!

Queen

And you!

Cymbeline

My lords, you are appointed for that office;

The due of honour in no point omit.

So farewell, noble Lucius.

Caius Lucius

Your hand, my lord.

Cloten

Receive it friendly; but from this time forth

I wear it as your enemy.

Caius Lucius

Sir, the event

Is yet to name the winner: fare you well.

Cymbeline

Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,

Till he have cross’d the Severn. Happiness!

Exeunt Lucius and Lords

Queen

He goes hence frowning: but it honours us

That we have given him cause.

Cloten

’Tis all the better;

Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.

Cymbeline

Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor

How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely

Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness:

The powers that he already hath in Gallia

Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves

His war for Britain.

Queen

’Tis not sleepy business;

But must be look’d to speedily and strongly.

Cymbeline

Our expectation that it would be thus

Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,

Where is our daughter? She hath not appear’d

Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender’d

The duty of the day: she looks us like

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 retired

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

And strokes death to her.

Re-enter Attendant

Cymbeline

Where is she, sir? How

Can her contempt be answer’d?

Attendant

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,

She pray’d me to excuse her keeping close,

Whereto constrain’d by her infirmity,

She should that duty leave unpaid to you,

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.

Cymbeline

Her doors lock’d?

Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear

Prove false!

Exit

Queen

Son, I say, follow the king.

Cloten

That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, have not seen these two days.

Queen

Go, look after.

Exit Cloten

Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus!

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 seized her,

Or, wing’d with fervor of her love, she’s flown

To her desired Posthumus: gone she is

To death or to dishonour; and my end

Can make good use of either: she being down,

I have the placing of the British crown.

Re-enter Cloten

How now, my son!

Cloten

’Tis certain she is fled.

Go in and cheer the king: he rages; none

Dare come about him.

Queen

[Aside] All the better: may

This night forestall him of the coming day!

Exit

Cloten

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

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

That what’s else rare is choked; and in that point

I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,

To be revenged upon her. For when fools Shall —

Enter Pisanio

Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah?

Come hither: ah, you precious pander! Villain,

Where is thy lady? In a word; or else

Thou art straightway with the fiends.

Pisanio

O, good my lord!

Cloten

Where is thy lady? Or, by Jupiter,—

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

A dram of worth be drawn.

Pisanio

Alas, my lord,

How can she be with him? When was she missed?

He is in Rome.

Cloten

Where is she, sir? Come nearer;

No further halting: satisfy me home

What is become of her.

Pisanio

O, my all-worthy lord!

Cloten

All-worthy villain!

Discover where thy mistress is at once,

At the next word: no more of ‘worthy lord!’

Speak, or thy silence on the instant is

Thy condemnation and thy death.

Pisanio

Then, sir,

This paper is the history of my knowledge

Touching her flight.

Presenting a letter

Cloten

Let’s see’t. I will pursue her

Even to Augustus’ throne.

Pisanio

[Aside] Or this, or perish.

She’s far enough; and what he learns by this

May prove his travel, not her danger.

Cloten

Hum!

Pisanio

[Aside] I’ll write to my lord she’s dead. O Imogen,

Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again!

Cloten

Sirrah, is this letter true?

Pisanio

Sir, as I think.

Cloten

It is Posthumus’ hand; I know’t. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry, that is, what villany soe’er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly, I would think thee an honest man: thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment.

Pisanio

Well, my good lord.

Cloten

Wilt thou serve me? for since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine: wilt thou serve me?

Pisanio

Sir, I will.

Cloten

Give me thy hand; here’s my purse. Hast any of thy late master’s garments in thy possession?

Pisanio

I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress.

Cloten

The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither: let it be thy lint service; go.

Pisanio

I shall, my lord.

Exit

Cloten

Meet thee at Milford-Haven!— I forgot to ask him one thing; I’ll remember’t anon:— even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time — the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart — that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back, will I ravish her: first kill him, and in her eyes; there shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined,— which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so praised,— to the court I’ll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despised me rejoicingly, and I’ll be merry in my revenge.

Re-enter Pisanio, with the clothes

Be those the garments?

Pisanio

Ay, my noble lord.

Cloten

How long is’t since she went to Milford-Haven?

Pisanio

She can scarce be there yet.

Cloten

Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing that I have commanded thee: the third is, that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous, and true preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford: would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true.

Exit

Pisanio

Thou bid’st me to my loss: for true to thee

Were to prove false, which I will never be,

To him that is most true. To Milford go,

And find not her whom thou pursuest. 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

Imogen

I see a man’s life is a tedious one:

I have tired myself, and for two nights together

Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick,

But that my resolution helps me. Milford,

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 relieved. Two beggars told me

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

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

At point to sink for food. But what is this?

Here is a path to’t: ’tis some savage hold:

I were best not to 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

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

Belarius

You, Polydote, have proved best woodman and

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

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!

Guiderius

I am thoroughly weary.

Arviragus

I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite.

Guiderius

There is cold meat i’ the cave; we’ll browse on that,

Whilst what we have kill’d be cook’d.

Belarius

[Looking into the cave]

Stay; come not in.

But that it eats our victuals, I should think

Here were a fairy.

Guiderius

What’s the matter, sir?

Belarius

By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not,

An earthly paragon! Behold divineness

No elder than a boy!

Re-enter Imogen

Imogen

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

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.

Guiderius

Money, youth?

Arviragus

All gold and silver rather turn to dirt!

As ’tis no better reckon’d, but of those

Who worship dirty gods.

Imogen

I see you’re angry:

Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should

Have died had I not made it.

Belarius

Whither bound?

Imogen

To Milford-Haven.

Belarius

What’s your name?

Imogen

Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who

Is bound for Italy; he embark’d at Milford;

To whom being going, almost spent with hunger,

I am fall’n in this offence.

Belarius

Prithee, fair youth,

Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds

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.

Guiderius

Were you a woman, youth,

I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty,

I bid for you as I’d buy.

Arviragus

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

After long absence, such is yours: most welcome!

Be sprightly, for you fall ’mongst friends.

Imogen

’Mongst friends,

If brothers.

Aside

Would it had been so, that they

Had been my father’s sons! then had my prize

Been less, and so more equal ballasting

To thee, Posthumus.

Belarius

He wrings at some distress.

Guiderius

Would I could free’t!

Arviragus

Or I, whate’er it be,

What pain it cost, what danger. God’s!

Belarius

Hark, boys.

Whispering

Imogen

Great men,

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

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’s false.

Belarius

It shall be so.

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.

Guiderius

Pray, draw near.

Arviragus

The night to the owl and morn to the lark less welcome.

Imogen

Thanks, sir.

Arviragus

I pray, draw near.

Exeunt

SCENE VII. ROME. A PUBLIC PLACE.

Enter two Senators and Tribunes

First Senator

This is the tenor 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

Full weak to undertake our wars against

The fall’n-off Britons, that we do incite

The gentry to this business. He creates

Lucius preconsul: and to you the tribunes,

For this immediate levy, he commends

His absolute commission. Long live Caesar!

First Tribune

Is Lucius general of the forces?

Second Senator

Ay.

First Tribune

Remaining now in Gallia?

First Senator

With those legions

Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy

Must be supplyant: the words of your commission

Will tie you to the numbers and the time

Of their dispatch.

First Tribune

We will discharge our duty.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. WALES: NEAR THE CAVE OF BELARIUS.

Enter Cloten

Cloten

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

Belarius

[To Imogen] You are not well: remain here in the cave;

We’ll come to you after hunting.

Arviragus

[To Imogen] Brother, stay here

Are we not brothers?

Imogen

So man and man should be;

But clay and clay differs in dignity,

Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick.

Guiderius

Go you to hunting; I’ll abide with him.

Imogen

So sick I am not, yet I am not well;

But not so citizen a wanton as

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

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.

Guiderius

I love thee; I have spoke it

How much the quantity, the weight as much,

As I do love my father.

Belarius

What! how! how!

Arviragus

If it be sin to say so, I yoke me

In my good brother’s fault: I know not why

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.’

Belarius

[Aside] O noble strain!

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,

Doth miracle itself, loved before me.

’Tis the ninth hour o’ the morn.

Arviragus

Brother, farewell.

Imogen

I wish ye sport.

Arviragus

You health. So please you, sir.

Imogen

[Aside] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard!

Our courtiers say all’s savage but at court:

Experience, O, thou disprovest report!

The imperious seas breed monsters, for the dish

Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish.

I am sick still; heart-sick. Pisanio,

I’ll now taste of thy drug.

Swallows some

Guiderius

I could not stir him:

He said he was gentle, but unfortunate;

Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest.

Arviragus

Thus did he answer me: yet said, hereafter

I might know more.

Belarius

To the field, to the field!

We’ll leave you for this time: go in and rest.

Arviragus

We’ll not be long away.

Belarius

Pray, be not sick,

For you must be our housewife.

Imogen

Well or ill,

I am bound to you.

Belarius

And shalt be ever.

Exit Imogen, to the cave

This youth, how’er distress’d, appears he hath had

Good ancestors.

Arviragus

How angel-like he sings!

Guiderius

But his neat cookery! he cut our roots

In characters,

And sauced our broths, as Juno had been sick

And he her dieter.

Arviragus

Nobly he yokes

A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh

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.

Guiderius

I do note

That grief and patience, rooted in him both,

Mingle their spurs together.

Arviragus

Grow, patience!

And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine

His perishing root with the increasing vine!

Belarius

It is great morning. Come, away!—

Who’s there?

Enter Cloten

Cloten

I cannot find those runagates; that villain

Hath mock’d me. I am faint.

Belarius

‘Those runagates!’

Means he not us? I partly know him: ’tis

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!

Guiderius

He is but one: you and my brother search

What companies are near: pray you, away;

Let me alone with him.

Exeunt Belarius and Arviragus

Cloten

Soft! What are you

That fly me thus? some villain mountaineers?

I have heard of such. What slave art thou?

Guiderius

A thing

More slavish did I ne’er than answering

A slave without a knock.

Cloten

Thou art a robber,

A law-breaker, a villain: yield thee, thief.

Guiderius

To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I

An arm as big as thine? a heart as big?

Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not

My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art,

Why I should yield to thee?

Cloten

Thou villain base,

Know’st me not by my clothes?

Guiderius

No, nor thy tailor, rascal,

Who is thy grandfather: he made those clothes,

Which, as it seems, make thee.

Cloten

Thou precious varlet,

My tailor made them not.

Guiderius

Hence, then, and thank

The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool;

I am loath to beat thee.

Cloten

Thou injurious thief,

Hear but my name, and tremble.

Guiderius

What’s thy name?

Cloten

Cloten, thou villain.

Guiderius

Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name,

I cannot tremble at it: were it Toad, or

Adder, Spider,

’Twould move me sooner.

Cloten

To thy further fear,

Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know

I am son to the queen.

Guiderius

I am sorry for ’t; not seeming

So worthy as thy birth.

Cloten

Art not afeard?

Guiderius

Those that I reverence those I fear, the wise:

At fools I laugh, not fear them.

Cloten

Die the death:

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

Belarius

No companies abroad?

Arviragus

None in the world: you did mistake him, sure.

Belarius

I cannot tell: long is it since I saw him,

But time hath nothing blurr’d those lines of favour

Which then he wore; the snatches in his voice,

And burst of speaking, were as his: I am absolute

’Twas very Cloten.

Arviragus

In this place we left them:

I wish my brother make good time with him,

You say he is so fell.

Belarius

Being scarce made up,

I mean, to man, he had not apprehension

Of roaring terrors; for the effect of judgment

Is oft the cause of fear. But, see, thy brother.

Re-enter Guiderius, with Cloten’s head

Guiderius

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

My head as I do his.

Belarius

What hast thou done?

Guiderius

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’ld take us in

Displace our heads where — thank the gods!— they grow,

And set them on Lud’s-town.

Belarius

We are all undone.

Guiderius

Why, worthy father, what have we to lose,

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,

For we do fear the law? What company

Discover you abroad?

Belarius

No single soul

Can we set eye on; but in all safe reason

He must have some attendants. Though his humour

Was nothing but mutation, ay, and that

From one bad thing to worse; not frenzy, not

Absolute madness could so far have raved

To bring him here alone; although perhaps

It may be heard at court that such as we

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’ld fetch us in; yet is’t not probable

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

More perilous than the head.

Arviragus

Let ordinance

Come as the gods foresay it: howsoe’er,

My brother hath done well.

Belarius

I had no mind

To hunt this day: the boy Fidele’s sickness

Did make my way long forth.

Guiderius

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,

And tell the fishes he’s the queen’s son, Cloten:

That’s all I reck.

Exit

Belarius

I fear ’twill be revenged:

Would, Polydote, thou hadst not done’t! though valour

Becomes thee well enough.

Arviragus

Would I had done’t

So the revenge alone pursued 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

And put us to our answer.

Belarius

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

Till hasty Polydote return, and bring him

To dinner presently.

Arviragus

Poor sick Fidele!

I’ll weringly to him: to gain his colour

I’ld let a parish of such Clotens’ blood,

And praise myself for charity.

Exit

Belarius

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,

Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough,

Their royal blood enchafed, as the rudest 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

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

Guiderius

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

Belarius

My ingenious instrument!

Hark, Polydore, it sounds! But what occasion

Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark!

Guiderius

Is he at home?

Belarius

He went hence even now.

Guiderius

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

Is jollity for apes and grief for boys.

Is Cadwal mad?

Belarius

Look, here he comes,

And brings the dire occasion in his arms

Of what we blame him for.

Re-enter Arviragus, with Imogen, as dead, bearing her in his arms

Arviragus

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.

Guiderius

O sweetest, fairest lily!

My brother wears thee not the one half so well

As when thou grew’st thyself.

Belarius

O melancholy!

Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find

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.

How found you him?

Arviragus

Stark, as you see:

Thus smiling, as some fly hid tickled slumber,

Not as death’s dart, being laugh’d at; his right cheek

Reposing on a cushion.

Guiderius

Where?

Arviragus

O’ the floor;

His arms thus leagued: I thought he slept, and put

My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness

Answer’d my steps too loud.

Guiderius

Why, he but sleeps:

If he be gone, he’ll make his grave a bed;

With female fairies will his tomb be haunted,

And worms will not come to thee.

Arviragus

With fairest flowers

Whilst 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

The azured harebell, like thy veins, no, nor

The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,

Out-sweeten’d not thy breath: the ruddock would,

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,

To winter-ground thy corse.

Guiderius

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

Is now due debt. To the grave!

Arviragus

Say, where shall’s lay him?

Guiderius

By good Euriphile, our mother.

Arviragus

Be’t so:

And let us, Polydore, though now our voices

Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground,

As once our mother; use like note and words,

Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

Guiderius

Cadwal,

I cannot sing: I’ll weep, and word it with thee;

For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse

Than priests and fanes that lie.

Arviragus

We’ll speak it, then.

Belarius

Great griefs, I see, medicine the less; for Cloten

Is quite forgot. He was a queen’s son, boys;

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

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.

Guiderius

Pray You, fetch him hither.

Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’,

When neither are alive.

Arviragus

If you’ll go fetch him,

We’ll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin.

Exit Belarius

Guiderius

Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east;

My father hath a reason for’t.

Arviragus

’Tis true.

Guiderius

Come on then, and remove him.

Arviragus

So. Begin.

Song

Guiderius

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

Nor the furious winter’s rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Arviragus

Fear no more the frown o’ the great;

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

All follow this, and come to dust.

Guiderius

Fear no more the lightning flash,

Arviragus

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

Guiderius

Fear not slander, censure rash;

Arviragus

Thou hast finish’d joy and moan:

Both

All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee, and come to dust.

Guiderius

No exorciser harm thee!

Arviragus

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

Guiderius

Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Arviragus

Nothing ill come near thee!

Guiderius

Arviragus

Quiet consummation have;

And renowned be thy grave!

Re-enter Belarius, with the body of Cloten

Guiderius

We have done our obsequies: come, lay him down.

Belarius

Here’s a few flowers; but ’bout midnight, more:

The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ the night

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.

The ground that gave them first has them again:

Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.

Exeunt Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus

Imogen

[Awaking] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven; which is the way?— I thank you.— By yond bush?— Pray, how far thither? ’Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet?— I have gone all night. ’Faith, I’ll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow!— O god s and goddesses!

Seeing the body of Cloten

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world;

This bloody man, the care on’t. I hope I dream;

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,

Which the brain makes of fumes: our very eyes

Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. Good faith,

I tremble stiff with fear: but if there be

Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity

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 imagined, felt.

A headless man! The garments of Posthumus!

I know the shape of’s leg: this is his hand;

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,

And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou,

Conspired with that irregulous devil, Cloten,

Hast here cut off my lord. To write and read

Be henceforth treacherous! Damn’d Pisanio

Hath with his forged letters,— damn’d Pisanio —

From this most bravest vessel of the world

Struck the main-top! O Posthumus! alas,

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!

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:

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 and other Officers, and a Soothsayer

Captain

To them the legions garrison’d in Gailia,

After your will, have cross’d the sea, attending

You here at Milford-Haven with your ships:

They are in readiness.

Caius Lucius

But what from Rome?

Captain

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,

Syenna’s brother.

Caius Lucius

When expect you them?

Captain

With the next benefit o’ the wind.

Caius Lucius

This forwardness

Makes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers

Be muster’d; bid the captains look to’t. Now, sir,

What have you dream’d of late of this war’s purpose?

Soothsayer

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

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.

Caius Lucius

Dream often so,

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

With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead.

Let’s see the boy’s face.

Captain

He’s alive, my lord.

Caius Lucius

He’ll then instruct us of this body. Young one,

Inform us of thy fortunes, for it seems

They crave to be demanded. Who is this

Thou makest thy bloody pillow? Or who was he

That, otherwise than noble nature did,

Hath alter’d that good picture? What’s thy interest

In this sad wreck? How came it? Who is it?

What art thou?

Imogen

I am nothing: or if not,

Nothing to be were better. This was my master,

A very valiant Briton and a good,

That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas!

There is no more such masters: I may wander

From east to occident, cry out for service,

Try many, all good, serve truly, never

Find such another master.

Caius Lucius

’Lack, good youth!

Thou movest no less with thy complaining than

Thy master in bleeding: say his name, good friend.

Imogen

Richard du Champ.

Aside

If I do lie and do

No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope

They’ll pardon it.— Say you, sir?

Caius Lucius

Thy name?

Imogen

Fidele, sir.

Caius Lucius

Thou dost approve thyself the very same:

Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name.

Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say

Thou shalt be so well master’d, but, be sure,

No less beloved. The Roman emperor’s letters,

Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner

Than thine own worth prefer thee: go with me.

Imogen

I’ll follow, sir. But first, an’t please the gods,

I’ll hide my master from the flies, as deep

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;

And leaving so his service, follow you,

So please you entertain me.

Caius Lucius

Ay, good youth!

And rather father thee than master thee.

My friends,

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

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

Cymbeline

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

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.

Pisanio

Sir, my life is yours;

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,

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,

And will, no doubt, be found.

Cymbeline

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,

Are landed on your coast, with a supply

Of Roman gentlemen, by the senate sent.

Cymbeline

Now for the counsel of my son and queen!

I am amazed with matter.

First Lord

Good my liege,

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.

Cymbeline

I thank you. Let’s withdraw;

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

Pisanio

I heard no letter from my master since

I wrote him Imogen was slain: ’tis strange:

Nor hear I from my mistress who did promise

To yield me often tidings: neither know I

What is betid to Cloten; but remain

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:

Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d.

Exit

SCENE IV. WALES: BEFORE THE CAVE OF BELARIUS.

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Guiderius

The noise is round about us.

Belarius

Let us from it.

Arviragus

What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it

From action and adventure?

Guiderius

Nay, what hope

Have we in hiding us? This way, the Romans

Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us

For barbarous and unnatural revolts

During their use, and slay us after.

Belarius

Sons,

We’ll higher to the mountains; there secure us.

To the king’s party there’s no going: newness

Of Cloten’s death — we being not known, not muster’d

Among the bands — may drive us to a render

Where we have lived, and so extort from’s that

Which we have done, whose answer would be death

Drawn on with torture.

Guiderius

This is, sir, a doubt

In such a time nothing becoming you,

Nor satisfying us.

Arviragus

It is not likely

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.

Belarius

O, I am known

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 deserved my service nor your loves;

Who find in my exile the want of breeding,

The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless

To have the courtesy your cradle promised,

But to be still hot summer’s tamings and

The shrinking slaves of winter.

Guiderius

Than be so

Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to the army:

I and my brother are not known; yourself

So out of thought, and thereto so o’ergrown,

Cannot be question’d.

Arviragus

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,

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 ashamed

To look upon the holy sun, to have

The benefit of his blest beams, remaining

So long a poor unknown.

Guiderius

By heavens, I’ll go:

If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave,

I’ll take the better care, but if you will not,

The hazard therefore due fall on me by

The hands of Romans!

Arviragus

So say I amen.

Belarius

No reason I, since of your lives you set

So slight a valuation, should reserve

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, an there I’ll lie:

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

Posthumus Leonatus

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

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

Had lived to put on this: so had you saved

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,

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,

And make me blest 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; peace!

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

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

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

The fashion, less without and more within.

Exit

SCENE II. FIELD OF BATTLE BETWEEN THE BRITISH AND ROMAN CAMPS.

Enter, from one side, Lucius, Iachimo, and the Roman Army: from the other side, the British Army; Posthumus Leonatus following, like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Then enter again, in skirmish, Iachimo and Posthumus Leonatus he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaves him

Iachimo

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,

A very drudge of nature’s, have subdued me

In my profession? Knighthoods and honours, borne

As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn.

If that thy gentry, Britain, go before

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

Belarius

Stand, stand! We have the advantage of the ground;

The lane is guarded: nothing routs us but

The villany of our fears.

Guiderius

Arviragus

Stand, stand, and fight!

Re-enter Posthumus Leonatus, and seconds the Britons: they rescue Cymbeline, and exeunt. Then re-enter Lucius, and Iachimo, with Imogen

Caius Lucius

Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself;

For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s such

As war were hoodwink’d.

Iachimo

’Tis their fresh supplies.

Caius Lucius

It is a day turn’d strangely: or betimes

Let’s reinforce, or fly.

Exeunt

SCENE III. ANOTHER PART OF THE FIELD.

Enter Posthumus Leonatus and a British Lord

Lord

Camest thou from where they made the stand?

Posthumus Leonatus

I did.

Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.

Lord

I did.

Posthumus Leonatus

No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost,

But that the heavens fought: the king himself

Of his wings destitute, the army broken,

And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying

Through a straight lane; the enemy full-hearted,

Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work

More plentiful than tools to do’t, struck down

Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling

Merely through fear; that the straight pass was damm’d

With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living

To die with lengthen’d shame.

Lord

Where was this lane?

Posthumus Leonatus

Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf;

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,

An honest one, I warrant; who deserved

So long a breeding as his white beard came to,

In doing this for’s country: athwart the lane,

He, with two striplings-lads more like to run

The country base than to commit such slaughter

With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer

Than those for preservation cased, or shame —

Made good the passage; cried to those that fled,

‘Our Britain s harts die flying, not our men:

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,

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

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 in war,

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

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

The life o’ the need: having found the backdoor 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, chased by one,

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.

Posthumus Leonatus

Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made

Rather to wonder at the things you hear

Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t,

And vent it for a mockery? Here is one:

‘Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane,

Preserved the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’

Lord

Nay, be not angry, sir.

Posthumus Leonatus

’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,

I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too.

You have put me into rhyme.

Lord

Farewell; you’re angry.

Posthumus Leonatus

Still going?

Exit Lord

This is a lord! O noble misery,

To be i’ the field, and ask ‘what news?’ of me!

To-day how many would have given their honours

To have saved their carcasses! 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,

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

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 resumed again

The part I came in: fight I will no more,

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;

On either side I come to spend my breath;

Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again,

But end it by some means for Imogen.

Enter two British Captains and Soldiers

First Captain

Great Jupiter be praised! Lucius is taken.

’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.

Second Captain

There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,

That gave the affront with them.

First Captain

So ’tis reported:

But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?

Posthumus Leonatus

A Roman,

Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds

Had answer’d him.

Second Captain

Lay hands on him; a dog!

A leg of Rome shall not return to tell

What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service

As if he were of note: bring him to the king.

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Soldiers, Attendants, and Roman Captives. The Captains present Posthumus Leonatus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a Gaoler: then exeunt omnes

SCENE IV. A BRITISH PRISON.

Enter Posthumus Leonatus and two Gaolers

First Gaoler

You shall not now be stol’n, you have locks upon you;

So graze as you find pasture.

Second Gaoler

Ay, or a stomach.

Exeunt Gaolers

Posthumus Leonatus

Most welcome, bondage! for thou art away,

I think, to liberty: yet am I better

Than one that’s sick o’ the gout; since he had rather

Groan so in perpetuity than be cured

By the sure physician, death, who is the key

To unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter’d

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;

Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent?

I cannot do it better than in gyves,

Desired more than constrain’d: to satisfy,

If of my freedom ’tis the main part, take

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

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;

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!

I’ll speak to thee in silence.

Sleeps

Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, Sicilius Leonatus, father to Posthumus Leonatus, an old man, attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his wife, and mother to Posthumus Leonatus, with music before them: then, after other music, follow the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus Leonatus, with wounds as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus Leonatus round, as he lies sleeping

Sicilius Leonatus

No more, thou thunder-master, show

Thy spite on mortal flies:

With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,

That thy adulteries

Rates and revenges.

Hath my poor boy done aught but well,

Whose face I never saw?

I died whilst in the womb he stay’d

Attending nature’s law:

Whose father then, as men report

Thou orphans’ father art,

Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him

From this earth-vexing smart.

Mother

Lucina lent not me her aid,

But took me in my throes;

That from me was Posthumus ript,

Came crying ’mongst his foes,

A thing of pity!

Sicilius Leonatus

Great nature, like his ancestry,

Moulded the stuff so fair,

That he deserved the praise o’ the world,

As great Sicilius’ heir.

First Brother

When once he was mature for man,

In Britain where was he

That could stand up his parallel;

Or fruitful object be

In eye of Imogen, that best

Could deem his dignity?

Mother

With marriage wherefore was he mock’d,

To be exiled, and thrown

From Leonati seat, and cast

From her his dearest one,

Sweet Imogen?

Sicilius Leonatus

Why did you suffer Iachimo,

Slight thing of Italy,

To taint his nobler heart and brain

With needless jealosy;

And to become the geck and scorn

O’ th’ other’s villany?

Second Brother

For this from stiller seats we came,

Our parents and us twain,

That striking in our country’s cause

Fell bravely and were slain,

Our fealty and Tenantius’ right

With honour to maintain.

First Brother

Like hardiment Posthumus hath

To Cymbeline perform’d:

Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,

Why hast thou thus adjourn’d

The graces for his merits due,

Being all to dolours turn’d?

Sicilius Leonatus

Thy crystal window ope; look out;

No longer exercise

Upon a valiant race thy harsh

And potent injuries.

Mother

Since, Jupiter, our son is good,

Take off his miseries.

Sicilius Leonatus

Peep through thy marble mansion; help;

Or we poor ghosts will cry

To the shining synod of the rest

Against thy deity.

First Brother

Second Brother

Help, Jupiter; or we appeal,

And from thy justice fly.

Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle: he throws a thunderbolt. The Apparitions fall on their knees

Jupiter

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?

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.

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

Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade.

He shall be lord of lady Imogen,

And happier much by his affliction made.

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.

Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.

Ascends

Sicilius Leonatus

He came in thunder; his celestial breath

Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle

Stoop’d as to foot us: his ascension is

More sweet than our blest fields: his royal bird

Prunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak,

As when his god is pleased.

All

Thanks, Jupiter!

Sicilius Leonatus

The marble pavement closes, he is enter’d

His radiant root. Away! and, to be blest,

Let us with care perform his great behest.

The Apparitions vanish

Posthumus Leonatus

[Waking] Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire, and begot

A father to me; and thou hast created

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,

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.

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,

As good as promise.

Reads

‘When as 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

As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,

The action of my life is like it, which

I’ll keep, if but for sympathy.

Re-enter First Gaoler

First Gaoler

Come, sir, are you ready for death?

Posthumus Leonatus

Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.

First Gaoler

Hanging is the word, sir: if you be ready for that, you are well cooked.

Posthumus Leonatus

So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.

First Gaoler

A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern-bills; which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in flint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness: of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice: you have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge: your neck, sir, is pen, book and counters; so the acquittance follows.

Posthumus Leonatus

I am merrier to die than thou art to live.

First Gaoler

Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache: but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for, look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.

Posthumus Leonatus

Yes, indeed do I, fellow.

First Gaoler

Your death has eyes in ’s head then; I have not seen him so pictured: you must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or do take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after inquiry on your own peril: and how you shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to tell one.

Posthumus Leonatus

I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them.

First Gaoler

What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of winking.

Enter a Messenger

Messenger

Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the king.

Posthumus Leonatus

Thou bring’st good news; I am called to be made free.

First Gaoler

I’ll be hang’d then.

Posthumus Leonatus

Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.

Exeunt Posthumus Leonatus and Messenger

First Gaoler

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.

Exeunt

SCENE V. CYMBELINE’S TENT.

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Lords, Officers, and Attendants

Cymbeline

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 shamed gilded arms, whose naked breast

Stepp’d before larges of proof, cannot be found:

He shall be happy that can find him, if

Our grace can make him so.

Belarius

I never saw

Such noble fury in so poor a thing;

Such precious deeds in one that promises nought

But beggary and poor looks.

Cymbeline

No tidings of him?

Pisanio

He hath been search’d among the dead and living,

But no trace of him.

Cymbeline

To my grief, I am

The heir of his reward;

To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus

which I will add

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.

Belarius

Sir,

In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen:

Further to boast were neither true nor modest,

Unless I add, we are honest.

Cymbeline

Bow your knees.

Arise my knights o’ the battle: I create you

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,

And not o’ the court of Britain.

Cornelius

Hail, great king!

To sour your happiness, I must report

The queen is dead.

Cymbeline

Who worse than a physician

Would this report become? But I consider,

By medicine life may be prolong’d, yet death

Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?

Cornelius

With horror, madly dying, like her life,

Which, being cruel to the world, concluded

Most cruel to herself. What she confess’d

I will report, so please you: these her women

Can trip me, if I err; who with wet cheeks

Were present when she finish’d.

Cymbeline

Prithee, say.

Cornelius

First, she confess’d she never loved you, only

Affected greatness got by you, not you:

Married your royalty, was wife to your place;

Abhorr’d your person.

Cymbeline

She alone knew this;

And, but she spoke it dying, I would not

Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

Cornelius

Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love

With such integrity, she did confess

Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,

But that her flight prevented it, she had

Ta’en off by poison.

Cymbeline

O most delicate fiend!

Who is ’t can read a woman? Is there more?

Cornelius

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 lingering

By inches waste you: in which time she purposed,

By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to

O’ercome you with her show, and in time,

When she had fitted you with her craft, to work

Her son into the adoption of the crown:

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

Despairing died.

Cymbeline

Heard you all this, her women?

First Lady

We did, so please your highness.

Cymbeline

Mine eyes

Were not in fault, for she was beautiful;

Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart,

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 Leonatus behind, and Imogen

Thou comest not, Caius, now for tribute that

The Britons have razed out, though with the loss

Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit

That their good souls may be appeased with slaughter

Of you their captives, which ourself have granted:

So think of your estate.

Caius Lucius

Consider, sir, the chance of war: the day

Was yours by accident; had it gone with us,

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

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,

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

With my request, which I make bold your highness

Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,

Though he have served a Roman: save him, sir,

And spare no blood beside.

Cymbeline

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, wherefore,

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,

The noblest ta’en.

Imogen

I humbly thank your highness.

Caius Lucius

I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad;

And yet I know thou wilt.

Imogen

No, no: alack,

There’s other work in hand: I see a thing

Bitter to me as death: your life, good master,

Must shuffle for itself.

Caius Lucius

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?

Cymbeline

What wouldst thou, boy?

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?

Imogen

He is a Roman; no more kin to me

Than I to your highness; who, being born your vassal,

Am something nearer.

Cymbeline

Wherefore eyest him so?

Imogen

I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you please

To give me hearing.

Cymbeline

Ay, with all my heart,

And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?

Imogen

Fidele, sir.

Cymbeline

Thou’rt my good youth, my page;

I’ll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely.

Cymbeline and Imogen converse apart

Belarius

Is not this boy revived from death?

Arviragus

One sand another

Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad

Who died, and was Fidele. What think you?

Guiderius

The same dead thing alive.

Belarius

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.

Guiderius

But we saw him dead.

Belarius

Be silent; let’s see further.

Pisanio

[Aside] It is my mistress:

Since she is living, let the time run on

To good or bad.

Cymbeline and Imogen come forward

Cymbeline

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;

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.

Imogen

My boon is, that this gentleman may render

Of whom he had this ring.

Posthumus Leonatus

[Aside] What’s that to him?

Cymbeline

That diamond upon your finger, say

How came it yours?

Iachimo

Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken that

Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.

Cymbeline

How! me?

Iachimo

I am glad to be constrain’d to utter that

Which torments me to conceal. By villany

I got this ring: ’twas Leonatus’ jewel;

Whom thou didst banish; and — which more may grieve thee,

As it doth me — a nobler sir ne’er lived

’Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?

Cymbeline

All that belongs to this.

Iachimo

That paragon, thy daughter,—

For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits

Quail to remember — Give me leave; I faint.

Cymbeline

My daughter! what of her? Renew thy strength:

I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will

Than die ere I hear more: strive, man, and speak.

Iachimo

Upon a time,— unhappy was the clock

That struck the hour!— it was in Rome,— accursed

The mansion where!—’twas at a feast,— O, would

Our viands had been poison’d, or at least

Those which I heaved 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

Amongst the rarest 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

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 —

Cymbeline

I stand on fire:

Come to the matter.

Iachimo

All too soon I shall,

Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus,

Most like a noble lord in love and one

That had a royal lover, took his hint;

And, not dispraising whom we praised,— therein

He was as calm as virtue — he began

His mistress’ picture; which by his tongue being made,

And then a mind put in’t, either our brags

Were crack’d of kitchen-trolls, or his description

Proved us unspeaking sots.

Cymbeline

Nay, nay, to the purpose.

Iachimo

Your daughter’s chastity — there it begins.

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

In suit the place of’s bed and win this ring

By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight,

No lesser of her honour confident

Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring;

And would so, had it been a carbuncle

Of Phoebus’ 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,

Remember me at court; where I was taught

Of your chaste daughter the wide difference

’Twixt amorous and villanous. Being thus quench’d

Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain

’Gan in your duller Britain operate

Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent:

And, to be brief, my practise so prevail’d,

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; averting notes

Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet,—

O 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,

I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon —

Methinks, I see him now —

Posthumus Leonatus

[Advancing] Ay, so thou dost,

Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,

Egregious murderer, thief, any thing

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

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 caused a lesser villain than myself,

A sacrilegious thief, to do’t: the temple

Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself.

Spit, and throw stone s, cast mire upon me, set

The dogs o’ the street to bay me: every villain

Be call’d Posthumus Leonitus; and

Be villany less than ’twas! O Imogen!

My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,

Imogen, Imogen!

Imogen

Peace, my lord; hear, hear —

Posthumus Leonatus

Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page,

There lie thy part.

Striking her: she falls

Pisanio

O, gentlemen, help!

Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!

You ne’er kill’d Imogen til now. Help, help!

Mine honour’d lady!

Cymbeline

Does the world go round?

Posthumus Leonatus

How come these staggers on me?

Pisanio

Wake, my mistress!

Cymbeline

If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me

To death with mortal joy.

Pisanio

How fares thy mistress?

Imogen

O, get thee from my sight;

Thou gavest me poison: dangerous fellow, hence!

Breathe not where princes are.

Cymbeline

The tune of Imogen!

Pisanio

Lady,

The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if

That box I gave you was not thought by me

A precious thing: I had it from the queen.

Cymbeline

New matter still?

Imogen

It poison’d me.

Cornelius

O gods!

I left out one thing which the queen confess’d.

Which must approve thee honest: ‘If Pisanio

Have,’ said she, ‘given his mistress that confection

Which I gave him for cordial, she is served

As I would serve a rat.’

Cymbeline

What’s this, Comelius?

Cornelius

The queen, sir, very oft importuned me

To temper poisons for her, still pretending

The satisfaction of her knowledge only

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

All offices of nature should again

Do their due functions. Have you ta’en of it?

Imogen

Most like I did, for I was dead.

Belarius

My boys,

There was our error.

Guiderius

This is, sure, Fidele.

Imogen

Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?

Think that you are upon a rock; and now

Throw me again.

Embracing him

Posthumus Leonatus

Hang there like a fruit, my soul,

Till the tree die!

Cymbeline

How now, my flesh, my child!

What, makest thou me a dullard in this act?

Wilt thou not speak to me?

Imogen

[Kneeling] Your blessing, sir.

Belarius

[To Guiderius and Arviragus] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not:

You had a motive for’t.

Cymbeline

My tears that fall

Prove holy water on thee! Imogen,

Thy mother’s dead.

Imogen

I am sorry for’t, my lord.

Cymbeline

O, she was nought; and long of her it was

That we meet here so strangely: but her son

Is gone, we know not how nor where.

Pisanio

My lord,

Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten,

Upon my lady’s missing, came to me

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,

Had a feigned letter of my master’s

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 enforced from me, away he posts

With unchaste purpose and with oath to violate

My lady’s honour: what became of him

I further know not.

Guiderius

Let me end the story:

I slew him there.

Cymbeline

Marry, the gods forfend!

I would not thy good deeds should from my lips

Pluck a bard sentence: prithee, valiant youth,

Deny’t again.

Guiderius

I have spoke it, and I did it.

Cymbeline

He was a prince.

Guiderius

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;

And am right glad he is not standing here

To tell this tale of mine.

Cymbeline

I am sorry for thee:

By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must

Endure our law: thou’rt dead.

Imogen

That headless man

I thought had been my lord.

Cymbeline

Bind the offender,

And take him from our presence.

Belarius

Stay, sir king:

This man is better than the man he slew,

As well descended as thyself; and hath

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.

Cymbeline

Why, old soldier,

Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for,

By tasting of our wrath? How of descent

As good as we?

Arviragus

In that he spake too far.

Cymbeline

And thou shalt die for’t.

Belarius

We will die all three:

But I will prove that two on’s are as good

As I have given out him. My sons, I must,

For mine own part, unfold a dangerous speech,

Though, haply, well for you.

Arviragus

Your danger’s ours.

Guiderius

And our good his.

Belarius

Have at it then, by leave.

Thou hadst, great king, a subject who

Was call’d Belarius.

Cymbeline

What of him? he is

A banish’d traitor.

Belarius

He it is that hath

Assumed this age; indeed a banish’d man;

I know not how a traitor.

Cymbeline

Take him hence:

The whole world shall not save him.

Belarius

Not too hot:

First pay me for the nursing of thy sons;

And let it be confiscate all, so soon

As I have received it.

Cymbeline

Nursing of my sons!

Belarius

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,

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.

Cymbeline

How! my issue!

Belarius

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

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 moved her to’t,

Having received the punishment before,

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 shaped

Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir,

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

To inlay heaven with stars.

Cymbeline

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

A pair of worthier sons.

Belarius

Be pleased awhile.

This gentleman, whom I call Polydore,

Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius:

This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus,

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.

Cymbeline

Guiderius had

Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star;

It was a mark of wonder.

Belarius

This is he;

Who hath upon him still that natural stamp:

It was wise nature’s end in the donation,

To be his evidence now.

Cymbeline

O, what, am I

A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er mother

Rejoiced deliverance more. Blest pray you be,

That, after this strange starting from your orbs,

May reign in them now! O Imogen,

Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.

Imogen

No, my lord;

I have got two worlds by ’t. O my gentle brothers,

Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter

But I am truest speaker you call’d me brother,

When I was but your sister; I you brothers,

When ye were so indeed.

Cymbeline

Did you e’er meet?

Arviragus

Ay, my good lord.

Guiderius

And at first meeting loved;

Continued so, until we thought he died.

Cornelius

By the queen’s dram she swallow’d.

Cymbeline

O rare instinct!

When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgement

Hath to it circumstantial branches, which

Distinction should be rich in. Where? how lived You?

And when came you to serve our Roman captive?

How parted with your brothers? how first met them?

Why fled you from the court? and whither? These,

And your three motives to the battle, with

I know not how much more, should be demanded;

And all the other by-dependencies,

From chance to chance: but nor the time nor place

Will serve our long inter’gatories. See,

Posthumus anchors upon Imogen,

And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye

On him, her brother, me, her master, hitting

Each object with a joy: the counterchange

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.

Imogen

You are my father too, and did relieve me,

To see this gracious season.

Cymbeline

All o’erjoy’d,

Save these in bonds: let them be joyful too,

For they shall taste our comfort.

Imogen

My good master,

I will yet do you service.

Caius Lucius

Happy be you!

Cymbeline

The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,

He would have well becomed this place, and graced

The thankings of a king.

Posthumus Leonatus

I am, sir,

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

Have made you finish.

Iachimo

[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;

And here the bracelet of the truest princess

That ever swore her faith.

Posthumus Leonatus

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.

Cymbeline

Nobly doom’d!

We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;

Pardon’s the word to all.

Arviragus

You holp us, sir,

As you did mean indeed to be our brother;

Joy’d are we that you are.

Posthumus Leonatus

Your servant, princes. Good my lord of Rome,

Call forth your soothsayer: as I slept, methought

Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d,

Appear’d to me, with other spritely shows

Of mine own kindred: when I waked, I found

This label on my bosom; whose containing

Is so from sense in hardness, that I can

Make no collection of it: let him show

His skill in the construction.

Caius Lucius

Philarmonus!

Soothsayer

Here, my good lord.

Caius Lucius

Read, and declare the meaning.

Soothsayer

[Reads] ‘When as 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;

The fit and apt construction of thy name,

Being Leonatus, doth import so much.

To Cymbeline

The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter,

Which we call ‘mollis aer;’ and ‘mollis aer’

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, unsought, were clipp’d about

With this most tender air.

Cymbeline

This hath some seeming.

Soothsayer

The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,

Personates thee: and thy lopp’d branches point

Thy two sons forth; who, by Belarius stol’n,

For many years thought dead, are now revived,

To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issue

Promises Britain peace and plenty.

Cymbeline

Well

My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius,

Although the victor, we submit to Caesar,

And to the Roman empire; promising

To pay our wonted tribute, from the which

We were dissuaded by our wicked queen;

Whom heavens, in justice, both on her and hers,

Have laid most heavy hand.

Soothsayer

The fingers of the powers above do tune

The harmony of this peace. The vision

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,

Lessen’d herself, and in the beams o’ the sun

So vanish’d: which foreshow’d our princely eagle,

The imperial Caesar, should again unite

His favour with the radiant Cymbeline,

Which shines here in the west.

Cymbeline

Laud we the gods;

And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils

From our blest altars. Publish we this peace

To all our subjects. Set we forward: let

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.

Set on there! Never was a war did cease,

Ere bloody hands were wash’d, with such a peace.

Exeunt

The Winter’s Tale

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. ANTECHAMBER IN LEONTES’ PALACE.

SCENE II. A ROOM OF STATE IN THE SAME.

ACT II

SCENE I. A ROOM IN LEONTES’ PALACE.

SCENE II. A PRISON.

SCENE III. A ROOM IN LEONTES’ PALACE.

ACT III

SCENE I. A SEA-PORT IN SICILIA.

SCENE II. A COURT OF JUSTICE.

SCENE III. BOHEMIA. A DESERT COUNTRY NEAR THE SEA.

ACT IV

SCENE II. BOHEMIA. THE PALACE OF POLIXENES.

SCENE III. A ROAD NEAR THE SHEPHERD’S COTTAGE.

SCENE IV. THE SHEPHERD’S COTTAGE.

ACT V

SCENE I. A ROOM IN LEONTES’ PALACE.

SCENE II. BEFORE LEONTES’ PALACE.

SCENE III. A CHAPEL IN PAULINA’S HOUSE.

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

Leontes, king of Sicilia.

Mamillius, young prince of Sicilia.

Camillo, Antigonus, Cleomenes, Dion, four Lords of Sicilia.

Polixenes, King of Bohemia.

Florizel, Prince of Bohemia.

Archidamus, a Lord of Bohemia.

Old Shepherd, reputed father of Perdita.

Clown, his son.

Autolycus, a rogue.

Hermione, queen to Leontes.

Perdita, daughter to Leontes and Hermione.

Paulina, wife to Antigonus.

Emilia, a lady attending on Hermione,

Mopsa and Dorcas, Shepherdesses.

A Gaoler, A Mariner, other Lords and Gentlemen, Ladies, Officers, and Servants, Shepherds, and Shepherdesses.

Time, as Chorus.

Scene: Sicilia, and Bohemia.

ACT I

SCENE I. ANTECHAMBER IN LEONTES’ PALACE.

Enter Camillo and Archidamus

Archidamus

If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia, on the like occasion whereon my services are now on foot, you shall see, as I have said, great difference betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia.

Camillo

I think, this coming summer, the King of Sicilia means to pay Bohemia the visitation which he justly owes him.

Archidamus

Wherein our entertainment shall shame us we will be justified in our loves; for indeed —

Camillo

Beseech you,—

Archidamus

Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my knowledge: we cannot with such magnificence — in so rare — I know not what to say. We will give you sleepy drinks, that your senses, unintelligent of our insufficience, may, though they cannot praise us, as little accuse us.

Camillo

You pay a great deal too dear for what’s given freely.

Archidamus

Believe me, I speak as my understanding instructs me and as mine honesty puts it to utterance.

Camillo

Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to Bohemia. They were trained together in their childhoods; and there rooted betwixt them then such an affection, which cannot choose but branch now. Since their more mature dignities and royal necessities made separation of their society, their encounters, though not personal, have been royally attorneyed with interchange of gifts, letters, loving embassies; that they have seemed to be together, though absent, shook hands, as over a vast, and embraced, as it were, from the ends of opposed winds. The heavens continue their loves!

Archidamus

I think there is not in the world either malice or matter to alter it. You have an unspeakable comfort of your young prince Mamillius: it is a gentleman of the greatest promise that ever came into my note.

Camillo

I very well agree with you in the hopes of him: it is a gallant child; one that indeed physics the subject, makes old hearts fresh: they that went on crutches ere he was born desire yet their life to see him a man.

Archidamus

Would they else be content to die?

Camillo

Yes; if there were no other excuse why they should desire to live.

Archidamus

If the king had no son, they would desire to live on crutches till he had one.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A ROOM OF STATE IN THE SAME.

Enter Leontes, Hermione, Mamillius, Polixenes, Camillo, and Attendants

Polixenes

Nine changes of the watery star hath been

The shepherd’s note since we have left our throne

Without a burthen: time as long again

Would be find up, my brother, with our thanks;

And yet we should, for perpetuity,

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.

Leontes

Stay your thanks a while;

And pay them when you part.

Polixenes

Sir, that’s to-morrow.

I am question’d by my fears, of what may chance

Or breed upon our absence; that may blow

No sneaping winds at home, to make us say

‘This is put forth too truly:’ besides, I have stay’d

To tire your royalty.

Leontes

We are tougher, brother,

Than you can put us to’t.

Polixenes

No longer stay.

Leontes

One seven-night longer.

Polixenes

Very sooth, to-morrow.

Leontes

We’ll part the time between’s then; and in that

I’ll no gainsaying.

Polixenes

Press me not, beseech you, so.

There is no tongue that moves, none, none i’ the world,

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

Were in your love a whip to me; my stay

To you a charge and trouble: to save both,

Farewell, our brother.

Leontes

Tongue-tied, our queen? speak you.

Hermione

I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until

You have 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,

He’s beat from his best ward.

Leontes

Well said, Hermione.

Hermione

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,

We’ll thwack him hence with distaffs.

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

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?

Polixenes

No, madam.

Hermione

Nay, but you will?

Polixenes

I may not, verily.

Hermione

Verily!

You put me off with limber vows; but I,

Though you would seek to unsphere the stars with oaths,

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,

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.

Polixenes

Your guest, then, madam:

To be your prisoner should import offending;

Which is for me less easy to commit

Than you to punish.

Hermione

Not your gaoler, then,

But your kind hostess. Come, I’ll question you

Of my lord’s tricks and yours when you were boys:

You were pretty lordings then?

Polixenes

We were, fair queen,

Two lads that thought there was no more behind

But such a day to-morrow as to-day,

And to be boy eternal.

Hermione

Was not my lord

The verier wag o’ the two?

Polixenes

We were as twinn’d lambs that did frisk i’ the sun,

And bleat the one at the other: what we changed

Was innocence for innocence; we knew not

The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream’d

That any did. Had we pursued that life,

And our weak spirits ne’er been higher rear’d

With stronger blood, we should have answer’d heaven

Boldly ‘not guilty;’ the imposition clear’d

Hereditary ours.

Hermione

By this we gather

You have tripp’d since.

Polixenes

O my most sacred lady!

Temptations have since then been born to’s; for

In those unfledged days was my wife a girl;

Your precious self had then not cross’d the eyes

Of my young play-fellow.

Hermione

Grace to boot!

Of this make no conclusion, lest you say

Your queen and I are devils: yet go on;

The offences we have made you do we’ll answer,

If you first sinn’d with us and that with us

You did continue fault and that you slipp’d not

With any but with us.

Leontes

Is he won yet?

Hermione

He’ll stay my lord.

Leontes

At my request he would not.

Hermione, my dearest, thou never spokest

To better purpose.

Hermione

Never?

Leontes

Never, but once.

Hermione

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

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 beat an acre. But to the goal:

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.

Leontes

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

‘I am yours for ever.’

Hermione

’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.

Leontes

[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

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 practised smiles,

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?

Mamillius

Ay, my good lord.

Leontes

I’ fecks!

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

Are all call’d neat.— Still virginalling

Upon his palm!— How now, you wanton calf!

Art thou my calf?

Mamillius

Yes, if you will, my lord.

Leontes

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

As o’er-dyed 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 welkin 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,

Communicatest with dreams;— how can this be?—

With what’s unreal thou coactive art,

And fellow’st nothing: then ’tis very credent

Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost,

And that beyond commission, and I find it,

And that to the infection of my brains

And hardening of my brows.

Polixenes

What means Sicilia?

Hermione

He something seems unsettled.

Polixenes

How, my lord!

What cheer? how is’t with you, best brother?

Hermione

You look as if you held a brow of much distraction

Are you moved, my lord?

Leontes

No, in good earnest.

How sometimes nature will betray its folly,

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,

Will you take eggs for money?

Mamillius

No, my lord, I’ll fight.

Leontes

You will! why, happy man be’s dole! My brother,

Are you so fond of your young prince as we

Do seem to be of ours?

Polixenes

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:

He makes a July’s day short as December,

And with his varying childness cures in me

Thoughts that would thick my blood.

Leontes

So stands this squire

Officed with me: we two will walk, my lord,

And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione,

How thou lovest us, show in our brother’s welcome;

Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap:

Next to thyself and my young rover, he’s

Apparent to my heart.

Hermione

If you would seek us,

We are yours i’ the garden: shall’s attend you there?

Leontes

To your own bents dispose you: you’ll be found,

Be you beneath the sky.

Aside

I am angling now,

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

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 disgraced a part, whose issue

Will hiss me to my grave: contempt and clamour

Will be my knell. Go, play, boy, play.

There have been,

Or I am much deceived, 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 sluiced in’s absence

And his pond fish’d by his next neighbour, by

Sir Smile, his neighbour: nay, there’s comfort in’t

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;

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;

It will let in and out the enemy

With bag and baggage: many thousand on’s

Have the disease, and feel’t not. How now, boy!

Mamillius

I am like you, they say.

Leontes

Why that’s some comfort. What, Camillo there?

Camillo

Ay, my good lord.

Leontes

Go play, Mamillius; thou’rt an honest man.

Exit Mamillius

Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer.

Camillo

You had much ado to make his anchor hold:

When you cast out, it still came home.

Leontes

Didst note it?

Camillo

He would not stay at your petitions: made

His business more material.

Leontes

Didst perceive it?

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?

Camillo

At the good queen’s entreaty.

Leontes

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

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.

Camillo

Business, my lord! I think most understand

Bohemia stays here longer.

Leontes

Ha!

Camillo

Stays here longer.

Leontes

Ay, but why?

Camillo

To satisfy your highness and the entreaties

Of our most gracious mistress.

Leontes

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 cleansed my bosom, I from thee departed

Thy penitent reform’d: but we have been

Deceived in thy integrity, deceived

In that which seems so.

Camillo

Be it forbid, my lord!

Leontes

To bide upon’t, thou art not honest, or,

If thou inclinest that way, thou art a coward,

Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining

From course required; 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,

And takest it all for jest.

Camillo

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,

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

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,

Where of the execution did cry out

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,

Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass

By its own visage: if I then deny it,

’Tis none of mine.

Leontes

Ha’ not you seen, Camillo,—

But that’s past doubt, you have, or your eye-glass

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,

Or else be impudently negative,

To have nor eyes nor ears nor thought, then say

My wife’s a hobby-horse, deserves a name

As rank as any flax-wench that puts to

Before her troth-plight: say’t and justify’t.

Camillo

I would not be a stander-by to hear

My sovereign mistress clouded so, without

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.

Leontes

Is whispering nothing?

Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses?

Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career

Of laughing with a sigh?— a note infallible

Of breaking honesty — horsing foot on foot?

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;

The covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing;

My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings,

If this be nothing.

Camillo

Good my lord, be cured

Of this diseased opinion, and betimes;

For ’tis most dangerous.

Leontes

Say it be, ’tis true.

Camillo

No, no, my lord.

Leontes

It is; you lie, you lie:

I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee,

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

Infected as her life, she would not live

The running of one glass.

Camillo

Who does infect her?

Leontes

Why, he that wears her like a medal, hanging

About his neck, Bohemia: who, if I

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 cupbearer,— whom I from meaner form

Have benched and reared to worship, who mayst see

Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven,

How I am galled,— mightst bespice a cup,

To give mine enemy a lasting wink;

Which draught to me were cordial.

Camillo

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

Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress,

So sovereignly being honourable.

I have loved thee,—

Leontes

Make that thy question, and go rot!

Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled,

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,

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?

Camillo

I must believe you, sir:

I do; and will fetch off Bohemia for’t;

Provided that, when he’s removed, your highness

Will take again your queen as yours at first,

Even for your son’s sake; and thereby for sealing

The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms

Known and allied to yours.

Leontes

Thou dost advise me

Even so as I mine own course have set down:

I’ll give no blemish to her honour, none.

Camillo

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:

If from me he have wholesome beverage,

Account me not your servant.

Leontes

This is all:

Do’t and thou hast the one half of my heart;

Do’t not, thou split’st thine own.

Camillo

I’ll do’t, my lord.

Leontes

I will seem friendly, as thou hast advised me.

Exit

Camillo

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

Is the obedience to a master, one

Who in rebellion with himself will have

All that are his so too. To do this deed,

Promotion follows. If I could find example

Of thousands that had struck anointed kings

And flourish’d after, I’ld not do’t; but since

Nor brass nor stone nor parchment bears not one,

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

Polixenes

This is strange: methinks

My favour here begins to warp. Not speak?

Good day, Camillo.

Camillo

Hail, most royal sir!

Polixenes

What is the news i’ the court?

Camillo

None rare, my lord.

Polixenes

The king hath on him such a countenance

As he had lost some province and a region

Loved as he loves himself: even now I met him

With customary compliment; when he,

Wafting his eyes to the contrary and falling

A lip of much contempt, speeds from me and

So leaves me to consider what is breeding

That changeth thus his manners.

Camillo

I dare not know, my lord.

Polixenes

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 changed complexions are to me a mirror

Which shows me mine changed too; for I must be

A party in this alteration, finding

Myself thus alter’d with ’t.

Camillo

There is a sickness

Which puts some of us in distemper, but

I cannot name the disease; and it is caught

Of you that yet are well.

Polixenes

How! caught of me!

Make me not sighted like the basilisk:

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 experienced, which no less adorns

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’t not

In ignorant concealment.

Camillo

I may not answer.

Polixenes

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

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;

If not, how best to bear it.

Camillo

Sir, I will tell you;

Since I am charged in honour and by him

That I think honourable: therefore mark my counsel,

Which must be even as swiftly follow’d as

I mean to utter it, or both yourself and me

Cry lost, and so good night!

Polixenes

On, good Camillo.

Camillo

I am appointed him to murder you.

Polixenes

By whom, Camillo?

Camillo

By the king.

Polixenes

For what?

Camillo

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.

Polixenes

O, then my best blood turn

To an infected jelly and my name

Be yoked with his that did betray the Best!

Turn then my freshest reputation to

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!

Camillo

Swear his thought over

By each particular star in heaven and

By all their influences, you may as well

Forbid the sea for to obey the moon

As or by oath remove or counsel shake

The fabric of his folly, whose foundation

Is piled upon his faith and will continue

The standing of his body.

Polixenes

How should this grow?

Camillo

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!

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

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

Than one condemn’d by the king’s own mouth, thereon

His execution sworn.

Polixenes

I do believe thee:

I saw his heart in ’s face. Give me thy hand:

Be pilot to me and thy places shall

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,

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

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;

I will respect thee as a father if

Thou bear’st my life off hence: let us avoid.

Camillo

It is in mine authority to command

The keys of all the posterns: please your highness

To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I. A ROOM IN LEONTES’ PALACE.

Enter Hermione, Mamillius, and Ladies

Hermione

Take the boy to you: he so troubles me,

’Tis past enduring.

First Lady

Come, my gracious lord,

Shall I be your playfellow?

Mamillius

No, I’ll none of you.

First Lady

Why, my sweet lord?

Mamillius

You’ll kiss me hard and speak to me as if

I were a baby still. I love you better.

Second Lady

And why so, my lord?

Mamillius

Not for because

Your brows are blacker; yet black brows, they say,

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.

Second Lady

Who taught you this?

Mamillius

I learnt it out of women’s faces. Pray now

What colour are your eyebrows?

First Lady

Blue, my lord.

Mamillius

Nay, that’s a mock: I have seen a lady’s nose

That has been blue, but not her eyebrows.

First Lady

Hark ye;

The queen your mother rounds apace: we shall

Present our services to a fine new prince

One of these days; and then you’ld wanton with us,

If we would have you.

Second Lady

She is spread of late

Into a goodly bulk: good time encounter her!

Hermione

What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come, sir, now

I am for you again: pray you, sit by us,

And tell ’s a tale.

Mamillius

Merry or sad shall’t be?

Hermione

As merry as you will.

Mamillius

A sad tale’s best for winter: I have one

Of sprites and goblins.

Hermione

Let’s have that, good sir.

Come on, sit down: come on, and do your best

To fright me with your sprites; you’re powerful at it.

Mamillius

There was a man —

Hermione

Nay, come, sit down; then on.

Mamillius

Dwelt by a churchyard: I will tell it softly;

Yond crickets shall not hear it.

Hermione

Come on, then,

And give’t me in mine ear.

Enter Leontes, with Antigonus, Lords and others

Leontes

Was he met there? his train? Camillo with him?

First Lord

Behind the tuft of pines I met them; never

Saw I men scour so on their way: I eyed them

Even to their ships.

Leontes

How blest am I

In my just censure, in my true opinion!

Alack, for lesser knowledge! how accursed

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

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.

Camillo was his help in this, his pander:

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:

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;

Which often hath no less prevail’d than so

On your command.

Leontes

I know’t too well.

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.

Hermione

What is this? sport?

Leontes

Bear the boy hence; he shall not come about her;

Away with him! and let her sport herself

With that she’s big with; for ’tis Polixenes

Has made thee swell thus.

Hermione

But I’ld say he had not,

And I’ll be sworn you would believe my saying,

Howe’er you lean to the nayward.

Leontes

You, my lords,

Look on her, mark her well; be but about

To say ‘she is a goodly lady,’ and

The justice of your bearts 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

The shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands

That calumny doth use — O, I am out —

That mercy does, for calumny will sear

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,

She’s an adulteress.

Hermione

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.

Leontes

You have mistook, my lady,

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

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

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

That vulgars give bold’st titles, ay, and privy

To this their late escape.

Hermione

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,

You scarce can right me throughly then to say

You did mistake.

Leontes

No; if I mistake

In those foundations which I build upon,

The centre is not big enough to bear

A school-boy’s top. Away with her! to prison!

He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty

But that he speaks.

Hermione

There’s some ill planet reigns:

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

Perchance shall dry your pities: but I have

That honourable grief lodged here which burns

Worse than tears drown: beseech you all, my lords,

With thoughts so qualified as your charities

Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so

The king’s will be perform’d!

Leontes

Shall I be heard?

Hermione

Who is’t that goes with me? Beseech your highness,

My women may be with me; for you see

My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools;

There is no cause: when you shall know your mistress

Has deserved prison, then abound in tears

As I come out: this action I now go on

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.

Leontes

Go, do our bidding; hence!

Exit Hermione, guarded; with Ladies

First Lord

Beseech your highness, call the queen again.

Antigonus

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,

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.

Antigonus

If it prove

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 farther trust her;

For every inch of woman in the world,

Ay, every dram of woman’s flesh is false, If she be.

Leontes

Hold your peaces.

First Lord

Good my lord,—

Antigonus

It is for you we speak, not for ourselves:

You are abused and by some putter-on

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;

If this prove true, they’ll pay for’t: by mine honour,

I’ll geld ’em all; fourteen they shall not see,

To bring false generations: they are co-heirs;

And I had rather glib myself than they

Should not produce fair issue.

Leontes

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

The instruments that feel.

Antigonus

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.

Leontes

What! lack I credit?

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 blamed for’t how you might.

Leontes

Why, what need we

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 stupefied

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

Properly ours.

Antigonus

And I wish, my liege,

You had only in your silent judgment tried it,

Without more overture.

Leontes

How could that be?

Either thou art most ignorant by age,

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

Made up to the deed, doth push on this proceeding:

Yet, for a greater confirmation,

For in an act of this importance ’twere

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

They will bring all; whose spiritual counsel had,

Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well?

First Lord

Well done, my lord.

Leontes

Though I am satisfied and need no more

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

From our free person she should be confined,

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

Will raise us all.

Antigonus

[Aside]

To laughter, as I take it,

If the good truth were known.

Exeunt

SCENE II. A PRISON.

Enter Paulina, a Gentleman, and Attendants

Paulina

The keeper of the prison, call to him; let him have knowledge who I am.

Exit Gentleman

Good lady,

No court in Europe is too good for thee;

What dost thou then in prison?

Re-enter Gentleman, with the Gaoler

Now, good sir,

You know me, do you not?

Gaoler

For a worthy lady

And one whom much I honour.

Paulina

Pray you then,

Conduct me to the queen.

Gaoler

I may not, madam:

To the contrary I have express commandment.

Paulina

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?

Gaoler

So please you, madam,

To put apart these your attendants, I

Shall bring Emilia forth.

Paulina

I pray now, call her.

Withdraw yourselves.

Exeunt Gentleman and Attendants

Gaoler

And, madam,

I must be present at your conference.

Paulina

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,

How fares our gracious lady?

Emilia

As well as one so great and so forlorn

May hold together: on her frights and griefs,

Which never tender lady hath born greater,

She is something before her time deliver’d.

Paulina

A boy?

Emilia

A daughter, and a goodly babe,

Lusty and like to live: the queen receives

Much comfort in’t; says ‘My poor prisoner,

I am innocent as you.’

Paulina

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:

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:

If she dares trust me with her little babe,

I’ll show’t the king and undertake to be

Her advocate to the loud’st. We do not know

How he may soften at the sight o’ the child:

The silence often of pure innocence

Persuades when speaking fails.

Emilia

Most worthy madam,

Your honour and your goodness is so evident

That your free undertaking cannot miss

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;

Who but to-day hammer’d of this design,

But durst not tempt a minister of honour,

Lest she should be denied.

Paulina

Tell her, Emilia.

I’ll use that tongue I have: if wit flow from’t

As boldness from my bosom, let ’t not be doubted

I shall do good.

Emilia

Now be you blest for it! I’ll to the queen: please you, come something nearer.

Gaoler

Madam, if’t please the queen to send the babe,

I know not what I shall incur to pass it,

Having no warrant.

Paulina

You need not fear it, sir:

This child was prisoner to the womb and is

By law and process of great nature thence

Freed and enfranchised, not a party to

The anger of the king nor guilty of,

If any be, the trespass of the queen.

Gaoler

I do believe it.

Paulina

Do not you fear: upon mine honour,

I will stand betwixt you and danger.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A ROOM IN LEONTES’ PALACE.

Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords, and Servants

Leontes

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 adulteress; for the harlot king

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

Might come to me again. Who’s there?

First Servant

My lord?

Leontes

How does the boy?

First Servant

He took good rest to-night;

’Tis hoped his sickness is discharged.

Leontes

To see his nobleness!

Conceiving the dishonour of his mother,

He straight declined, droop’d, took it deeply,

Fasten’d and fix’d the shame on’t in himself,

Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep,

And downright languish’d. Leave me solely: go,

See how he fares.

Exit Servant

Fie, fie! no thought of him:

The thought of my revenges that way

Recoil upon me: in himself too mighty,

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:

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.

Paulina

Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to me:

Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas,

Than the queen’s life? a gracious innocent soul,

More free than he is jealous.

Antigonus

That’s enough.

Second Servant

Madam, he hath not slept tonight; commanded

None should come at him.

Paulina

Not so hot, good sir:

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

Do come with words as medicinal as true,

Honest as either, to purge him of that humour

That presses him from sleep.

Leontes

What noise there, ho?

Paulina

No noise, my lord; but needful conference

About some gossips for your highness.

Leontes

How!

Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus,

I charged thee that she should not come about me:

I knew she would.

Antigonus

I told her so, my lord,

On your displeasure’s peril and on mine,

She should not visit you.

Leontes

What, canst not rule her?

Paulina

From all dishonesty he can: in this,

Unless he take the course that you have done,

Commit me for committing honour, trust it,

He shall not rule me.

Antigonus

La you now, you hear:

When she will take the rein I let her run;

But she’ll not stumble.

Paulina

Good my liege, I come;

And, I beseech you, hear me, who profess

Myself your loyal servant, your physician,

Your most obedient counsellor, yet that dare

Less appear so in comforting your evils,

Than such as most seem yours: I say, I come

From your good queen.

Leontes

Good queen!

Paulina

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.

Leontes

Force her hence.

Paulina

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,

For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter;

Here ’tis; commends it to your blessing.

Laying down the child

Leontes

Out!

A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o’ door:

A most intelligencing bawd!

Paulina

Not so:

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.

Leontes

Traitors!

Will you not push her out? Give her the bastard.

Thou dotard! thou art woman-tired, unroosted

By thy dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard;

Take’t up, I say; give’t to thy crone.

Paulina

For ever

Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou

Takest up the princess by that forced baseness

Which he has put upon’t!

Leontes

He dreads his wife.

Paulina

So I would you did; then ’twere past all doubt

You’ld call your children yours.

Leontes

A nest of traitors!

Antigonus

I am none, by this good light.

Paulina

Nor I, nor any

But one that’s here, and that’s himself, for he

The sacred honour of himself, his queen’s,

His hopeful son’s, his babe’s, betrays to slander,

Whose sting is sharper than the sword’s; and will not —

For, as the case now stands, it is a curse

He cannot be compell’d to’t — once remove

The root of his opinion, which is rotten

As ever oak or stone was sound.

Leontes

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:

Hence with it, and together with the dam

Commit them to the fire!

Paulina

It is yours;

And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge,

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,

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

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!

Leontes

A gross hag

And, lozel, thou art worthy to be hang’d,

That wilt not stay her tongue.

Antigonus

Hang all the husbands

That cannot do that feat, you’ll leave yourself

Hardly one subject.

Leontes

Once more, take her hence.

Paulina

A most unworthy and unnatural lord

Can do no more.

Leontes

I’ll ha’ thee burnt.

Paulina

I care not:

It is an 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,

Not able to produce more accusation

Than your own weak-hinged fancy, something savours

Of tyranny and will ignoble make you,

Yea, scandalous to the world.

Leontes

On your allegiance,

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!

Paulina

I pray you, do not push me; I’ll be gone.

Look to your babe, my lord; ’tis yours:

Jove send her

A better guiding spirit! What needs these hands?

You, that are thus so tender o’er his follies,

Will never do him good, not one of you.

So, so: farewell; we are gone.

Exit

Leontes

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

And see it instantly consumed 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;

For thou set’st on thy wife.

Antigonus

I did not, sir:

These lords, my noble fellows, if they please,

Can clear me in’t.

Lords

We can: my royal liege,

He is not guilty of her coming hither.

Leontes

You’re liars all.

First Lord

Beseech your highness, give us better credit:

We have always truly served you, and beseech you

So to esteem of us, and on our knees we beg,

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.

Leontes

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.

It shall not neither. 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,

So sure as this beard’s grey,

— what will you adventure

To save this brat’s life?

Antigonus

Any thing, my lord,

That my ability may undergo

And nobleness impose: at least thus much:

I’ll pawn the little blood which I have left

To save the innocent: any thing possible.

Leontes

It shall be possible. Swear by this sword

Thou wilt perform my bidding.

Antigonus

I will, my lord.

Leontes

Mark and perform it, see’st thou! for the fail

Of any point in’t shall not only be

Death to thyself but to thy lewd-tongued wife,

Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee,

As thou art liege-man to us, that thou carry

This female bastard hence and that thou bear it

To some remote and desert place quite out

Of our dominions, and that there thou leave it,

Without more mercy, to its own protection

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,

That thou commend it strangely to some place

Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up.

Antigonus

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

To be thy nurses! Wolves and bears, they say

Casting their savageness aside have done

Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous

In more than this deed does require! And blessing

Against this cruelty fight on thy side,

Poor thing, condemn’d to loss!

Exit with the child

Leontes

No, I’ll not rear

Another’s issue.

Enter a Servant

Servant

Please your highness, posts

From those you sent to the oracle are come

An hour since: Cleomenes and Dion,

Being well arrived from Delphos, are both landed,

Hasting to the court.

First Lord

So please you, sir, their speed

Hath been beyond account.

Leontes

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

Our most disloyal lady, for, as she hath

Been publicly accused, so shall she have

A just and open trial. While she lives

My heart will be a burthen to me. Leave me,

And think upon my bidding.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. A SEA-PORT IN SICILIA.

Enter Cleomenes and Dion

Cleomenes

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,

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!

Cleomenes

But of all, the burst

And the ear-deafening voice o’ the oracle,

Kin to Jove’s thunder, so surprised 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,

The time is worth the use on’t.

Cleomenes

Great Apollo

Turn all to the best! These proclamations,

So forcing faults upon Hermione,

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

Even then will rush to knowledge. Go: fresh horses!

And gracious be the issue!

Exeunt

SCENE II. A COURT OF JUSTICE.

Enter Leontes, Lords, and Officers

Leontes

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 beloved. Let us be clear’d

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.

Officer

It is his highness’ pleasure that the queen

Appear in person here in court. Silence!

Enter Hermione guarded; Paulina and Ladies attending

Leontes

Read the indictment.

Officer

[Reads] 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.

Hermione

Since what I am to say must be but that

Which contradicts my accusation and

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 received. But thus: if powers divine

Behold our human actions, as they do,

I doubt not then but innocence shall make

False accusation blush and tyranny

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

Than history can pattern, though devised

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,

’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,

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

That way inclining, harden’d be the hearts

Of all that hear me, and my near’st of kin

Cry fie upon my grave!

Leontes

I ne’er heard yet

That any of these bolder vices wanted

Less impudence to gainsay what they did

Than to perform it first.

Hermione

That’s true enough;

Through ’tis a saying, sir, not due to me.

Leontes

You will not own it.

Hermione

More than mistress of

Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not

At all acknowledge. For Polixenes,

With whom I am accused, I do confess

I loved him as in honour he required,

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

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,

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.

Leontes

You knew of his departure, as you know

What you have underta’en to do in’s absence.

Hermione

Sir,

You speak a language that I understand not:

My life stands in the level of your dreams,

Which I’ll lay down.

Leontes

Your actions are my dreams;

You had a bastard by Polixenes,

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,

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.

Hermione

Sir, spare your threats:

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,

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,

The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth,

Haled out to murder: myself on every post

Proclaimed a strumpet: with immodest hatred

The child-bed privilege denied, which ’longs

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,

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

Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else

But what your jealousies awake, I tell you

’Tis rigor and not law. Your honours all,

I do refer me to the oracle:

Apollo be my judge!

First Lord

This your request

Is altogether just: therefore bring forth,

And in Apollos name, his oracle.

Exeunt certain Officers

Hermione

The Emperor of Russia was my father:

O that he were alive, and here beholding

His daughter’s trial! that he did but see

The flatness of my misery, yet with eyes

Of pity, not revenge!

Re-enter Officers, with Cleomenes and Dion

Officer

You here shall swear upon this sword of justice,

That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have

Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought

The seal’d-up oracle, by the hand deliver’d

Of great Apollo’s priest; and that, since then,

You have not dared to break the holy seal

Nor read the secrets in’t.

Cleomenes

Dion

All this we swear.

Leontes

Break up the seals and read.

Officer

[Reads] 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.

Lords

Now blessed be the great Apollo!

Hermione

Praised!

Leontes

Hast thou read truth?

Officer

Ay, my lord; even so

As it is here set down.

Leontes

There is no truth at all i’ the oracle:

The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood.

Enter Servant

Servant

My lord the king, the king!

Leontes

What is the business?

Servant

O sir, I shall be hated to report it!

The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear

Of the queen’s speed, is gone.

Leontes

How! gone!

Servant

Is dead.

Leontes

Apollo’s angry; and the heavens themselves

Do strike at my injustice.

Hermione swoons

How now there!

Paulina

This news is mortal to the queen: look down

And see what death is doing.

Leontes

Take her hence:

Her heart is but o’ercharged; she will recover:

I have too much believed mine own suspicion:

Beseech you, tenderly apply to her

Some remedies for life.

Exeunt Paulina and Ladies, with Hermione

Apollo, pardon

My great profaneness ’gainst thine oracle!

I’ll reconcile me to Polixenes,

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

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

Reward did threaten and encourage him,

Not doing ’t and being done: he, most humane

And fill’d with honour, to my kingly guest

Unclasp’d my practise, quit his fortunes here,

Which you knew great, and to the hazard

Of all encertainties himself commended,

No richer than his honour: how he glisters

Thorough my rust! and how his pity

Does my deeds make the blacker!

Re-enter Paulina

Paulina

Woe the while!

O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it,

Break too.

First Lord

What fit is this, good lady?

Paulina

What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me?

What wheels? racks? fires? what flaying? 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

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

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,

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

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,

When I have said, cry ‘woe!’ the queen, the queen,

The sweet’st, dear’st creature’s dead, and vengeance for’t

Not dropp’d down yet.

First Lord

The higher powers forbid!

Paulina

I say she’s dead; I’ll swear’t. If word nor oath

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!

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,

Upon a barren mountain and still winter

In storm perpetual, could not move the gods

To look that way thou wert.

Leontes

Go on, go on

Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserved

All tongues to talk their bitterest.

First Lord

Say no more:

Howe’er the business goes, you have made fault

I’ the boldness of your speech.

Paulina

I am sorry for’t:

All faults I make, when I shall come to know them,

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

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:

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,

And I’ll say nothing.

Leontes

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:

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

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 a Child, and a Mariner

Antigonus

Thou art perfect then, our ship hath touch’d upon

The deserts of Bohemia?

Mariner

Ay, my lord: and fear

We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly

And threaten present blusters. In my conscience,

The heavens with that we have in hand are angry

And frown upon ’s.

Antigonus

Their sacred wills be done! Go, get aboard;

Look to thy bark: I’ll not be long before

I call upon thee.

Mariner

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.

Antigonus

Go thou away:

I’ll follow instantly.

Mariner

I am glad at heart

To be so rid o’ the business.

Exit

Antigonus

Come, poor babe:

I have heard, but not believed, the spirits o’ the dead

May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother

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,

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

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

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,

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,

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 squared by this. I do believe

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

Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well!

There lie, and there thy character: there these;

Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty,

And still rest thine. The storm begins; poor wretch,

That for thy mother’s fault art thus exposed

To loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot,

But my heart bleeds; and most accursed am I

To be by oath enjoin’d to this. Farewell!

The day frowns more and more: thou’rt 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:

I am gone for ever.

Exit, pursued by a bear

Enter a Shepherd

Shepherd

I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting — Hark you now! Would any but these boiled brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty hunt this weather? They have scared away two of my best sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner find than the master: if any where I have them, ’tis by the seaside, browsing of ivy. Good luck, an’t be thy will what have we here! Mercy on ’s, a barne a very pretty barne! A boy or a child, I wonder? A pretty one; a very pretty one: sure, some ’scape: though I am not bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentlewoman in the ’scape. This has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some behind-door-work: they were warmer that got this than the poor thing is here. I’ll take it up for pity: yet I’ll tarry till my son come; he hallooed but even now. Whoa, ho, hoa!

Enter Clown

Clown

Hilloa, loa!

Shepherd

What, art so near? If thou’lt see a thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither. What ailest thou, man?

Clown

I have seen two such sights, by sea and by land! but I am not to say it is a sea, for it is now the sky: betwixt the firmament and it you cannot thrust a bodkin’s point.

Shepherd

Why, boy, how is it?

Clown

I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how it takes up the shore! but that’s not the point. O, the most piteous cry of the poor souls! sometimes to see ’em, and not to see ’em; now the ship boring the moon with her main-mast, and anon swallowed with yest and froth, as you’ld thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then for the land-service, to see how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone; how he cried to me for help and said his name was Antigonus, a nobleman. But to make an end of the ship, to see how the sea flap-dragoned it: but, first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea mocked them; and how the poor gentleman roared and the bear mocked him, both roaring louder than the sea or weather.

Shepherd

Name of mercy, when was this, boy?

Clown

Now, now: I have not winked since I saw these sights: the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman: he’s at it now.

Shepherd

Would I had been by, to have helped the old man!

Clown

I would you had been by the ship side, to have helped her: there your charity would have lacked footing.

Shepherd

Heavy matters! heavy matters! but look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself: thou mettest with things dying, I with things newborn. Here’s a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire’s child! look thee here; take up, take up, boy; open’t. So, let’s see: it was told me I should be rich by the fairies. This is some changeling: open’t. What’s within, boy?

Clown

You’re a made old man: if the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you’re well to live. Gold! all gold!

Shepherd

This is fairy gold, boy, and ’twill prove so: up with’t, keep it close: home, home, the next way. We are lucky, boy; and to be so still requires nothing but secrecy. Let my sheep go: come, good boy, the next way home.

Clown

Go you the next way with your findings. I’ll go see if the bear be gone from the gentleman and how much he hath eaten: they are never curst but when they are hungry: if there be any of him left, I’ll bury it.

Shepherd

That’s a good deed. If thou mayest discern by that which is left of him what he is, fetch me to the sight of him.

Clown

Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i’ the ground.

Shepherd

’Tis a lucky day, boy, and we’ll do good deeds on’t.

Exeunt

ACT IV

Scene I:

Enter Time, the Chorus

Time

I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror

Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error,

Now take upon me, in the name of Time,

To use my wings. Impute it not a crime

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

To plant and o’erwhelm custom. Let me pass

The same I am, ere ancient’st order was

Or what is now received: I witness to

The times that brought them in; so shall I do

To the freshest things now reigning and make stale

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

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

In fair Bohemia, and remember well,

I mentioned 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

Equal with wondering: what of her ensues

I list not prophecy; but let Time’s news

Be known when ’tis brought forth.

A shepherd’s daughter,

And what to her adheres, which follows after,

Is the argument of Time. Of this allow,

If ever you have spent time worse ere now;

If never, yet that Time himself doth say

He wishes earnestly you never may.

Exit

SCENE II. BOHEMIA. THE PALACE OF POLIXENES.

Enter Polixenes and Camillo

Polixenes

I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importunate: ’tis a sickness denying thee any thing; a death to grant this.

Camillo

It is fifteen years since I saw my country: though I have for the most part been aired abroad, I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent king, my master, hath sent for me; to whose feeling sorrows I might be some allay, or I o’erween to think so, which is another spur to my departure.

Polixenes

As thou lovest me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy services by leaving me now: the need I have of thee thine own goodness hath made; better not to have had thee than thus to want thee: thou, having made me businesses which none without thee can sufficiently manage, must either stay to execute them thyself or take away with thee the very services thou hast done; which if I have not enough considered, as too much I cannot, to be more thankful to thee shall be my study, and my profit therein the heaping friendships. Of that fatal country, Sicilia, prithee speak no more; whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance of that penitent, as thou callest him, and reconciled king, my brother; whose loss of his most precious queen and children are even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me, when sawest thou the Prince Florizel, my son? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being gracious, than they are in losing them when they have approved their virtues.

Camillo

Sir, it is three days since I saw the prince. What his happier affairs may be, are to me unknown: but I have missingly noted, he is of late much retired from court and is less frequent to his princely exercises than formerly he hath appeared.

Polixenes

I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some care; so far that I have eyes under my service which look upon his removedness; from whom I have this intelligence, that he is seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd; a man, they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate.

Camillo

I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a daughter of most rare note: the report of her is extended more than can be thought to begin from such a cottage.

Polixenes

That’s likewise part of my intelligence; but, I fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou shalt accompany us to the place; where we will, not appearing what we are, have some question with the shepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son’s resort thither. Prithee, be my present partner in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia.

Camillo

I willingly obey your command.

Polixenes

My best Camillo! We must disguise ourselves.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A ROAD NEAR THE SHEPHERD’S COTTAGE.

Enter Autolycus, singing

Autolycus

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.

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.

The lark, that tirra-lyra 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.

I have served Prince Florizel and in my time

Wore three-pile; but now I am out of service:

But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?

The pale moon shines by night:

And when I wander here and there,

I then do most go right.

If tinkers may have leave to live,

And bear the sow-skin budget,

Then my account I well may, give,

And in the stocks avouch it.

My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me 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!

Enter Clown

Clown

Let me see: every ’leven wether tods; every tod yields pound and odd shilling; fifteen hundred shorn. what comes the wool to?

Autolycus

[Aside]

If the springe hold, the cock’s mine.

Clown

I cannot do’t without counters. 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 nose-gays for the shearers, three-man-song-men all, and very good ones; but they are most of them means and bases; but one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to horn-pipes. 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.

Autolycus

O that ever I was born!

Grovelling on the ground

Clown

I’ the name of me —

Autolycus

O, help me, help me! pluck but off these rags; and then, death, death!

Clown

Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these off.

Autolycus

O sir, the loathsomeness of them offends me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions.

Clown

Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a great matter.

Autolycus

I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta’en from me, and these detestable things put upon me.

Clown

What, by a horseman, or a footman?

Autolycus

A footman, sweet sir, a footman.

Clown

Indeed, he should be a footman by the garments he has left with thee: if this be a horseman’s coat, it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand, I’ll help thee: come, lend me thy hand.

Autolycus

O, good sir, tenderly, O!

Clown

Alas, poor soul!

Autolycus

O, good sir, softly, good sir! I fear, sir, my shoulder-blade is out.

Clown

How now! canst stand?

Autolycus

[Picking his pocket] Softly, dear sir; good sir, softly. You ha’ done me a charitable office.

Clown

Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.

Autolycus

No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, sir: I have a kinsman not past three quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going; I shall there have money, or any thing I want: offer me no money, I pray you; that kills my heart.

Clown

What manner of fellow was he that robbed you?

Autolycus

A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with troll-my-dames; I knew him once a servant of the prince: I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court.

Clown

His vices, you would say; there’s no virtue whipped out of the court: they cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no more but abide.

Autolycus

Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well: he hath been since an ape-bearer; then a process-server, a bailiff; then he compassed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker’s wife within a mile where my land and living lies; and, having flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue: some call him Autolycus.

Clown

Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig: he haunts wakes, fairs and bear-baitings.

Autolycus

Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that’s the rogue that put me into this apparel.

Clown

Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia: if you had but looked big and spit at him, he’ld have run.

Autolycus

I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter: I am false of heart that way; and that he knew, I warrant him.

Clown

How do you now?

Autolycus

Sweet sir, much better than I was; I can stand and walk: I will even take my leave of you, and pace softly towards my kinsman’s.

Clown

Shall I bring thee on the way?

Autolycus

No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir.

Clown

Then fare thee well: I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.

Autolycus

Prosper you, sweet sir!

Exit Clown

Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I’ll be with you at your sheep-shearing too: if I make not this cheat bring out another and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled and my name put in the book of virtue!

[Sings]

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,

And merrily hent the stile-a:

A merry heart goes all the day,

Your sad tires in a mile-a.

Exit

SCENE IV. THE SHEPHERD’S COTTAGE.

Enter Florizel and Perdita

Florizel

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,

And you the queen on’t.

Perdita

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 obscured

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

To see you so attired, sworn, I think,

To show myself a glass.

Florizel

I bless the time

When my good falcon made her flight across

Thy father’s ground.

Perdita

Now Jove afford you cause!

To me the difference forges dread; your greatness

Hath not been used 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

Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how

Should I, in these my borrow’d flaunts, behold

The sternness of his presence?

Florizel

Apprehend

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-robed god,

Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain,

As I seem now. Their transformations

Were never for a piece of beauty rarer,

Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires

Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts

Burn hotter than my faith.

Perdita

O, but, sir,

Your resolution cannot hold, when ’tis

Opposed, 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.

Florizel

Thou dearest Perdita,

With these forced 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 any thing to any, if

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:

Lift up your countenance, as it were the day

Of celebration of that nuptial which

We two have sworn shall come.

Perdita

O lady Fortune,

Stand you auspicious!

Florizel

See, your guests approach:

Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,

And let’s be red with mirth.

Enter Shepherd, Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and others, with Polixenes and Camillo disguised

Shepherd

Fie, daughter! when my old wife lived, upon

This day she was both pantler, butler, cook,

Both dame and servant; welcomed all, served 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

With labour and the thing she took to quench it,

She would to each one sip. You are retired,

As if you were a feasted one and not

The hostess of the meeting: pray you, bid

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,

And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,

As your good flock shall prosper.

Perdita

[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.

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,

And welcome to our shearing!

Polixenes

Shepherdess,

A fair one are you — well you fit our ages

With flowers of winter.

Perdita

Sir, the year growing ancient,

Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth

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

To get slips of them.

Polixenes

Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them?

Perdita

For I have heard it said

There is an art which in their piedness shares

With great creating nature.

Polixenes

Say there be;

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

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.

Perdita

So it is.

Polixenes

Then make your garden rich in gillyvors,

And do not call them bastards.

Perdita

I’ll not put

The dibble in earth to set one slip of them;

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, savoury, marjoram;

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.

Camillo

I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,

And only live by gazing.

Perdita

Out, alas!

You’d be so lean, that blasts of January

Would blow you through and through.

Now, my fair’st friend,

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,

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

Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses

That die unmarried, ere they can behold

Bight Phoebus in his strength — a malady

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!

Florizel

What, like a corse?

Perdita

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:

Methinks I play as I have seen them do

In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine

Does change my disposition.

Florizel

What you do

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet.

I’ld have you do it ever: when you sing,

I’ld 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

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,

Crowns what you are doing in the present deed,

That all your acts are queens.

Perdita

O Doricles,

Your praises are too large: but that your youth,

And the true blood which peepeth fairly through’t,

Do plainly give you out an unstain’d shepherd,

With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

You woo’d me the false way.

Florizel

I think you have

As little skill to fear as I have purpose

To put you to’t. But come; our dance, I pray:

Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair,

That never mean to part.

Perdita

I’ll swear for ’em.

Polixenes

This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever

Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does or seems

But smacks of something greater than herself,

Too noble for this place.

Camillo

He tells her something

That makes her blood look out: good sooth, she is

The queen of curds and cream.

Clown

Come on, strike up!

Dorcas

Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlic,

To mend her kissing with!

Mopsa

Now, in good time!

Clown

Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners.

Come, strike up!

Music. Here a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses

Polixenes

Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this

Which dances with your daughter?

Shepherd

They call him Doricles; and boasts himself

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 gazed the moon

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.

Polixenes

She dances featly.

Shepherd

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.

Enter Servant

Servant

O master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, you would never dance again after a tabour 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.

Clown

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.

Servant

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 stretch-mouthed 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.’

Polixenes

This is a brave fellow.

Clown

Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares?

Servant

He hath ribbons of an 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.

Clown

Prithee bring him in; and let him approach singing.

Perdita

Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in ’s tunes.

Exit Servant

Clown

You have of these pedlars, that have more in them than you’ld think, sister.

Perdita

Ay, good brother, or go about to think.

Enter Autolycus, singing

Autolycus

Lawn as white as driven snow;

Cyprus black as e’er was crow;

Gloves as sweet as damask roses;

Masks for faces and for noses;

Bugle bracelet, necklace amber,

Perfume for a lady’s chamber;

Golden quoifs and stomachers,

For my lads to give their dears:

Pins and poking-sticks of steel,

What maids lack from head to heel:

Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;

Buy lads, or else your lasses cry: Come buy.

Clown

If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take no money of me; but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain ribbons and gloves.

Mopsa

I was promised them against the feast; but they come not too late now.

Dorcas

He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars.

Mopsa

He hath paid you all he promised you; may be, he has paid you more, which will shame you to give him again.

Clown

Is there no manners left among maids? will they wear their plackets where they should bear their faces? Is there not milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle off these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests? ’tis well they are whispering: clamour your tongues, and not a word more.

Mopsa

I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry-lace and a pair of sweet gloves.

Clown

Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way and lost all my money?

Autolycus

And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad; therefore it behoves men to be wary.

Clown

Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing here.

Autolycus

I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of charge.

Clown

What hast here? ballads?

Mopsa

Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in print o’ life, for then we are sure they are true.

Autolycus

Here’s one to a very doleful tune, how a usurer’s wife was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a burthen and how she longed to eat adders’ heads and toads carbonadoed.

Mopsa

Is it true, think you?

Autolycus

Very true, and but a month old.

Dorcas

Bless me from marrying a usurer!

Autolycus

Here’s the midwife’s name to’t, one Mistress Tale-porter, and five or six honest wives that were present. Why should I carry lies abroad?

Mopsa

Pray you now, buy it.

Clown

Come on, lay it by: and let’s first see moe ballads; we’ll buy the other things anon.

Autolycus

Here’s another ballad of a fish, that appeared upon the coast on Wednesday the four-score of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids: it was thought she was a woman and was turned into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved her: the ballad is very pitiful and as true.

Dorcas

Is it true too, think you?

Autolycus

Five justices’ hands at it, and witnesses more than my pack will hold.

Clown

Lay it by too: another.

Autolycus

This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one.

Mopsa

Let’s have some merry ones.

Autolycus

Why, this is a passing merry one and goes to the tune of ‘Two maids wooing a man:’ there’s scarce a maid westward but she sings it; ’tis in request, I can tell you.

Mopsa

We can both sing it: if thou’lt bear a part, thou shalt hear; ’tis in three parts.

Dorcas

We had the tune on’t a month ago.

Autolycus

I can bear my part; you must know ’tis my occupation; have at it with you.

Song

Autolycus

Get you hence, for I must go

Where it fits not you to know.

Dorcas

Whither?

Mopsa

O, whither?

Dorcas

Whither?

Mopsa

It becomes thy oath full well,

Thou to me thy secrets tell.

Dorcas

Me too, let me go thither.

Mopsa

Or thou goest to the orange or mill.

Dorcas

If to either, thou dost ill.

Autolycus

Neither.

Dorcas

What, neither?

Autolycus

Neither.

Dorcas

Thou hast sworn my love to be.

Mopsa

Thou hast sworn it more to me:

Then whither goest? say, whither?

Clown

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

Autolycus

And you shall pay well for ’em.

Follows singing

Will you buy any tape,

Or lace for your cape,

My dainty duck, my dear-a?

Any silk, any thread,

Any toys for your head,

Of the new’st and finest, finest wear-a?

Come to the pedlar;

Money’s a medler.

That doth utter all men’s ware-a.

Exit

Re-enter Servant

Servant

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.

Shepherd

Away! we’ll none on ’t: here has been too much homely foolery already. I know, sir, we weary you.

Polixenes

You weary those that refresh us: pray, let’s see these four threes of herdsmen.

Servant

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.

Shepherd

Leave your prating: since these good men are pleased, let them come in; but quickly now.

Servant

Why, they stay at door, sir.

Exit

Here a dance of twelve Satyrs

Polixenes

O, father, you’ll know more of that hereafter.

To Camillo

Is it not too far gone? ’Tis time to part them.

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

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

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.

Florizel

Old sir, I know

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,

Hath sometime loved! 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 that’s bolted

By the northern blasts twice o’er.

Polixenes

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

What you profess.

Florizel

Do, and be witness to ’t.

Polixenes

And this my neighbour too?

Florizel

And he, and more

Than he, and men, the earth, the heavens, and all:

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

Without her love; for her employ them all;

Commend them and condemn them to her service

Or to their own perdition.

Polixenes

Fairly offer’d.

Camillo

This shows a sound affection.

Shepherd

But, my daughter,

Say you the like to him?

Perdita

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.

Shepherd

Take hands, a bargain!

And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to ’t:

I give my daughter to him, and will make

Her portion equal his.

Florizel

O, that must be

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.

Shepherd

Come, your hand;

And, daughter, yours.

Polixenes

Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you;

Have you a father?

Florizel

I have: but what of him?

Polixenes

Knows he of this?

Florizel

He neither does nor shall.

Polixenes

Methinks a father

Is at the nuptial of his son a guest

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?

Know man from man? dispute his own estate?

Lies he not bed-rid? and again does nothing

But what he did being childish?

Florizel

No, good sir;

He has his health and ampler strength indeed

Than most have of his age.

Polixenes

By my white beard,

You offer him, if this be so, a wrong

Something unfilial: reason my son

Should choose himself a wife, but as good reason

The father, all whose joy is nothing else

But fair posterity, should hold some counsel

In such a business.

Florizel

I yield all this;

But for some other reasons, my grave sir,

Which ’tis not fit you know, I not acquaint

My father of this business.

Polixenes

Let him know’t.

Florizel

He shall not.

Polixenes

Prithee, let him.

Florizel

No, he must not.

Shepherd

Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve

At knowing of thy choice.

Florizel

Come, come, he must not.

Mark our contract.

Polixenes

Mark your divorce, young sir,

Discovering himself

Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base

To be acknowledged: thou a sceptre’s heir,

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 copest with,—

Shepherd

O, my heart!

Polixenes

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

That thou no more shalt see this knack, as never

I mean thou shalt, we’ll bar thee from succession;

Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin,

Far than Deucalion off: mark thou my words:

Follow us to the court. Thou churl, for this time,

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,

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,

I will devise a death as cruel for thee

As thou art tender to’t.

Exit

Perdita

Even here undone!

I was not much afeard; for once or twice

I was about to speak and tell him plainly,

The selfsame 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,

Of your own state take care: this dream of mine,—

Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch farther,

But milk my ewes and weep.

Camillo

Why, how now, father!

Speak ere thou diest.

Shepherd

I cannot speak, nor think

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,

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

To mingle faith with him! Undone! undone!

If I might die within this hour, I have lived

To die when I desire.

Exit

Florizel

Why look you so upon me?

I am but sorry, not afeard; delay’d,

But nothing alter’d: what I was, I am;

More straining on for plucking back, not following

My leash unwillingly.

Camillo

Gracious my lord,

You know your father’s temper: at this time

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,

Come not before him.

Florizel

I not purpose it.

I think, Camillo?

Camillo

Even he, my lord.

Perdita

How often have I told you ’twould be thus!

How often said, my dignity would last

But till ’twere known!

Florizel

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

Am heir to my affection.

Camillo

Be advised.

Florizel

I am, and by my fancy: if my reason

Will thereto be obedient, I have reason;

If not, my senses, better pleased with madness,

Do bid it welcome.

Camillo

This is desperate, sir.

Florizel

So call it: but it does fulfil my vow;

I needs must think it honesty. Camillo,

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

To this my fair beloved: 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

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

A vessel rides fast by, but not prepared

For this design. What course I mean to hold

Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor

Concern me the reporting.

Camillo

O my lord!

I would your spirit were easier for advice,

Or stronger for your need.

Florizel

Hark, Perdita

Drawing her aside

I’ll hear you by and by.

Camillo

He’s irremoveable,

Resolved 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

And that unhappy king, my master, whom

I so much thirst to see.

Florizel

Now, good Camillo;

I am so fraught with curious business that

I leave out ceremony.

Camillo

Sir, I think

You have heard of my poor services, i’ the love

That I have borne your father?

Florizel

Very nobly

Have you deserved: it is my father’s music

To speak your deeds, not little of his care

To have them recompensed as thought on.

Camillo

Well, my lord,

If you may please to think I love the king

And through him what is nearest to him, which is

Your gracious self, embrace but my direction:

If your more ponderous and settled project

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,

There’s no disjunction to be made, but by —

As heavens forefend!— your ruin; marry her,

And, with my best endeavours in your absence,

Your discontenting father strive to qualify

And bring him up to liking.

Florizel

How, Camillo,

May this, almost a miracle, be done?

That I may call thee something more than man

And after that trust to thee.

Camillo

Have you thought on

A place whereto you’ll go?

Florizel

Not any yet:

But as the unthought-on accident is guilty

To what we wildly do, so we profess

Ourselves to be the slaves of chance and flies

Of every wind that blows.

Camillo

Then list to me:

This follows, if you will not change your purpose

But undergo this flight, make for Sicilia,

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

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

’Twixt his unkindness and his kindness; the one

He chides to hell and bids the other grow

Faster than thought or time.

Florizel

Worthy Camillo,

What colour for my visitation shall I

Hold up before him?

Camillo

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,

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

And speak his very heart.

Florizel

I am bound to you:

There is some sap in this.

Camillo

A cause more promising

Than a wild dedication of yourselves

To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores, most certain

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

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.

Perdita

One of these is true:

I think affliction may subdue the cheek,

But not take in the mind.

Camillo

Yea, say you so?

There shall not at your father’s house these seven years

Be born another such.

Florizel

My good Camillo,

She is as forward of her breeding as

She is i’ the rear our birth.

Camillo

I cannot say ’tis pity

She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress

To most that teach.

Perdita

Your pardon, sir; for this

I’ll blush you thanks.

Florizel

My prettiest Perdita!

But O, the thorns we stand upon! Camillo,

Preserver of my father, now of me,

The medicine of our house, how shall we do?

We are not furnish’d like Bohemia’s son,

Nor shall appear in Sicilia.

Camillo

My lord,

Fear none of this: I think you know my fortunes

Do all lie there: it shall be so my care

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

Re-enter Autolycus

Autolycus

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 ribbon, 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 could 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.

Camillo, Florizel, and Perdita come forward

Camillo

Nay, but my letters, by this means being there

So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt.

Florizel

And those that you’ll procure from King Leontes —

Camillo

Shall satisfy your father.

Perdita

Happy be you!

All that you speak shows fair.

Camillo

Who have we here?

Seeing Autolycus

We’ll make an instrument of this, omit

Nothing may give us aid.

Autolycus

If they have overheard me now, why, hanging.

Camillo

How now, good fellow! why shakest thou so? Fear not, man; here’s no harm intended to thee.

Autolycus

I am a poor fellow, sir.

Camillo

Why, be so still; here’s nobody will steal that from thee: yet for the outside of thy poverty we must make an exchange; therefore discase thee instantly, — thou must think there’s a necessity in’t,— and change garments with this gentleman: though the pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, there’s some boot.

Autolycus

I am a poor fellow, sir.

Aside

I know ye well enough.

Camillo

Nay, prithee, dispatch: the gentleman is half flayed already.

Autolycus

Are you in earnest, sir?

Aside

I smell the trick on’t.

Florizel

Dispatch, I prithee.

Autolycus

Indeed, I have had earnest: but I cannot with conscience take it.

Camillo

Unbuckle, unbuckle.

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

The truth of your own seeming; that you may —

For I do fear eyes over — to shipboard

Get undescried.

Perdita

I see the play so lies

That I must bear a part.

Camillo

No remedy.

Have you done there?

Florizel

Should I now meet my father,

He would not call me son.

Camillo

Nay, you shall have no hat.

Giving it to Perdita

Come, lady, come. Farewell, my friend.

Autolycus

Adieu, sir.

Florizel

O Perdita, what have we twain forgot!

Pray you, a word.

Camillo

[Aside] What I do next, shall be to tell the king

Of this escape and whither they are bound;

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.

Florizel

Fortune speed us!

Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side.

Camillo

The swifter speed the better.

Exeunt Florizel, Perdita, and Camillo

Autolycus

I understand the business, I hear it: to have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is necessary for a cut-purse; a good nose is requisite also, to smell out work for the other senses. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive. What an exchange had this been without boot! What a boot is here with this exchange! Sure the gods do this year connive at us, and we may do any thing extempore. The prince himself is about a piece of iniquity, stealing away from his father with his clog at his heels: if I thought it were a piece of honesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not do’t: I hold it the more knavery to conceal it; and therein am I constant to my profession.

Re-enter Clown and Shepherd

Aside, aside; here is more matter for a hot brain: every lane’s end, every shop, church, session, hanging, yields a careful man work.

Clown

See, see; what a man you are now! There is no other way but to tell the king she’s a changeling and none of your flesh and blood.

Shepherd

Nay, but hear me.

Clown

Nay, but hear me.

Shepherd

Go to, then.

Clown

She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh and blood has not offended the king; and so your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show those things you found about her, those secret things, all but what she has with her: this being done, let the law go whistle: I warrant you.

Shepherd

I will tell the king all, every word, yea, and his son’s pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest man, neither to his father nor to me, to go about to make me the king’s brother-in-law.

Clown

Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off you could have been to him and then your blood had been the dearer by I know how much an ounce.

Autolycus

[Aside] Very wisely, puppies!

Shepherd

Well, let us to the king: there is that in this fardel will make him scratch his beard.

Autolycus

[Aside] I know not what impediment this complaint may be to the flight of my master.

Clown

Pray heartily he be at palace.

Autolycus

[Aside] Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance: let me pocket up my pedlar’s excrement.

Takes off his false beard

How now, rustics! whither are you bound?

Shepherd

To the palace, an it like your worship.

Autolycus

Your affairs there, what, with whom, the condition of that fardel, the place of your dwelling, your names, your ages, of what having, breeding, and any thing that is fitting to be known, discover.

Clown

We are but plain fellows, sir.

Autolycus

A lie; you are rough and hairy. Let me have no lying: it becomes none but tradesmen, and they often give us soldiers the lie: but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel; therefore they do not give us the lie.

Clown

Your worship had like to have given us one, if you had not taken yourself with the manner.

Shepherd

Are you a courtier, an’t like you, sir?

Autolycus

Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest thou not the air of the court in these enfoldings? hath not my gait in it the measure of the court? receives not thy nose court-odor from me? reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt? Thinkest thou, for that I insinuate, or toaze from thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier? I am courtier cap-a-pe; and one that will either push on or pluck back thy business there: whereupon I command thee to open thy affair.

Shepherd

My business, sir, is to the king.

Autolycus

What advocate hast thou to him?

Shepherd

I know not, an’t like you.

Clown

Advocate’s the court-word for a pheasant: say you have none.

Shepherd

None, sir; I have no pheasant, cock nor hen.

Autolycus

How blessed are we that are not simple men!

Yet nature might have made me as these are,

Therefore I will not disdain.

Clown

This cannot be but a great courtier.

Shepherd

His garments are rich, but he wears them not handsomely.

Clown

He seems to be the more noble in being fantastical: a great man, I’ll warrant; I know by the picking on’s teeth.

Autolycus

The fardel there? what’s i’ the fardel?

Wherefore that box?

Shepherd

Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box, which none must know but the king; and which he shall know within this hour, if I may come to the speech of him.

Autolycus

Age, thou hast lost thy labour.

Shepherd

Why, sir?

Autolycus

The king is not at the palace; he is gone aboard a new ship to purge melancholy and air himself: for, if thou beest capable of things serious, thou must know the king is full of grief.

Shepherd

So ’tis said, sir; about his son, that should have married a shepherd’s daughter.

Autolycus

If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him fly: the curses he shall have, the tortures he shall feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster.

Clown

Think you so, sir?

Autolycus

Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy and vengeance bitter; but those that are germane to him, though removed fifty times, shall all come under the hangman: which though it be great pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling rogue a ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter come into grace! Some say he shall be stoned; but that death is too soft for him, say I draw our throne into a sheep-cote! all deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy.

Clown

Has the old man e’er a son, sir, do you hear. an’t like you, sir?

Autolycus

He has a son, who shall be flayed alive; then ’nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasp’s nest; then stand till he be three quarters and a dram dead; then recovered again with aqua-vitae or some other hot infusion; then, raw as he is, and in the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall be be set against a brick-wall, the sun looking with a southward eye upon him, where he is to behold him with flies blown to death. But what talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be smiled at, their offences being so capital? Tell me, for you seem to be honest plain men, what you have to the king: being something gently considered, I’ll bring you where he is aboard, tender your persons to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs; and if it be in man besides the king to effect your suits, here is man shall do it.

Clown

He seems to be of great authority: close with him, give him gold; and though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold: show the inside of your purse to the outside of his hand, and no more ado. Remember ‘stoned,’ and ‘flayed alive.’

Shepherd

An’t please you, sir, to undertake the business for us, here is that gold I have: I’ll make it as much more and leave this young man in pawn till I bring it you.

Autolycus

After I have done what I promised?

Shepherd

Ay, sir.

Autolycus

Well, give me the moiety. Are you a party in this business?

Clown

In some sort, sir: but though my case be a pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it.

Autolycus

O, that’s the case of the shepherd’s son: hang him, he’ll be made an example.

Clown

Comfort, good comfort! We must to the king and show our strange sights: he must know ’tis none of your daughter nor my sister; we are gone else. Sir, I will give you as much as this old man does when the business is performed, and remain, as he says, your pawn till it be brought you.

Autolycus

I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea-side; go on the right hand: I will but look upon the hedge and follow you.

Clown

We are blest in this man, as I may say, even blest.

Shepherd

Let’s before as he bids us: he was provided to do us good.

Exeunt Shepherd and Clown

Autolycus

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. A ROOM IN LEONTES’ PALACE.

Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina, and Servants

Cleomenes

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,

Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil;

With them forgive yourself.

Leontes

Whilst I remember

Her and her virtues, I cannot forget

My blemishes in them, and so still think of

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.

Paulina

True, too true, my lord:

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.

Leontes

I think so. Kill’d!

She I kill’d! I did so: but thou strikest me

Sorely, to say I did; it is as bitter

Upon thy tongue as in my thought: now, good now,

Say so but seldom.

Cleomenes

Not at all, good lady:

You might have spoken a thousand things that would

Have done the time more benefit and graced

Your kindness better.

Paulina

You are one of those

Would have him wed again.

Dion

If you would not so,

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

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,

To bless the bed of majesty again

With a sweet fellow to’t?

Paulina

There is none worthy,

Respecting her that’s gone. Besides, the gods

Will have fulfill’d their secret purposes;

For has not the divine Apollo said,

Is’t not the tenor 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

As my Antigonus to break his grave

And come again to me; who, on my life,

Did perish with the infant. ’Tis your counsel

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

Was like to be the best.

Leontes

Good Paulina,

Who hast the memory of Hermione,

I know, in honour, O, that ever I

Had squared me to thy counsel! then, even now,

I might have look’d upon my queen’s full eyes,

Have taken treasure from her lips —

Paulina

And left them

More rich for what they yielded.

Leontes

Thou speak’st truth.

No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse,

And better used, 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?’

Paulina

Had she such power,

She had just cause.

Leontes

She had; and would incense me

To murder her I married.

Paulina

I should so.

Were I the ghost that walk’d, I’ld bid you mark

Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in’t

You chose her; then I’ld shriek, that even your ears

Should rift to hear me; and the words that follow’d

Should be ‘Remember mine.’

Leontes

Stars, stars,

And all eyes else dead coals! Fear thou no wife;

I’ll have no wife, Paulina.

Paulina

Will you swear

Never to marry but by my free leave?

Leontes

Never, Paulina; so be blest my spirit!

Paulina

Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath.

Cleomenes

You tempt him over-much.

Paulina

Unless another,

As like Hermione as is her picture,

Affront his eye.

Cleomenes

Good madam,—

Paulina

I have done.

Yet, if my lord will marry,— if you will, sir,

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

To see her in your arms.

Leontes

My true Paulina,

We shall not marry till thou bid’st us.

Paulina

That

Shall be when your first queen’s again in breath;

Never till then.

Enter a Gentleman

Gentleman

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.

Leontes

What with him? he comes not

Like to his father’s greatness: his approach,

So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us

’Tis not a visitation framed, but forced

By need and accident. What train?

Gentleman

But few,

And those but mean.

Leontes

His princess, say you, with him?

Gentleman

Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think,

That e’er the sun shone bright on.

Paulina

O Hermione,

As every present time doth boast itself

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

Flow’d with her beauty once: ’tis shrewdly ebb’d,

To say you have seen a better.

Gentleman

Pardon, madam:

The one I have almost forgot,— your pardon,—

The other, when she has obtain’d your eye,

Will have your tongue too. This is a creature,

Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal

Of all professors else, make proselytes

Of who she but bid follow.

Paulina

How! not women?

Gentleman

Women will love her, that she is a woman

More worth than any man; men, that she is

The rarest of all women.

Leontes

Go, Cleomenes;

Yourself, assisted with your honour’d friends,

Bring them to our embracement. Still, ’tis strange

Exeunt Cleomenes and others

He thus should steal upon us.

Paulina

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.

Leontes

Prithee, no more; cease; thou know’st

He dies to me again when talk’d of: sure,

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 and others, with Florizel and Perdita

Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince;

For she did print your royal father off,

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,

As I did him, and speak of something wildly

By us perform’d before. Most dearly welcome!

And your fair princess,— goddess!— O, alas!

I lost a couple, that ’twixt heaven and earth

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,

Though bearing misery, I desire my life

Once more to look on him.

Florizel

By his command

Have I here touch’d Sicilia and from him

Give you all greetings that a king, at friend,

Can send his brother: and, but infirmity

Which waits upon worn times hath something seized

His wish’d ability, he had himself

The lands and waters ’twixt your throne and his

Measured to look upon you; whom he loves —

He bade me say so — more than all the sceptres

And those that bear them living.

Leontes

O my brother,

Good gentleman! the wrongs I have done thee stir

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

Exposed this paragon to the fearful usage,

At least ungentle, of the dreadful Neptune,

To greet a man not worth her pains, much less

The adventure of her person?

Florizel

Good my lord,

She came from Libya.

Leontes

Where the warlike Smalus,

That noble honour’d lord, is fear’d and loved?

Florizel

Most royal sir, from thence; from him, whose daughter

His tears proclaim’d his, parting with her: thence,

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;

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.

Leontes

The blessed gods

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:

For which the heavens, taking angry note,

Have left me issueless; and your father’s blest,

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,

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.

Leontes

Where’s Bohemia? speak.

Lord

Here in your city; I now came from him:

I speak amazedly; and it becomes

My marvel and my message. To your court

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.

Florizel

Camillo has betray’d me;

Whose honour and whose honesty till now

Endured all weathers.

Lord

Lay’t so to his charge:

He’s with the king your father.

Leontes

Who? Camillo?

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:

Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them

With divers deaths in death.

Perdita

O my poor father!

The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have

Our contract celebrated.

Leontes

You are married?

Florizel

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.

Leontes

My lord,

Is this the daughter of a king?

Florizel

She is,

When once she is my wife.

Leontes

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

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.

Florizel

Dear, look up:

Though Fortune, visible an enemy,

Should chase us with my father, power no jot

Hath she to change our loves. Beseech you, sir,

Remember since you owed no more to time

Than I do now: with thought of such affections,

Step forth mine advocate; at your request

My father will grant precious things as trifles.

Leontes

Would he do so, I’ld beg your precious mistress,

Which he counts but a trifle.

Paulina

Sir, my liege,

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.

Leontes

I thought of her,

Even in these looks I made.

To Florizel

But your petition

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

And mark what way I make: come, good my lord.

Exeunt

SCENE II. BEFORE LEONTES’ PALACE.

Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman

Autolycus

Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation?

First Gentleman

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.

Autolycus

I would most gladly know the issue of it.

First Gentleman

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.

Enter another Gentleman

Here comes a gentleman that haply knows more.

The news, Rogero?

Second Gentleman

Nothing but bonfires: the oracle is fulfilled; the king’s daughter is found: such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it.

Enter a third Gentleman

Here comes the Lady Paulina’s steward: he can deliver you more. How goes it now, sir? this news which is called true is so like an old tale, that the verity of it is in strong suspicion: has the king found his heir?

Third Gentleman

Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by circumstance: that which you hear you’ll swear you see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione’s, her jewel about the neck of it, the letters of Antigonus found with it which they know to be his character, the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother, the affection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding, and many other evidences proclaim her with all certainty to be the king’s daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings?

Second Gentleman

No.

Third Gentleman

Then have you lost a sight, which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in such manner that it seemed sorrow wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenances of such distraction that they were to be known by garment, not by favour. Our king, being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss, cries ‘O, thy mother, thy mother!’ then asks Bohemia forgiveness; then embraces his son-in-law; then again worries he his daughter with clipping her; now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings’ reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it and undoes description to do it.

Second Gentleman

What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried hence the child?

Third Gentleman

Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse, though credit be asleep and not an ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear: this avouches the shepherd’s son; who has not only his innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his that Paulina knows.

First Gentleman

What became of his bark and his followers?

Third Gentleman

Wrecked the same instant of their master’s death and in the view of the shepherd: so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But O, the noble combat that ’twixt joy and sorrow was fought in Paulina! She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled: she lifted the princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing, as if she would pin her to her heart that she might no more be in danger of losing.

First Gentleman

The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes; for by such was it acted.

Third Gentleman

One of the prettiest touches of all and that which angled for mine eyes, caught the water though not the fish, was when, at the relation of the queen’s death, with the manner how she came to’t bravely confessed and lamented by the king, how attentiveness wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an ‘Alas,’ I would fain say, bleed tears, for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour; some swooned, all sorrowed: if all the world could have seen ’t, the woe had been universal.

First Gentleman

Are they returned to the court?

Third Gentleman

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.

Second Gentleman

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?

First Gentleman

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.

Exeunt Gentlemen

Autolycus

Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the prince: told him I heard them talk of a fardel and I know not what: but he at that time, overfond of the shepherd’s daughter, so he then took her to be, who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather continuing, this mystery remained undiscovered. But ’tis all one to me; for had I been the finder out of this secret, it would not have relished among my other discredits.

Enter Shepherd and Clown

Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune.

Shepherd

Come, boy; I am past moe children, but thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born.

Clown

You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me this other day, because I was no gentleman born. See you these clothes? say you see them not and think me still no gentleman born: you were best say these robes are not gentlemen born: give me the lie, do, and try whether I am not now a gentleman born.

Autolycus

I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born.

Clown

Ay, and have been so any time these four hours.

Shepherd

And so have I, boy.

Clown

So you have: but I was a gentleman born before my father; for the king’s son took me by the hand, and called me brother; and then the two kings called my father brother; and then the prince my brother and the princess my sister called my father father; and so we wept, and there was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed.

Shepherd

We may live, son, to shed many more.

Clown

Ay; or else ’twere hard luck, being in so preposterous estate as we are.

Autolycus

I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship and to give me your good report to the prince my master.

Shepherd

Prithee, son, do; for we must be gentle, now we are gentlemen.

Clown

Thou wilt amend thy life?

Autolycus

Ay, an it like your good worship.

Clown

Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia.

Shepherd

You may say it, but not swear it.

Clown

Not swear it, now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklins say it, I’ll swear it.

Shepherd

How if it be false, son?

Clown

If it be ne’er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend: and I’ll swear to the prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be drunk: but I’ll swear it, and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands.

Autolycus

I will prove so, sir, to my power.

Clown

Ay, by any means prove a tall fellow: if I do not wonder how thou darest venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not. Hark! the kings and the princes, our kindred, are going to see the queen’s picture. Come, follow us: we’ll be thy good masters.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A CHAPEL IN PAULINA’S HOUSE.

Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, Camillo, Paulina, Lords, and Attendants

Leontes

O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort

That I have had of thee!

Paulina

What, sovereign sir,

I did not well I meant well. All my services

You have paid home: but that you have vouchsafed,

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.

Leontes

O Paulina,

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

That which my daughter came to look upon,

The statue of her mother.

Paulina

As she lived peerless,

So her dead likeness, I do well believe,

Excels whatever yet you look’d upon

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.

Paulina draws a curtain, and discovers Hermione standing like 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?

Leontes

Her natural posture!

Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed

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.

Polixenes

O, not by much.

Paulina

So much the more our carver’s excellence;

Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her

As she lived now.

Leontes

As now she might have done,

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 ashamed: does not the stone rebuke me

For being more stone than it? O royal piece,

There’s magic in thy majesty, which has

My evils conjured to remembrance and

From thy admiring daughter took the spirits,

Standing like stone with thee.

Perdita

And give me leave,

And do not say ’tis superstition, that

I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady,

Dear queen, that ended when I but began,

Give me that hand of yours to kiss.

Paulina

O, patience!

The statue is but newly fix’d, the colour’s

Not dry.

Camillo

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

But kill’d itself much sooner.

Polixenes

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.

Paulina

Indeed, my lord,

If I had thought the sight of my poor image

Would thus have wrought you,— for the stone is mine —

I’ld not have show’d it.

Leontes

Do not draw the curtain.

Paulina

No longer shall you gaze on’t, lest your fancy

May think anon it moves.

Leontes

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 breathed? and that those veins

Did verily bear blood?

Polixenes

Masterly done:

The very life seems warm upon her lip.

Leontes

The fixture of her eye has motion in’t,

As we are mock’d with art.

Paulina

I’ll draw the curtain:

My lord’s almost so far transported that

He’ll think anon it lives.

Leontes

O sweet Paulina,

Make me to think so twenty years together!

No settled senses of the world can match

The pleasure of that madness. Let ’t alone.

Paulina

I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr’d you: but

I could afflict you farther.

Leontes

Do, Paulina;

For this affliction has a taste as sweet

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.

Paulina

Good my lord, forbear:

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?

Leontes

No, not these twenty years.

Perdita

So long could I

Stand by, a looker on.

Paulina

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

And take you by the hand; but then you’ll think —

Which I protest against — I am assisted

By wicked powers.

Leontes

What you can make her do,

I am content to look on: what to speak,

I am content to hear; for ’tis as easy

To make her speak as move.

Paulina

It is required

You do awake your faith. Then all stand still;

On: those that think it is unlawful business

I am about, let them depart.

Leontes

Proceed:

No foot shall stir.

Paulina

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,

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

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

Is she become the suitor?

Leontes

O, she’s warm!

If this be magic, let it be an art

Lawful as eating.

Polixenes

She embraces him.

Camillo

She hangs about his neck:

If she pertain to life let her speak too.

Polixenes

Ay, and make’t manifest where she has lived,

Or how stolen from the dead.

Paulina

That she is living,

Were it but told you, should be hooted at

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;

Our Perdita is found.

Hermione

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 preserved? where lived? how found

Thy father’s court? for thou shalt hear that I,

Knowing by Paulina that the oracle

Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserved

Myself to see the issue.

Paulina

There’s time enough for that;

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,

Will wing me to some wither’d bough and there

My mate, that’s never to be found again,

Lament till I am lost.

Leontes

O, peace, Paulina!

Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent,

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

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

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

My ill suspicion. This is your son-in-law,

And son unto the king, who, heavens directing,

Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina,

Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely

Each one demand an answer to his part

Perform’d in this wide gap of time since first

We were dissever’d: hastily lead away.

Exeunt

The Tempest

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

SCENE I. ON A SHIP AT SEA: A TEMPESTUOUS NOISE

SCENE II. THE ISLAND. BEFORE PROSPERO’S CELL.

ACT II

SCENE I. ANOTHER PART OF THE ISLAND.

SCENE II. ANOTHER PART OF THE ISLAND.

ACT III

SCENE I. BEFORE PROSPERO’S CELL.

SCENE II. ANOTHER PART OF THE ISLAND.

SCENE III. ANOTHER PART OF THE ISLAND.

ACT IV

SCENE I. BEFORE PROSPERO’S CELL.

ACT V

SCENE I. BEFORE PROSPERO’S CELL.

EPILOGUE

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

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.

Lords.

Adrian.

Francisco.

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.

Spirits.

Iris.

Ceres.

Juno.

Nymphs.

Reapers.

Other Spirits attending on Prospero.

Scene: A ship at sea; afterwards an uninhabited island.

ACT I

SCENE I. ON A SHIP AT SEA: A TEMPESTUOUS NOISE

of thunder and lightning heard.

Enter a Master and a Boatswain

Master

Boatswain!

Boatswain

Here, master: what cheer?

Master

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

Exit

Enter Mariners

Boatswain

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!

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

Alonso

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

Play the men.

Boatswain

I pray now, keep below.

Antonio

Where is the master, boatswain?

Boatswain

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

Gonzalo

Nay, good, be patient.

Boatswain

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

Gonzalo

Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.

Boatswain

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

Gonzalo

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

Boatswain

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.

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?

Sebastian

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

Boatswain

Work you then.

Antonio

Hang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker!

We are less afraid to be drowned than thou art.

Gonzalo

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

Boatswain

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

Enter Mariners wet

Mariners

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

Boatswain

What, must our mouths be cold?

Gonzalo

The king and prince at prayers! let’s assist them,

For our case is as theirs.

Sebastian

I’m out of patience.

Antonio

We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards:

This wide-chapp’d rascal — would thou mightst lie drowning

The washing of ten tides!

Gonzalo

He’ll be hang’d yet,

Though every drop of water swear against it

And gape at widest 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!’

Antonio

Let’s all sink with the king.

Sebastian

Let’s take leave of him.

Exeunt Antonio and Sebastian

Gonzalo

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.

Exeunt

SCENE II. THE ISLAND. BEFORE PROSPERO’S CELL.

Enter Prospero and Miranda

Miranda

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,

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

Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered

With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,

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

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

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 ere

It should the good ship so have swallow’d and

The fraughting souls within her.

Prospero

Be collected:

No more amazement: tell your piteous heart

There’s no harm done.

Miranda

O, woe the day!

Prospero

No harm.

I have done nothing but in care of thee,

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,

And thy no greater father.

Miranda

More to know

Did never meddle with my thoughts.

Prospero

’Tis time

I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,

And pluck my magic garment from me. So:

Lays down his mantle

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

The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch’d

The very virtue of compassion in thee,

I have with such provision in mine art

So safely ordered 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;

For thou must now know farther.

Miranda

You have often

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

And left me to a bootless inquisition,

Concluding ‘stay: not yet.’

Prospero

The hour’s now come;

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

Out three years old.

Miranda

Certainly, sir, I can.

Prospero

By what? by any other house or person?

Of any thing the image tell me that

Hath kept with thy remembrance.

Miranda

’Tis far off

And rather like a dream than an assurance

That my remembrance warrants. Had I not

Four or five women once that tended me?

Prospero

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

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 camest here,

How thou camest here thou mayst.

Miranda

But that I do not.

Prospero

Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since,

Thy father was the Duke of Milan and

A prince of power.

Miranda

Sir, are not you my father?

Prospero

Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and

She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father

Was Duke of Milan; and thou his only heir

And princess no worse issued.

Miranda

O the heavens!

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

Or blessed was’t we did?

Prospero

Both, both, my girl:

By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heaved thence,

But blessedly holp hither.

Miranda

O, my heart bleeds

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

Which is from my remembrance! Please you, farther.

Prospero

My brother and thy uncle, call’d Antonio —

I pray thee, mark me — that a brother should

Be so perfidious!— he whom next thyself

Of all the world I loved and to him put

The manage of my state; as at that time

Through all the signories it was the first

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

And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle —

Dost thou attend me?

Miranda

Sir, most heedfully.

Prospero

Being once perfected how to grant suits,

How to deny them, who to advance and who

To trash for over-topping, new created

The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed ’em,

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

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

To what tune pleased 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.

Miranda

O, good sir, I do.

Prospero

I pray thee, mark me.

I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated

To closeness and the bettering of my mind

With that which, but by being so retired,

O’er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother

Awaked an evil nature; and my trust,

Like a good parent, did beget of him

A falsehood in its contrary as great

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,

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 the outward face of royalty,

With all prerogative: hence his ambition growing —

Dost thou hear?

Miranda

Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

Prospero

To have no screen between this part he play’d

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

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.

Miranda

O the heavens!

Prospero

Mark his condition and the event; then tell me

If this might be a brother.

Miranda

I should sin

To think but nobly of my grandmother:

Good wombs have borne bad sons.

Prospero

Now the condition.

The 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

Out of the dukedom and confer fair Milan

With all the honours on my brother: whereon,

A treacherous army levied, one midnight

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.

Miranda

Alack, for pity!

I, not remembering how I cried out then,

Will cry it o’er again: it is a hint

That wrings mine eyes to’t.

Prospero

Hear a little further

And then I’ll bring thee to the present business

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

Were most impertinent.

Miranda

Wherefore did they not

That hour destroy us?

Prospero

Well demanded, wench:

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

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,

Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared

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

Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats

Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist us,

To cry to the sea that roar’d to us, to sigh

To the winds whose pity, sighing back again,

Did us but loving wrong.

Miranda

Alack, what trouble

Was I then to you!

Prospero

O, a cherubim

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 burthen groan’d; which raised in me

An undergoing stomach, to bear up

Against what should ensue.

Miranda

How came we ashore?

Prospero

By Providence divine.

Some food we had and some fresh water that

A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,

Out of his charity, being then appointed

Master of this design, did give us, with

Rich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries,

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

Knowing I loved my books, he furnish’d me

From mine own library with volumes that

I prize above my dukedom.

Miranda

Would I might

But ever see that man!

Prospero

Now I arise:

Resumes his mantle

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

Here in this island we arrived; and here

Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit

Than other princesses can that have more time

For vainer hours and tutors not so careful.

Miranda

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

For still ’tis beating in my mind, your reason

For raising this sea-storm?

Prospero

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

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:

Thou art inclined to sleep; ’tis a good dulness,

And give it way: I know thou canst not choose.

Miranda sleeps

Come away, servant, come. I am ready now.

Approach, my Ariel, come.

Enter Ariel

Ariel

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

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

Ariel and all his quality.

Prospero

Hast thou, spirit,

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

Ariel

To every article.

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

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

I flamed amazement: sometime I’ld divide,

And burn in many places; on the topmast,

The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly,

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,

Yea, his dread trident shake.

Prospero

My brave spirit!

Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil

Would not infect his reason?

Ariel

Not a soul

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 afire with me: the king’s son, Ferdinand,

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.’

Prospero

Why that’s my spirit!

But was not this nigh shore?

Ariel

Close by, my master.

Prospero

But are they, Ariel, safe?

Ariel

Not a hair perish’d;

On their sustaining garments not a blemish,

But fresher than before: and, as thou badest me,

In troops I have dispersed them ’bout the isle.

The king’s son have I landed by himself;

Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs

In an odd angle of the isle and sitting,

His arms in this sad knot.

Prospero

Of the king’s ship

The mariners say how thou hast disposed

And all the rest o’ the fleet.

Ariel

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;

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

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

Which I dispersed, they all have met again

And are upon the Mediterranean flote,

Bound sadly home for Naples,

Supposing that they saw the king’s ship wreck’d

And his great person perish.

Prospero

Ariel, thy charge

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

What is the time o’ the day?

Ariel

Past the mid season.

Prospero

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

Must by us both be spent most preciously.

Ariel

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

Let me remember thee what thou hast promised,

Which is not yet perform’d me.

Prospero

How now? moody?

What is’t thou canst demand?

Ariel

My liberty.

Prospero

Before the time be out? no more!

Ariel

I prithee,

Remember I have done thee worthy service;

Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, served

Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise

To bate me a full year.

Prospero

Dost thou forget

From what a torment I did free thee?

Ariel

No.

Prospero

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

Of the salt deep,

To run upon the sharp wind of the north,

To do me business in the veins o’ the earth

When it is baked with frost.

Ariel

I do not, sir.

Prospero

Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot

The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy

Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?

Ariel

No, sir.

Prospero

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

Ariel

Sir, in Argier.

Prospero

O, was she so? I must

Once in a month recount what thou hast been,

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

For mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible

To enter human hearing, from Argier,

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

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

Ariel

Ay, sir.

Prospero

This blue-eyed 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

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,

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

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.

Ariel

Yes, Caliban her son.

Prospero

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

To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax

Could not again undo: it was mine art,

When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape

The pine and let thee out.

Ariel

I thank thee, master.

Prospero

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.

Ariel

Pardon, master;

I will be correspondent to command

And do my spiriting gently.

Prospero

Do so, and after two days

I will discharge thee.

Ariel

That’s my noble master!

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

Prospero

Go make thyself like a nymph o’ the sea: be subject

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!

Miranda

The strangeness of your story put

Heaviness in me.

Prospero

Shake it off. Come on;

We’ll visit Caliban my slave, who never

Yields us kind answer.

Miranda

’Tis a villain, sir,

I do not love to look on.

Prospero

But, as ’tis,

We cannot miss him: he does make our fire,

Fetch in our wood and serves in offices

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

Thou earth, thou! speak.

Caliban

[Within] There’s wood enough within.

Prospero

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

Come, thou tortoise! when?

Re-enter Ariel like a water-nymph

Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel,

Hark in thine ear.

Ariel

My lord it shall be done.

Exit

Prospero

Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself

Upon thy wicked dam, come forth!

Enter Caliban

Caliban

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!

Prospero

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

Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins

Shall, for that vast of night that they may work,

All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch’d

As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging

Than bees that made ’em.

Caliban

I must eat my dinner.

This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother,

Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first,

Thou strokedst me and madest 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 loved thee

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

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

In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me

The rest o’ the island.

Prospero

Thou most lying slave,

Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used thee,

Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodged thee

In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate

The honour of my child.

Caliban

O ho, O ho! would’t had been done!

Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else

This isle with Calibans.

Prospero

Abhorred slave,

Which any print of goodness wilt not take,

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

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 confined into this rock,

Who hadst deserved more than a prison.

Caliban

You taught me language; and my profit on’t

Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you

For learning me your language!

Prospero

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

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.

Caliban

No, pray thee.

Aside

I must obey: his art is of such power,

It would control my dam’s god, Setebos,

And make a vassal of him.

Prospero

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:

Courtsied when you have and kiss’d

The wild waves whist,

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.

Hark, hark!

Burthen (dispersedly, within)

The watch-dogs bark!

Burthen Bow-wow

Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting chanticleer

Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.

Ferdinand

Where should this music be? i’ the air or the earth?

It sounds no more: and sure, it waits upon

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

Weeping again the king my father’s wreck,

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.

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:

Nothing of him that doth fade

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell

Burthen Ding-dong

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

Ferdinand

The ditty does remember my drown’d father.

This is no mortal business, nor no sound

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

Prospero

The fringed curtains of thine eye advance

And say what thou seest yond.

Miranda

What is’t? a spirit?

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

It carries a brave form. But ’tis a spirit.

Prospero

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

As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest

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

With grief that’s beauty’s canker, thou mightst call him

A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows

And strays about to find ’em.

Miranda

I might call him

A thing divine, for nothing natural

I ever saw so noble.

Prospero

[Aside] It goes on, I see,

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

Within two days for this.

Ferdinand

Most sure, the goddess

On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my prayer

May know if you remain upon this island;

And that you will some good instruction give

How I may bear me here: my prime request,

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

If you be maid or no?

Miranda

No wonder, sir;

But certainly a maid.

Ferdinand

My language! heavens!

I am the best of them that speak this speech,

Were I but where ’tis spoken.

Prospero

How? the best?

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

Ferdinand

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, never since at ebb, beheld

The king my father wreck’d.

Miranda

Alack, for mercy!

Ferdinand

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

And his brave son being twain.

Prospero

[Aside] The Duke of Milan

And his more braver daughter could control thee,

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

They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel,

I’ll set thee free for this.

To Ferdinand

A word, good sir;

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

Miranda

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 inclined my way!

Ferdinand

O, if a virgin,

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

The queen of Naples.

Prospero

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

Make the prize light.

To Ferdinand

One word more; I charge thee

That thou attend me: thou dost here usurp

The name thou owest not; and hast put thyself

Upon this island as a spy, to win it

From me, the lord on’t.

Ferdinand

No, as I am a man.

Miranda

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.

Prospero

Follow me.

Speak not you for him; he’s a traitor. 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

Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.

Ferdinand

No;

I will resist such entertainment till

Mine enemy has more power.

Draws, and is charmed from moving

Miranda

O dear father,

Make not too rash a trial of him, for

He’s gentle and not fearful.

Prospero

What? I say,

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

Who makest a show but darest not strike, thy conscience

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

For I can here disarm thee with this stick

And make thy weapon drop.

Miranda

Beseech you, father.

Prospero

Hence! hang not on my garments.

Miranda

Sir, have pity;

I’ll be his surety.

Prospero

Silence! one word more

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

An advocate for an imposter! hush!

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

Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench!

To the most of men this is a Caliban

And they to him are angels.

Miranda

My affections

Are then most humble; I have no ambition

To see a goodlier man.

Prospero

Come on; obey:

Thy nerves are in their infancy again

And have no vigour in them.

Ferdinand

So they are;

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

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

The wreck of all my friends, nor 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’ the earth

Let liberty make use of; space enough

Have I in such a prison.

Prospero

[Aside] It works.

To Ferdinand

Come on.

Thou hast done well, fine Ariel!

To Ferdinand

Follow me.

To Ariel

Hark what thou else shalt do me.

Miranda

Be of comfort;

My father’s of a better nature, sir,

Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted

Which now came from him.

Prospero

Thou shalt be free

As mountain winds: but then exactly do

All points of my command.

Ariel

To the syllable.

Prospero

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

Gonzalo

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,

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.

Alonso

Prithee, peace.

Sebastian

He receives comfort like cold porridge.

Antonio

The visitor will not give him o’er so.

Sebastian

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

Gonzalo

Sir,—

Sebastian

One: tell.

Gonzalo

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

Comes to the entertainer —

Sebastian

A dollar.

Gonzalo

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

Sebastian

You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.

Gonzalo

Therefore, my lord,—

Antonio

Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!

Alonso

I prithee, spare.

Gonzalo

Well, I have done: but yet,—

Sebastian

He will be talking.

Antonio

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

Sebastian

The old cock.

Antonio

The cockerel.

Sebastian

Done. The wager?

Antonio

A laughter.

Sebastian

A match!

Adrian

Though this island seem to be desert,—

Sebastian

Ha, ha, ha! So, you’re paid.

Adrian

Uninhabitable and almost inaccessible,—

Sebastian

Yet,—

Adrian

Yet,—

Antonio

He could not miss’t.

Adrian

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

Antonio

Temperance was a delicate wench.

Sebastian

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

Adrian

The air breathes upon us here most sweetly.

Sebastian

As if it had lungs and rotten ones.

Antonio

Or as ’twere perfumed by a fen.

Gonzalo

Here is everything advantageous to life.

Antonio

True; save means to live.

Sebastian

Of that there’s none, or little.

Gonzalo

How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!

Antonio

The ground indeed is tawny.

Sebastian

With an eye of green in’t.

Antonio

He misses not much.

Sebastian

No; he doth but mistake the truth totally.

Gonzalo

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

Sebastian

As many vouched rarities are.

Gonzalo

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

Antonio

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

Sebastian

Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report

Gonzalo

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

Sebastian

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

Adrian

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

Gonzalo

Not since widow Dido’s time.

Antonio

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

Sebastian

What if he had said ‘widower Aeneas’ too? Good Lord, how you take it!

Adrian

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

Gonzalo

This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.

Adrian

Carthage?

Gonzalo

I assure you, Carthage.

Sebastian

His word is more than the miraculous harp; he hath raised the wall and houses too.

Antonio

What impossible matter will he make easy next?

Sebastian

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

Antonio

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

Gonzalo

Ay.

Antonio

Why, in good time.

Gonzalo

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

Antonio

And the rarest that e’er came there.

Sebastian

Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.

Antonio

O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido.

Gonzalo

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

Antonio

That sort was well fished for.

Gonzalo

When I wore it at your daughter’s marriage?

Alonso

You cram these words into mine ears against

The stomach of my sense. Would I had never

Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,

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

Who is so far from Italy removed

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?

Francisco

Sir, he may live:

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

’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

He came alive to land.

Alonso

No, no, he’s gone.

Sebastian

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;

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

Who hath cause to wet the grief on’t.

Alonso

Prithee, peace.

Sebastian

You were kneel’d to and importuned otherwise

By all of us, and the fair soul herself

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 your own.

Alonso

So is the dear’st o’ the loss.

Gonzalo

My lord Sebastian,

The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness

And time to speak it in: you rub the sore,

When you should bring the plaster.

Sebastian

Very well.

Antonio

And most chirurgeonly.

Gonzalo

It is foul weather in us all, good sir,

When you are cloudy.

Sebastian

Foul weather?

Antonio

Very foul.

Gonzalo

Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,—

Antonio

He’ld sow’t with nettle-seed.

Sebastian

Or docks, or mallows.

Gonzalo

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

Sebastian

’Scape being drunk for want of wine.

Gonzalo

I’ the commonwealth I would by contraries

Execute all things; for no kind of traffic

Would I admit; no name of magistrate;

Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,

And use of service, none; contract, succession,

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

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

No occupation; all men idle, all;

And women too, but innocent and pure;

No sovereignty;—

Sebastian

Yet he would be king on’t.

Antonio

The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning.

Gonzalo

All things in common nature should produce

Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony,

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

Would I not have; but nature should bring forth,

Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance,

To feed my innocent people.

Sebastian

No marrying ’mong his subjects?

Antonio

None, man; all idle: whores and knaves.

Gonzalo

I would with such perfection govern, sir,

To excel the golden age.

Sebastian

God save his majesty!

Antonio

Long live Gonzalo!

Gonzalo

And,— do you mark me, sir?

Alonso

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

Gonzalo

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

Antonio

’Twas you we laughed at.

Gonzalo

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

Antonio

What a blow was there given!

Sebastian

An it had not fallen flat-long.

Gonzalo

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

Enter Ariel, invisible, playing solemn music

Sebastian

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

Antonio

Nay, good my lord, be not angry.

Gonzalo

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

Antonio

Go sleep, and hear us.

All sleep except Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio

Alonso

What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes

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

They are inclined to do so.

Sebastian

Please you, sir,

Do not omit the heavy offer of it:

It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,

It is a comforter.

Antonio

We two, my lord,

Will guard your person while you take your rest,

And watch your safety.

Alonso

Thank you. Wondrous heavy.

Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel

Sebastian

What a strange drowsiness possesses them!

Antonio

It is the quality o’ the climate.

Sebastian

Why

Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not

Myself disposed to sleep.

Antonio

Nor I; my spirits are nimble.

They fell together all, as by consent;

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

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

And yet me thinks I see it in thy face,

What thou shouldst be: the occasion speaks thee, and

My strong imagination sees a crown

Dropping upon thy head.

Sebastian

What, art thou waking?

Antonio

Do you not hear me speak?

Sebastian

I do; and surely

It is a sleepy language and thou speak’st

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

This is a strange repose, to be asleep

With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,

And yet so fast asleep.

Antonio

Noble Sebastian,

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

Whiles thou art waking.

Sebastian

Thou dost snore distinctly;

There’s meaning in thy snores.

Antonio

I am more serious than my custom: you

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

Trebles thee o’er.

Sebastian

Well, I am standing water.

Antonio

I’ll teach you how to flow.

Sebastian

Do so: to ebb

Hereditary sloth instructs me.

Antonio

O,

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.

Sebastian

Prithee, say on:

The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim

A matter from thee, and a birth indeed

Which throes thee much to yield.

Antonio

Thus, sir:

Although this lord of weak remembrance, this,

Who shall be of as little memory

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

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

And he that sleeps here swims.

Sebastian

I have no hope

That he’s undrown’d.

Antonio

O, out of that ‘no hope’

What great hope have you! no hope that way is

Another way so high a hope that even

Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,

But doubt discovery there. Will you grant with me

That Ferdinand is drown’d?

Sebastian

He’s gone.

Antonio

Then, tell me,

Who’s the next heir of Naples?

Sebastian

Claribel.

Antonio

She that is queen of Tunis; she that dwells

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

Can have no note, unless the sun were post —

The man i’ the 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

Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come

In yours and my discharge.

Sebastian

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.

Antonio

A space whose every cubit

Seems to cry out, ‘How shall that Claribel

Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis,

And let Sebastian wake.’ Say, this were death

That now hath seized 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

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?

Sebastian

Methinks I do.

Antonio

And how does your content

Tender your own good fortune?

Sebastian

I remember

You did supplant your brother Prospero.

Antonio

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.

Sebastian

But, for your conscience?

Antonio

Ay, sir; where lies that? if ’twere 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,

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

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;

They’ll tell the clock to any business that

We say befits the hour.

Sebastian

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 payest;

And I the king shall love thee.

Antonio

Draw together;

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

To fall it on Gonzalo.

Sebastian

O, but one word.

They talk apart

Re-enter Ariel, invisible

Ariel

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 them living.

Sings in Gonzalo’s ear

While you here do snoring lie,

Open-eyed conspiracy

His time doth take.

If of life you keep a care,

Shake off slumber, and beware:

Awake, awake!

Antonio

Then let us both be sudden.

Gonzalo

Now, good angels

Preserve the king.

They wake

Alonso

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

Wherefore this ghastly looking?

Gonzalo

What’s the matter?

Sebastian

Whiles we stood here securing your repose,

Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing

Like bulls, or rather lions: did’t not wake you?

It struck mine ear most terribly.

Alonso

I heard nothing.

Antonio

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.

Alonso

Heard you this, Gonzalo?

Gonzalo

Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming,

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

I shaked you, sir, and cried: 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.

Alonso

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

For my poor son.

Gonzalo

Heavens keep him from these beasts!

For he is, sure, i’ the island.

Alonso

Lead away.

Ariel

Prospero my lord shall know what I have done:

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

Exeunt

SCENE II. ANOTHER PART OF THE ISLAND.

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

Caliban

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,

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;

Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me

And after bite me, then like hedgehogs which

Lie tumbling in my barefoot way and mount

Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I

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;

Perchance he will not mind me.

Trinculo

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 lazy out ten to see a dead Indian. Legged 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 hereabouts: misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.

Enter Stephano, singing: a bottle in his hand

Stephano

I shall no more to sea, to sea,

Here shall I die ashore —

This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s funeral: well, here’s my comfort.

Drinks

Sings

The master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,

The gunner and his mate

Loved Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery,

But none of us cared for Kate;

For she had a tongue with a tang,

Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!

She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch,

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

Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!

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

Drinks

Caliban

Do not torment me: Oh!

Stephano

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

Caliban

The spirit torments me; Oh!

Stephano

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

Caliban

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

Stephano

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

Caliban

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

Stephano

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

Trinculo

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

Stephano

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

Trinculo

Stephano!

Stephano

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

Trinculo

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

Stephano

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

Trinculo

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

Stephano

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

Caliban

[Aside] These be fine things, an if they be not sprites. That’s a brave god and bears celestial liquor. I will kneel to him.

Stephano

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

Caliban

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

Stephano

Here; swear then how thou escapedst.

Trinculo

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

Stephano

Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose.

Trinculo

O Stephano. hast any more of this?

Stephano

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

Caliban

Hast thou not dropp’d from heaven?

Stephano

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

Caliban

I have seen thee in her and I do adore thee:

My mistress show’d me thee and thy dog and thy bush.

Stephano

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

Trinculo

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

Caliban

I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ th’ island;

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

Trinculo

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

Caliban

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

Stephano

Come on then; down, and swear.

Trinculo

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

Stephano

Come, kiss.

Trinculo

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

Caliban

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

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

A plague upon the tyrant that I serve!

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

Thou wondrous man.

Trinculo

A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a

Poor drunkard!

Caliban

I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow;

And I with my long nails will dig thee pignuts;

Show thee a jay’s nest and instruct thee how

To snare the nimble marmoset; I’ll bring thee

To clustering filberts and sometimes I’ll get thee

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

Stephano

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.

Caliban

[Sings drunkenly]

Farewell master; farewell, farewell!

Trinculo

A howling monster: a drunken monster!

Caliban

No more dams I’ll make for fish

Nor fetch in firing

At requiring;

Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish

’Ban, ’Ban, Cacaliban

Has a new master: get a new man.

Freedom, hey-day! hey-day, freedom! freedom, hey-day, freedom!

Stephano

O brave monster! Lead the way.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. BEFORE PROSPERO’S CELL.

Enter Ferdinand, bearing a log

Ferdinand

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

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

Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed,

And he’s composed 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

Had never like executor. I forget:

But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,

Most busy lest, when I do it.

Enter Miranda; and Prospero at a distance, unseen

Miranda

Alas, now, pray you,

Work not so hard: I would the lightning had

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;

He’s safe for these three hours.

Ferdinand

O most dear mistress,

The sun will set before I shall discharge

What I must strive to do.

Miranda

If you’ll sit down,

I’ll bear your logs the while: pray, give me that;

I’ll carry it to the pile.

Ferdinand

No, precious creature;

I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,

Than you should such dishonour undergo,

While I sit lazy by.

Miranda

It would become me

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.

Prospero

Poor worm, thou art infected!

This visitation shows it.

Miranda

You look wearily.

Ferdinand

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?

Miranda

Miranda.— O my father,

I have broke your hest to say so!

Ferdinand

Admired Miranda!

Indeed the top of admiration! worth

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

I have eyed with best regard and many a time

The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage

Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues

Have I liked several women; never any

With so fun soul, but some defect in her

Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed

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

So perfect and so peerless, are created

Of every creature’s best!

Miranda

I do not know

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,

I am skilless 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,

Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle

Something too wildly and my father’s precepts

I therein do forget.

Ferdinand

I am in my condition

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

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

My heart fly to your service; there resides,

To make me slave to it; and for your sake

Am I this patient log — man.

Miranda

Do you love me?

Ferdinand

O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound

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

Do love, prize, honour you.

Miranda

I am a fool

To weep at what I am glad of.

Prospero

Fair encounter

Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace

On that which breeds between ’em!

Ferdinand

Wherefore weep you?

Miranda

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,

The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!

And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!

I am your wife, it you will marry me;

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

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

Whether you will or no.

Ferdinand

My mistress, dearest;

And I thus humble ever.

Miranda

My husband, then?

Ferdinand

Ay, with a heart as willing

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

Miranda

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

Till half an hour hence.

Ferdinand

A thousand thousand!

Exeunt Ferdinand and Miranda severally

Prospero

So glad of this as they I cannot be,

Who are surprised withal; but my rejoicing

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

For yet ere supper-time must I perform

Much business appertaining.

Exit

SCENE II. ANOTHER PART OF THE ISLAND.

Enter Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo

Stephano

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

Trinculo

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

Stephano

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

Trinculo

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

Stephano

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

Trinculo

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

Stephano

We’ll not run, Monsieur Monster.

Trinculo

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

Stephano

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

Caliban

How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe.

I’ll not serve him; he’s not valiant.

Trinculo

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

Caliban

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

Trinculo

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

Caliban

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

Stephano

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

Caliban

I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleased to hearken once again to the suit I made to thee?

Stephano

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

Enter Ariel, invisible

Caliban

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

Ariel

Thou liest.

Caliban

Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou: I would my valiant master would destroy thee! I do not lie.

Stephano

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

Trinculo

Why, I said nothing.

Stephano

Mum, then, and no more. Proceed.

Caliban

I say, by sorcery he got this isle;

From me he got it. if thy greatness will

Revenge it on him,— for I know thou darest,

But this thing dare not,—

Stephano

That’s most certain.

Caliban

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

Stephano

How now shall this be compassed?

Canst thou bring me to the party?

Caliban

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

Where thou mayst knock a nail into his bead.

Ariel

Thou liest; thou canst not.

Caliban

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

Where the quick freshes are.

Stephano

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

Trinculo

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

Stephano

Didst thou not say he lied?

Ariel

Thou liest.

Stephano

Do I so? take thou that.

Beats Trinculo

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

Trinculo

I did not give the lie. Out o’ your wits and bearing too? A pox o’ your bottle! this can sack and drinking do. A murrain on your monster, and the devil take your fingers!

Caliban

Ha, ha, ha!

Stephano

Now, forward with your tale. Prithee, stand farther off.

Caliban

Beat him enough: after a little time

I’ll beat him too.

Stephano

Stand farther. Come, proceed.

Caliban

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

I’ th’ afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain him,

Having first seized his books, or with a log

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

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

The beauty of his daughter; he himself

Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman,

But only Sycorax my dam and she;

But she as far surpasseth Sycorax

As great’st does least.

Stephano

Is it so brave a lass?

Caliban

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

And bring thee forth brave brood.

Stephano

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

Trinculo

Excellent.

Stephano

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

Caliban

Within this half hour will he be asleep:

Wilt thou destroy him then?

Stephano

Ay, on mine honour.

Ariel

This will I tell my master.

Caliban

Thou makest me merry; I am full of pleasure:

Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch

You taught me but while-ere?

Stephano

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

Sings

Flout ’em and scout ’em

And scout ’em and flout ’em

Thought is free.

Caliban

That’s not the tune.

Ariel plays the tune on a tabour and pipe

Stephano

What is this same?

Trinculo

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

Stephano

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

Trinculo

O, forgive me my sins!

Stephano

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

Caliban

Art thou afeard?

Stephano

No, monster, not I.

Caliban

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,

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

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices

That, if I then had waked after long sleep,

Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,

The clouds methought would open and show riches

Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,

I cried to dream again.

Stephano

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

Caliban

When Prospero is destroyed.

Stephano

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

Trinculo

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

Stephano

Lead, monster; we’ll follow. I would I could see this tabourer; he lays it on.

Trinculo

Wilt come? I’ll follow, Stephano.

Exeunt

SCENE III. ANOTHER PART OF THE ISLAND.

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

Gonzalo

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.

Alonso

Old lord, I cannot blame thee,

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

Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks

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

Antonio

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

Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose

That you resolved to effect.

Sebastian

[Aside to Antonio] The next advantage

Will we take throughly.

Antonio

[Aside to Sebastian] Let it be to-night;

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

Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance

As when they are fresh.

Sebastian

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

Solemn and strange music

Alonso

What harmony is this? My good friends, hark!

Gonzalo

Marvellous sweet music!

Enter Prospero above, invisible. Enter 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

Alonso

Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were these?

Sebastian

A living drollery. Now I will believe

That there are unicorns, that in Arabia

There is one tree, the phoenix’ throne, one phoenix

At this hour reigning there.

Antonio

I’ll believe both;

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 ’em.

Gonzalo

If in Naples

I should report this now, would they believe me?

If I should say, I saw such islanders —

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

Our human generation you shall find

Many, nay, almost any.

Prospero

[Aside] Honest lord,

Thou hast said well; for some of you there present

Are worse than devils.

Alonso

I cannot too much muse

Such shapes, such gesture and such sound, expressing,

Although they want the use of tongue, a kind

Of excellent dumb discourse.

Prospero

[Aside] Praise in departing.

Francisco

They vanish’d strangely.

Sebastian

No matter, since

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

Will’t please you taste of what is here?

Alonso

Not I.

Gonzalo

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

Who would believe that there were mountaineers

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

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

Good warrant of.

Alonso

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.

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

Ariel

You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,

That hath to instrument this lower world

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

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;

And even with such-like valour men hang and drown

Their proper selves.

Alonso, Sebastian & c. draw their swords

You fools! I and my fellows

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

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 —

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

From Milan did supplant good Prospero;

Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it,

Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed

The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have

Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,

Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,

They have bereft; and do pronounce by me:

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 —

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 carrying out the table

Prospero

Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou

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

Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated

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

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,

And his and mine loved darling.

Exit above

Gonzalo

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

In this strange stare?

Alonso

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, pronounced

The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.

Therefore my son i’ the ooze is bedded, and

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

And with him there lie mudded.

Exit

Sebastian

But one fiend at a time,

I’ll fight their legions o’er.

Antonio

I’ll be thy second.

Exeunt Sebastian, and Antonio

Gonzalo

All three of them are desperate: their great guilt,

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

May now provoke them to.

Adrian

Follow, I pray you.

Exeunt

ACT IV

SCENE I. BEFORE PROSPERO’S CELL.

Enter Prospero, Ferdinand, and Miranda

Prospero

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; who once again

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,

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.

Ferdinand

I do believe it

Against an oracle.

Prospero

Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition

Worthily purchased take my daughter: but

If thou dost break her virgin-knot before

All sanctimonious ceremonies may

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-eyed disdain and discord shall bestrew

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.

Ferdinand

As I hope

For quiet days, fair issue and long life,

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

The most opportune place, the strong’st suggestion.

Our worser genius can, shall never melt

Mine honour into lust, to take away

The edge of that day’s celebration

When I shall think: or Phoebus’ steeds are founder’d,

Or Night kept chain’d below.

Prospero

Fairly spoke.

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

What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel!

Enter Ariel

Ariel

What would my potent master? here I am.

Prospero

Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service

Did worthily perform; and I must use you

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

Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise,

And they expect it from me.

Ariel

Presently?

Prospero

Ay, with a twink.

Ariel

Before you can say ‘come’ and ‘go,’

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?

Prospero

Dearly my delicate Ariel. Do not approach

Till thou dost hear me call.

Ariel

Well, I conceive.

Exit

Prospero

Look thou be true; do not give dalliance

Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw

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

Or else, good night your vow!

Ferdinand

I warrant you sir;

The white cold virgin snow upon my heart

Abates the ardour of my liver.

Prospero

Well.

Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary,

Rather than want a spirit: appear and pertly!

No tongue! all eyes! be silent.

Soft music

Enter Iris

Iris

Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas

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

Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,

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

Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,

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;

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,

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

Ceres

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

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,

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;

And some donation freely to estate

On the blest lovers.

Ceres

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,

Her and her blind boy’s scandal’d company

I have forsworn.

Iris

Of her society

Be not afraid: I met her deity

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-right shall be paid

Till Hymen’s torch be lighted: but vain;

Mars’s hot minion is returned again;

Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows,

Swears he will shoot no more but play with sparrows

And be a boy right out.

Ceres

High’st queen of state,

Great Juno, comes; I know her by her gait.

Enter Juno

Juno

How does my bounteous sister? Go with me

To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be

And honour’d in their issue.

They sing:

Juno

Honour, riches, marriage-blessing,

Long continuance, and increasing,

Hourly joys be still upon you!

Juno sings her blessings upon you.

Ceres

Earth’s increase, foison plenty,

Barns and garners never empty,

Vines and clustering bunches growing,

Plants with goodly burthen bowing;

Spring come to you at the farthest

In the very end of harvest!

Scarcity and want shall shun you;

Ceres’ blessing so is on you.

Ferdinand

This is a most majestic vision, and

Harmoniously charmingly. May I be bold

To think these spirits?

Prospero

Spirits, which by mine art

I have from their confines call’d to enact

My present fancies.

Ferdinand

Let me live here ever;

So rare a wonder’d father and a wife

Makes this place Paradise.

Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on employment

Prospero

Sweet, now, silence!

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 Naiads, of the windring brooks,

With your sedged 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.

Enter certain Nymphs

You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary,

Come hither from the furrow and be merry:

Make holiday; your rye-straw hats put on

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

Prospero

[Aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy

Of the beast Caliban and his confederates

Against my life: the minute of their plot

Is almost come.

To the Spirits

Well done! avoid; no more!

Ferdinand

This is strange: your father’s in some passion

That works him strongly.

Miranda

Never till this day

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

Prospero

You do look, my son, in a moved sort,

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

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

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,

Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

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

Bear with my weakness; my, brain is troubled:

Be not disturb’d with my infirmity:

If you be pleased, retire into my cell

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

To still my beating mind.

Ferdinand

Miranda

We wish your peace.

Exeunt

Prospero

Come with a thought I thank thee, Ariel: come.

Enter Ariel

Ariel

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

Prospero

Spirit,

We must prepare to meet with Caliban.

Ariel

Ay, my commander: when I presented Ceres,

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

Lest I might anger thee.

Prospero

Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets?

Ariel

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

So fun of valour that they smote the air

For breathing in their faces; beat the ground

For kissing of their feet; yet always bending

Towards their project. Then I beat my tabour;

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

Advanced 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,

Which entered 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.

Prospero

This was well done, my bird.

Thy shape invisible retain thou still:

The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither,

For stale to catch these thieves.

Ariel

I go, I go.

Exit

Prospero

A devil, a born devil, on whose nature

Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains,

Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost;

And as with age his body uglier grows,

So his mind cankers. I will plague them all,

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

Caliban

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

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

Stephano

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

Trinculo

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

Stephano

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

Trinculo

Thou wert but a lost monster.

Caliban

Good my lord, give me thy favour still.

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

Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly.

All’s hush’d as midnight yet.

Trinculo

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

Stephano

There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that, monster, but an infinite loss.

Trinculo

That’s more to me than my wetting: yet this is your harmless fairy, monster.

Stephano

I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o’er ears for my labour.

Caliban

Prithee, my king, be quiet. Seest thou here,

This is the mouth o’ the cell: no noise, and enter.

Do that good mischief which may make this island

Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,

For aye thy foot-licker.

Stephano

Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody thoughts.

Trinculo

O king Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! look what a wardrobe here is for thee!

Caliban

Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.

Trinculo

O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery.

O king Stephano!

Stephano

Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I’ll have that gown.

Trinculo

Thy grace shall have it.

Caliban

The dropsy drown this fool I what do you mean

To dote thus on such luggage? Let’s alone

And do the murder first: if he awake,

From toe to crown he’ll fill our skins with pinches,

Make us strange stuff.

Stephano

Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line, is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair and prove a bald jerkin.

Trinculo

Do, do: we steal by line and level, an’t like your grace.

Stephano

I thank thee for that jest; here’s a garment for’t: wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this country. ‘Steal by line and level’ is an excellent pass of pate; there’s another garment for’t.

Trinculo

Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and away with the rest.

Caliban

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.

Stephano

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.

Trinculo

And this.

Stephano

Ay, and this.

A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of dogs and hounds, and hunt them about, Prospero and Ariel setting them on

Prospero

Hey, Mountain, hey!

Ariel

Silver I there it goes, Silver!

Prospero

Fury, Fury! there, Tyrant, there! hark! hark!

Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo, 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.

Ariel

Hark, they roar!

Prospero

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

Follow, and do me service.

Exeunt

ACT V

SCENE I. BEFORE PROSPERO’S CELL.

Enter Prospero in his magic robes, and Ariel

Prospero

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?

Ariel

On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord,

You said our work should cease.

Prospero

I did say so,

When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit,

How fares the king and’s followers?

Ariel

Confined together

In the same fashion as you gave in charge,

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

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 ’em

That if you now beheld them, your affections

Would become tender.

Prospero

Dost thou think so, spirit?

Ariel

Mine would, sir, were I human.

Prospero

And mine shall.

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 moved than thou art?

Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,

Yet with my nobler reason ’gaitist my fury

Do I take part: the rarer action is

In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent,

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.

Ariel

I’ll fetch them, sir.

Exit

Prospero

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,

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

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,

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 azured vault

Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder

Have I given fire and rifted Jove’s stout oak

With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory

Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck’d up

The pine and cedar: graves at my command

Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let ’em forth

By my so potent art. But this rough magic

I here abjure, and, when I have required

Some heavenly music, which even now I do,

To work mine end upon their senses that

This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff,

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,

And deeper than did ever plummet sound

I’ll drown my book.

Solemn music

Re-enter Ariel before: then 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,

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,

Melting the darkness, so their rising senses

Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle

Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo,

My true preserver, and a loyal sir

To him you follow’st! I will pay thy graces

Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly

Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter:

Thy brother was a furtherer in the act.

Thou art pinch’d fort now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood,

You, brother mine, that entertain’d ambition,

Expell’d remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian,

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

Will shortly fill the reasonable shore

That now lies 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:

I will discase me, and myself present

As I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit;

Thou shalt ere long be free.

Ariel sings and helps to attire him

Where the bee sucks. there suck I:

In a cowslip’s bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat’s back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily shall I live now

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Prospero

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:

There shalt thou find the mariners asleep

Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain

Being awake, enforce them to this place,

And presently, I prithee.

Ariel

I drink the air before me, and return

Or ere your pulse twice beat.

Exit

Gonzalo

All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement

Inhabits here: some heavenly power guide us

Out of this fearful country!

Prospero

Behold, sir king,

The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero:

For more assurance that a living prince

Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body;

And to thee and thy company I bid

A hearty welcome.

Alonso

Whether thou best he or no,

Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me,

As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse

Beats as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee,

The affliction of my mind amends, with which,

I fear, a madness held me: this must crave,

An if this be at all, a most strange story.

Thy dukedom I resign and do entreat

Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should Prospero

Be living and be here?

Prospero

First, noble friend,

Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot

Be measured or confined.

Gonzalo

Whether this be

Or be not, I’ll not swear.

Prospero

You do yet taste

Some subtilties o’ the isle, that will not let you

Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all!

Aside to Sebastian and Antonio

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

I will tell no tales.

Sebastian

[Aside] The devil speaks in him.

Prospero

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

My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know,

Thou must restore.

Alonso

If thou be’st Prospero,

Give us particulars of thy preservation;

How thou hast met us here, who three hours since

Were wreck’d upon this shore; where I have lost —

How sharp the point of this remembrance is!—

My dear son Ferdinand.

Prospero

I am woe for’t, sir.

Alonso

Irreparable is the loss, and patience

Says it is past her cure.

Prospero

I rather think

You have not sought her help, of whose soft grace

For the like loss I have her sovereign aid

And rest myself content.

Alonso

You the like loss!

Prospero

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.

Alonso

A daughter?

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?

Prospero

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

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

Upon this shore, where you were wreck’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

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,

I will requite you with as good a thing;

At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye

As much as me my dukedom.

Here Prospero discovers Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess

Miranda

Sweet lord, you play me false.

Ferdinand

No, my dear’st love,

I would not for the world.

Miranda

Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,

And I would call it, fair play.

Alonso

If this prove

A vision of the Island, one dear son

Shall I twice lose.

Sebastian

A most high miracle!

Ferdinand

Though the seas threaten, they are merciful;

I have cursed them without cause.

Kneels

Alonso

Now all the blessings

Of a glad father compass thee about!

Arise, and say how thou camest here.

Miranda

O, wonder!

How many goodly creatures are there here!

How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,

That has such people in’t!

Prospero

’Tis new to thee.

Alonso

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?

Ferdinand

Sir, she is mortal;

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,

Of whom so often I have heard renown,

But never saw before; of whom I have

Received a second life; and second father

This lady makes him to me.

Alonso

I am hers:

But, O, how oddly will it sound that I

Must ask my child forgiveness!

Prospero

There, sir, stop:

Let us not burthen our remembrance with

A heaviness that’s gone.

Gonzalo

I have inly wept,

Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you god,

And on this couple drop a blessed crown!

For it is you that have chalk’d forth the way

Which brought us hither.

Alonso

I say, Amen, Gonzalo!

Gonzalo

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

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

When no man was his own.

Alonso

[To Ferdinand and Miranda] Give me your hands:

Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart

That doth not wish you joy!

Gonzalo

Be it so! Amen!

Re-enter Ariel, with the Master and Boatswain amazedly following

O, look, sir, look, sir! here is more of us:

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?

Boatswain

The best news is, that we have safely found

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.

Ariel

[Aside to Prospero] Sir, all this service

Have I done since I went.

Prospero

[Aside to Ariel] My tricksy spirit!

Alonso

These are not natural events; they strengthen

From strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither?

Boatswain

If I did think, sir, I were well awake,

I’ld 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

Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,

And more diversity of sounds, all horrible,

We were awaked; straightway, at liberty;

Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld

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.

Ariel

[Aside to Prospero] Was’t well done?

Prospero

[Aside to Ariel] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free.

Alonso

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

Must rectify our knowledge.

Prospero

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 Ariel

Come hither, spirit:

Set Caliban and his companions free;

Untie the spell.

Exit Ariel

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

Stephano

Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man take care for himself; for all is but fortune. Coragio, bully-monster, coragio!

Trinculo

If these be true spies which I wear in my head, here’s a goodly sight.

Caliban

O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed!

How fine my master is! I am afraid

He will chastise me.

Sebastian

Ha, ha!

What things are these, my lord Antonio?

Will money buy ’em?

Antonio

Very like; one of them

Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable.

Prospero

Mark but the badges of these men, my lords,

Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave,

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 demi-devil —

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!

Acknowledge mine.

Caliban

I shall be pinch’d to death.

Alonso

Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?

Sebastian

He is drunk now: where had he wine?

Alonso

And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should they

Find this grand liquor that hath gilded ’em?

How camest thou in this pickle?

Trinculo

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.

Sebastian

Why, how now, Stephano!

Stephano

O, touch me not; I am not Stephano, but a cramp.

Prospero

You’ld be king o’ the isle, sirrah?

Stephano

I should have been a sore one then.

Alonso

This is a strange thing as e’er I look’d on.

Pointing to Caliban

Prospero

He is as disproportion’d in his manners

As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell;

Take with you your companions; as you look

To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.

Caliban

Ay, that I will; and I’ll be wise hereafter

And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass

Was I, to take this drunkard for a god

And worship this dull fool!

Prospero

Go to; away!

Alonso

Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it.

Sebastian

Or stole it, rather.

Exeunt Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo

Prospero

Sir, I invite your highness and your train

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

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

Of these our dear-beloved solemnized;

And thence retire me to my Milan, where

Every third thought shall be my grave.

Alonso

I long

To hear the story of your life, which must

Take the ear strangely.

Prospero

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 Ariel

My Ariel, chick,

That is thy charge: then to the elements

Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near.

Exeunt

EPILOGUE

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 confined by you,

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;

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,

Which was to please. Now I want

Spirits to enforce, art to enchant,

And my ending is despair,

Unless I be relieved by prayer,

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.

TITLE-PAGE OF THE FIRST FOLIO, 1628

The first collected edition of Shakespeare's Plays

(From the copy in the New York Public Library)

A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO SHAKESPEARE

BY

H. N. MacCRACKEN, F. E. PIERCE, AND

W. H. DURHAM

DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

YALE UNIVERSITY

AN INTRODUCTION TO SHAKESPEARE: TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I: AN OUTLINE OF SHAKESPEARE'S LIFE

CHAPTER II: ENGLISH DRAMA BEFORE SHAKESPEARE

CHAPTER III: THE ELIZABETHAN THEATER

CHAPTER IV: ELIZABETHAN LONDON

CHAPTER V: SHAKESPEARE'S NONDRAMATIC WORKS

CHAPTER VI: THE SEQUENCE OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS

CHAPTER VII: SHAKESPEARE'S DEVELOPMENT AS A DRAMATIST

CHAPTER VIII: THE CHIEF SOURCES OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS

CHAPTER IX: HOW SHAKESPEARE GOT INTO PRINT

CHAPTER X: THE PLAYS OF THE FIRST PERIOD—IMITATION AND EXPERIMENT

1587 (?)-1594

CHAPTER XI: THE PLAYS OF THE SECOND PERIOD—COMEDY AND HISTORY

CHAPTER XII: THE PLAYS OF THE THIRD PERIOD—TRAGEDY

CHAPTER XIII: THE PLAYS OF THE FOURTH PERIOD—ROMANTIC TRAGI-COMEDY

CHAPTER XIV: FAMOUS MISTAKES AND DELUSIONS ABOUT SHAKESPEARE

CHAPTER I

AN OUTLINE OF SHAKESPEARE'S LIFE

Our Knowledge of Shakespeare.—No one in Shakespeare's day seems to have been interested in learning about the private lives of the dramatists. The profession of play writing had scarcely begun to be distinguished from that of play acting, and the times were not wholly gone by when all actors had been classed in public estimation as vagabonds. While the London citizens were constant theatergoers, and immensely proud of their fine plays, they were content to learn of the writers of plays merely from town gossip, which passed from lip to lip and found no resting place in memoirs. There were other lives which made far more exciting reading. English sea-men were penetrating every ocean, and bringing back wonderful tales. English soldiers were aiding the Dutch nation towards freedom, and coming back full of stories of heroic deeds. At home great political, religious, and scientific movements engaged the attention of the more serious readers and thinkers. It is not strange, therefore, that the writers of plays, whose  most exciting incidents were tavern brawls or imprisonment for rash satire of the government, found no biographer. After Shakespeare's death, moreover, the theater rapidly fell into disrepute, and many a good story of the playhouse fell under the ban of polite conversation, and was lost.

Under such conditions we cannot wonder that we know so little of Shakespeare, and that we must go to town records, cases at law, and book registers for our knowledge. Thanks to the diligence of modern scholars, however, we know much more of Shakespeare than of most of his fellow-actors and playwrights. The life of Christopher Marlowe, Shakespeare's great predecessor, is almost unknown; and of John Fletcher, Shakespeare's great contemporary and successor, it is not even known whether he was married, or when he began to write plays. Yet his father was Bishop of London, and in high favor with Queen Elizabeth. We ought rather to wonder at the good fortune which has preserved for us, however scanty in details or lacking in the authority of its traditions, a continuous record of the life of William Shakespeare from birth to death.

Stratford.—The notice of baptism on April 26, 1564, of William, son of John Shakespeare, appears in the church records of Stratford-on-Avon in Warwickshire. Stratford was then a market town of about fifteen hundred souls. Under Stratford Market Cross the farmers of northern Warwickshire and of the near-lying portions of Worcestershire, Gloucestershire, and Oxfordshire carried on a brisk trade with the thrifty townspeople. The citizens were accustomed to boast  of their beautiful church by the river, and of the fine Guildhall, where sometimes plays were given by traveling companies. Many of their gable-roofed houses of timber, or timber and plaster, are still to be found on the pleasant old streets. The river Avon winds round the town in a broad reach under the many-arched bridge to the ancient church. Beyond it the rich pasture land rises up to green wooded hills. Not far away is the famous Warwick Castle, and a little beyond it Kenilworth, where Queen Elizabeth was entertained by the Earl of Leicester with great festivities in 1575. Coventry and Rugby are the nearest towns.

Birth and Parentage.—The record of baptism of April 26, 1564, is the only evidence we possess of the date of Shakespeare's birth. It is probable that the child was baptized when only two or three days old. The poet's tomb states that Shakespeare was in his fifty-second year when he died, April 23, 1616. Accepting this as strictly true, we cannot place the poet's birthday earlier than April 23, 1564. There is a tradition, with no authority, that the poet died upon his birthday.

John Shakespeare, the poet's father, sold the products of near-by farms to his fellow-townsmen. He is sometimes described as a glover, sometimes as a butcher; very likely he was both. A single reference, half a century later than his day, preserves for us a picture of John Shakespeare. The note reads: "He [William Shakespeare] was a glover's son. Sir John Mennes saw once his old father in his shop, a merry-cheekt old man, that said, 'Will was a good honest  fellow, but he durst have crackt a jesst with him att any time.'"[1]

John Shakespeare's father, Richard Shakespeare, was a tenant farmer, who was in 1550 renting his little farm at Snitterfield, four miles north of Stratford, from another farmer, Robert Arden of Wilmcote. John Shakespeare married Mary Arden, the daughter of his father's rich landlord, probably in 1557. He had for over five years been a middleman at Stratford, dealing in the produce of his father's farm and other farms in the neighborhood. In April, 1552, we first hear of him in Stratford records, though only as being fined a shilling for not keeping his yard clean. Between 1557 and 1561 he rose to be ale tester (inspector of bread and malt), burgess (petty constable), affeeror (adjuster of fines), and finally city chamberlain (treasurer).

Eight children were born to him, the two eldest, both daughters, dying in infancy. William Shakespeare was the third child, and eldest of those who reached maturity. During his childhood his father was probably in comfortable circumstances, but not long before the son left Stratford for London, John Shakespeare was practically a bankrupt, and had lost by mortgage farms in Snitterfield and Ashbies, near by, inherited in 1556 by his wife.

Education.—William Shakespeare probably went to the Stratford Grammar School, where he and his  brothers as the sons of a town councilor were entitled to free tuition. His masters, no doubt, taught him Lilly's Latin Grammar and the Latin classics,—Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Cicero, Seneca, and the rest,—and very little else. If Shakespeare ever knew French or Italian, he picked it up in London life, where he picked up most of his amazing stock of information on all subjects. Besides Latin, he must have read and memorized a good deal of the English Bible.

Marriage.—In the autumn of 1582 the eighteen-year-old Shakespeare married a young woman of twenty-six. On November 28, of that year two farmers of Shottery, near Stratford, signed what we should call a guarantee bond, agreeing to pay to the Bishop's Court £40, in case the marriage proposed between William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway should turn out to be contrary to the canon—or Church—law, and so invalid. This guarantee bond, no doubt, was issued to facilitate and hasten the wedding. On May 26, 1583, Shakespeare's first child, Susanna, was baptized. His only other children, his son Hamnet and a twin daughter Judith, were baptized February 2, 1584-5[2]. It is probable that soon after this date Shakespeare went to London and began his career as actor, and afterwards as writer of plays and owner of theaters.

Anne Hathaway, as we have said, was eight years older than her husband. She was the daughter of a small farmer at Shottery, a little out of Stratford, whose house is still an object of pilgrimage for Shakespeare lovers. We have really no just ground for inferring, from the poet's early departure for London, that his married life was unhappy. The Duke in Twelfth Night (IV, iii) advises Viola against women's marrying men younger than themselves, it is true; but such advice is conventional. No one can tell how much the dramatist really felt of the thoughts which his characters utter. Who would guess from any words in I Henry IV, for instance, a play containing some of his richest humor and freest joy in life, that, in the very year of its composition, Shakespeare was mourning the death of his little son Hamnet, and that his hopes of founding a family were at an end? Another piece of evidence, far more important, is the fact that Shakespeare does not mention his wife at all in his will, except by an interlined bequest of his "second-best bedroom set." But here, again, it is easy to misread the motives of the man who makes a will. Such omissions have been made when no slight was intended, sometimes because of previous private settlements, sometimes because a wife is always entitled to her dower rights. The evidence is thus too slight to be of value.

Some other motive, then, than unhappiness in married life ought to be assigned for Shakespeare's departure to London. No doubt, the fact that his father was now a discredited bankrupt, against whom suits were pending, had something to do with his  decision to better his family fortunes in another town. Traveling companies of players may have told him of London life. Possibly some scrape, like that preserved in the deer-stealing tradition and the resultant persecution, made the young man, now only twenty-one, restive and eager to be gone.

The Tradition concerning Deer Stealing.—Nicholas Howe, in 1709, in his edition of Shakespeare says: "He had by a misfortune common enough to young fellows fallen into bad company, and among them, some that made a frequent practice of deer stealing, engaged him with them more than once in robbing a park that belonged to Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlecote near Stratford. For this he was persecuted by that gentleman, as he thought, somewhat too severely; and, in order to revenge that ill-usage, he made a parody upon him; and though this, probably the first essay of his poetry, be lost, yet it is said to have been so very bitter that he was obliged to leave his business and family in Warwickshire and shelter himself in London." Archdeacon Davies of Saperton, Gloucestershire, in the late seventeenth century testifies independently to the same tradition. Justice Shallow in the Merry Wives of Windsor is on this latter authority to be identified with Sir Thomas Lucy. He is represented in the play as having come from Gloucester to Windsor. He "will make a Star Chamber matter of it" that Sir John Falstaff has "defied my men, killed my deer, and broke open my lodge." He bears on his "old coat" (of arms) a "dozen white luces" (small fishes), and there is a lot of chatter about "quartering" this coat, which is without point unless a pun is intended.  Now "three luces Hauriant argent" were the arms of the Charlecote Lucys, it is certain. There is some reason then, for connecting Shallow with Sir Thomas Lucy, and an apparent basis for the deer-stealing tradition, although the incident in the play may, of course, have suggested the myth. Davies goes on to say that Shakespeare was whipped and imprisoned; for this there is no other evidence.

Early Life in London.—The earliest known reference to Shakespeare in the world of London is contained in a sarcastic allusion from the pen of Robert Greene, the poet and play writer, who died in 1592. Greene was furiously jealous of the rapidly increasing fame of the newcomer. In a most extravagant style he warns his contemporaries (Marlowe, Nash, and Peele, probably) to beware of young men that seek fame by thieving from their masters. They, too, like himself, will suffer from such thieves. "Yes, trust them not; for there is an upstart crow beautified with our feathers that, with his Tygers heart wrapt in a Players hide, supposes he is as well able to bumbast out a blank verse as the best of you; and being an absolute Johannes Factotum, is in his owne conceit the onely Shakescene in a countrie ... but it is pittie men of such rare wit should be subject to the pleasures of such rude grooms." The reference to "Shakescene" and the "Tygers heart," which is a quotation from III Henry VI,[3] makes it almost certain that Shakespeare and his play are referred to. Greene's attack was, however, an instance of what Shakespeare would  have called "spleen," and not to be taken as a general opinion. His hint of "Johannes Factotum" (Jack-of-all-Trades) probably means that Shakespeare was willing to undertake any sort of dramatic work. Later on in the same letter (A Groatsworth of Witte Bought with a Million of Repentance)[4] he calls the "upstart crow" and his like "Buckram gentlemen," and "peasants."

Henry Chettle, a friend of Greene's, either in December, 1592, or early in 1593,[5] published an address as a preface to his Kind-Harts Dreame, making a public apology to Shakespeare for allowing Greene's letter to come out with this insulting attack. He says: "With neither of them that take offence was I acquainted, and with one of them I care not if I never be. The other [generally taken to be Shakespeare] whome at one time I did not so much spare as since I wish I had, for that, as I have moderated the heate of living writers, and might have usde my owne discretion—especially in such a case, the author beeing dead,—that I did not I am as sory as if the originall fault had beene my fault, because myself have seene his demeanor no lesse civill, than he exelent in the qualitie he professes;—besides divers of worship have reported his uprightness of dealing, which argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writing, that aprooves his art...."

There is, then, testimony from two sources that by 1592 Shakespeare was an excellent actor, a graceful poet, and a writer of plays that aroused the envy of  one of the best dramatists of his day. Obviously, all this could not have happened in a few months, and we are therefore justified in believing that Shakespeare came to London soon after 1585, very likely in 1586.

Later Allusions.—In 1593 the title-page of Venus and Adonis shows that a great English earl and patron of the arts was willing to be godfather "to the first heyre" of Shakespeare's "invention," his first published poem. In 1594 Shakespeare also dedicated to Southampton his Lucrece, in terms of greater intimacy, though no less respect. On December 27, 1595, Edmund Spenser's Colin Clout's Come Home Againe contained a reference which is now generally believed to allude to Shakespeare.

"And there, though last not least, is Aetion;

A gentler shepheard may nowhere be found;

Whose Muse, full of high thoughts' invention,

Doth like himselfe heroically sound."

The next important reference is from Palladis Tamia, by Francis Meres (1598):—

"As the soule of Euphorbus was thought to live in Pythagoras, so the sweete wittie soule of Ovid lives in mellifluous and hony-tongued Shakespeare; witness his Venus and Adonis, his Lucrece, his sugred Sonnets among his private friends &c. As Plautus and Seneca are accounted the best for comedy and Tragedy among the Latines, so Shakespeare among the English is the most excellent in both kinds for the stage; for comedy, witnes his Gentlemen of Verona, his Errors, his Loves Labors Lost, his Love Labours Wonne, his Midsummer Night Dreame, and his Merchant of Venice; for tragedy his Richard the 2., Richard the 3., Henry the 4.,  King John, Titus Andronicus, and his Romeo and Juliet. As Epius Stolo said that the Muses would speake with Plautus tongue, if they would speak Latin, so I say that the Muses would speak with Shakespeare's fine filed phrase, if they would speak English. And as Horace saith of his; Exegi monumentum aere perennius, Regalique situ pyramidum altius.

"Quod non imber edax: Non Aquilo impotius possit diruere: aut innumerabilis annorum series et fuga temporum: so say I severally of Sir Philip Sidneys Spencers Daniels Draytons Shakespeares and Warners workes."

This is the earliest claim for the supremacy of Shakespeare in the English theater, a claim never seriously disputed from that day to this. The numerous other contemporary allusions to Shakespeare's fame, which fill the Shakespeare Allusion Book,[6] add nothing to our purpose; but merely confirm the statement that throughout his life his readers knew and admitted his worth. The chorus of praise continued from people of all classes. John Weever, the epigrammatist, and Richard Camden, the antiquarian, praised Shakespeare highly, and Michael Drayton, the poet, called him "perfection in a man." Finally, Ben Jonson, his most famous competitor for public applause, crowned our poet's fame with his poem, prefixed to the first collected edition of Shakespeare's famous First Folio of 1623: "To the Memory of my beloved, the author, Mr. William Shakespeare, and what he hath left us.

"He was not of an age, but for all time!"

Shakespeare as an Actor.—The allusion quoted above of Henry Chettle praises Shakespeare's excellence "in the qualitie he professes." Stronger evidence is afforded by some of the title-pages of plays printed during the poet's life. Thus Ben Jonson's Every Man in his Humour says on its title-page: "Every One in his Umor. This comedie was first Acted in the yeere 1598 by the then L. Chamberleyne his servants. The principal comedians were Will. Shakespeare, Aug. Philips, Hen. Condel, Will. Slye, Will. Kempe, Ric. Burbadge, Joh. Hemings, Tho. Pope, Chr. Beeston, Joh. Dyke, withe the allowance of the Master of Reuells."

Before this his name had appeared between those of Kemp and Burbage (named in the above list), the one the chief comedian, the other the chief tragedian of the time, in comedies which were acted before the Queen on December 27 and 28, 1594, at Greenwich Palace. The titles of these comedies are not given in the Treasurer's Accounts of the Chamber, from which we take the list of players.

In 1603, Shakespeare shared with Burbage the headline of the list of actors in Ben Jonson's tragedy Sejanus. That he thoroughly understood the technique of his art and was interested in it, is evident from Hamlet's advice to the players. Throughout his life in London, Shakespeare was a member of the company usually known as the Lord Chamberlain's Company.[7]

Shakespeare and the Mountjoys.—The most important addition of recent years to the life records of Shakespeare is that made by an American scholar, Professor Charles William Wallace. He has unearthed in the Public Record Office at London a notable bundle of documents—twenty-six in all. They concern a lawsuit in which the family of Christopher Mountjoy, Shakespeare's landlord in London, was engaged; and in which the poet himself appeared as a witness. Mountjoy, it appears, was a prosperous wigmaker and hairdresser, and, no doubt, had good custom from the London actors. Shakespeare had lodgings in Mountjoy's house in the year 1604, and at Madame Mountjoy's request acted as intermediary in proposing to young Stephen Bellott, a young French apprentice of Mountjoy's, that if he should marry his master's daughter Mary, he would receive £50 as dowry and "certain household stuff" in addition. The marriage took place, and the quarrel which led to the lawsuit in 1612 was chiefly about the fulfillment—or non-fulfillment—of the marriage settlements. Shakespeare's testimony on the matter is clear enough in regard to his services as the friend of both parties; but his memory leaves him when specific information is required touching the exact terms of the dowry. Evidently he had no mind that his old landlord should suffer from the claims of his unruly son-in-law.

Mountjoy's house was situated in an ancient and most respectable neighborhood in Cripplegate ward, on the corner of Silver Street and Mugwell, or Muggle Street. Near by dwelt many of Shakespeare's fellow-actors and dramatists. St. Paul's Cathedral, the heart  of London, lay five minutes' walk to the southwest. The length of Shakespeare's residence with the worthy Huguenot family is not to be learned from the recent discoveries; but his testimony to Bellott's faithful service as apprentice throughout the years of apprenticeship—1598-1604—makes it strongly probable that during these years, when the poet was writing his greatest plays, he lodged with Mountjoy. In 1612 Mountjoy, according to another witness, had a lodger—a "sojourner"—in his house; this may mean that Shakespeare was still in possession of his rooms in the house on Silver Street. If it be so, no spot in the world has been the birthplace of a greater number of masterpieces.

It is interesting to note, in passing, that the various witnesses in the Mountjoy lawsuit who have occasion to speak of Shakespeare always refer to him most respectfully. The poet was evidently high in the esteem of his neighbors.

Shakespeare's Income and Business Transactions.—Shakespeare was a shrewd and sensible man of business. He amassed during his career in London a property nearly, if not quite, as great as any made by his profession at the time. In addition to profits from the sale of his plays to managers (he probably derived no income from their publication), and his salary as an actor, Shakespeare enjoyed an ample income from his shares in the Blackfriars and Globe theaters, of which he became joint owner with the Burbage brothers and other fellow-actors in 1597 and 1599. Professor Wallace has discovered a document which helps, though very slightly, to enable us to judge what his income  from these sources may have been.[8] In 1615-1616 the widow of one of the proprietors of the two theaters, whose share, like Shakespeare's, was one-seventh of the Blackfriars, one-fourteenth of the Globe, brought suit against her father. She asked for £600 damages for her father's wrongful detention of her year's income, amounting to £300 from each theater.

But damages asked in court are always high, and include fees of lawyers and other items. The probability is that Shakespeare's yearly income from these sources was never over £500. To this, though the figures cannot be ascertained with any degree of certainty, we might add £100 for salary and £25 for plays yearly. The total would amount to fully £600 a year from 1599 on till 1611, about which date Shakespeare probably retired to Stratford. If we reckon by what money will buy in our days, we may say that Shakespeare's yearly income at the height of success was $25,000, in round numbers. This is certainly a low estimate, and does not include extra court performances and the like, from which he must certainly have profited.

Shakespeare's Life in London.—What with the composition of two plays a year, continual rehearsals, and performances of his own and other plays, Shakespeare's life must have been a busy one. Tradition, however, accords him an easy enjoyment of the pleasures of the time; and his own sarcastic remarks against Puritans in his plays may indicate a hatred of puritanical restraint. He must have joined in many a merry feast with the other actors and writers of the day, and with court gallants. The inventory of property left by him  at his death indicates that while he had accumulated a good estate, he had also lived generously.

Stratford Affairs and Shakespeare's Return.—While William Shakespeare was thus employed in London in building up name and fortune for himself, his father was in financial straits. As early as January, 1586, John Shakespeare had no property on which a creditor could place a lien. In September of the same year, he was deprived of his alderman's gown for lack of attention to town business. During the next year he was sued for debt, and had to produce a writ of habeas corpus to keep himself out of jail. In 1899 he tried to recover his wife's mortgaged property of Ashbies from the mortgagee's heir, John Lambert, but the suit was not tried till eight years later. Soon after this the son must have begun to send to Stratford substantial support. In 1592 John Shakespeare was made an appraiser of the property of Henry Field, a fellow-townsman. Henry Field's son Richard published Venus and Adonis for Shakespeare in 1593, from his shop in St. Paul's Churchyard. From this time John Shakespeare seems to have lived in comfort. His ambition to secure the grant of a coat of arms was almost successful at his first application for one in October, 1596; three years later the grant was made, and his son and he were now "Gentlemen."

In May, 1597, William Shakespeare bought New Place, a handsome house in the heart of Stratford, and at once became an influential citizen. From that time to his death he is continually mentioned in the town records. His purchases included 107 acres in  Old Stratford (May 1, 1602), for £320; the right to farm the Stratford tithes (July 24, 1605), for £440; an estate of the Combe family (April 13, 1610), and minor properties. In all his dealings, so far as we can tell, he seems to have been shrewd and business-like.

Little is known of Shakespeare's children during these years. Hamnet, his only son, was buried August 11, 1596. Susanna, the eldest daughter, married a physician, Dr. John Hall, of Stratford, June 5, 1607; Judith married Thomas Quiney, son of an old Stratford friend of Shakespeare's, February 10, 1616, two months before her father's death. Shakespeare's father had died long before this, in September, 1601.

Shakespeare's retirement from London to his native town is thought to have taken place about 1611, though there is no real evidence for this belief, except that his play writing probably ceased about this date. In 1614 a Puritan preacher stopped at New Place and was entertained there by the poet's family. It is certain that Shakespeare visited London from time to time after 1611. One such visit is recorded in the diary of his lawyer, Thomas Greene, of Stratford. As late as March 24, 1613, there occurs an entry in the accounts of the Earl of Rutland of a payment to Shakespeare and Richard Burbage of 44 shillings each in gold for getting up a dramatic entertainment for the Earl of Rutland.

In 1616 Shakespeare's health failed. On January 25, a copy of his will was drawn, which was executed March 25. On April 23, 1616, he died, and two days later was buried in the chancel of Stratford church.

Shakespeare's Portraits, Tomb, and Descendants.—Two portraits, the "Ely Palace" and the "Flower" portraits, so called from former possessors, are thought to have better claims to authenticity than others. New discoveries are announced, periodically, of Shakespeare's portrait; but these turn out usually to be forgeries. The engraving by Martin Droeshout prefixed to the First and later Folios, though to us it seems unanimated and unnatural, is still the only likeness vouched for by contemporaries. It is thought by many to be a copy of the "Flower" portrait, which bears the date 1609, and which it certainly very closely resembles. If the Stratford bust which was placed in a niche above Shakespeare's tomb in Stratford church before 1623 was accurately reproduced in Dugdale's Warwickshire, then the present bust is a later substitution, since it shows differences in detail from that sketch. It is coming to be believed that the eighteenth-century restoration so altered the bust as to make it quite unlike its former appearance.

Shakespeare's grave is in the chancel of Stratford church. A dark, flat tombstone bears the inscription, which early tradition ascribes to the poet:—

"Good frend, for Iesvs sake forbeare

To digg the dvst enclosed heare:

Bleste be ye man yt spares thes stones,

And curst be he yt moves my bones."

The monument to Shakespeare, with the bust on the north wall, is facing the tomb.

In his will, Shakespeare provided that much the larger portion of his estate should go to his eldest daughter, Susanna Hall and John Hall, Gent., her husband, including New Place, Henley Street and Blackfriars houses, and his tithes in Stratford and near-by villages. This was in accordance with custom. To Judith, his younger daughter, the wife of Thomas Quiney, he left three hundred pounds, one hundred as a marriage portion, fifty more on her release of her right in a Stratford tenement, and the rest to be paid in three years, the principal to be invested, the interest paid to her, and the principal to be divided at her death.

Shakespeare left his sister, Joan Hart, £20 and his wearing apparel, and her house in Stratford rent-free till her death, at a shilling a year. His plate he divided between his daughters. The minor bequests, which include £10 to the Stratford poor, are chiefly notable for the bequest of money (26s. 8d.) for rings to "my fellowes, John Hemynges, Richard Burbage, and Henry Cundell." These were fellow-actors in the Lord Chamberlain's Company.

Within half a century Shakespeare's line was extinct. His wife died August 6, 1623. His daughter Susanna left one daughter, Elizabeth, who married, April 22, 1626, Thomas Nashe, who died April 4, 1647. On June 5, 1649, she married John Barnard of Abington, Northamptonshire, afterwards knighted. She left no children by either marriage. Her burial was recorded February 17, 1669-70. Shakespeare's daughter Judith had three sons,—Shakespeare, baptized November 23, 1616, buried May 8, 1617; Richard, baptized February 9, 1617-8, buried February 16, 1638-9; Thomas, baptized January 23, 1619-20, buried January 1638-9. Judith Shakespeare survived them all, and was buried February 9, 1661-2. Shakespeare's sister, Joan Hart, left descendants who owned the Henley Street House up to the time of its purchase, in 1847, by the nation.

[1] This reference was discovered among the Plume Mss. (1657-1663) of Maldon, Essex, by Dr. Andrew Clark, in October, 1904. Sir John Mennes was, however, not a contemporary of John Shakespeare, but doubtless merely passed on the description from some eyewitness.

[2] The dates between January 1 and March 25, previous to 1752, are always thus written. In 1752 England and its colonies decided to begin the year with January 1 instead of March 25, as formerly. Thus for periods before that date between January 1 and March 25, we give two figures to indicate that the people of that time called it one year and we call it a year later. Thus, Judith Shakespeare would have said she was baptized in 1584, while by our reckoning her baptism came in 1585.

[3] "O tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's hide." This line is also in the source of Shakespeare's play.

[4] Printed first in 1596, but written shortly before Greene's death in 1592.

[5] Registered Dec., 1592, but printed without date.

[6] These may be seen, as well as all others up to 1700, in the re-edited Shakespeare Allusion Book, ed. J. Munro, London, 1909.

[7] See Chapter III.

[8] See the New York Times for October 3, 1909.

CHAPTER II

ENGLISH DRAMA BEFORE SHAKESPEARE

The history of the drama includes two periods of supreme achievement, that of fifth-century Greece and that of Elizabethan England. Between these peaks lies a broad valley, the bottom of which is formed by the centuries from the fifth to the ninth after Christ. From its culmination in the tragedies of Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, and in the comedies of Aristophanes, the classic drama declined through the brilliantly realistic comedies of Menander to the coldly rhetorical tragedies of the Roman Seneca. The decay of culture, the barbarian invasions, and the attacks of the Christian Church caused a yet greater decadence, a fall so complete that, although the old traditions were kept alive for some time at the Byzantine court, the drama, as a literary form, had practically disappeared from western Europe before the middle of the sixth century. For this reason the modern drama is commonly regarded as a new birth, as an independent creation entirely distinct from the art which had preceded it. A new birth and an independent growth there certainly was, but it must not be forgotten that the love of the dramatic did not disappear with the literary drama, that the entertainment of mediaeval  minstrels were not without dramatic elements, that dialogues continued to be written if not acted, and that the classical drama of Rome, eagerly studied by the enthusiasts of the Renaissance, had no slight influence upon the course which the modern drama took. If we make these qualifications, we may fairly say that the old drama died and that a new drama was born.

The Beginnings of Modern Drama.—When we search for the origin of the modern drama, we find it, strangely enough, in the very institution which had done so much to suppress it as an invention of the devil; for it made its first appearance in the services of the Church. From a very early period, the worship of the Church had possessed a certain dramatic character. The service of the Mass recalled and represented by symbols, which became more and more definite and elaborate, the great sacrifice of Christ. And this tendency manifested itself in other ways, such as the letting fall, on Good Friday, of the veil which had concealed the sanctuary since the first Sunday in Lent, thus recalling the veil of the Jewish temple rent in twain at the death of Christ. But all this was rather the soil in which the drama could grow than the beginning itself. The latter came in the ninth century, when an addition was made to the Mass which was slight in itself, but which was to have momentous consequences. Among the words fitted to certain newly introduced melodies were those of which the following is a translation:—

"Whom seek ye, O Christians, in the sepulcher?

Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified, O ye dwellers in Heaven.

He is not here; he is risen as he foretold.

Go and carry the tidings that he is risen from the sepulcher."

At first these words were sung responsively by the choir, but before the end of the tenth century they were put into the mouths of monks or clergy representing the Maries and the angel. By this time the dialogue had been removed to the first services of Easter morning, and had been connected with the ceremonies of the Easter sepulcher. In many churches it was then customary on Good Friday to carry a crucifix to a representation of a sepulcher which had previously been prepared somewhere in the church, whence the crucifix was secretly removed before Easter morning. Then, at the first Easter service, the empty sepulcher was solemnly visited, and this dialogue was sung.[1] The participants wore ecclesiastical vestments, and the acting was of the simplest character, but the amount of dialogue increased as time went on, and new bits of action were added; so that before the end of the twelfth century some churches presented what may fairly be called a short one-act play. Meanwhile, around the services of Good Friday and the Christmas season, other dramatic ceremonies and short dialogues had been growing up, which gave rise to tiny plays dealing with the birth of Christ, the visits of the shepherds and the Wise Men, and the Old Testament prophecies of  Christ's coming. Although the elaboration of individual plays continued, the evolution of the drama as part of the Church's liturgy was practically complete by the middle of the thirteenth century.

The Earlier Miracle Plays.—The next hundred years brought a number of important changes: the gradual substitution of English for Latin, the removal from the church to the churchyard or market-place, and the welding together of the single plays into great groups or cycles. The removal from the church was made possible by the growth of the plays in length and dramatic interest, which rendered them independent of the rest of the service; and it was made inevitable by the enormous popularity of the plays and by the more elaborate staging which the developed plays required. The formation of more or less unified cycles was the result of a natural tendency to supply the missing links between the plays already in existence, and to write new plays describing the events which led up to those already treated. Just as Wagner in our day after writing his drama on The Death of Siegfried felt himself compelled to write other plays dealing with his hero's birth and the events which led to this birth, so the unknown authors of the great English cycles were led to write play after play until they had covered the significant events of Biblical history from the creation of the world to the Last Judgment. This joining together of isolated plays necessitated taking them away from the particular festivals with which they had originally been connected and presenting them all together on a single day, or, in the case of the longer cycles, on successive days. After 1264,  when the festival of Corpus Christi was established in honor of the sacrament of Holy Communion, this day was the favorite time of presentation. Coming as it did in early summer on the Thursday after Trinity Sunday, it was well suited for out-of-door performances, besides being a festival which the Church especially delighted to honor.

The Great English Cycles.—Of the great cycles of miracle plays, only four have come down to us: those given at York and at Chester, that in the Towneley collection (probably given at or near Wakefield), and the cycle called the Ludus Coventriae or Hegge plays, of which the place of presentation is uncertain. The surviving fragments of lost cycles, however, taken together with the records of performances, show that religious plays were given with more or less regularity in at least one hundred and twenty-five places in England. The cycle which has been most completely preserved is that of York, forty-eight plays of which still exist. It originally included fifty-seven plays, while the number of Biblical incidents known to have been treated in plays belonging to one cycle or another includes twenty-one based on the Old Testament or on legends, and sixty-eight based on the New Testament.

Even while the religious plays were still a part of the Church services, they contained humorous elements, such as the realistically comic figure of the merchant who sold spices and ointment to the Maries on their way to the tomb of Christ. In the later plays these interpolations developed into scenes of roaring farce. When Herod learned of the escape of the Wise Men, he would rage violently about the stage and even among  the spectators. Noah's wife, in the Chester play of The Deluge, refuses point-blank to go into the Ark, and has to be put in by main force. The Second Shepherds' Play of the Towneley cycle contains an episode of sheep stealing which is a complete and perfect little farce. Nor were the scenes of pathos less effective. The scene in the Brome play of Abraham and Isaac where the little lad pleads for his life has not lost its pathetic appeal with the passage of centuries. While many of the miracle plays seem to us stiff and perfunctory, the best of them possess literary merit of a very high order.

As the development of the plays called for an increasing number of actors, the clergy had to call upon the laity for help, so that the acting fell more and more into the hands of the latter, until finally the whole work of presenting the plays was taken over, in most cases, by the guilds, organizations of the various trades which corresponded roughly to our modern trades unions. Each guild had its own play of which it bore the expense and for which it furnished the actors. Thus the shipwrights would present The Building of the Ark, the goldsmiths, The Adoration of the Wise Men. Sometimes the plays would be presented on a number of tiny stages or scaffolds grouped in a rectangle or a circle; more often they were acted on floats, called pageants, which were dragged through the streets and stopped for performances at several of the larger squares. These pageants were usually of two stories, the lower used for a dressing-room, the upper for a stage. The localities represented were indicated in various ways—Heaven, for instance, by a beautiful  pavilion; Hell, by the mouth of a huge dragon. The costumes of the actors were often elaborate and costly, and there was some attempt at imitating reality, such as putting the devils into costumes of yellow and black, which typified the flames and darkness of Hell.

Fairly complete cycles were in existence as early as 1300; they reached the height of their perfection and popularity in the later fourteenth and in the fifteenth centuries; and they began to decline in the sixteenth century. After 1550 the performances became more and more irregular, until, at the accession of King James I, they had practically ceased.

The Moralities.—Of somewhat later origin than the miracle plays, but existing contemporaneously with them, were the moralities. In a twelfth-century miracle play characters had been introduced which were not the figures of Biblical story, but personified abstractions, such as Hypocrisy, Heresy, Pity. By the end of the fourteenth century there had come into existence plays of which all the characters were of this type. These, however, were probably not direct descendants of the miracles; but rather the application of the newly learned dramatic methods to another sort of subject matter, the allegory, a literary type much used by poets and preachers of the time. Such plays were called 'moral plays' or 'moralities.' Unlike the miracle plays, these remained independent of each other, and showed no tendency to grow together into cycles. The most beautiful of them, written at the end of the fifteenth or the beginning of the sixteenth century, is that called The Summoning of Everyman. It represents a typical man compelled to enter upon the long,  inevitable journey of death. Kindred and Wealth abandon him, but long-neglected Good-deeds, revived by Knowledge, comes to his aid. At the edge of the grave Everyman is deserted by Beauty, Strength, and the Five Senses, while Good-deeds alone goes with him to the end. Moralities of this type aimed at the cultivation of virtue in the spectators, just as the miracle plays had aimed at the strengthening of their faith. Another type of morality dealt with controversial questions. In one of these, King Johan, written about 1538, historical personages are put side by side with the allegorical abstractions, thus foreshadowing the later historical plays, such as Shakespeare's King John. Another comparatively late type of morality sought to teach an ethical lesson by showing the effect of vice and virtue upon the lives of men and women. Nice Wanton (c. 1550), for instance, represents the consequence of good and evil living, not only by the use of such allegorical characters as Iniquity and Worldly Shame, but also by means of the human beings, Barnabas and Ishmael and their sister Dalila. Thus, although the more abstract moralities persisted until late in the sixteenth century, these other types at the same time helped lead the way to the drama which depicts actual life.

The Interlude.—Both miracle play and morality were written with a definite purpose, the teaching of a lesson, religious, moral, or political; the interlude, on the other hand, was a short play intended simply to interest or to amuse. The original meaning of the word "interlude" is a matter of controversy. It may have meant a short play introduced between other  things, such as the courses of a banquet, or it may have meant simply a dialogue. Be that as it may, the interlude seems to have had its origin in the dramatic character of minstrel entertainments and in the dramatic character of popular games, such as those, especially beloved of our English ancestors, which celebrated the memory of Robin Hood and his fellow-outlaws of Sherwood forest. The miracle plays set the example of dramatic composition, an example soon followed in the interlude, which put into dramatic forms that became more and more elaborate popular stories and episodes, both serious and comic. Although there had been comic episodes in miracle plays and moralities, it was as interludes that the amusing skit and the tiny farce achieved an independent existence. The first real interlude which has come down to us is that called De Clerico et Puella, Of the Cleric and the Maiden, which was written not later than the early fourteenth century. This is little more than a dialogue depicting the attempted seduction of a maiden by a wanton cleric. The only other surviving fourteenth-century interlude, that of Dux Maraud, is, on the other hand, the dramatization of a tragic tale of incest and murder. This is, however, somewhat exceptional, and may perhaps be regarded as belonging rather to a type of miracle play not common in England, in which the intervention of some heavenly power affects the lives of men. At any rate, it is probable that the interlude was not often so serious an affair, and it developed rapidly in a way that gave us, in the sixteenth century, the interludes of John Heywood (1497-1577), which are really short farces,  and no bad ones at that. By reason of its character and the small number of actors which it required, the interlude was usually given by professional entertainers, who were either kept by persons of high rank, or traveled from town to town. We find, therefore, in the acting of interludes the conditions which gave rise to modern comedy and to the modern traveling company.

Classical Influences.—In the preceding paragraphs we have considered the early modern drama as an independent growth, but the influence of the classical drama, particularly the Latin tragedies of Seneca and the Latin comedies of Plautus and Terence, showed itself in the later moralities and interludes, and was to appear again and again in the later course of English drama. That great revival of interest in classical learning which gave the Renaissance its name, was a mighty force in the current of English thought throughout the sixteenth century. The old Latin tragedies and comedies were revived and were produced in the original and in translation at schools and colleges. It was an easy step from this to the writing of English comedies after Latin models. The earliest of such attempts which we know is the comedy of Ralph Roister Doister, written by Nicholas Udall for Eton boys at some time between 1534 and 1541. This, commonly called the first English comedy, is little more than a clever adaptation of Plautus to English manners and customs; but a comedy written soon after, Gammer Gurton's Needle, is really an Interlude cast in the Plautean mold. The first English tragedy, Gorboduc, closely imitative of Seneca, but on  a mythical British subject and written in English blank verse, did not appear until 1562, nearly a quarter of a century later. Seneca's tragedies had little action, slight characterization, and many extremely long speeches, which often display, however, much brilliant rhetoric. Gorboduc has all these qualities except the brilliance. The history, the third of the types into which the editors of the First Folio were to divide Shakespeare's plays, was also affected by Senecan influence. We have already seen how the historical figure of King John appeared in a morality, one which shows little trace of classical tradition; and the history, with its general formlessness and its mixture of the comic with the serious, remained a peculiarly English product. Nevertheless, in the second half of the sixteenth century, subjects from English history were treated after the manner of Latin tragedy, and the long, rhetorical speeches of the later historical plays are more suggestive of Seneca than are most Elizabethan tragedies.

The classical type of drama, with its strict observance of the three unities,[2] was not congenial to the  English temperament. Its fetters were soon thrown off, and, with the notable exception of Ben Jonson (1573-1637), few Elizabethan playwrights conformed to its rules. Its influence, however, was not confined to its imitators. From the classical drama the Elizabethans gained a sense for form and for the value of dramatic technique, which did much to make the Elizabethan drama what it was.

Three Predecessors of Shakespeare.—The development of the English drama from the first attempts at comedy, tragedy, and history was extremely rapid. When Shakespeare came to London, he found there dramatists who were far on the road toward mastery of dramatic form, and who were putting into that form both great poetry and a profound knowledge of human nature. A complete list of these dramatists would include a number of names which have a permanent place in the history of English literature, such as those of Thomas Lodge, Thomas Nash, George Peele, and Robert Greene. Among these names three deserve especial prominence, not only because of the great achievements of these men, but because of their influence on Shakespeare. These men were Marlowe, Kyd, and Lyly.

It was Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) who first gave to English blank verse those qualities which make it an extraordinarily perfect medium of expression. Before him, blank verse had no advantages to offer in compensation for the abandonment of rime. It was stiff, monotonous, and cold. Marlowe began to vary the position of the pauses within the line, and to do away with the pause at the end of some lines by  placing the breaks in thought elsewhere. Thus he gave to his verse ease, flexibility, and movement, and he put into it the warmth and vividness of his own personality. Upon such verse as this Shakespeare could hardly improve. But this by no means sums up his debt to Marlowe. His characterization of Richard III, for instance, was distinctly affected by that of Marlowe's hero Tamburlaine, a character to which the poet had given a passionate life and an energy that made him more than human. In other ways less easy to define, Shakespeare must have been stimulated by Marlowe's fire. The latter's greatest tragedies, Tamburlaine, Dr. Faustus, and Edward II, contain poetry so beautiful, feeling so intense, and a promise of future achievement so remarkable, that his early death may fairly be said to have deprived English literature of a genius worthy of comparison with that of Shakespeare himself.

Although Thomas Kyd (1558-1594) was far from the equal of Marlowe, he was a playwright of real ability and one whose tragedies were unusually popular. Influenced greatly by Seneca, he brought to its climax the 'tragedy of blood'—a type of drama in which ungovernable passions of lust and revenge lead to atrocious crimes and end in gruesome and appalling murders. His famous Spanish Tragedy was the forerunner of many similar plays, of which Titus Andronicus was one. He probably wrote the original play of Hamlet, which was elevated by Shakespeare out of its atmosphere of blood and horror into the highest realms of thought and poetry.

John Lyly (c. 1554-1606) was a master in an  entirely different field, that of highly artificial comedy. He brought court comedy to a hitherto unattained perfection of form and style, and in his best work, Endymion, he displayed a lovely delicacy of thought and expression which has kept his reputation secure. He is best known, however, for his prose romance, Euphues, which gave its name to the style of which it was the climax. Euphuism is a manner of writing marked by elaborate antithesis and alliteration, and ornamented by fantastic similes drawn from a mass of legendary lore concerning plants and animals.[3] This style, which nowadays seems labored and inartistic, was excessively admired by the Elizabethans. Shakespeare imitated it to some extent in Love's Labour's Lost, and parodied it in Falstaff's speech to Prince Hal, I Henry IV, II, iv. Several of Shakespeare's earlier comedies show Lyly's influence for good and ill—ill, in that it made for artificiality and strained conceits; good, in that it made for perfection of dramatic form and refinement of expression.

The Masque.—Somewhat apart from the main current of dramatic evolution is the development of the masque, which became extremely popular in the reign of James I. The English masque was an entertainment, dramatic in character, made up of songs, dialogue, and dances. It originated in masked balls given by the nobility or at court. To John Lydgate, working about 1430, is probably due the credit for introducing into such  disguisings a literary element, while the later course of the masque owes much to Italy. In the developed masque there were two classes of participants: noble amateurs, who wore elaborate costumes and danced either among themselves or with the spectators; and professional entertainers, who spoke and sang. The later masques had elaborate scenery and costumes, with just as much plot as would serve to string together the lyrics and dances. Sometimes an anti-masque of grotesque figures was introduced to serve as contrast to the beautiful figures of the masque. The masques were produced with the utmost lavishness, the most extravagant one of which we know costing over £20,000. Some of them, such as those written by Ben Jonson, contain charming poetry; but their chief interest to the student of Shakespeare lies in the fact that their great popularity caused Shakespeare to introduce short masques into some of his plays, notably Henry VIII, The Winter's Tale, and The Tempest. In similar allegorical dances often given between the acts of Italian plays, has been sought the origin of the 'dumb-show,' which was occasionally introduced into English tragedies, and which appears in the Mouse-Trap given in Hamlet.

[1] An extract from the Concordia Regularis, a tenth-century appendix to the monastic "rule" of St. Benedict, describes this ceremony. "While the third respond is chanted, let the remaining three follow [one of the brethren, vested in an alb, had before this quietly taken his place at the sepulcher], and let them all, vested in copes, and bearing in their hands thuribles with incense, and stepping delicately, as those who seek something, approach the sepulcher. These things are done in imitation of the angel sitting in the monument, and the women with spices coming to anoint the body of Jesus."

[2] The three unities of action, place, and time are usually believed to have been formulated by Aristotle, who is supposed to have said that a tragedy should have but a single plot and that the action should be confined to a single day and a single place. As a matter of fact, Aristotle is responsible for only the first of these, and this he presented as an observation on the actual condition which prevailed in Greek tragedy rather than as a dramatic principle for all time. The other principles, which were later deduced from the general practice of the Greeks,—a practice arising from the manner in which their plays were staged,—were, together with the first, elevated by the Romans to the dignity of fixed dramatic laws.

[3] The following quotation from Euphues (ed. Bond, i, 289) illustrates this style: "Hee that seeketh ye depth of knowledge is as it were in a Laborinth, in which the farther he goeth, the farther he is from the end: or like the bird in the limebush which the more she striveth to get out, ye faster she sticketh in." With this cf. Hamlet, III, iii, 69; I Henry IV, II, iv, 441.

CHAPTER III

THE ELIZABETHAN THEATER

In 1575 London had no theaters; that is, no building especially designed for the acting of plays. By 1600 there were at least six, among which were some so large and beautiful as to arouse the unqualified admiration of travelers from the continent. It is the purpose of this chapter to give in outline the history of this rapid development of a new type of building; to describe, as accurately as may be, the general features of these theaters; and to indicate the influence which these features exerted upon the Shakespearean drama. But before doing this it is necessary to point out the causes which made the first Elizabethan theater what it was.

The Predecessors of the Elizabethan Theater.[1]—Of these, the most important was the innyard. As soon as the acting of plays ceased to be merely a local affair, as soon as there were companies of actors which traveled from town to town, it became necessary to find some place for the public presentation of plays other than the pageants of the guilds or the temporary scaffolds sometimes erected for miracle plays. Such a place was offered by the courtyard of an inn. The larger inns of  this period were, for the most part, built in the form of a quadrangle surrounding an open court. Opening directly off this court were the stables, the kitchen, and other offices of the inn; above these were from one to three stories of bedrooms and sitting rooms, entered from galleries running all round the court. When such a courtyard was used for theatrical performances, the actors erected a platform at one end to serve as a stage; the space back of this, shut off by a curtain, they used as a dressing-room; and the part of the gallery immediately over it they employed as a second stage which could represent the walls of a city or the balcony of a house. In the courtyard the poorer class of spectators stood; in the galleries the more wealthy sat at their ease. These conditions made the innyards much better places for play acting than were the city squares, while they were given still another advantage from the actors' point of view by the fact that the easily controlled entrance gave an opportunity for charging a regular admission fee—a fee which varied with the desirability of the various parts of the house. Thus the innyards made no bad playhouses, and they continued to be used as such even after theaters were built.

They had, however, one obvious disadvantage; their long, narrow shape made a large number of the seats and a large proportion of the spaces available for standing room distinctly bad places from which to see what was happening on the stage. To remedy this defect, the builders of the theaters took a suggestion from the bull-baiting and bear-baiting rings. These rings, of which a considerable number already existed  in the outskirts of London, had been built for fights between dogs and bulls or bears, sports vastly enjoyed by the Elizabethans. The rings, like the innyards, had galleries in which spectators could sit and an open yard in which they could stand, and they possessed the added merit of being round. Very possibly these rings, like the Cornish rings used for miracle plays, originated in the stone amphitheaters built by the Romans during their occupation of Britain, buildings occasionally used, even in the sixteenth century, for the performance of plays. It is hardly necessary, nevertheless, to look farther than the bear ring to find the cause which determined the shape of the Elizabethan public theater.

The History of the Public Theaters.—With such models, then, James Burbage—the father of Richard Burbage, later the great actor manager of Shakespeare's company—built the first London theater in 1576. It was erected not far outside the northern walls of the city, and was called simply the Theater. Not far away, a second theater, the Curtain, was soon put up, so called not from any curtain on the stage, but from the name of the estate on which it was built. The next theater, the Rose, was situated in another quarter, on the Surrey side of the Thames, where the bear-baiting rings were. This was constructed, probably in 1587, by Philip Henslowe, a prominent theatrical manager. Some time after 1594, a second theater, the Swan, was put up in this same region, commonly called the Bankside. The suitability of the Bankside as a location for theaters is still further attested by the removal thither of the Theater in the winter of 1598-1599. The owner of the land on which the Theater had originally been  built had merely leased it to Burbage—who had since died,—and, when the lease expired, he attempted to raise the rent, probably believing that the Burbage heirs were receiving large profits from the building. Being unwilling to pay this increased rent, the Burbages took down the building, and reërected it on the Bankside, this time calling it the Globe. The last to be built of the great public theaters was the Fortune, which Henslowe erected in 1600. The situation of the Fortune outside Cripplegate, although a considerable distance west of the Curtain, was, roughly, that of the earlier theaters, the northern suburbs of the city.

This list does not include all the theaters built or altered between 1576 and 1600, nor did such building stop at the latter date,—the Globe, for instance, was burnt and again rebuilt in 1613,—but the sketch is complete enough for our purposes. By the end of 1600 all the more important public theaters were open, and after that date, so far as we know, no important changes in construction were made. The next real step—which was to do away altogether with this type of theater—did not come until after the Restoration.

The Buildings.—Before describing the buildings themselves, it is necessary to make one qualification. It is impossible to speak of the 'Elizabethan theaters' or of the 'Elizabethan stage' as if there were one type to which all theaters and stages conformed. The Fortune was undoubtedly a great improvement over the Theater, the outcome of an evolution which could be traced through the other theaters if we had the necessary documents. If the various theaters did not differ from each other as some of our modern theaters do, they  still did differ in important points. For example, while the Globe and the Curtain were round, other theaters were hexagonal or octagonal, and the Fortune was square. Likewise, there were certainly differences in size. In spite of these facts, it is, however, still possible to describe the theaters, in general terms which are sufficiently accurate for our present purpose.

An Elizabethan theater was a three-story building of wooden or half-timber construction. The three stories formed three galleries for spectators. The first of these was raised a little above the level of the ground, while the yard, or 'pit,' in which the lower class of spectators stood, seems to have been somewhat sunken. The galleries were supported by oaken columns, often handsomely carved and ornamented. They were roofed and ceiled, but the yard was open to the weather. Although we know that the Fortune was eighty feet square outside, and that the yard within was fifty-five feet square, we are left in uncertainty about the seating capacity. From fifteen hundred to eighteen hundred is, however, the most convincing estimate. There were two boxes, or 'gentlemen's rooms,' presumably in the first balcony on either side of the stage. Besides these, there were other, cheaper boxes, and the rest of the balcony space was filled with seats. The better seats were most comfortably cushioned, and the whole theater anything but the bare rude place which people often imagine it. Coryat, a widely traveled Englishman of the period, writes of the theaters which he saw in Venice that they were "bare and beggarly in comparison of our stately playhouses in England; neither can their actors compare with us for stately apparel,  shows, or music." That this was no mere British prejudice is shown by the similar statements of foreigners traveling in England.

The most striking difference between Elizabethan and modern theaters was in the position of the stage, which was not back of a great proscenium frame, but was built out as a platform into the middle of the yard. At the Fortune, the stage was forty-three feet wide,—wider, that is, than most modern stages.[2] Jutting out from the level of the top gallery, and extending perhaps ten feet over the stage, was a square structure called the 'hut,' which rose above the level of the outside walls. Built out from the bottom of this, a roof, or 'shadow,' extended forward over a large part of the stage. The front of this 'shadow' was borne, in the better theaters, on two columns. The shadow and the hut, taken together, are often referred to as the 'heavens.'

The Stage.—When we turn from these general features of the theaters to the stage, we shall find it convenient to speak of a front and a rear stage, but this does not imply any permanent line of demarcation between the two, or that they were not often used together as a single field of action. The rear stage is simply that part of the stage which could be shut off from the spectators by curtains; the other, that part which lay in front of the curtains. In other words, the front stage is that portion of the stage which was built out into the yard, for the curtains continued the line made around the rest of the house by the front  of the galleries. In both front and rear stages were traps out of which ghosts or apparitions could rise and into which such properties as the caldron in Macbeth could sink. From the 'heavens,' actors representing gods or spirits—as Jupiter in Cymbeline or Ariel in The Tempest—could be lowered by means of a mechanical contrivance.

TIMON OF ATHENS, v, 4. OUTER SCENE.

Trumpets sound. Enter Alcibiades with his

Powers before Athens.

Alc. "Sound to this Coward, and lascivious

Towne. Our terrible approach."

Sounds a parly. The Senators appeare upon the Wals.

Reproduced from The Shakespearean Stage, by V. E. Albright, through the courtesy of the publishers, the Columbia University Press.

The arrangement of the rear stage may have differed considerably in the various theaters, but the typical form may best be described as an alcove in front of which curtains could be drawn. This alcove was by no means so small as the word may seem to imply, but must have been about half as wide as the front stage and perhaps a quarter as deep. In its rear wall was a door through which the actors could enter without being seen when the curtains were drawn, and it seems to have had side doors as well. To the right and left of it were doors for such entrances to the front stage as could not properly be made through the curtains. This part of the stage was used for such scenes as the caves in Cymbeline or The Tempest, for the tomb in Romeo and Juliet, and for scenes in which characters concealed themselves behind the arras, as in I Henry IV or Hamlet. Since the front stage could not be concealed from the spectators, most heavy properties were placed on the back stage, so that this part of the stage was generally used for scenes which required such properties. For many of these scenes, however, both parts of the stage were used, the actors spreading out over the front stage soon after the beginning of the scene.

The space between the top of the back stage and the  heavens formed a balcony, like the balcony already described as part of the stage as arranged in the inn-yards. This balcony could also be curtained off when occasion required. To the right and left of it, over the doors leading to the front stage, some of the theaters had window-like openings, which were probably not in line with the balcony, but, like the doors below them, projected at an oblique angle. At one of these windows Jessica appeared in the second act of The Merchant of Venice; from the balcony Romeo took leave of Juliet. Thus the Elizabethan dramatist had three fields of action—a front, rear, and upper stage—which he could use singly, together, or in various combinations.

Settings and Costumes.—In order to understand the way in which this stage was utilized, the student must dismiss from his mind two widespread errors. The Elizabethan stage was by no means a bare, unfurnished platform, nor did the managers substitute for a setting placards reading "This is a Forest," or "This is a Bedroom." The difference between that age and this is not one between no settings and good ones; it is even possible to doubt whether Shakespeare's plays were not put on more effectively then than in most of our modern theaters. The difference is one of principle, and even this difference may easily be exaggerated. When we say that Elizabethan stagings were 'symbolic,' whereas ours are pictorial, we mean that on the former the presence of a few selected objects suggested to the mind of the spectator all the others which go to make up the kind of scene presented. When a few trees were placed upon the stage, the audience supplied in  imagination the other objects that belong in a forest; when a throne was there, they saw with the mind's eye a room of state in a palace. But our modern stage also demands the help of the imagination. It is very far from presenting a completely realistic picture. We see three sides of a room and accept the room as complete, although none of us live in rooms which lack a side. We see a great cathedral painted on a back drop, and are hardly disturbed by the fact that an actor standing near it is twice as high as one of the doors. The difference between the two stages really simmers down to this: our symbols are of painted canvas, the Elizabethans' were of another sort. It is extremely unlikely that the Elizabethans used painted scenes in their public theaters. If they ever did, such 'painted cloths' were of the simplest sort, and not pictures painted in perspective. Instead, they relied for their effects upon solid properties—sometimes quite elaborate ones—such as trees, tombs, wells, beds, thrones, etc. These, as has been said, were usually set on the rear stage, although some of them, such as couches and banquet tables, were occasionally brought forward during the course of a scene.

There were, however, scenes which were acted without any setting. The Elizabethans did not feel it necessary to have every scene definitely localized. Consequently, many scenes which are described in our modern editions of Shakespeare as 'A Street,' 'A Place before the Castle,' etc., were not definitely assigned to any place, and were usually acted without settings on the front stage before the closed curtains. In order that no time should be lost while properties were  being changed, such scenes were commonly inserted between scenes requiring properties, so that a certain alternation between set and unset scenes resulted. The fourth act of the Merchant of Venice, for example, begins with the court-room scene, which demanded the whole stage, the properties for the court-room being set on the back stage, with perhaps some moved toward the front. The fifth act takes place in Portia's garden, which also took up the whole stage, with garden properties set on the rear stage. Between these two scenes comes the one in the street, which was acted before the closed curtains and required no properties. The arrangement is somewhat like that followed in many modern melodramas, where a scene not requiring properties is acted in front of a drop scene while scenery is being set behind. The raising of the drop—which corresponds to the opening of the Elizabethan curtains—not only reveals the setting behind, but also makes the whole stage, including that part which was in front of the drop, the scene of the action which follows.[3]

TIMON OF ATHENS, v, 3. INNER SCENE.

Enter a Souldier in the Woods, seeking Timon.

"Sol.—Timon is dead, who hath out-stretcht his span,

Some Beast reade this; There do's not live a Man.

Dead sure, and this his Grave, what's on this Tomb."

Reproduced from The Shakespearean Stage, by V. E. Albright, through the courtesy of the publishers, the Columbia University Press.]

The costumes on Shakespeare's stage were very elaborate, but there was no desire to make them characteristic of any historical period. Indeed, the striving after historical accuracy of costume is so much a modern notion that it was nearly two centuries later when Macbeth and Julius Caesar began to appear in costumes appropriate to their respective periods. On the other hand, there probably was some attempt to distinguish the dress of different nationalities. Some notion of how elaborate the costumes of Elizabethan actors were is given by the fact that Henslowe's  diary[4] has an entry of £4 14s. paid for a pair of hose, and £20 for a cloak. In connection with this it must be remembered that money was worth then about eight times what it is now, and that a playwright of the time rarely received more than £8 for a play. Another indication is given in Henslowe's list of the costumes belonging to the Lord Admiral's men, which included some eighty-seven garments, for the most part of silk or satin, ornamented with fringe and gold lace.

The Private Theater.—In the preceding sections the type of theater described has been referred to as 'public.' This has been done to distinguish it from the 'private' theater, a type which, although similar in so far as the general principles of staging employed are concerned, differed from the public theater in important particulars. The private theater is so called because it originated in the performances given before the invited guests of royalty, the nobility, or the universities. Since these performances were given in great halls, the type of theater which resulted was completely roofed, was lighted by candles, and had seats in the pit as well as in the galleries—when there were galleries. As soon as such theaters were built, admission was, of course, no longer by invitation, but the prices were so much higher than those of the public theaters that the audiences remained much more select. The first of these theaters was the Blackfriars, the remodeled hall of the former monastery of the Blackfriars, done over by Burbage in 1596. Others  were those in which the 'Children of Paul's' acted, the Cockpit, and the Salisbury Court. The Blackfriars was at first under royal patronage, the actors being the 'Children of the Chapel Royal.' These choir boys were carefully trained in acting and dancing as well as singing, and were subsidized by royalty, so that their performances tended to be much more spectacular than those of the public theaters. The performances at the Blackfriars seem to have retained this characteristic even after 1608, when Shakespeare's company took over the theater. Probably because of the patronage and interest of royalty, it was in the private theaters that painted scenes, already used in court masques, were first introduced. Thus these roofed theaters are really the forerunners, so far as England is concerned, of our modern playhouses.

Effect of Stage Conditions on the Drama.—When studied in the light of Elizabethan stage conditions, many characteristics of the plays written by Shakespeare and his contemporaries cease to be surprising or puzzling. A complete conception of all the effects which these conditions had upon the drama can only be gained by a careful study of all the plays. Here, moreover, we are obliged to pass over many points of more general character, such as the impossibility of representing night by darkness when the performances were given by daylight in a theater open to the sun. Two or three are, however, especially important. For instance, since it was possible to leave many scenes indefinitely localized, and since there was no necessity of long pauses for the change of heavy scenery, the dramatists were not limited as ours are to a  comparatively small number of scenes. This was an advantage in that it gave great freedom and variety to the action; but it was also a disadvantage in that it led to a scattering of effect and to looseness of construction. So in Antony and Cleopatra there are forty-two scenes, some of which are only a few lines long, and in consequence the play loses the intense, unified effect which it might otherwise have produced. Again, the absence of a front curtain made it impossible to end an act or play with a grand climax or an impressive tableau. Instead, the scenes gradually die away; the actors leave the stage one by one, or go off in procession. Whether this was gain or loss is a debatable question. At any rate, this caused the Elizabethan plays to leave on the spectator an impression totally different from that left by ours. Finally, the absence of pictorial scenery forced the dramatists to use verbal description far more than is customary to-day. To this fact we owe some passages of poetry which are among the most beautiful in all dramatic literature.

Theatrical Companies.—During Shakespeare's lifetime there were in existence more or less continuously some twenty theatrical companies, at least four or five of which, during the greater part of this period, played contemporaneously in London. We have already seen how great nobles, before the end of the fifteenth century, maintained small companies of men as players of Interludes. When not wanted by their patrons, these men traveled about the country, and their example was followed by other groups whose legal position was a much less certain quantity. As a result, a law was passed in 1572 which required that  all companies of actors should be under the definite protection of some noble. As time went on, this relation became one of merely nominal patronage, but the companies continued to be known by the name of their patron. Thus the company to which Shakespeare belonged was known successively as Lord Strange's, the Earl of Derby's, first and second Lord Hunsdon's (or, because of the office which the Hunsdons held, as the Lord Chamberlain's), and as the King's company. At various times it appeared at the Theater, the Curtain, the Globe, and the Blackfriars, its greatest triumphs being associated with the Globe. By 1608, if not before, it was unquestionably the most successful company in London. It had the patronage of King James, and it controlled and acted in what were respectively the most popular public and private theaters, the Globe and the Blackfriars. When not acting in London, it made tours to other cities. Its number included several actors of well-known ability, among them Richard Burbage, the greatest tragic actor of the time.

The most formidable rivals to this company were the Admiral's men and the children's companies. The former company was managed by Richard Henslowe; had, after 1600, a permanent home in the Fortune theater; and included among its number Edward Alleyn, next to Burbage the most famous Elizabethan actor. The two great children's companies were those made up of the choir boys of the Chapel Royal and of St. Paul's. The former had begun to give dramatic performances as early as 1506. They were well trained, had the advantage of royal patronage, and were  extraordinarily popular, becoming very serious rivals of the men's companies. The performances of the Children of the Chapel Royal at the Blackfriars between 1596 and 1608 were the most fashionable in London. The children's companies were finally suppressed about 1609.

The members of the men's companies were divided into four classes: those who had shares in the house and in the company, those who had shares only in the company, hired actors, and apprentices. The third of these classes received a fixed salary, the last were cared for by the individual actors to whom they were apprenticed. The profits of the theaters were derived from entrance money and the additional fees received for the better seats. All of the first and half of the second was divided between the members of the first and second classes of shareholders. The members of the first received in addition shares in the other half of the additional fees.[5]

Because female parts were always taken by men or boys, it is sometimes assumed that Elizabethan acting must have been crude. On the contrary, we have every reason to believe that most parts, particularly the less important ones, were acted better than they are usually acted to-day. Some of the actors, such as Burbage and Alleyn, were undoubtedly men of great genius. All of them had the advantage of regular and consistent training—a thing only too often lacking in these days when an actor of ability is almost immediately made a 'star,' although he frequently knows pitifully little of the art of acting. One of the most interesting testimonies to the ability of Elizabethan actors is Ben  Jonson's tribute to the memory of the boy actor, Salathiel Pavy:—

"Weep with me, all you that read

This little story;

And know, for whom a tear you shed

Death's self is sorry.

'Twas a child that so did thrive

In grace and feature,

As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive

Which owned the creature.

Years he number'd scarce thirteen

When Fates turn'd cruel,

Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been

The stage's jewel;

And did act (what now we moan)

Old men so duly,

As sooth the Parcae thought him one,

He play'd so truly.

So, by error, to his fate

They all consented;

But, viewing him since, alas, too late!

They have repented;

And have sought, to give new birth,

In baths to steep him;

But, being so much too good for earth,

Heaven vows to keep him."

Many of the points discussed in this chapter are still the subject of controversy. The theories of the stage adopted here are, in general, those of V. E. Albright, The Shakespearean Stage (Macmillan, 1909). Among the numerous books and articles on these topics, the most useful are: G. F. Reynolds, Some Principles of Elizabethan Staging (Modern Philology, Vols. 3 and 4); Brodmeier, Die Shakespeare Bühne (Weimar, 1904); Fleay, Chronicle History of the London Stage (London, 1890); Henslowe's Diary, ed. by W. Greg (London, 1904); and the works of Creizenach and Schelling referred to in the preceding chapter.

[1] Another predecessor, the great hall of a noble or a university, is mentioned in the section on the private theaters.

[2] In at least some of the theaters, the stage seems to have narrowed toward the front.

[3] With this whole paragraph, cf. Albright, pp. 81 ff., and 104-105.

[4] This memorandum book of Philip Henslowe, the great manager, is one of our chief sources of information about the Elizabethan theater.

[5] For Shakespeare's share, cf. Chapter I.

CHAPTER IV

ELIZABETHAN LONDON

Shortly after Shakespeare came to London, England demonstrated her new greatness to an astonished world; by the defeat of Spain's greatest fleet, the "invincible Armada," England showed herself as no longer a small island nation, but as Mistress of the Sea. In this victory culminated the growth which had begun under Henry VII, first of Tudor sovereigns. Naval supremacy was, however, but a sign of a much greater and more far-reaching transformation—a transformation which had affected science, literature, and religion, and one which filled the men of Shakespeare's time with such enthusiasm for the past, such confidence in the present, and such hope for the future, as has hardly been paralleled in the world's history.

During the century which had elapsed since 1485, Copernicus's discovery that the sun and not the earth was the center of our universe, had revolutionized the map of the heavens, as Columbus's discovery of America had revolutionized the map of the world. Thus stimulated, scientific investigation started afresh, working in accordance with the modern methods formulated by Francis Bacon, while voyage quickly followed voyage, each new discovery adding fuel to the fire of enthusiasm. Wonderful tales of new lands and unimagined wealth spread from mouth to mouth. The voyages  of Martin Frobisher, Anthony Hawkins, and Francis Drake opened new worlds, not only to English imagination, but also to English trade. It was they and men like them who gave to England her unexpected naval and commercial supremacy.

The latter was partly a result of the former. Elizabeth's victories over foreign enemies strengthened her power at home, and assured that freedom from internal discord which is essential to commercial prosperity. No sovereign distracted by danger from without could have mastered the factions which had sprung up within. The great religious movement known as the Protestant Reformation had not stopped in England with the separation of the English from the Roman Church under Henry VIII. It had brought into existence the Puritan, austere, bigoted, opposed to beauty of church and ceremonial, yet filled with superb moral and religious enthusiasm. It had brought about the persecution of Catholics and the still more merciless persecution of Protestants during the Catholic reaction under Queen Mary. Its successes, which began again with Elizabeth's reign, gave occasion for continual intrigues of Catholic emissaries. It all but plunged the nation into civil war, a war averted only by the victory over Spain and by the statesmanship of Elizabeth. Freed from the fear of war, however, Puritan and Churchman, each in his own way, could apply his enthusiasm to the works of peace.

With the return of peace and security, moreover, England first felt the full effect of the literary Renaissance. The revival of classical learning had already transformed the art and literature of the continent,  especially that of Italy. When, therefore, England turned again to the classics, it turned also to the Italian culture and literature to which the Renaissance had given birth, and from these sources English literature received new beauty of thought and form.

It was, then, in a new England that Shakespeare lived, an England intensely proud of the past which had made the present possible, an England rich enough and secure enough to have leisure and interest for literature, an England so vigorous, so confident, that it could not fail to bring out all that was latent in its greatest genius.

The City of London.—All this enthusiasm and activity reached its highest point in London. Even more then than now, London was the center of influence, the place to which the greatest abilities were irresistibly attracted, and in which their greatest work was done. But the London of Shakespeare's time was vastly different from the London of to-day. On all sides, except that washed by the Thames, the mediaeval walls were still standing and served as the city's actual boundary. Outside them were several important suburbs, but where now houses extend for miles in unbroken ranks, there were then open fields and pleasant woods. The total population of the city hardly exceeded a hundred thousand, while that of the suburbs, including the many guests of the numerous inns, amounted to perhaps a hundred thousand more. Hence, although there undoubtedly was crowding in the poorer quarters, London was a much more open city than it is to-day. The great houses all had their gardens, and a few minutes walk in any direction brought one to open country.

Westminster, now well within the greater London, was then only the most important suburb. Here was the Hall in which Parliament met, and, not far away, Whitehall, the favorite London residence of the Queen. Attracted by the presence of royalty, many of the great nobles had built their houses in this quarter, so that the north bank of the Thames from Westminster to the City was lined with stately buildings.

The Thames was London's pleasantest highway. It was then a clear, beautiful river spanned by a single bridge. If one wished to go from the City to Westminster, or even eastward or westward within the City itself, one could go most easily by boat. The Queen in her royal barge was often to be seen on the river. The great merchant companies had their splendid barges, in which they made stately progresses. One went by boat to the bear gardens and theaters on the south bank. Below the bridge, the river was crowded with shipping. At one of the wharves lay an object of universal interest, the Golden Hind, the ship in which Drake had made his famous voyage round the world.

Within the city, most of the streets were narrow, poorly paved, and worse lighted. Those who went about by night had their servants carry torches, called "links," before them, or hired boys to light them home. Such sanitation as existed was wretched, so that plagues and other diseases spread rapidly and carried off an appalling number of victims. The ignorance and inefficiency of the police is rather portrayed than satirized in Shakespeare's Dogberry and Verges. Such evils were common to all seventeenth-century cities, but these cities had their compensations in a freedom  and picturesqueness which have disappeared from our modern towns.

The Citizens.—In Elizabethan London, as in every city, the men who represented extremes of wealth and poverty, the courtiers and their imitators, the beggars and the sharpers, are those of whom we hear most; but the greater part of the population, that which controlled the city government, was of the middle class, sober, self-respecting tradespeople, inclined towards Puritanism, and jealous of their independence. Such people naturally distrusted and disliked the actors and their class, and used against them, as far as they could, the great authority of the city. In spite of court favor, the actors were compelled by city ordinances to build their theaters outside the city limits or on ground which the city did not control. Several attempts were made to suppress play acting altogether, ostensibly because of the danger that crowded audiences would spread the plague when it became epidemic. In spite of this official opposition, however, the sober citizens formed a goodly part of theater audiences until after the accession of King James, when the rising tide of Puritanism led to increased austerity. At no time were the majority of the citizens entirely free from a love for worldly pleasures. They swelled the crowds at the taverns, and their wives often vied with the great ladies of court in extravagance of dress.

St. Paul's.—The great meeting place of London was, oddly enough, the nave of St. Paul's Cathedral. This superb Gothic church, later destroyed by the Great Fire, was used as a common passageway, as a place for doing business and for meeting friends. In  the late morning hours, the men-about-town promenaded there, displaying their gorgeous clothes and hailing those whom they wished to have known as their acquaintances. If a gallant's cash were at low ebb, he loitered there, hoping for an invitation to dinner. If he had had a dinner, he often came back for another stroll in the afternoon. At one pillar he would find lawyers standing; at another, serving men seeking employment; at still another, public secretaries. Here one could learn anything from the latest fashion to the latest political scandal. Meanwhile, divine worship might be going on in the chancel, unobserved unless some fop wished to make himself conspicuous by joking with the choir boys. Thus St. Paul's was a school of life invaluable to the dramatist. We know that Ben Jonson learned much there, and we can hardly doubt that Shakespeare did likewise.

The Taverns.—Another center of London life was the tavern. The man who would now lunch at his club then dined at an 'ordinary,' a table d'hôte in some tavern. Men dined at noon, and then sat on over their wine, smoking or playing at cards or dice. In the evening one could always find there music and good company. One tradition of Shakespeare tells of his evenings at the Mermaid tavern. "Many were the wit-combates," writes Fuller, "betwixt him [Shakespeare] and Ben Jonson, which two I behold like a Spanish great gallion, and an English man of War; Master Jonson (like the former) was built far higher in Learning; Solid, but Slow in his performances. Shake-spear, with the English man-of-War, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides,  tack about and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his Wit and Invention." Francis Beaumont, the dramatist, wrote the following verses to Ben Jonson:—

"What things have we seen

Done at the Mermaid, heard words that have been

So nimble, and so full of subtle flame,

As if everyone from whence they came

Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,

And had resolved to live a fool the rest

Of his dull life; then when there hath been thrown

Wit able enough to justify the town

For three days past; wit that might warrant be

For the whole city to talk foolishly

Till that were cancelled; and when that was gone,

We left an air behind us, which alone

Was able to make the two next companies

(Right witty, though but downright fools) more wise."

At the Theater.—Having dined, the Elizabethan gentleman often visited one of the numerous bookshops, or else went to the theater, perhaps to the Globe. In the latter case, since this theater was on the south bank of the Thames, he was most likely to cross the river by boat. A flag, floating from a turret over the theater, announced a performance there. The prices paid for admission varied, but the regular price for entrance to the Globe seems to have been a penny (about fifteen cents in the money of to-day). This, however, gave one only the right to stand in the pit or, perhaps, to sit in the top gallery. For a box the price was probably a shilling (equivalent to two dollars), the poorer seats costing less. At the aristocratic Blackfriars, sixpence (one dollar) was the  lowest price. At this theater, the most fashionable occupied seats on the stage, where they were at once extremely conspicuous and in the way of the actors; but this custom probably did not spread to the Globe before 1603. At the Blackfriars, too, one could have a seat in the pit, while at the Globe the pit was filled with a standing, jostling crowd of apprentices and riffraff. In the theater every one was talking, laughing, smoking, buying oranges, nuts, wine, or cheap books from shouting venders, just as is done in some music halls to-day. Once the trumpet had sounded for the third time, indicating the beginning of the performance, a reasonable degree of quiet was restored, until a pause in the action let the uproar burst forth anew. At an Elizabethan theater there were no pauses for shifting scenes. Consequently the few introduced were determined either by convention or by breaks in the action. At the Blackfriars and more aristocratic theaters, there was music between the acts, but at the Globe this was not customary until a comparatively late date, if ever.

An audience like that at the Globe, made up of all sorts and conditions of men from the highest nobility to the lowest criminal, was, quite naturally, not easy to please as a whole. Yet, after all, the Elizabethans were less critical in some respects than we are. Although many comparatively cheap books were published, reading had not then become a habit, and a good plot was not the less appreciated because it was old. The audiences did, however, demand constant variety, so that plays had short runs, and most dramatists were forced to pay more attention to quantity  than to quality of production. The playwrights had, nevertheless, one great advantage over ours. Since the performances were given in the afternoon, and since theaters like the Globe were open to the weather, these men wrote for audiences which were fresh and wide-awake, ready to receive the best which the dramatist had to give.

It was under such conditions as these that Shakespeare worked. He wrote for all classes of people, men bound together, nevertheless, by a common enthusiasm for England's past and a common confidence in England's future; men who were constantly coming in contact with persons from all parts of Europe, with sailors and travelers who had seen the wonders of the New World and the Old; men so stimulated by new discoveries, by new achievements of every sort, that hardly anything, even the supernatural, seemed for them impossible. Outside of ancient Athens, no dramatist has had a more favorable environment.

CHAPTER V

SHAKESPEARE'S NONDRAMATIC WORKS

We shall later trace Shakespeare's development as a writer of plays. We must first, however, turn back to discuss some early productions of his, which were composed before most of his dramas, and which are wholly distinct from these in character.

Every young author who mixes with men notices what kinds of work other writers are producing, and is tempted to try his hand at every kind in turn. Later he learns that he is fitted for one particular kind of work; and, leaving other forms of writing to other men, devotes the rest of his life to his chosen field. So it was with Shakespeare. While a young man, he tried several different forms of poetry in imitation of contemporary versifiers, and thus produced the poems which we are to discuss in this chapter. Later he came to realize that his special genius was in the field of the drama, and abandoned other types of poetry to turn his whole energy toward the production of plays. Although unquestionably inferior to the author's greatest comedies and tragedies, these early poems are, in their kind, masterpieces of literature.

Venus and Adonis.—The first of these poems, a verse narrative of some 1204 lines, called Venus and Adonis, was printed in the spring of 1593 when the  author was about twenty-nine years old. As far as we have evidence, it was the first of all Shakespeare's works to appear in print;[1] but it is possible that some early plays were composed before it although printed after it.

Other poets of the day had been interested in retelling in their own way old stories of Greek and Roman literature, and Shakespeare, in Venus and Adonis, was engaged in the same task. The outline of the poem is taken (either directly or through an imitation of previous borrowers) from the Latin poet Ovid,[2] who lived in the time of Christ. Venus, the goddess of love, is enamored of a beautiful boy, called Adonis, and tries in vain by every device to win his affection. He repulses all her advances, and finally runs away to go hunting, and is killed by a wild boar. Venus mourns over his dead body, and causes a flower (the anemone or wind flower) to spring from his blood. Shakespeare's handling of the story shows both the virtues and the defects of a young writer. It is more diffuse, more wordy, than his later work, and written for the taste of another time than ours; but, on the other hand, it is full of vivid, picturesque language of melodious rhythm, and of charming little touches of country life.

Like most of Shakespeare's verse, it is written in iambic pentameter.[3] The poem is divided into stanzas  of six lines each, in which the first and third lines rime, the second and fourth, and the fifth and sixth. We represent this arrangement of rimes by saying that the rime scheme of the stanza is a, b, a, b, c, c, where the same letter represents the same riming sound at the ends of lines. As a specimen stanza, the following, often quoted because of the vivid picture it presents, is given. It describes a mettlesome horse.

"Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long, (a-)

Round breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide, (b-)

High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong, (a)

Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: (b)

Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, (c)

Save a proud rider on so proud a back." (c)

The Rape of Lucrece.—A year later, in 1594, when Shakespeare was thirty, he published another narrative poem, The Rape of Lucrece. The story of Lucrece had also come down from Ovid.[4] This poem is about 1800 lines in length. It tells the old legend, found at the beginning of all Roman histories, how Sextus Tarquin ravished Lucrece, the pure and beautiful wife of Collatine, one of the Roman nobles; how she killed herself rather than survive her shame; and how her husband and friends swore in revenge to dethrone the whole Tarquin family. This poem, as compared with Venus and Adonis, shows some traces of increasing maturity. The author does more serious and concentrated thinking as he writes. Whether or not it is a better poem is a question which every man must settle for himself. Its best passages are probably more impressive, its poorest ones more dull.

The form of stanza used here is known as "rime royal," which had become famous two centuries before as a favorite meter of the first great English poet, Geoffrey Chaucer. This stanza contains seven lines instead of six: the rime-scheme is as follows: a, b, a, b, b, c, c. The following is a specimen stanza from the poem:—

"Now stole upon the time the dead of night, (a)

When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes. (b)

No comfortable star did lend his light, (a)

No noise but owls' and wolves' death-boding cries; (b)

Now serves the season that they may surprise (b)

The silly lambs. Pure thoughts are dead and still, (c)

While lust and murder wakes to stain and kill." (c)

A significant fact about both of these poems is that they were dedicated to Henry Wriothesley (pronounced Wrisley or Rot'-es-ly), Earl of Southampton, who has already been mentioned as a friend and patron of Shakespeare. The dedication at the beginning of Venus and Adonis is conventional and almost timid in tone; that prefixed to the Lucrece seems to indicate a closer and more confident friendship which had grown up during the intervening year. Dedications to some prominent man were frequently prefixed to books by Elizabethan authors, either as a mark of love and respect to the person addressed, or in hopes that a little pecuniary help would result from this acceptable form of flattery. In Shakespeare's case it may possibly have fulfilled both of these purposes.

The Sonnets.—Besides these two narrative poems Shakespeare wrote numerous sonnets. In order to  understand his accomplishment in this form of poetry, some account of the type is necessary.

The sonnet may be briefly defined as a rimed poem in iambic pentameter, containing fourteen lines, divided into the octave of eight lines and the sextet of six.

The sonnet originated in southern Europe, and reached its highest stage of development in the hands of the great Italian poet Petrarch, who lived some two centuries before Shakespeare. As written by him it was characterized by a complicated rime scheme,[5]  which gave each one of these short poems an atmosphere of unusual elegance and polish.

Sonnets were often written in groups on a single theme. These were called sonnet sequences. Each separate poem was like a single facet of a diamond, illuminating the subject from a new point of view.

In the hands of Petrarch and other great writers of his own and later times, the sonnet became one of the most popular forms of verse in Europe. Such popularity for any particular type of literature never arises without a reason. The aim of the sonnet is to embody one single idea or emotion, one deep thought or wave of strong feeling, to concentrate the reader's whole mind on this one central idea, and to clinch it at the end by some epigrammatic phrase which will fasten it firmly in the reader's memory. For instance, in Milton's sonnet On his Blindness, the central idea is the glory of patience; and the last line drives this main idea home in words so pithily adapted that they have become almost proverbial.

During the sixteenth century, rich young Englishmen were in the habit of traveling in Italy for education and general culture. They brought home with them a great deal that they saw in this brilliant and highly educated country; and among other things they imported into England the Italian habit of writing sonnets. The first men who composed sonnets in English after the Italian models were two young noblemen, Sir Thomas Wyatt and the Earl of Surrey, who wrote just before Shakespeare was born. Their work called out a crowd of imitators; and in a few years the writing of sonnets became the fashion.

As a young man, Shakespeare found himself among a crowd of authors, with whom sonnetteering was a literary craze; and it is not surprising that he should follow the fashion. Most of these were probably composed about 1594, when the poet was thirty years old; but in regard to this there is some uncertainty. A few were certainly later. They were not printed in a complete volume until 1609;[6] and then they were issued by a piratical publisher, apparently without the author's consent.

In the Shakespearean sonnet the complicated rime scheme of its Italian original has become very much simplified, being reduced to the following form: a, b, a, b; c, d, c, d; e, f, e, f; g, g. This is merely three four-line stanzas with alternate rimes, plus a final couplet. Such a simplified form had already been used by other English authors, from whom our poet borrowed it.

Shakespeare's sonnets, apart from some scattered ones in his plays, are 154[7] in number. They are usually divided into two groups or sequences. The first sequence consists of numbers 1-126 (according to the original edition); and most of them are unquestionably addressed to a man. The second sequence contains numbers 127-154, and the majority of these are clearly written to a woman. There are a few in both groups which do not show clearly the sex of the person addressed, and also a few which are not addressed to any one.

Beyond some vague guesses, we have no idea as to the identity of the "dark lady" who inspired most of the last twenty-eight sonnets. Somewhat less uncertainty surrounds the man to whom the poet speaks in the first sequence. A not improbable theory is that he was the Earl of Southampton already mentioned, although this cannot be considered as proved.[8] The chief arguments which point to Southampton are: (a) That Shakespeare had already dedicated Venus and Adonis and Lucrece to him; (b) that he was regarded at that time as a patron of poets; (c) that the statements about this unnamed friend, his reluctance to marry, his fair complexion and personal beauty, his mixture of virtues and faults, fit Southampton better than any other man of that period whom we have any cause to associate with Shakespeare; and (d) that he was the only patron of Shakespeare's early years known to us, and was warmly interested in the poet.

The literary value of the different sonnets varies considerably. When an author is writing a fashionable  form of verse, he is apt to become more or less imitative and artificial at times, saying things merely because it is the vogue to say them; and Shakespeare here cannot be wholly acquitted of this fault. But at other times he speaks from heart to heart with a depth of real emotion and wealth of vivid expression which has given us some of the noblest poetry in the language.

Another question, more difficult to settle than the literary value of these poems, is their value as a revelation of Shakespeare's own life. If we could take in earnest everything which is said in the sonnets, we should learn a great many facts about the man who wrote them. But modern scholarship seems to feel more and more that we cannot take all their statements literally. We must remember here again that Shakespeare says many things because it was the fashion in his day for sonnetteers to say them. For example, he gives some eloquent descriptions of the woes of old age; but we know that contemporary poets lamented about old age when they had not yet reached years of discretion; and consequently we are not at all convinced that Shakespeare was either really old or prematurely aged. Such considerations need not interfere with our enjoyment of the poetry, for the author's imagination may have made a poetical fancy seem real to him as he wrote; but they certainly do not lessen our doubts in regard to the value of the sonnets as autobiography. The majority of the sonnets, at least, cannot be said to throw any light on Shakespeare's life.

There are, however, six sonnets, connected with each other in subject, which, more definitely than any of  the others, shadow forth a real event in the poet's life. These are numbers XL, XLI, XLII, CXXXIII, CXXXIV, CXLIV. They seem to show that a woman whom the poet loved had forsaken him for the man to whom the sonnets are written; and that the poet submits to this, owing to his deep friendship for the man. Two of these sonnets are given below.

SONNET 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,

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, yet not directly tell:

But being both from me, both to each friend,

I guess one angel in another's hell:

Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,

Till my bad angel fire my good one out."

SONNET XLI

"These pretty wrongs that liberty commits,

When I am sometime 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 assailed;

And when a woman woos, what woman's son

Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed?

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 forced to break a twofold truth,

Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee,

Thine, by thy beauty being false to me."

Again, in Sonnet CX, we find an allusion to the distasteful nature of the actor's profession which seems to ring sincere. Thus in a few cases Shakespeare may be giving us glimpses into his real heart; but in general the sentiments expressed in his sonnets could be explained as due to the literary conventions of this time.

Other Poems.—The two narrative poems and the sonnets make up most of Shakespeare's nondramatic poetry. A word may be added about some other scattered bits of verse which are connected with his name. In 1599 an unscrupulous publisher, named William Jaggard, brought out a book of miscellaneous poems by various authors, called The Passionate Pilgrim. Since Shakespeare was a popular writer, his name was sure to increase the sale of any book; so Jaggard, with an advertising instinct worthy of a later age, coolly printed the whole thing as the work of Shakespeare. As a matter of fact, only a few short pieces were by him; and were probably stolen from some private manuscript.

In 1601 a poem, The Phoenix and the Turtle, was also printed as his in an appendix to a longer poem by another man. We cannot trust the printer when he signs it with Shakespeare's name, and we have no other evidence about its authorship; but the majority of scholars believe it to be genuine. Another poem, A Lover's Complaint, which was printed in the same volume with the sonnets in 1609, is of distinctly less merit and probably spurious.

Lastly, the short poems incorporated in the plays deserve brief notice. In a way they are part of the plots in which they are embedded; but they may also be considered as separate lyrics. Several sonnets and verses in stanza form occur in Romeo and Juliet and in the early comedies. Three of these were printed as separate poems in The Passionate Pilgrim. Far more important than the above, however, are the songs which are scattered through all the plays early and late. Their merit is of a supreme quality; some of the most famous musical composers, inspired by his works, have graced them with admirable music. One of the most attractive features in his lyrics is their spontaneous ease of expression. They seem to lilt into music of their own accord, as naturally as birds sing. The best of these are found in the comedies of the Second Period and in the romantic plays of the Fourth. "Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more" in Much Ado About Nothing; "Blow, blow, thou winter wind" in As You Like it; "Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings" in Cymbeline; and "Full fathom five thy father lies" in The Tempest,—these and others like them show that the author, though primarily a dramatist, could be among the greatest of song writers when he tried.

The following lines taken from the little-read play, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, may serve to illustrate the perfection of the Shakespearean lyric.

SONG

Who is Sylvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her,

That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness:

Love doth to her eyes repair

To help him of his blindness,

And being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Sylvia let us sing,

That Sylvia is excelling;

She excels each mortal thing

Upon the dull earth dwelling;

To her let us garlands bring.

Such are Shakespeare's nondramatic writings. Two narrative poems with the faults of youth but with many redeeming virtues; one hundred and fifty-four sonnets, very unequal in merit but touching at their best the high-water mark of English verse; a few stray fragments of disputed authorship and doubtful value; and finally a handful of scattered songs, short, but almost perfect of their kind,—this is what we have outside of the plays. Neither in quantity nor quality can this work compare with the poetic value of the great dramas; but had it been written by any other man, we should have thought it wonderful enough.

[1] Shakespeare in his dedication calls it "the first heir of my invention"; but opinions differ as to what he meant by this.

[2] Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book X.

[3] That is, the common, or standard, line has ten syllables with an accent on every even syllable, as in the following line:—

1       2       3     4     5       6      7        8        9    10

The NIGHT of SORrow NOW is TURN'D to DAY.

[4] From his Fasti.

[5] The rime scheme of the Italian type divided each sonnet into two parts, the first one of eight lines, the second of six. In the first eight lines the rimes usually went a, b, b, a, a, b, b, a; but sometimes a, b, a, b, a, b, a, b: in both cases using only two rimes for the eight lines. In the second or six-line part there were several different arrangements, of which the following were the most common: (1) c, d, e, c, d, e; (2) c, d, c, d, c, d; (3) c, d, e, d, c, e. All of these rime-schemes alike were intended, by their constant repetition and interlocking of the same rimes, to give the whole poem an air of exquisite workmanship, like that of a finely modeled vase. Here is an English sonnet of Milton's, imitating the form of Petrarch's and illustrating its rime scheme:—

"When I consider how my light is spent (a)

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, (b)

And that one talent which is death to hide (b)

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent (a)

To serve therewith my Maker, and present (a)

My true account, lest He returning chide, (b)

Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? (b)

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent (a)

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need (c)

Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best (d)

Bear his mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state (e)

Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, (c)

And post o'er land and ocean without rest; (d)

They also serve who only stand and wait." (e)

[6] See Chapter IX..

[7] Including at least three which do not have in all respects the regular sonnet form.

[8] Southampton's chief rival for this position in the opinion of scholars has been William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke. One point in his favor has been that the initials W. H. (supposed to stand for William Herbert) are given as those of the person to whom the dedication of the volume was addressed by its publisher. Mr. Sidney Lee thinks, however, that this is a dedication by the printer to the printer's friend, not by Shakespeare to Shakespeare's friend,—a possible, though not wholly convincing, explanation. The First Folio was dedicated to Herbert after Shakespeare's death, but we have no evidence that the two men were intimate friends while living. Meres mentions the sonnets of Shakespeare in 1598, so part of them at least must have been written before that year; but Herbert did not have a permanent residence in London until 1598, and was then only eighteen years old.

CHAPTER VI

THE SEQUENCE OF SHAKESPEARE's PLAYS

The most profitable method of studying any writer is to take up his works in the order in which they were written. More and more this method is being adopted toward all authors, ancient and modern, Virgil or Milton, Dante or Tennyson. We are thus enabled to trace the gradual growth of the poet's mind from one production to another,—his constant increase in skill, in judgment, in knowledge of mankind. The great characteristic of the genius is, not simply that he knows more than other men at first, but that he has in him such vast possibilities of growth, of improving with time, and learning by his own mistakes. Consequently, it is very important to know that a certain play or poem is faulty because it was its author's first crude attempt; that a second is better because it was written five years later in the light of added experience; and that a third is better still because it came ten years after the second, at the climax of the writer's powers.

Besides showing the author's growth, this method also shows his relation to the great literary movements of his time. As fashions in dress and sports keep shifting, fashions in literature are changing just as constantly, and the dominant type may alter two or  three times during one man's life. If an author changes to meet these demands, it is important to know that one of his plays was merry comedy because written at a time when merry comedies filled all the playhouses; and that another is sober tragedy because composed while most of the theaters were acting and demanding sober tragedy.

Now Shakespeare not only improved a great deal while composing his plays, but also conformed, to some extent at least, to the different tastes of his audience at different periods of his life. Hence, a knowledge of the order in which his plays were written is very valuable, and should form the first step in a careful study of his writings.

Unfortunately, when we attempt to arrange Shakespeare's plays in chronological order, we encounter many practical difficulties in finding just what this order is. We know that Tennyson developed a great deal as a poet between the ages of eighteen and thirty-three; and we can show this by pointing to four successive volumes of his poems, published respectively at the ages of eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-three, and thirty-three, and each rising in merit above the one before it. We know definitely in what order these volumes come, for we find on the title-page of each the date when it was printed. But scarcely half of Shakespeare's plays were printed in this way during his life. The others, some twenty in all, are found only in one big folio volume which gives no hint of their proper order or year of composition, and which bears on its title-page the date of the printing, 1623, seven years after Shakespeare died. Many plays, too, published  early, were written some years before publication, so that the date of printing on the flyleaf of the quarto, even where a quarto exists, simply shows that the play was written sometime before that year but does not tell at all how long before. How, then, are we to trace Shakespeare's growth from year to year, through his successive dramas, when the quartos help us so little and when the majority of these dramas are piled before us in one volume by the editors of the First Folio, without a word of explanation as to which plays are early attempts and which mature work?

At first sight the above problem seems almost hopeless. The researches of scholars for over a century, however, have gathered together a mass of evidence which determines pretty accurately the order in which these different plays were written.

This evidence is of two kinds, external and internal. By external evidence we mean that found outside of the play, references to it in other books of the time, and similar material. By internal evidence we mean that found inside of the play itself.

External Evidence.—This is of several kinds. In the first place, every play which was to be printed had to be entered in the Stationers' Register, and all these entries are dated. Hence we know that certain plays were prepared for publication by the time mentioned. For instance, "A Book called Antony and Cleopatra" was entered May 20, 1608; and although apparently the book was not finally printed at that time, and although our only copy of Antony and Cleopatra is that in the Folio of 1623, yet we feel reasonably certain from this entry that this play must have been written either  in 1608 or earlier. In addition to the record of the Stationers' Register, we have the dates on the title-pages of such plays as appeared in Quarto. These evidences, it must be remembered, determine only the latest possible date for the play, as many were written long before they were printed, or even entered.

Again, other men sometimes used in their books expressions borrowed from Shakespeare or remarks which sound like allusions to something of his. Here, if we know the date of the other man's book, we learn that the play of Shakespeare from which he borrowed must have been in existence before that date. Thus, when the poet Barksted prints a poem in 1607 and borrows a passage in it from Measure for Measure, we conclude that Measure for Measure must have been produced before 1607, or Barksted could not have copied from it. This form of evidence has its dangers, since occasionally we cannot tell whether Shakespeare borrowed from the other man or the other man from him; nevertheless it is often valuable.

Furthermore, we sometimes find in contemporary books or papers, which are dated, an account of the acting of some play. A law student named John Manningham left a diary in which he records that on February 2, 1602 he saw a play called Twelfth Night or What You Will in the Hall of the Middle Temple; and his account of the play shows that it was Shakespeare's. Dr. Simon Forman, in a similar diary, describes the performance of three Shakespearean plays, two of the accounts being dated. Still more important in this class is the famous allusion, already quoted, by Francis Meres in his Palladis Tamia, a  book published in 1598. In this he mentions with high praise six comedies of Shakespeare: The Two Gentlemen of Verona, The Comedy of Errors, Love's Labour's Lost, Love's Labour's Won,[1] A Midsummer Night's Dream, and The Merchant of Venice; and six "tragedies": Richard II, Richard III, Henry IV, King John, Titus Andronicus, and Romeo and Juliet.[2] Hence, we know that all these plays were written and acted somewhere before 1598, although three of them did not appear in print until 1623.

The above list does not exhaust all the forms of external evidence, but merely shows its general nature. External evidence, as can be seen, is not something mysterious and peculiar, but simply an application of common sense to the problem in hand.

Frequently two pieces of external evidence will accomplish what neither one could do alone. Often one fact will show that a play came somewhere before a certain date, but not show how long before, and another will prove that the play came after another date, without telling how long after. For example, King Lear was written before 1606, for we have a definite statement that it was performed then. It was written after 1603, for it borrowed material from a book printed in that year. This method of hemming in a play between its earliest and its latest possible date is common and useful, both with Shakespeare and with other writers.

Internal Evidence.—By the above methods a few plays have been dated quite accurately, and many others confined between limits only two or three years  apart. But many plays are still dated very vaguely, and some are not dated at all. For further results we must fall back on internal evidence. The first, though by no means the most important, form of this consists of allusions within the play to contemporary events. If a boy should read in an old diary of his grandmother's that she had just heard of the fight at Gettysburg, he would feel certain that the words were written a few days after that great battle, even if there were no date anywhere in the manuscript. In the same way, when the Prologue of Shakespeare's Henry V alludes to the fact that Elizabeth's general (the Earl of Essex) is in Ireland quelling a rebellion, we know that this was written between April and September of 1599, the period during which Essex actually was in Ireland. Similarly, certain details in The Tempest appear to have been borrowed from accounts of the wreck of Sir George Somers's ship in 1609. As Shakespeare could not have borrowed from these accounts before they existed, he must have written his comedy sometime after 1609.[3]

But the main form of internal evidence, what is usually meant by that term, is the testimony in the character and style of the plays themselves as to the maturity of the man who wrote them. Just as the stump of a tree sawn across shows its age by its successive rings of growth, so a poem, if carefully  examined, shows the rings of growth in the author's style of thought and expression.

The simplest and most tangible form of this evidence is that which is found in meter. If we read in order of composition those plays which we have already succeeded in dating, we shall find certain habits of versification steadily growing on the author, as play succeeded play.

In the first place, most of the lines in the early plays are 'end-stopped'; that is, the sense halts at the close of each line with a resulting pause in reading. In the later plays the sense frequently runs over from one line into another, producing what is called a 'run-on' line instead of an 'end-stopped' one. By comparing the following passages, the first of which contains nothing but end-stopped lines and the second several run-on lines, the reader can easily see the difference.

(a) From an early play:—

"I from my mistress come to you in post:

If I return, I shall be post indeed,

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."

—Comedy of Errors, I, ii, 63-67.

(b) From a late play:—

"Mark your divorce, young sir, [end-stopped]

Whom son I dare not call. Thou art too base [run-on]

To be acknowledg'd. Thou, a sceptre's heir, [end-stopped]

That thus affects a sheep-hook! Thou old traitor, [end-stopped]

I am sorry that by hanging thee I can [run-on]

But shorten your life one week. And thou, fresh piece [run-on]

Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know [end-stopped]

The royal fool thou cop'st with...—"

—Winter's Tale, IV, iv, 427-434.

Since Shakespeare keeps constantly increasing his use of run-on lines in plays for which dates are known, it seems reasonable to assume that he did this in all his work, that it was a habit which grew on him from year to year. Hence, if we sort out his plays in order, putting those with the fewest run-on lines first and those with the greatest number last, we shall have good reason for believing that this represents roughly the order in which they were written.

A second form of metrical evidence is found in the proportion of 'masculine' and 'feminine' endings in the verse. A line has a masculine ending when its last syllable is stressed; when it ends, for example, on words or phrases like behold', control', no more', begone'. On the other hand, if the last stressed syllable of the line is followed by an unstressed one, the two together are called a feminine ending. Instances of this would be lines ending in such words or phrases as, unho'/ly, forgive' /me, benight'/ed. Notice the difference between them in the following passage:—

"Our revels now are ended. These our actors [feminine]

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and [masculine]

Are melted into air, into thin air; [masculine]

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, [feminine]

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, [feminine]

The solemn temples, the great globe itself, [masculine]

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, [masculine]

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, [feminine]

Leave not a rack behind."

—Tempest, IV, i, 147-166.

In the main, although with some exceptions, the number of feminine endings, like the number of run-on lines, increases as the plays become later in date.

A third form of ending, which practically does not appear at all in the early plays, and which recurs with increasing frequency in the later ones, is what is called a 'weak ending.'[4] This occurs whenever a run-on line ends in a word which according to the meter needs to be stressed, and according to the sense ought not to be. Here there is a clash between meter and meaning, and the reader compromises by making a pause before the last syllable instead of emphasizing the syllable itself. Below are two examples of weak endings:—

"It should the good ship so have swallowed, and

The fraughting souls within her."

"I will rend an oak

And peg thee in his knotty entrails till

Thou hast howled away twelve winters."

Lastly, we have the evidence of rime. Run-on lines, feminine endings, and weak endings constantly increase as Shakespeare grows older. Rime, on the other hand, in general decreases. The early plays are  full of it; the later ones have very little. It does not follow that the chronological order of the individual plays could be exactly determined by their percentage of riming lines, for subject matter makes a great difference. In a staged fairy story, like A Midsummer Night's Dream, the poet would naturally fall into couplets. But, other things being equal, a large amount of rime is always a sign of early work. This is especially true when the rimes occur, not in pairs, but in quatrains or sonnet forms, or (as they sometimes do in the first comedies) in scraps of sing-song doggerel.

Such is the internal evidence from the various changes in versification. Its value, as must always be remembered, lies in the fact that the results of these different tests in the main agree with each other and with such external evidence as we have.

Then, wholly aside from metrical details, there is a large amount of internal evidence of other kinds,—evidence which cannot be measured by the rule of thumb, but which every intelligent reader must notice. We feel instinctively that one play mirrors the views and emotions of youth, another those of middle age. A man's face does not change more between twenty-five and forty than his mind changes during the same interval; and the difference between his thoughts at those periods is as distinct often as the difference between the rounded lines of youth and the stern features of middle age. This is a subject which will be better understood in the light of the next chapter.

The Order of the Plays.—Upon such evidence as has been described, a list of Shakespeare's plays in their  chronological order can now be presented. The details of evidence on date may be found in the account of the plays which appears in Chapters X-XIII.

Love's Labour's Lost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1590-1591

The Comedy of Errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1590-1591

II and III Henry VI  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1590-1592

Richard III  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1592-1593

Two Gentlemen of Verona  . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1592

King John  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1592-1593

Richard II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1593-1594

Titus Andronicus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1593-1594

Midsummer Night's Dream  . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1593-1596

Romeo and Juliet . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1591, revised 1597

The Merchant of Venice . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1594-1596

The Taming of the Shrew  . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1596-1597

I Henry IV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1597

II Henry IV  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1598

Henry V  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1599

Merry Wives of Windsor . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1599

Much Ado about Nothing . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1599

As You Like It . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1599-1600

Julius Caesar  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1699-1601

Twelfth Night  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1601

Troilus and Cressida . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1602

All's Well That Ends Well  . . . . . . . . . . . .  1602

Hamlet . . . . . . . . . . .  1602, 1603-1604 (two versions).

Measure for Measure  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1603

Othello  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1604

King Lear  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1604-1605

Macbeth  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1605-1606

Antony and Cleopatra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1607-1608

Timon of Athens  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1607-1608

Pericles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1608

Coriolanus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1609

Cymbeline  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1610

The Winter's Tale  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1610-1611

The Tempest  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1611

King Henry the Eighth  . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  1612-1613

[1] This play is either lost, or preserved under another title.

[2] Quoted in full in Chapter I.

[3] This form of evidence is usually weak and unreliable. Most of the supposed allusions are much more vague than the two given. Where there have been similar events in history, the allusion might be to one which we had forgotten when we thought it was to a similar one which we knew.

[4] Mr. Ingram makes a distinction between "light" and "weak" endings. Both are classed together as weak endings above. The distinction seems to us too subtle for any but professional students.

CHAPTER VII

SHAKESPEARE'S DEVELOPMENT AS A DRAMATIST

As the reader will remember, our main aim in attempting to date Shakespeare's plays was to trace through them his development as a dramatist and poet. Just as the successive chambers of the nautilus shell show the stages of growth of its dead and vanished tenant, so the plays of Shakespeare show how

"Each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut him from heaven with a dome more vast."

The great thing which distinguishes the genius from the ordinary man, we repeat, is his power of constant improvement; and we can trace this improvement here from achievements less than those of many a modern writer up to the noblest masterpieces of all time.

Much of the material connected with this development has already been discussed in another connection under Internal Evidence. Internal evidence, however, that one play is later than another, is nothing else than the marks of intellectual growth in the poet's mind between those two dates. We arrange the plays in order according to indications of intellectual growth, just as one could fit together again the broken fragments of a nautilus shell, guided by the relative size of the ever expanding chambers. So, in  discussing Shakespeare's development, we must bring up much old material, examining it from a different point of view.

Meter.—In the first place, the poet develops wonderfully in the command of his medium of expression; that is, in his mastery of meter. What is meant by the fact that as Shakespeare grew older, wiser, more experienced, he used more run-on lines, more weak endings, more feminine endings? Simply this, that by means of these devices he gained more variety and expressiveness in his verse. A passage from his early work (in spite of much that is fine) with every ending alike masculine and strong, and with every line end-stopped, harps away tediously in the same swing, like one lonely instrument on one monotonous note. His later verse, on the other hand, with masculine and feminine endings, weak ones and strong, end-stopped and run-on lines, continually relieving each other, is like the blended music of a great orchestra, continually varying, now stern, now soft, in harmony with the thought it expresses. Below are given two passages, the first from an early play, the second from a late one. In print one may look as well as the other; but if one reads them aloud, he will see in a moment how much more variety and expressiveness there is in the second, especially for the purposes of acting.

"Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour,

But think upon my grief, a lady's grief,

And on the justice of my flying hence,

To keep me from a most unholy match,

Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues.

I do desire thee, even from a heart.

As full of sorrows as the sea of sands,

To bear me company and go with me;

If not, to hide what I have said to thee,

That I may venture to depart alone."

—Two Gentlemen of Verona, IV, iii, 27-36.

"By whose aid,

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

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 plucked up

The pine and cedar; graves at my command

Have wak'd their sleepers, op'd, and let 'em 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

This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,

And deeper than did ever plummet sound

I'll drown my book."

—Tempest, V, i, 40-57.

The same reason shows why Shakespeare used less and less rime as his taste and experience ripened. Rime is a valuable ornament for songs and lyric poetry generally; but from poetry which is actually to be acted on the English stage it takes away the most indispensable of all qualities, the natural, life-like tone of real speech. Notice this in the difference between the two extracts below. Observe how stilted and artificial the first one seems; and see how the second combines the melody and dignity of poetry with the simple naturalness of living language.

"This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease,

And utters it again when God doth please.

He is wit's pedler, 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."

—Love's Labour's Lost, V, ii, 315-321

"I was not much afeard; for once or twice

I was about to speak and tell him plainly

The self-same sun that shines upon his court

Hides not his visage from our cottage, but

Looks on all alike. Will't please you, sir, be gone?

I told you what would come of this. Beseech you,

Of your own state take care. This dream of mine—

Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch farther,

But milk my ewes and weep."

—Winter's Tale, IV, iv, 452-400.

I do not mean to imply by the above that Shakespeare's early verse is poor according to ordinary standards. It is not; it contains much that is fine. But it is far inferior to his later work, and it is inferior in those very details which time and experience alone can teach.

An important point to remember is that while Shakespeare was growing in metrical skill, he was not growing alone. A crowd of other authors around him were developing in a similar way; and he was learning from them and they from him. The use of blank verse in English when Shakespeare began to write was a comparatively new practice, and, like all new inventions, for a time it was only imperfectly understood. Men  had to learn by experiments and by each other's successes and failures, just as men in recent years have learned to fly. Shakespeare surpassed all the others, as the Wright brothers in their first years surpassed all their fellow-aeronauts; but like the Wright brothers he was only part of a general movement. No other man changed as much as he in one lifetime, but the whole system of dramatic versification was changing.

Taste.—But wholly aside from questions of meter, Shakespeare improved greatly in taste and judgment between the beginning and middle of his career. This is shown especially in his humor. To the young man humor means nothing but the cause for a temporary laugh; to a more developed mind it becomes a pleasant sunshine that lingers in the memory long after reading, and interprets all life in a manner more cheerful, sympathetic, and sane. The early comedies give us nothing but the temporary laugh; and even this is produced chiefly by fantastic situations or plays on words, clever but far-fetched, puns and conceits so overworked that their very cleverness jars at times. On the other hand, in the great humorous characters of his middle period, like Falstaff and Beatrice, the poet is opening up to us new vistas of quiet, lasting amusement and indulgent knowledge of our imperfect but lovable fellow-men.

The same growth of taste is shown in the dramatist's increasing tendency to tone down all revolting details and avoid flowery, overwrought rhetoric. Nobody knows whether Shakespeare wrote all of Titus Andronicus entire or simply revised it; but we feel sure that the older Shakespeare would have been unwilling, even as  a reviser, to squander so much that is beautiful on such an orgy of blood and violence. Romeo and Juliet is full of beautiful poetry; but even here occasional lapses show the undeveloped taste of the young writer. Notice the flowery and fantastic imagery in the following passage, where Lady Capulet is praising Paris, her daughter's intended husband:—

"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,

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.

The fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much pride

For fair without the fair within to hide.

That book in many's eyes doth share the glory,

That in gold clasps locks in the golden story."

—Romeo and Juliet, I, iii, 81-92.

If we try to picture to ourselves the post-wedlock edition of Paris described above, we shall see how a young man's imagination may run away with his judgment. There are passages in this play as good, perhaps, as anything which the author ever wrote; but if we compare such fantastic imagery with the uniform excellence of the later masterpieces, we shall see how much Shakespeare unlearned and outgrew.

Character Study.—Still more significant is the poet's development in the conception of character. In no other way, probably, does an observant mind change and expand so much as in this. For the infant all men fall into two very simple categories:—people whom he likes  and people whom he doesn't. The boy of ten has increased these two classes to six or eight. The young man of twenty finds a few more, and begins to suspect that men who act alike may not have the same motives and emotions. But as the keen-eyed observer nears middle age, he begins to realize that no two souls are exact duplicates of each other; and that behind every human eye there lies an undiscovered country, as mysterious, as fascinating, as that which Alice found behind the looking-glass,—a country like, and yet unlike, the one we know, where dreams grow beautiful as tropic plants, and passions crouch like wild beasts in the jungle.

Great as he was, Shakespeare had to learn this lesson like other men; but he learned it much better. In Love's Labour's Lost, generally considered his earliest play, he has not led us into the inner selves of his men and women at all, has not seemed to realize that they possess inner selves. At the conclusion we know precisely as much of them as we should if we had met them at a formal reception, and no more. The princess is pretty and clever on dress parade; but how does the real princess feel when parade is over and she is alone in her chamber? The later Shakespeare might have told us, did tell us, in regard to more than one other princess; but the young Shakespeare has nothing to tell.

Richard III, which is supposed to have come some three years later, is a marked advance in characterization, but still far short of the goal. Here the dramatist attempts, indeed, to analyze the tyrant's motives and emotions; but he does not yet understand what  he is trying to explain, and for that reason the being whom he creates is portentous, but not human. To understand this, you need only compare Richard with Macbeth. In Macbeth we have a host of different forces—ambition, superstition, poetry, remorse, vacillation, affection, despair—all struggling together as they might in you or me; and it is this mingling of feelings with which we all can sympathize that makes him, in spite of all his crimes, a human being like ourselves. But in Richard there is no human complexity. His is the fearful simplicity of the lightning, the battering-ram, the earthquake, forces whose achievements are terrible and whose inner existence a blank. Richard hammers his bloody way through life like the legendary Iron Man with his flail, awe-inspiring as a destructive agency, not as a human being.

Two or three years later we find Shakespeare in his conception of Shylock capable of greater things as a student of character. In this pathetic, lonely, vindictive figure, exiled forever from the warm fireside of human friendship by those inherent faults which he can no more change than the tiger can change his claws, the long tragedy which accompanies the survival of the fittest finds a voice. Yet even in Shylock the dramatist has not reached his highest achievement in character study. The old Jew is drawn splendidly to the life, but he is a comparatively easy character to draw, a man with a few simple and prominent traits. Depicting such a man is like drawing a pronounced Roman profile, less difficult to do, and less satisfactory when done, than tracing the subdued curves of a more evenly rounded face. Still greater will be the triumph  when Shakespeare can draw equally true to life a many-sided man or woman, in whose single heart all our different experiences find a sympathetic echo.

And this final triumph is not long in coming. Between his thirty-fourth and thirty-eighth years, in Falstaff and Hamlet the poet produced the greatest comic and the greatest tragic character of dramatic history. The man who has read Hamlet understandingly has found in the young prince a lifelong companion. Has he been unjustly treated? Hamlet, too, had suffered and hated. Has he loved? So had Hamlet. Has he had a bosom friend? The most sacred and beautiful of college friendships was that between Hamlet and Horatio. Has he been bored by some stupid old adviser? So had Hamlet by Polonius and similar "tedious old fools." Has he been thrilled by some beautiful landscape? Hamlet, too, had admired "this goodly frame, the earth" and the sky, "that majestical roof fretted with golden fire." Has he had a parent whom he loved and admired? So had Hamlet in his father. Has he had a friend for whom his love was mixed with shame? So felt Hamlet toward his mother. Has he felt the pride of a great deed bravely accomplished? So did Hamlet in dying. Has he felt the shame and remorse of a duty unperformed? So did Hamlet while his father was still unrevenged. Has he shuddered at the mystery of death? So had Hamlet shuddered at "that undiscovered country." Or has he been racked, as all good men are in practical life, by the doubt as to what is his duty? So had Hamlet been racked by the same terrible responsibility. And thus we might go on indefinitely. The  experience of a lifetime is packed into this play. Shakespeare never surpassed Hamlet, though he wrote for nine or ten years after; but when he had once reached this high level, he maintained it, with only occasional lapses, to the end.

Dramatic Technique.—Lastly, Shakespeare developed greatly in dramatic technique. By dramatic technique we mean the method in which the machinery of the story is handled. The dramatist, to do his duty properly, must accomplish at least five things at once. He must make his play lifelike and natural; he must keep his hearers well informed as to what is happening; he must bring in different events after each other in rapid succession to hold the interest of his audience; he must make the different characters influence each other so that the whole becomes one connected story, not several unrelated ones; and he must make the audience feel that the play is working toward a certain inevitable end, must bring it to that end, and must then stop. The lack of any one of these factors may make a play either dull or disappointing. It takes ability to get any one of these alone. It takes years of training before even a born genius can work them all in together. Of course, these details are much easier to handle in dramatizing some subjects than others; and we find Shakespeare succeeding comparatively early in easy subjects and making mistakes later in harder ones; but, on the whole, in dramatic technique as in other things, his history is one of increasing power and judgment.

Here, again, as in his metrical development, Shakespeare was merely one leading figure in a popular  movement. Through a long evolution the English drama had just come into existence when he began to write. There were no settled theories about this new art, no results of long experience such as lie at the service of the modern dramatist. All men were experimenting, and Shakespeare among the rest.

His early play of Love's Labour's Lost has already been used to illustrate lack of characterization. In technique, also, in spite of many marks of natural brilliance, it shows the faults of the beginner. The story in the first three acts does not move on fast enough; there is a lack of that rapid series of connected events which we mentioned above and which adds so much to the interest of the later plays, like Macbeth. Likewise, the characters in the prose underplot (except Costard) have too little connection with the story of the king and his friends. In very badly constructed plays this lack of connection sometimes goes so far that the main and under plots seem like two separate serial stories in a magazine, in which the reader alternates from one to the other, but never thinks of them as one. This obviously is bad, for just when the reader is most interested in one, he is interrupted and has to lay it aside for the other. No play of Shakespeare's errs so far as that; but the defect in Love's Labour's Lost is similar in a very modified form. Neither is this comedy as successful as the author's later plays in preparing us for a certain ending as the inevitable outcome and then placing that ending before us. We are led to expect that all four love affairs must be successful, and shall feel disappointed if the sympathetic dreams which we have woven around that idea  are not satisfied. Yet the play ends hurriedly in a way which leaves us all in doubt, and disappointed, like guests who have been invited to a wedding and find it indefinitely postponed. There is a wonderful amount of clever dialogue in this comedy, but its structure shows how much the author had yet to learn.

The Two Gentleman of Verona, probably written a little later, shows improvement, but by no means perfect mastery. The first two acts still drag, although the play moves more rapidly when it is under way. The inability to lead up naturally to an inevitable end still persists. The young author, well as he has managed the middle of the play, does not wait for events to take their logical course. He winds up everything abruptly like a man who has just changed his mind or become tired of his task, and marries the most lovable girl in the play to a rascal who is scarcely given time for even a pretense of reformation.

The Merchant of Venice, two or three years later, shows a great advance in technique as in other ways. Notice how skillfully the dramatist makes the different characters all influence each other's lives, so that the interest in one becomes the interest in all. There is one story in the relations of Shylock and Antonio, another in the love affair of Lorenzo and Jessica, and a third in Bassanio's courtship of Portia. There is also a fourth, a sequel to Bassanio's courtship, in the trick which his wife plays on him with regard to the rings after they are married. Yet we never feel an unpleasant interruption when we are stopped in one story and started in one of the others, because the interest of the first lives on in the second,  owing to the interrelation of the people taking part in both. We leave Shylock's story to take up Jessica's, but Jessica is Shylock's child, and our interest in the fate of his ducats and his daughter, which began in his story, goes on in hers. We leave Antonio's story to take up Bassanio's; but Antonio's story was that of sacrifice for a friend, and in Bassanio's we see the fruit of that sacrifice in his friend's joy. Moreover, all four of the above threads of action are knotted together in one scene where Bassanio chooses the right casket. Of the swift succession of exciting scenes of the natural way in which these lead up to the final end, of the lifelike truthfulness with which each little event is made to work itself out, there is no need to speak here.

Though Shakespeare was not a third through his literary career when he wrote The Merchant of Venice, he had by this time mastered the technique of comedy; and we need trace his course in it no farther. Much Ado and Twelfth Night somewhat later, and The Tempest long years after, are simply repetitions so far as technique is concerned, of this early triumph. Let us turn now from comedy to those plays which deal with the sterner side of life. Here the development in technical skill is similar, but much slower, requiring nearly a lifetime before it reaches perfection, for the poet is grappling with a problem so difficult that it taxed all the resources of his great genius.

Before 1599 nearly all Shakespeare's plays which were not comedies were histories. By a history or chronicle play we mean a play which pictures some epoch in the past of the English nation. In one sense  of the word, most of them are tragedies, since they frequently result in death and disaster; but they are always separated as a class from tragedy proper, because they represent some great event in English national life centering around some king or leader; while tragedy proper deals with the misfortunes of some one man in any country, and regards him as an individual rather than as a national figure. They differ also in purpose, since the chronicle play was intended to appeal to Anglo-Saxon patriotism, the tragedy to our sympathy with human suffering in general.

The first and crudest of Shakespeare's histories written at about the same time as his first comedy is the triple play of Henry VI.[1] We should hesitate to judge him by this, since he wrote it only in part; but it is a woefully rambling production in which we no sooner become interested in one character than we lose him, and are asked to transfer our sympathies to another. Richard III is a great step forward in this respect; for the excitement and interest focuses uninterruptedly on the one central figure; and his influence on other men and theirs on him bind all the events of the drama into one coherent whole. Also, it moves straight on to a definite end which we know and wish and are prepared for beforehand. We feel, even in the midst of his success, that such a bloody tyrant cannot be tolerated forever; and like men in a tiger hunt we thrill beforehand at the dramatic catastrophe which we know is coming. Richard III, though, a powerful play, is  still crude in many details. The scenes where Margaret curses her enemies, though strong as poetry, lack action as drama. In a wholly different way, they clog the onward movement of the story almost as much as some scenes in Love's Labour's Lost. Then again, one of the most important requirements for good technique is that everything shall be true to life. When Anne, for the sake of a little bare-faced flattery, marries a man whom she loathes, we feel that no real woman would have done this. From that moment Anne becomes a mere paper automaton to us, and we can no longer be interested in her as we would in a living woman. The motivation, as it is called, the art of showing adequately why every person should act as he or she does, is sadly lacking.

Moving onward a few years, we find marked improvement in I Henry IV. It is indeed not technically perfect,—in fact, Shakespeare in the chronicle play never attained what seems to modern students technical perfection,—but its minor defects are thrown into shadow by its splendid virtues. The three stories of Hotspur, the King, and the Falstaff group, though partially united by their common connection with Prince Hal, do not blend together as perfectly as the different plots in The Merchant of Venice, and there is some truth in the idea that the play has four heroes instead of one. But in spite of this, its general impression as a great panorama of English life is remarkably clear and delightful; and it improves on Richard III in its swift succession of incident, and vastly surpasses it in the lifelike truth of its motivation.

In the middle of his career Shakespeare dropped  the chronicle play, and instead began the writing of tragedies proper. He carried into this, however, the lessons learned from his experience with histories, and continued to improve. Julius Caesar marks the transition from chronicle play to tragedy. The lack of close connection between the third and fourth acts and the absence of one central hero are characteristic defects of the chronicle play which the dramatist had not yet outgrown. Hamlet, coming next, has shaken off all the lingering relics of the older type. Of its general excellence there is no need to speak. Yet even in Hamlet the action at times halts and becomes disjointed. Caesar and Hamlet are great plays, the latter, perhaps, the greatest of all plays; but, transfigured as they are by genius, they show that in the difficult problem of tragic technique the author was learning still. At the age of forty, approximately, and a year or two after Hamlet, Shakespeare produced Othello, the most perfect, although not necessarily the greatest, of all his great tragedies. It is less profoundly reflective than Hamlet and less passionately imaginative than King Lear or Macbeth; but no other of his masterpieces shows such perfect balance of taste and judgment, or is so free from any jarring note. Hence, through the histories and tragedies taken together, we see the same growth in technical skill which we have already found in his comedies, save that it took longer here because the poet was working in a more difficult field. It would not be true to say that each play up to Othello is superior to its immediate predecessor in technique, still less that it is so in absolute merit; but the general upward tendency is there.

The Four Periods.—Such was Shakespeare's development in meter, in taste, in conception of character, and in dramatic technique. In line with this development, it has been customary to divide his literary career into four periods and his plays into four corresponding groups. These groups or periods are characterized partly by their different degrees of maturity, but more by the difference in the character of the plays during these intervals.

The First Period includes all plays which there is good reason for dating before 1595. In this the great dramatist was serving his literary apprenticeship, learning the difficult art of play writing, and learning it by experiments and mistakes. In the course of his experiments, he tried many different types, tragedies, histories, comedies, and rewrote old plays either alone or with a more experienced playwright to help him. Nearly all of this work is full of promise; most of it is also full of faults. Here belong the early comedies mentioned above—Love's Labour's Lost and The Two Gentlemen of Verona. Here is the crude but powerful Richard III, and Romeo and Juliet, the early faults of which are redeemed by such a wealth of youthful poetic fire.

The Second Period extends roughly from 1595 to 1600. The poet has learned his profession now, is no longer a beginner but a master, though hardly yet at the summit of his powers. Here are included three chronicle plays, the two parts of King Henry IV and King Henry V, and six comedies. One of the earliest of these comedies was The Merchant of Venice, already mentioned. Three others, a little later,—Much Ado, Twelfth  Night, and As You Like It,—are usually regarded as Shakespeare's crowning achievement in the world of mirth and humor. In this group of plays, whether history or comedy, the author is depicting chiefly the cheerful, energetic side of life.

The Third Period really begins about 1599, for this and the second overlap; and it continues to about 1608. In the plays of this group the poet becomes interested in a wholly new set of themes. The aspects of life which he interprets are no longer bright and cheerful, but stern and sad. Here come the great tragedies, several of which we have mentioned above—Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, Antony and Cleopatra. Shakespeare is now at the height of his power, for his greatest masterpieces are included in the above list. Mixed in with this wealth of splendid tragedy (though inferior to it in merit), there are also three comedies. But even the comedies share in the somber gloom which absorbed the poet's attention during this period. The comedies before 1600 had been full of sunshine, brimming with kindly, good-natured mirth, overflowing with the genial laughter which makes us love the very men at whom we are laughing. But the three comedies of this Third Period are bitter and sarcastic in their wit, making us despise the people who furnish us fun, and leaving an unpleasant taste in the mouth after the laugh is over. Some have assumed that the dark tinge of this period was due to an unknown sorrow in the poet's own life, but there seems to be no need of any such assumption. We may become interested in reading cheerful books one year and sad ones the next without being more cheerful or  more sad in one year than in the other; and what is true of the reader might reasonably be true of the writer. But whatever the cause which influenced Shakespeare, the tragedies of this group are the saddest as well as the greatest of all his plays.

The Fourth and last Period contains plays written after 1608-1609. There are only five of these, and since Pericles and Henry VII are in large part by other hands, our interest focuses chiefly on the remaining three—The Tempest, Cymbeline, and The Winter's Tale. All the plays of this period end happily and are wholly free from the bitterness of the Third Period comedy. Nevertheless, they have little of the rollicking, uproarious fun of the earlier comedies. Their charm lies rather in a subdued cheerfulness, a quiet, pure, sympathetic serenity of tone, less strenuous, but even more poetic, than what had gone before. In some ways they are hardly equal to the great tragedies just mentioned, for the poet is growing older now, and the fiery vigor of Macbeth is fading out of his verse. But in loftiness of thought and tenderness of feeling these later romances are equal to anything that the author ever gave us.

Whether other causes influenced him or not, Shakespeare was doubtless in these four periods conforming to some extent to the literary tendencies of the hour. The writings of his contemporaries also show a larger percentage of comedies between 1595-1600 than between 1590-1595. Many other dramatists, too, were writing histories while he was, and dropped them at about the same time. Likewise during his Fourth Period three-quarters of all the plays written by other men were comedies, the most successful of them in a similar  romantic tone. On the whole, too, other writers produced a rather larger percentage of tragedies during 1601-1607 than at any other time while Shakespeare was writing, although the change was not nearly as marked in them as in him. But whether the influence of contemporaries was great or small, these periods exist; and the individual plays can be better understood if read in the light of the groups to which they belong.

[1] These plays are throughout designated as I, II, and III Henry VI.

CHAPTER VIII

THE CHIEF SOURCES OF SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS

Shakespeare and Plagiarism.—Among the curious alterations in public sentiment that have come in the last century or two, none is more striking than the change of attitude in regard to what is called "plagiarism." Plagiarism may be defined as the appropriation for one's own use of the literary ideas of another. The laws of patent and of copyright have led us into thinking that the ideas of a play must not be borrowed in any degree, but must originate in every detail with the writer. This is as if we should say to an inventor, "Yes, you may have invented a safety trigger for revolvers, but you must not apply it to revolvers until you have invented a completely new type of revolver from the original matchlock."

But the playwright of to-day cannot help plagiarizing his technique, many of his situations, and even his plots from earlier plays; consequently, he tries to conceal his borrowings, to placate public opinion by changing the names and the environment of his characters.

The Elizabethan audiences were less exacting. If a play about King Lear were written and acted with some success, they thought it perfectly honest for another dramatist to use this material in building up a new and better play on the story of King Lear. They cared  even less when the dramatist went to other dramas for hints on minor details. The modern audience, if not the modern world at large, holds the same view. So long as the mind of the borrower transforms and makes his own whatever he borrows, so long will his work be applauded by his audience, whatever be the existing state of the copyright laws or of public fastidiousness.

Hence we do not to-day hunt up the sources of Shakespeare's plots and characters in order to prove plagiarism, but in order to understand just how great was the power of his genius in transmuting common elements into his fine gold.

It is customary to say: "Shakespeare did not invent his plots. He was not interested in plots." So far is this from the truth that the amount of pains and skill spent by him in working over any one of his best comedies or tragedies would more than suffice for the construction of a very good modern plot. It is more true to say of most of his work, "Shakespeare did not waste his time in inventing stories.[1] He took stories where he found them, realized their dramatic possibilities, and spent infinite pains in weaving them together into a harmonious whole."

There is one other point to remember. The sources of Shakespeare's plays were no better literary material than the sources of most Elizabethan plays. Shakespeare's practice in adapting older plays was  the common practice of the time. We can measure, therefore, the greatness of Shakespeare's achievement by a comparison with what others have made out of similar material.

Just as Shakespeare's plays fall into the groups of history, tragedy, and comedy, so his chief sources are three in number: biography, as found in the Chronicle of Holinshed and Plutarch's Lives; romance, as found in the novels of the period, which were most of them translations from Italian novelle; and dramatic material from other plays.

Holinshed.—Raphael Holinshed (died 1580?) published in 1578 a history of England, Scotland, and Ireland, usually known as Holinshed's Chronicle. The two immense folio volumes contain an account of Britain "from its first inhabiting" up to his own day, largely made up by combining the works of previous historians. The Chronicle bears evidence, however, of enormous and painstaking research which makes it valuable even now. Holinshed's style was clear, but not possessed of any distinctly literary quality. Much of what Shakespeare used was indeed but a paraphrase of an earlier chronicler, Edward Hall. Holinshed was uncritical, too, since he made no attempt to separate the legendary from the truly historical material. So far as drama is concerned, however, this was rather a help than a hindrance, since legend often crystallizes most truly the spirit of a career in an act or a saying which never had basis in fact. The work is notable chiefly for its patriotic tone, of which there is certainly more than an echo in Shakespeare's historical plays. But the effects of  steadfast continuity of national purpose, of a belief in the greatness of England, and of an insistent appeal to patriotism, which are such important elements in Shakespeare's histories, are totally wanting in Holinshed.

Not only are all of the histories of Shakespeare based either directly or through the medium of other plays upon Holinshed, but his two great tragedies, Macbeth and King Lear (the latter through an earlier play), and his comedy Cymbeline are also chiefly indebted to it. The work was, moreover, the source of many plays by other dramatists.

Plutarch.—Plutarch of Chaeronea, a Greek author of the first century A.D., wrote forty-six "parallel" Lives, of famous Greeks and Romans. Each famous Greek was contrasted with a famous Roman whose career was somewhat similar to his own. The Lives have been ever since among the most popular of the classics, for they are more than mere biographies. They are the interpretation of two worlds, with all their tragic history, by one who felt the fatal force of a resistless destiny.

A scholarly French translation of Plutarch's Lives was published in 1559 by Jacques Amyot, Bishop of Bellozane. Twenty years after (1579) Thomas North, later Sir Thomas, published his magnificent English version.[2] The vigor and spirit which he flung into his work can only be compared to that of William Tyndale in his translation of the New Testament. Here was very different material for drama from the  dry bones of history offered by Holinshed. Shakespeare paid North the sincerest compliment by borrowing, particularly in Antony and Cleopatra, and Coriolanus, not only the general story, but whole speeches with only those changes necessary for making blank verse out of prose. The last speeches of Antony and Cleopatra are indeed nearly as impressive in North's narrative form as in Shakespeare's play.

In addition to the tragedies already named, Julius Caesar and almost certainly the suggestion of Timon of Athens, though not the play as a whole, were taken from Plutarch's Lives. Other Elizabethans were not slow to avail themselves of this unequaled treasure-house of story.

Italian and Other Fiction.—Except for Geoffrey Chaucer (1338-1400), whose Troilus and Criseyde Shakespeare dramatized, and John Gower (died 1408), whose Confessio Amantis is one of the books out of which the plot of Pericles may have come, there was little good English fiction read in the Elizabethan period. Educated people read, instead, Italian novelle, or short tales, which were usually gathered into some collection of a hundred or so. Many of these were translated into English before Shakespeare's time; and a number of similar collections had been made by English authors, who had translated good stories whenever they found them.

One of these was Gli Heccatommithi, 1565 (The Hundred Tales), by Giovanni Giraldi, surnamed Cinthio, which was later translated into French and was the source of Measure for Measure and Othello. Another collection was that of Matteo Bandello, whose  Tales, 1554-1573, translated into French by Belleforest, furnished the sources of Much Ado About Nothing, and perhaps Twelfth Night. The greatest of these collections was the Decameron, c. 1353, by Giovanni Boccaccio, one of whose stories, translated by William Painter in his Palace of Pleasure, 1564, furnished the source of All's Well That Ends Well. Another story of the Decameron was probably the source of the romantic part of the plot of Cymbeline. The Merry Wives of Windsor had a plot like the story in Straparola's Tredici Piacevole Notte (1550), Thirteen Pleasant Evenings; and The Merchant of Venice borrows its chief plot from Giovanni Florentine's Il Pecorone.

Two of Shakespeare's plays are based on English novels written somewhat after the Italian manner—As You Like It on Thomas Lodge's novel-poem, Rosalynde, and The Winter's Tale from Robert Greene's Pandosto. The Two Gentlemen of Verona is from a Spanish story in the Italian style, the Diana of Jorge de Montemayor. The Comedy of Errors from Plautus is his only play based on classical sources.

The Italian novelle emphasized situation, but had little natural dialogue and still less characterization. The Elizabethan dramatists used them only for their plots. Never did works of higher genius spring from less inspired sources.

The Plays used by Shakespeare.—Although Shakespeare made up one of his plots, the Comedy of Errors, from two plays of Plautus (254-184 B.C.), the Menaechmi and Amphitruo, the rest of the plays he used for material were contemporary work. He borrowed from them plots and situations, and  occasionally even lines. With the exception, however, of one of the early histories, the plays he made use of are in themselves of no value as literature. Their sole claim to notice is that they served the need of the great playwright. None but the student will ever read them. In practically every case Shakespeare so developed the story that the fiction became essentially his own; while the poetic quality of the verse, the development of character, and the heightening of dramatic effect, which he built upon it, left no more of the old play in sight than the statue shows of the bare metal rods upon which the sculptor molds his clay.

Seven histories go back to the earlier plays on the kings of England. The Second and Third Parts of Henry VI are taken from two earlier plays often called the First and Second Contentions (between the two noble houses of York and Lancaster). The First and Second parts of Henry IV, and Henry V, are all three an expansion of a cruder production, the Famous Victories of Henry V. Richard III is based upon the True Tragedie of Richard, Duke of York; King John upon the Troublesome Reigne of John, King of England, the latter undoubtedly the best of the sources of Shakespeare's Histories.

King Leir and His Daughters is the only extant play which is known to have formed the basis of a Shakespearean tragedy. Shakespeare made additions in this case from other sources, borrowing Gloucester's story from Sidney's Arcadia. The earlier play of Hamlet, which it is believed Shakespeare used, is not now in existence.

Among the comedies, the Taming of the Shrew is  directly based upon the Taming of a Shrew. Measure for Measure is less direct, borrowing from George Whetstone's play in two parts, Promos and Cassandra (written before 1578).

The existence of versions in German and Dutch of plays which present plots similar in structure to Shakespeare's, but less highly developed, leads scholars to advance the theory that several lost plays may have been sources for some of his dramas. Entries or mentions of plays, with details like Shakespeare's, dated earlier than his own plays could have been in existence, are also used to further the same view. The Two Gentlemen of Verona, the Merchant of Venice, Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, and, with less reason, Timon of Athens, and Twelfth Night, are thought to have been based more or less on earlier lost plays.

Finally, a number of plays perhaps suggested details in Shakespeare's plays. Of plays so influenced, Cymbeline, The Winter's Tale, and Henry VIII are the chief. But the debt is negligible at best, so far as the general student is concerned.

To conclude, what Shakespeare borrowed was the raw material of drama. What he gave to this material was life and art. No better way of appreciating the dramatist at his full worth could be pursued than a patient perusal and comparison of the sources of his plays with Shakespeare's own work.

[1] There are two plays at least which have plots probably original with Shakespeare—Love's Labour's Lost and The Tempest. Both of these draw largely, however, from contemporary history and adventure, and the central idea is directly borrowed from actual events.

[2] It is not unlikely that it was the second edition published in 1595 by Richard Field (Shakespeare's printer) that the poet read.

CHAPTER IX

HOW SHAKESPEARE GOT INTO PRINT

The Elizabethan audiences who filled to overflowing the theaters on the Bankside possessed a far purer text of Shakespeare than we of this later day can boast. In order to understand our own editions of Shakespeare, it is necessary to understand something, at least, of the conditions of publishing in Shakespeare's day and of the relations of the playhouses with the publishers.

The printing of Shakespeare's poems is an easy tale, Venus and Adonis in 1593, and The Rape of Lucrece in 1594, were first printed in quarto by Richard Field, a native of Stratford, who had come to London. In each case a dedication accompanying the text was signed by Shakespeare, so that we may guess that the poet not only consented to the printing, but took care that the printing should be accurate. Twelve editions of one, eight of the other, were issued before 1660. The other volume of poetry, the Sonnets, was printed in 1609 by Thomas Thorpe, without Shakespeare's consent. Two of them, numbers 138 and 144, had appeared in the collection known as The Passionate Pilgrim, a pirated volume printed by W. Jaggard in 1599. No reëdition of the Sonnets appeared till 1640.

With regard to the plays it is different. It is first  to be said that in no volume containing a play or plays of Shakespeare in existence to-day is there any evidence that Shakespeare saw it through the press. All we can do is to satisfy ourselves as to how the copy of Shakespeare's plays may have got into the hands of the publishers, and as to how far that copy represents what Shakespeare must have written.

The editions of Shakespearean plays may be divided into two groups,—the separate plays which were printed in quarto[1] volumes before 1623, and the First Folio of Shakespeare, which was printed in 1623, a collected edition of all his plays save Pericles. Our text of Shakespeare, whatever one we read, is made up, either from the First Folio text, or in certain cases from the quarto volumes of certain plays which preceded the Folio; together with the attempts to restore to faulty places what Shakespeare must have written—a task which has engaged a long line of diligent scholars from early in the eighteenth century up to our own day.

The Stationers' Company.—In the early period of English printing, which began about 1480 and lasted up to 1557, there was very little supervision over the publishing of books, and as a result the competition was unscrupulous. There was a guild of publishers, called  the Stationers' Company, in existence, but its efforts to control its members were only of a general character. In 1557, however, Philip and Mary granted a charter to the Stationers' Company under which no one not a member of the Stationers' Company could legally possess a printing press. Queen Mary was, of course, interested in controlling the press directly through the Crown. Throughout the Elizabethan period the printing of books was directly under the supervision of Her Majesty's Government, and not under the law courts. Every book had to be licensed by the company. The Wardens of the company acted as licensers in ordinary cases, and in doubtful cases the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishop of London, or some other dignitary appointed for the purpose. When the license was granted, the permission to print was entered upon the Register of the company, and it is from these records that much important knowledge about the dates of Shakespeare's plays is gained.

The Stationers' Company was interested only in protecting its members from prosecution and from competition. The author was not considered by them in the legal side of the transaction. How the printer got his manuscript to print was his own affair, not theirs.

Many authors were at that time paid by printers for the privilege of using their manuscript; but it was not considered proper that a gentleman should be paid for literary work. Robert Greene, the playwright and novelist, wrote regularly in the employ of printers. On the other hand, Sir Philip Sidney, a contemporary  of Shakespeare's, did not allow any of his writings to be printed during his lifetime. Francis Bacon published his essays only in order to forestall an unauthorized edition, and others of the time took the same course. Bacon says in his preface that to prevent their being printed would have been a troublesome procedure. It was possible for an author to prevent the publication by prosecution, but it was scarcely a wise thing to do, in view of the legal difficulties in the way. Nevertheless, fear of the law probably acted as some sort of a check on unscrupulous publishers.

The author of a play was, however, really less interested than the manager who had bought it. The manager of a theater seems, from what evidence we possess, to have believed that the printing of a play injured the chances of success upon the stage. The play was sold by the author directly to the manager, whose property it became. Copies of it might be sold to some printer by some of the players in the company, by the manager himself, or, in rarer cases, by some unscrupulous copyist taking down the play in shorthand at the performance. When a play had got out of date, it would be more apt to be sold than while it was still on the stage. In some cases, however, the printing might have no bad effect upon the attendance at its performances.

During the years before 1623, seventeen of Shakespeare's plays were published in quarto. Two of these, Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet, were printed in two very different versions, so that we have nineteen texts of Shakespeare's plays altogether published before the First Folio. A complete table of these  plays with the dates in which the quartos appeared follows:—

1594. Titus Andronicus. Later quartos in 1600 and 1611.

1597. Richard II. Later quartos in 1598, 1608, and 1615.

1597. Richard III. Later quartos in 1598, 1602, 1605, 1612, and 1622.

1597. Romeo and Juliet. Later quartos in 1599 (corrected edition) and 1609.

1598. I Henry IV. Later quartos in 1599, 1604, 1608, 1613, and 1622.

1598. Love's Labour's Lost.

1600. Merchant of Venice. Later quarto in 1619. (Copying

on the title-page the original date of 1600, however.)

1600. Henry V. Later quartos in 1602 and 1619. (Dated on the title-page, 1608.)

1600. Henry IV, Part II.

1600. Midsummer Night's Dream. Later quarto in 1619. (Dated, however, 1600.)

1602. Merry Wives of Windsor. Later quarto in 1619.

1603. Hamlet.

1604. Second edition of Hamlet. Later quartos in 1605 and 1611.

1608. King Lear. Later quarto in 1619. (Title-page date, 1608.)

1608. Pericles. Later quartos in 1609, 1611, and 1619.

1609. Troilus and Cressida. A second quarto in 1609.

1622. Othello.

These are all the known quartos of Shakespeare's plays printed before the Folio. They represent two distinct classes. The first class (comprising fourteen texts) of the quartos contains good texts of the plays and is of great assistance to editors. The second (comprising five texts), the first Romeo and Juliet, Henry V, Merry Wives, the first Hamlet, and Pericles,  is composed of thoroughly bad copies. Two of this class were not entered on the Stationers' Register at all, but were pure piracies. Two others were entered by one firm, but were printed by another. The fifth was entered and transferred on the same day. Of the fourteen good texts, twelve were regularly entered on the Stationers' Register, and the other two were evidently intended to take the place of a bad text. It is evident, therefore, that registry upon the books of the Stationers' Company was a safeguard to an author in getting before the public a good text of his writings. It also indicates that the good copies were obtained by printers in a legal manner, and so probably purchased directly from the theaters, whether from the copy which the prompter had, or from some transcript of the play. The notion that all plays were printed in Shakespeare's time by a process of piracy is thus not borne out by these facts.

The five bad quartos deserve a moment's attention. The first of these, Romeo and Juliet, printed and published by John Danter in 1597, omits over seven hundred lines of the play, and the stage directions are descriptions rather than definite instructions. The book is printed in two kinds of type, a fact due probably to its being printed from two presses at once. Danter got into trouble later on with other books from his dishonest ways. The second poor quarto, Henry V, printed in 1600, was less than half as long as the Folio text, and was probably carelessly copied by an ignorant person at a performance of the play. The third, the Merry Wives of Windsor, was pirated through the publisher of Henry V, John Busby, who assigned his  part to another printer on the same day. As in the case of Romeo and Juliet, the stage directions are mere descriptions. No play of Shakespeare's was more cruelly bungled by an unscrupulous copyist. The first edition of Hamlet in 1603 was the work of Valentine Sims. While the copying is full of blunders, this quarto is considered important, as indicating that the play was acted at first in a much shorter and less artistic version than the one which we now read. For eight months of 1603-1604 the theaters of London were closed on account of the plague, and Shakespeare's revision of Hamlet may have been made during this time. At any rate, the later version appeared about the end of 1604. The last of these pirated quartos, Pericles, was probably taken down in shorthand at the theater. Here, unfortunately, as this play was not included in the First Folio, and as all later quartos were based on the First Quarto, we have to-day what is really a corrupt and difficult text. Luckily, Shakespeare's share in this play is small.

The title-pages of the quartos of Shakespeare bear convincing testimony, not only to the genuineness of his plays, but also to his rise in reputation. Only six of his plays were printed in quartos not bearing his name. Of these, two—Romeo and Juliet and Henry V—began with pirated editions not bearing the author's name. Three—Richard II, Richard III, I Henry IV—were all followed by quartos with the poet's name upon them. The sixth play, Titus Andronicus, was one of his earliest works, and its authorship is even now not absolutely certain.

Since the name of a popular dramatist on the  title-page was a distinct source of revenue to the publisher after 1598, it was to be expected that anonymous plays should be ascribed in some cases to William Shakespeare by an unscrupulous or a misinformed printer. Here arose the Shakespeare 'apocrypha,' which is discussed in a following chapter.

A new problem in the history of Shakespearean quartos has been presented since 1903 by a study of the quartos of 1619. Briefly summarized, the theory which is best defended at the present time is, that in that year Thomas Pavier and William Jaggard, two printers of London, decided at first to get up a collected quarto edition of Shakespeare's plays, but on giving up this idea, they issued nine plays in a uniform size and on paper bearing identical watermarks, which were either at that time or later bound up together as a collected set of Shakespeare's plays in a single volume.[2] These plays are the Whole Contention Between the Two Famous Houses of Lancaster and York, "printed for T. P."; A Yorkshire Tragedie, "printed for T. P., 1619"; Pericles, "printed for T. P. 1619"; Merry Wives, "printed for Arthur Johnson, 1619"; Sir John Oldcastle, "printed for T. P., 1600"; Henry V, "printed for T. P., 1608"; Merchant of Venice, "printed by J. Roberts, 1600"; King Lear, "printed for Nathaniel Butter, 1608"; Midsummer Night's Dream, "printed for Thomas Fisher, 1600."

Of these plays, the Whole Contention, the Yorkshire  Tragedie, and Sir John Oldcastle are spurious, but had been attributed to Shakespeare in earlier quartos. The five plays dated 1600 or 1608 in each case duplicated a quarto actually printed in the year claimed by the Pavier reprint; so that this earlier dating was an attempt to deceive the public into believing they were purchasing the original editions.

Under the date of the 8th of November, 1623, Edward Blount and Isaac Jaggard entered for their copy in the Stationers' Register "Mr. William Shakspeers Comedyes, Histories and Tragedyes, soe manie of the said copyes as are not formerly entred to other men vizt, Comedyes, The Tempest. The two gentlemen of Verona. Measure for Measure. The Comedy of Errors. As you like it. All's well that ends well. Twelfth Night. The winter's tale. Histories The third parte of Henry the sixth. Henry the eight. Tragedies. Coriolanus. Timon of Athens. Julius Caesar. Mackbeth. Anthonie and Cleopatra. Cymbeline." This entry preluded the publication of the First Folio. Associated with Blount and Jaggard were Jaggard's son Isaac, who had the contract for the printing of the book, I. Smethwick, and W. A. Aspley. Smethwick owned at this time the rights of Love's Labour's Lost, Romeo and Juliet, and Hamlet, and also the Taming of a Shrew, which latter right apparently carried with it the right to print Shakespeare's adaptation of it, the Taming of the Shrew. Aspley owned the rights to Much Ado About Nothing, and to II Henry IV. These four printers, making arrangements with other printers, such as Law, who apparently had the rights of I Henry IV, Richard II,  and Richard III, and others, were thus able to bring out an apparently complete edition of Shakespeare's plays. One play, Troilus and Cressida, was evidently secured only at the last moment and printed very irregularly.[3] Blount and Jaggard apparently got the manuscripts of the sixteen plays on the Register from members of Shakespeare's company, two of whom, John Hemings and Henry Condell, affixed their names to the Address to the Reader which was prefixed to the volume. It will be remembered that these men received by Shakespeare's bequest a gold ring as a token of friendship. Their intimacy with the dramatist must have been both strong and lasting. Their actual share in the editing of the volume cannot be ascertained. It may be that all the claims are true which are made above their names in the Address to the Reader as to their care and pains in collecting and publishing his works "so to have publish'd them as where before you were abused with diverse stolne and surreptitious copies, maimed and deformed, the stealthes of injurious copyists, we expos'd them; even those are now offer'd to your view, crude and bereft of their limbes, and of the rest absolutely in their parts as he conceived them who as he was a happie imitator of nature was a most gentle expresser of it. His mind and hand went together and what he thought he told with that easinesse that wee have scarse received from him a  blot in his papers." On the other hand, scholarship has discovered more in the life of Edward Blount to justify his claim to the chief work of editing this volume. Whoever they were, the editors' claim to diligent care in their work was sincere. Throughout the volume there are proofs that they employed the best text which they could get, even when others were in print.

It is owing to this volume, in all probability, that we possess twenty of the best of Shakespeare's plays and the best texts of a number of the others. We are therefore glad to hear that the edition was a success and was considered worth reprinting within nine years. It is not improbable that this edition ran to five hundred copies. Among the most interesting work of the editors of the volume was the prefixing of the Droeshout engraved portrait on the title-page, and an attempt to improve the stage directions, as well as the division of most of the plays, either in whole or in part, into acts and scenes.

The twenty plays which appeared in print for the first time in the First Folio were taken in all probability directly from copies in the possession of Shakespeare's company. Their texts are, upon the whole, excellent. In the case of the sixteen other plays the editors substituted for eight of the plays already in print in quartos, independent texts from better manuscripts. This act must have involved considerable expense and difficulty, and deserves the highest praise. Five of the printed quartos were used with additions and corrections. In the case of Titus Andronicus a whole scene was added. In three cases only  of the sixteen plays already printed did the editors follow a quarto text without correcting it from a later theatrical copy. This conscientious effort to give posterity the best text of Shakespeare deserves our gratitude.

The Second Folio, 1632, was a reprint of the First; the Third Folio, 1663, a reprint of the Second; the Fourth Folio, 1685, a reprint of the Third. This practice of copying the latest accessible edition has been adopted by editors down to a very late period. Between 1629 and 1632 six quartos of Shakespearean plays were printed,—a fact which indicates that the First Folio edition had been exhausted and that there was a continued market. A man named Thomas Cotes acquired through one Richard Cotes the printing rights of the Jaggards, and added to them other rights derived from Pavier. The old publishers, Smethwick and Aspley, were still living and were associated with him in publishing the Second Folio. Robert Allott, June 26, 1629, had bought up Blount's title to the plays first registered in 1623, and was thus also concerned in the publication, while Richard Hawkins and Richard Meighen, who owned the rights of Othello and Merry Wives, were allowed to take shares. The editors of the Second Folio made only such alterations in the text of the First Folio as they thought necessary to make it more "correct." The vast majority of the changes are unimportant grammatical corrections, some of them obviously right, others as obviously wrong.

Five more Shakespearean quartos followed between 1634 and 1639. Between 1652 and 1655 two other  quartos were published. The Third Folio, 1664, was published by Philip Chetwind, who had married the widow of Robert Allott and thus got most of the rights in the Second Folio. Chetwind's Folio is famous, not only for the addition of Pericles, which alone it was his first intention to include, but also for the addition of six spurious plays—Sir John Oldcastle, The Yorkshire Tragedie, A London Prodigall, The Tragedie of Locrine, Thomas, Lord Cromwell, and The Puritaine, or The Widdow of Watling Streete. Chetwind's reason for thus adding these plays was that they had passed under Shakespeare's name or initials in their earliest prints. The Fourth Folio, 1685, is a mere reprint of the Third.

With the Fourth Folio ends the early history of how Shakespeare got into print. From that time to this a long line of famous and obscure men, at first mostly men of letters, but afterwards, and especially in our own times, trained specialists in their profession, have devoted much of their lives to the editing of Shakespeare. Their ideal has been, usually, to give readers the text of his poems and plays in their presumed primitive integrity. Constant study of his works, and of other Elizabethan writers, has given them a certain knowledge of the words and grammatical usages of that day which go far to make Elizabethan English a foreign tongue to us. On the other hand, more knowledge about the conditions of printing in Shakespeare's time has helped the editors very greatly in their attempts to set right a passage which was misprinted in the earliest printed text, or a line of which two early texts give different versions.

An example of the difficulties that still confront editors may be given from II Henry IV, IV, i, 94-96:—

"Archbishop. My brother general, the commonwealth,

To brother born, an household cruelty.

I make my quarrel in particular."

Nobody knows what Shakespeare meant to say in this passage, and no satisfactory guess has ever been made as to what has happened to these lines.

A knowledge of Elizabethan English has cleared up the following passage perfectly. According to the First Folio, the only early print, Antony calls Lepidus, in Julius Caesar, IV, i, 36-37:—

"A barren-spirited fellow; one that feeds

On objects, arts, and imitations...."

This has been corrected to read in the second line

"On abjects, orts, and imitations."

Abjects here means outcasts, and orts, scraps, or leavings; but no one unfamiliar with the language of that time could have solved the puzzle.

A different sort of problem is offered by such plays as King Lear, of which the quartos furnish three hundred lines not in the Folio, while the Folio has one hundred lines not in the quartos, and is, on the whole, much more carefully copied. The modern editor gives all the lines in both versions, so that we read a King Lear which is probably longer than Shakespeare's countrymen read or ever saw acted. The modern editor selects, however, when Folio and quartos differ, the reading which seems best.

FOLIO. "Cordelia. Was this a face

To be opposed against the jarring winds?"

QUARTOS. "Was this a face

To be opposed against the warring winds?"

In such a difference as this, the personal taste of the editor is apt to govern his text.

We cannot here go farther in explaining the problems of the Shakespeare text. To those who would know more of them, the Variorum edition of Dr. H. H. Furness offers a full history. In the light of the knowledge which he and other scholars have thrown upon textual criticism, it is unlikely that there will ever be poor texts of Shakespeare reprinted. The work of the Shakespeare scholars has not been in vain.

Later Editions.—Nicholas Rowe in 1709 produced the first edition in the modern sense. He modernized the spelling frankly, repunctuated, corrected the grammar, made out lists of the dramatis personae, arranged the verse which was in disorder, and made a number of good emendations in difficult places. He added also exits and entrances, which in earlier prints were only inserted occasionally. Further, he completed the division of the plays into acts and scenes. Perhaps his most important work was writing a full life of Shakespeare in which several valuable traditions are preserved. The poems were not included in the edition, but were published in 1716 from the edition of 1640. He followed the Third and Fourth Folios in reprinting the spurious plays. The edition was reprinted in 1714, 1725, and 1728.

In 1726 Alexander Pope published his famous edition of Shakespeare. Pope possessed a splendid lot of the old quartos and the first two folios, but his edition was wantonly careless. He did, indeed, use some sense in excluding the seven spurious plays as well as Pericles from his edition, and he undoubtedly  worked hard on the text. He subdivided the scenes more minutely than Rowe after the fashion of the French stage division,—where a new scene begins with every new character instead of after the stage has been cleared. Pope's explanations of the words which appeared difficult in Shakespeare's text were often laughably far from the truth. The word 'foison,' meaning 'plenty,' Pope defined as the 'natural juice of grass.' The word 'neif,' meaning 'fist,' Pope thought meant 'woman.' Pistol is thus made to say, "Thy woman will I take." Phrases that appeared to be vulgar or unpoetical he simply dropped out, or altered without notice. He rearranged the lines in order to give them the studied smoothness characteristic of the eighteenth century. In fact, he tried to make Shakespeare as near like Pope's poetry as he could.

In 1726 Lewis Theobald published Shakespeare Restored, with many corrections of Pope's errors. In this little pamphlet most of the material was devoted to Hamlet. Theobald's corrections were taken by Pope in very bad part; and the latter tried to destroy Theobald's reputation by writing satires against him and by injuring him in every possible way in print. The first of these publications, The Dunciad, appeared in 1728; and this, the greatest satire in the English language, was so effective as to have obscured Theobald's real merit until our own day. Theobald's edition of Shakespeare followed in 1734, and was reprinted in 1740. It is famous for his corrections and improvements of the text, many of which are followed by all later editors of Shakespeare. The most notable of these is Mrs. Quickly's remark in Falstaff's deathbed scene, "His nose was as sharp as a pen and a' babbled of green fields." The previous texts had given "and a table of green fields." Pope had said that this nonsense crept in from the name of the property man who was named Greenfield, and thus there must have been a stage direction here,—"Bring in a table of Greenfield's."

Theobald's edition was followed in 1744 by Thomes Hanmer's edition in six volumes. Hanmer was a country gentleman, but not much of a scholar.

Warburton's edition followed in 1747. In 1765 appeared  Samuel Johnson's long-delayed edition in eight volumes. Aside from a few common-sense explanations, the edition is not of much merit.

Tyrwhitt's edition in 1766 was followed by a reprint of twenty of the early quartos by George Steevens in the same year. Two years later came the edition of Edward Capell, the greatest scholarly work since Theobald's. In this edition was the first rigorous comparison between the readings of the folios and the quartos. His quartos, now in the British Museum, are of the greatest value to Shakespeare scholars. With his edition begins the tendency to get back to the earliest form of the text and not to try to improve Shakespeare to the ideal of what the editor thinks Shakespeare should have said.

In 1773 Johnson's edition was revised by Steevens, and Pericles was readmitted. This was a valuable but crotchety edition. In 1790 Edmund Malone published his famous edition in ten volumes. No Shakespearean scholar ranks higher than he in reputation. Numerous editions followed up to 1865, of which the most important is James Boswell's so-called Third Variorum in twenty-one volumes. In 1855-1861 was published J. O. Halliwell's edition in fifteen volumes, which contains enormous masses of antiquarian material.

In 1853 appeared the forgeries of J. P. Collier, to which reference is made elsewhere.

In 1854-1861 appeared the edition in Germany of N. Delius. The Leopold Shakespeare, 1876, used Delius's text.

In 1857-1865 appeared the first good American edition of R. G. White. It contained many original suggestions. Between 1863 and 1866 appeared the edition of Clark and Wright, known as the Cambridge edition. Mr. W. Aldis Wright, now the dean of living Shakespearean scholars, is chiefly responsible for this text. It was reprinted with a few changes into the Globe edition, and is still the chief popular text.

Prof. W. A. Neilson's single volume in the Cambridge series, 1906, is the latest scholarly edition in America. It follows in most cases the positions taken by Clark and Wright.

Within the last few years there has been an enormous  stimulus to Shakespeare study. The chief work of modern Shakespearean scholarship is the still incomplete Variorum edition of Dr. H. H. Furness and his son.

Other aids to study are reprints of the books used by Shakespeare, facsimile reprints of the original quartos of the plays, and, perhaps as useful as any one thing, the facsimile reproduction of the First Folio. The few perplexing problems that the scholar still finds in the text of Shakespeare will probably never be solved.

On the subject of this chapter, consult A. W. Pollard, Shakespeare Folios and Quartos, Methuen, London, 1910; Sidney Lee, Introduction to the facsimile reproduction of the First Folio by the Oxford University Press; T. R. Lounsbury, The Text of Shakespeare, New York, Scribners, 1906. For the remarks of critics and editors, the Variorum edition of Dr. H. H. Furness is invaluable.

[1] A quarto volume, or quarto, is a book which is the size of a fourth of a sheet of printing paper. The sheets are folded twice to make four leaves or eight pages, and the usual size is about 6x9 in. A folio is a volume of the size of a half sheet of printing paper. The paper is folded once and bound in the middle, the usual size being about 9 x 12 in. The divisions of the book made by thus folding sheets of paper are called quires, and may consist of four or eight leaves.

[2] This view of the Pavier-Jaggard collection is held by A. W. Pollard of the British Museum and W. W. Greg of Trinity College Library, Cambridge. The writers of this volume incline to accord it complete recognition.

[3] It was evidently designed to fit in between Romeo and Juliet and Julius Caesar; but the owner of the publishing rights holding out till that part of the book was ready, the editors "ran in" Timon of Athens to fill up. When Troilus and Cressida was finally arranged for, it had to be inserted between the Histories and Tragedies.

CHAPTER X

THE PLAYS OF THE FIRST PERIOD—IMITATION AND EXPERIMENT

1587 (?)-1594

The first period of Shakespeare's work carries him from the youthful efforts at dramatic construction to such mastery of dramatic technique and of original portrayal of life as raise him, when aided by his supreme poetic art, above all other living dramatists. It was chiefly a period in which the young poet, full of ambition, curious of his own talents, and eager for success, was feeling his way among the different types of drama which he saw reaching success on the London stage.

The longest period of experiment was in the writing of chronicle histories. The experience acquired in these six plays, all derived in some measure from earlier work by others, made Shakespeare a master of this type. Next in importance was comedy, chiefly romantic with four plays of widely different aim and merit. These two types are brought to the highest development in the dramatist's second period. Tragedy was to wait for a fuller and riper experience. What the complete earlier version of Romeo and Juliet was like, we have only a faint idea; it was obviously, while  intensely appealing, the work of a young and immature poet. Titus Andronicus led nowhere in development.

Christopher Marlowe remained Shakespeare's master in the drama throughout the chronicle plays of the period. John Lyly's court comedies contained most of the types of character which are to be found in Love's Labour's Lost. Throughout the period Shakespeare grows in mastery of plot and of his dramatic verse; but his chief growth is away from this imitation of others into his own creative portraiture of character. The growth from the bluff soldier, Talbot, in Henry VI to the weak but appealing Richard II is no less marked than is that from the fantastic Armado in Love's Labour's Lost to the unconsciously ridiculous Bottom.

Shakespeare's greatest achievements in this period, aside from Romeo and Juliet in the unknown first draft, are the characters of Richard II and Richard III, the former a portrait of vanity and vacillation mingled with more agreeable traits, lovable gentleness and traces at least of kingliness, the latter a Titanic figure possessed by an overmastering passion.

It is impossible to draw a satisfactory line of division between the experimental period of Shakespeare's work and the period of comedy which follows. Two plays, A Midsummer Night's Dream and The Merchant of Venice, lie really between the two. The chief arguments for an early grouping seem to be that the former is in some measure an artificial court comedy, and is full of riming speech and end-stopped lines; the latter derives some help from Marlowe's treatment of The Jew of Malta. But, on the other hand, the  mastery of original characterization in such groups as the delicate fairies of the Dream, or those who gather at the trial of The Merchant, might justify their position in the second period rather than in the first. On the whole, it is perhaps wisest to let metrical differences govern, and so to put Midsummer Night's Dream, at the end of Imitation and Experiment; while The Merchant of Venice may safely usher in the great period of comedy.

The three plays known as The Three Parts of Henry VI, together with Richard the Third, constitute the history of the Wars of the Roses, in which the House of York fought the House of Lancaster through the best part of the fifteenth century, and lost the fight and the English crown in 1485, a hundred years before Shakespeare came to London. Although these plays have but slight appeal to us as readers, they must have been highly popular among Elizabethan playgoers.

The First Part of Henry the Sixth deals chiefly with the wars of England and France which center about the figures of Talbot, the English commander, and Joan of Arc, called Joan la Pucelle (the maiden). The former is a hero of battle, who dies fighting for England. The latter is painted according to the traditional English view, which lasted long after Shakespeare's time, as a wicked and impure woman, in league with devils, who fight for her against the righteous power of England. We are glad to think that while the Talbot scenes are probably Shakespeare's, the portrait of La Pucelle is not from his hand, as we shall see. The deaths of these protagonists prepares the way for the peace which Suffolk concludes, and the marriage  which he arranges between Margaret of Anjou and King Henry.

The Second Part of Henry the Sixth concerns the outbreak of strife between York and Lancaster, but chiefly the overthrow of the uncle of the king, Duke Humphrey of Gloucester, as Protector of the Realm, and the destruction of his opponent, the Duke of Suffolk, in his turn. The play ends with the first battle of St. Albans (1455), resulting in the complete triumph of Duke Richard of York, in open rebellion against King Henry.

The Third Part of King Henry the Sixth tells of the further wars of York and Lancaster, in the course of which Richard of York is murdered, and his sons, Edward and Richard, keep up the struggle, while Warwick, styled the "Kingmaker," transfers his power to Lancaster. In the end York is triumphant; and while Henry VI and his son are murdered, and Warwick slain in battle at Barnet, Edward is crowned as Edward IV, and Richard becomes the Duke of Gloucester.

Authorship.—The Three Parts of Henry the Sixth were first printed in the First Folio, 1623. Two earlier plays, The First Part of the Contention between the two Noble Houses of York and Lancaster (sometimes called 1 Contention), and The True Tragedy of Richard, Duke of York... with the whole Contention between the two Houses of Lancaster and York (2 Contention), appeared in quarto in 1594 and 1595 respectively. These are to be regarded as earlier versions of II and III Henry VI.[1] For the First Part of Henry VI no dramatic source exists. The ultimate source is, of course, Holinshed's Chronicles.

The authorship of these plays is not ascribed to any dramatist, until 1623, although, as we have seen,[2] Robert Greene accuses  Shakespeare of authorship in a stolen play, by applying to him a line from III Henry VI which had appeared earlier in 2 Contention. Internal study of the three plays, however, has reduced the problem to about this state:—

The First Part of Henry VI is thought to have been written by Greene, with George Peele and Marlowe to help. To this Shakespeare was allowed to add a few scenes on a later revival of the play. Some critics give to him the Talbot scenes and the quarrel in the Temple; but Professor Neilson warns us that the grounds for this and other assignments of authorship in the play "are in the highest degree precarious."

The two Contentions are thought to have been chiefly the work of Marlowe, with Greene to help him. Others are suggested as assistants, such as Lodge, Peele, and Shakespeare. In the revival of the two Contentions, Shakespeare's work amounted to a close revision, though the older material remained in larger part, both in text and plot. In this revision, Marlowe is thought to have aided, and Greene's bitter attack on Shakespeare may have been caused by the fact that Shakespeare had so supplanted him as collaborator with Marlowe, then the greatest dramatist of England. It hardly seems likely that this attack would have been made if Shakespeare had had any share in the first versions, The Contentions.

Date.—The First Part of Henry VI is thought to have been the play at the Rose Theatre on March 3, 1591-1692, by Lord Strange's company, since a reference by Nash about this time refers to Talbot as a stage figure. The Second and Third Parts have no evidence other than that of style, but are usually assigned to the period 1590-1592.

Richard the Third is best treated at this point, although in the date of composition King John may intervene between it and III Henry VI. It is the tale of a tyrant, who, by murdering everybody who stands in his way, including his two nephews, his brother, and his friend, wins the crown of England, only to be swept by  irresistible popular wrath into ruin and death on Bosworth Field. This tyrant is scarcely human, but rather the impersonation of a great passion of ambition. In this respect, as well as in lack of humor, lack of development of character, and in other ways less easy to grasp, Shakespeare is here distinctly imitative of Marlowe's method in plays like Tamburlaine.

Date.—Richard the Third was very popular among Elizabethans, for quartos appeared in 1597, 1598 (then first ascribed to Shakespeare), 1602, 1605, 1612, 1629, 1622, and 1634. The First Folio version is quite different in detail from the Quarto, and is thought to have been a good copy of an acting version. The date of writing can hardly be later than 1598.

Source.—An anonymous play called The True Tragedie of Richard III had appeared before Shakespeare's; just when is uncertain. A still earlier play, a tragedy in Latin called Richardus Tertius, also told the story. Shakespeare's chief source was, however, Holinshed's Chronicles, which learned the tradition of Richard's wickedness from a life of that king written in Henry VII's time, and ascribed to Sir Thomas More. In the Chronicles was but a bare outline of the character which the dramatist so powerfully developed.

King John, so far as its central theme may be said to exist, portrays the ineffectual struggles of a crafty and unscrupulous coward to stick to England's slippery throne. At first King John is successful. Bribed with the rich dowry of Blanch, niece of England, as a bride for his son the Dauphin, King Philip of France ceases his war upon England in behalf of Prince Arthur, John's nephew and rival. When the Church turns against John for his refusal to obey the Pope, and France and Austria continue the war, John is victorious, and captures Prince Arthur. At this point begins his  downfall. His cruel treatment of the young prince, while not actually ending in the murder he had planned, drives the boy to attempted escape and to death. The nobles rise and welcome the Dauphin, whose invasion of England proves fruitless, it is true, but the victory is not won by John, and the king dies ignobly at Swinstead Abbey.

Two characters rise above the rest in this drama of unworthy schemes,—Constance, the passionately devoted mother of Prince Arthur, who fights for her son with almost tigress-like ferocity, and Faulconbridge, the loyal lieutenant of King John, cynical and fond of bragging, but brave and patriotic, and gifted with a saving grace of rough humor, much needed in the sordid atmosphere he breathes. One single scene contains a note of pathos otherwise foreign to the play,—that in which John's emissary Hubert begins his cruel task of blinding poor Prince Arthur, but yields to pity and forbears.

Date.—The Troublesome Raigne was published in 1591, and probably written about that time. Shakespeare's play did not appear in print until the First Folio, 1623. Meres mentions it, however, in 1598, and internal evidence of meter and style, as well as of dramatic structure, puts the play between Richard III and Richard II, or at any rate close to them. The three plays have been arranged in every order by critics of authority. Perhaps 1592-1593 is a safe date.

Source.—The only source was the two parts of The Troublesome Raigne of John, King of England, a play which appeared anonymously in quarto in 1591. Shakespeare compressed the two parts into one, gaining obvious advantages thereby, but losing also some incidents without which the later play is unmotivated. The hatred felt by Faulconbridge for Austria was due in the earlier version to the legendary belief that  Richard Coeur-de-Lion, his father, met death at Austria's hands. No reference to this is made by Shakespeare, but the hatred remains as a motive. In the opening scene between the Bastard and his mother, Shakespeare's condensation has injured the story somewhat. But most of his changes are improvements. He cut out the pandering to religious prejudice which in the earlier play made John a Protestant hero to suit Elizabethan opinion. He improved the exits and entrances, divided the scenes in more effective ways, and built up the element of comic relief in Faulconbridge's red-blooded humor.

The numerous alterations from historical fact, such as the youth of Arthur, the widowhood of Constance, the character of Faulconbridge, are all from the earlier version, as is the suppression of the baron's wars and Magna Charta. Shakespeare added practically nothing to the action in his source.

A still earlier play, Kynge Johan by Bishop John Bale (c. 1650), had nothing to do with later versions.

Richard the Second, unlike Richard the Third, is not simply the story of one man. While Richard III is on the stage during more than two-thirds of the latter play, Richard II appears during almost exactly half of the action. Richard III dominates his play throughout; Richard II in only two or three scenes. Richard's two uncles, John of Gaunt and the Duke of York, and his two cousins, Hereford (Bolingbroke, later Henry IV) and Aumerle, claim almost as much of our attention as does the central figure of the play, the light, vain, and thoughtless king.

And yet with all this improvement in the adjustment of the leading role to the whole picture, Shakespeare drew a far more real and complete character in Richard II than any he had yet portrayed in historical drama. It is a character seen in many lights. At first we are disappointed with Richard's love of the  spectacular when he allows Bolingbroke's challenge to Mowbray to go as far as the actual sounding of the trumpets in the lists before he casts down his warder and decrees the banishment of both. A little later we see with disgust his greedy thoughtlessness, when he insults the last hour of John of Gaunt by his importunate visit, and without a word of regret lays hold of his dead uncle's property to help on his own Irish wars. Nor does our respect for him rise at all when in the critical moment, upon the return of Bolingbroke to England, Richard's weak will vacillates between action and unmanly lament, and all the while his vanity delights to paint his misery in full-mouth'd rhetoric. Vanity is again the note of his abdication, when he calls for a mirror in which to behold the face that has borne such sorrow as his, and then in a fit of almost childish rage dashes the glass upon the ground. His whole life, like that one act, has been impulsive and futile.

But now that misfortune and degradation have come upon King Richard, Shakespeare compels us to turn from disgust to pity, and finally almost to admiration. We realize that after all Richard is a king, and that his wretched state demands compassion. Moreover, a nobler side of Richard's character is portrayed. His deeply touching farewell to his loving Queen, as he goes to his solitary confinement, though tinged with almost unmanly meekness of spirit, is yet poignant with true grief. And the last scene of all, in which he dies, vainly yet bravely resisting his murderers, is a gallant end to a life so full of indecision.

In strong contrast with this weak and still absorbing figure are the two high-minded and patriotic uncles of King Richard, and the masterful though unscrupulous Henry. The famous prophetic speech of dying John of Gaunt is committed to memory by every English schoolboy, as the expression of the highest patriotism in the noblest poetry. And just as our attitude towards Richard changes from contempt to pity and even admiration, so our admiration for Henry, the man of action and, as he calls himself, "the true-borne Englishman," turns into indignation at his usurpation of the throne and his connivance, to use no stronger term, at the murder of his sovereign. Throughout the play, however, Shakespeare makes us feel that the national cause demands Henry's triumph.

Date.—Marlowe's Edward II is usually dated 1593; and Shakespeare's Richard II is dated the year following, in order to accommodate facts to theory. The frequency of rime points to an earlier date, the absence of prose to a later date. Our only certain date is 1597, when a quarto appeared. Others followed in 1598, 1608, and 1615.

A play "of the deposing of Richard II" was performed by wish of the Earl of Essex in London streets in 1601, on the eve of his attempted revolt against the queen. If this was our play, then Essex failed as signally in understanding the real theme of the play as he did in interpreting the attitude of Englishmen toward him. Both the one and the other condemned usurpation in the strongest terms.

Source.—Holinshed's Chronicles furnished Shakespeare with but the bare historical outline. It is usual to suggest that Marlowe's portrayal of a similarly weak figure with a similarly tragic end suggested Shakespeare's play; and this may be, though there is nothing to indicate direct influence.

Titus Andronicus has a plot so revolting to modern readers that many critics like to foll

ow the seventeenth-century tradition, which tells, according to a writer who wanted to justify his own tinkering, that Shakespeare added "some master-touches to one or two of the principal characters," and nothing more. But unfortunately not only the phraseology and the meter, but the more important external evidences point to Shakespeare, and, however we might wish it, we cannot find grounds to dismiss the theory that Shakespeare was at least responsible for the rewriting of an older play.

No play better deserves the type name of 'tragedy of blood.' The crimes which disfigure its scenes seem to us unnecessarily wanton. Briefly, the struggle is between Titus, conqueror of the Goths, and Tamora, their captive queen, who marries the Roman emperor, and who would revenge Titus's sacrifice of her son to the shades of his own slain sons. From the first five minutes, during which a noble Goth is hacked to pieces—off stage, mercifully—to the last minute of carnage, when the entire company go hands all round in murder, fifteen persons are slain, and other crimes no less horrible perpetrated. Every one at some time gets his revenge; and the play is entirely made up of plotting, killing, gloating, and counterplotting. The inhumanly brutal Aaron, the blackamoor lover of Tamora, is arch villain in all this; but the ungovernable passions of Titus render him scarcely more attractive.

The pity of it is that the young Shakespeare apparently wasted upon this slaughtering much genuine  poetic art, and no little elaboration of plot. But he was writing what the public of that day enjoyed. Developed by such real artists as Kyd, the tragedy of blood, like the modern "thriller," had about 1590 an enormous success. It is well for us to remember, too, that out of one of these tragedies of revenge and blood sprang the great tragedy of Hamlet.

Date.—The most recent authorities put the play as written not long before the publication of the First Quarto, 1594. The Stationers' Register records it on February 6, 1593-4. Second and Third Quartos followed in 1600 and 1611. None of these ascribe the play to Shakespeare. It is, however, included in the First Folio.

Authorship and Source.—Richard Henslowe, the manager, recorded in his Diary, April 11, 1591, the performance of a new play Tittus and Vespacia. In a German version, Tito Andronico, printed in a collection of 1620, Lucius is called Vespasian; and thus we have a slight ground for belief that the entry of Henslowe refers to an early play about our Titus. A Dutch version, Aran en Titus, appeared in 1641. This appears to have been based on another relation of the story, earlier and cruder than Shakespeare's. The Shakespearean version probably came from these two earlier plays, with considerable additions in plot.

The two latest students of the play, Dr. Fuller and Mr. Robertson, differ as far as they well can on the question of authorship. The former believes Shakespeare wrote every line of the present play; the latter that he wrote none of it, and that Greene and Peele had their full share. Kyd and Marlowe are assigned as authors by others. One fact stands clear, that in the face of the evidence of the First Folio and of Meres, no conclusive internal evidence has disposed of the theory of Shakespearean authorship. The play was enormously popular, if we may judge by contemporary references to it, and a mistake in attribution by Meres would therefore have been the more  remarkable. Incredible, too, as it may seem, the earlier versions must have been more revolting than Shakespeare's; so that there is really a lift into higher drama.

Romeo and Juliet stands out from the other great tragedies of Shakespeare, not only in point of time, but in its central theme. It deals with the power of nature in awaking youth to full manhood and womanhood through the sudden coming of pure and supreme love; with the danger which always attends the precipitate call of this awakening; and with the sudden storm which overcasts the brilliant day of passion. The enmity of the rival houses of Montague and Capulet, to which Romeo and Juliet belong, is but a concrete form of this danger that ever waits when nature prompts. Romeo's fancied love for another disappears like a drop of water on a stone in the sun, when his glance meets Juliet's at the Capulet's ball. Love takes equally sudden hold of her. Worldly and religious caution seek to stem the flood of passion, or at least to direct it. The lovers are married at Friar Laurence's cell; but in the sudden whirl of events that follow the friar's amiable schemes, one slight error on his part wastes all that glorious passion and youth have won. It was not his fault, after all; such is the eternal tragedy when Youth meets Love, and Nature leads them unrestrained to peril.

In perfection of dramatic technique parts of this play rank with the very best of Shakespeare's work. When to this is added the extraordinary beauty and fire of the poetry, and the brilliancy of color and stage picture afforded by the setting in old Verona, it is no wonder that to-day no mouthing of the words, no  tawdriness of setting, and no wretchedness of acting can hinder the supreme appeal of this play to audiences all over the world. The chief characters are well contrasted by the dramatist. Romeo, affecting sadness, but in reality merry by nature, becomes grave when the realization of love comes upon him. Juliet, when love comes, rises gladly to meet its full claim. She is the one who plans and dares, and Romeo the one who listens. Contrasted with Romeo is his friend, Mercutio, gay and daring, loving and light-hearted; contrasted with Juliet is her old nurse, devoted, like the family cat, but unscrupulous, vain, and worldly,—a great comic figure.

Date.—There is throughout the play, but chiefly in the rimed passages in the earlier parts, a great deal of verbal conceit and playing upon words, which mark immaturity. The use of sonnets in two places, and the abundance of rime, point also to early work; but the dramatic technique and the development of character equal the work of later periods.

The First Quarto is a garbled copy taken down in the theater. It was printed in 1597. Its title claims that "it hath been often (with great applause) plaid publiquely, by the right Honourable the L. of Hunsdon his servants." The company in which Shakespeare acted was so called from July, 1596, to April, 1597. The Second Quarto, "newly corrected, augmented, and amended," appeared in 1599, and is the basis of all later texts. Three others followed—1609, one undated, and 1637.

It is generally held that Shakespeare wrote much, perhaps all, of the play in the early nineties, and that he revised it for production about 1597. The play is therefore a stepping-stone between the first and second periods of his work.

Source.—The development of the story has been traced from Luigi da Porto's history of Romeo and Giulietta (pr. 1530 at Venice) through Bandello, Boisteau, and Painter's Palace of  Pleasure, to Arthur Brooke's poem Romeus and Juliet (1562), and to a lost English play which Brooke says in his address "To the Reader" he had seen on the stage, but is now known only through a Dutch play of 1630 based upon it.

The part in which Shakespeare altered the action most notably is the first scene, one of the most masterly expositions of a dramatic situation ever written. The nurse is borrowed from Brooke, the death of Mercutio from the old play. The whole is, however, completely transfused by the welding fire of genius.

Love's Labour's Lost.—Obviously imitative of the comedies of John Lyly, Love's Labour's Lost is a light, pleasant court comedy, with but a slight thread of plot. The king of Navarre and three of his nobles forswear for three years the society of ladies in order to pursue study. This plan is interrupted by the Princess of France, who with three ladies comes on an embassy to Navarre. The inevitable happens; the gentlemen fall in love with the ladies, and, after ineffectual struggles to keep their oaths, give up the pursuit of learning for that of love. This runs on merrily enough in courtly fashion till the announcement of the death of the king of France ends the embassy, and the lovers are put on a year's probation of constancy. In the subplot, or minor story, the play is notable for the burlesquing of two types of character—a pompous pedantic schoolmaster, and a braggart who always speaks in high-flown metaphor. These two, happily contrasted with a country curate, a court page, and a country clown with his lass, make much good sport.

It is often said, but as we believe without sufficient proof, that the wit combats of the lords and ladies,  and the artificial speech of the sonneteering courtiers, were also introduced for burlesque. These elements appear, however, in other plays than this, with no intention of burlesque; and it seems probable that Shakespeare greatly enjoyed this display of his power as a master in the prevailing fashion of courtly repartee. In this fashion, as well as in the handling of the low-comedy figures, and in other ways, Shakespeare followed in the steps of John Lyly, the author of the novel Euphues and of the seven court comedies written in the decade before Love's Labour's Lost. Shakespeare's play, however, far surpasses those which it imitated.

Date.—The date of Love's Labour's Lost is entirely a matter of conjecture. It may well have been the very earliest of Shakespeare's comedies. Most scholars agree that the characteristics of style to which we have referred, together with the great use of rime (see p. 81) and the immaturity of the play as a whole, must indicate a very early date, and therefore put the play not later than 1591.

A quarto was published in 1598, "newly corrected and augmented by W. Shakespere." The corrections, from certain mistakes of the printer, appear to be in the speeches of the wittiest of the lords and ladies, Biron and Rosaline. The play next appeared in the Folio.

Source.—No direct source has been discovered. In 1586, Catherine de' Medici, accompanied by her ladies, visited the court of Henry of Navarre, and attempted to settle the disputes between that prince and her son, Henry III. Other hints may also have come from French history. The masque of Muscovites may have been based on the joke played on a Russian ambassador in York Gardens in 1582, when the ambassador was hoping to get a lady of Elizabeth's court as a wife for the Czar. A mocking presentation of this lady was made with much ceremony.

The Comedy of Errors.—Mistaken identity (which the Elizabethans called "Error") is nearly always amusing, whether on the stage or in actual life. The Comedy of Errors is a play in which this situation is developed to the extreme of improbability; but we lose sight of this in the roaring fun which results. Nowadays we should call a play of this type a farce, since most of the fun comes in this way from situations which are improbable, and since the play depends on these for success rather than on characterization or dialogue.

A merchant of Syracuse has had twin sons, and bought twin servants for them. His wife with one twin son and his twin slave has been lost by shipwreck and has come to live in Ephesus. The other son and slave, when grown, have started out to find their brothers, and the father, some years later, starts out to find him. They come to Ephesus, and an amusing series of errors at once begins. The wife takes the wrong twin for her husband, the master beats the wrong slave, the wrong son disowns his father, the twin at Ephesus is arrested instead of his brother, and the twin slave Dromio of Syracuse is claimed as a husband by a black kitchen girl of Ephesus. The situation gets more and more mixed, until at last the real identity of the strangers from Syracuse is established, and all ends happily.

Date.—There is much wordplay of a rather cheap kind, much doggerel, and much jingling rime in this play. All these things point to early work. A reference (III, ii, 125-127) to France "making war against her heir" admits the play to the period 1585-1594, when Henry of Navarre was received as king  of France. The play was probably written not later than 1591. The play was first printed in the First Folio.

Source.—Shakespeare borrowed most of his plot from the Menaechmi of Plautus. Shakespeare added to Plautus's story the second twin-slave and the parents, together with the girl whom the elder twin meets and loves in Syracuse. This elaboration of the plot adds much to the attractiveness of the whole story. From the Amphitruo of Plautus, Shakespeare derived the doubling of slaves, and the scene in which the younger twin and his slave are shut out of their own home.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona is the first of the series of Shakespeare's romantic comedies. Our interest in this play turns upon the purely romantic characters; two friends, one true, the other recreant; the true friend exiled to an outlaw's life in a forest, the false in favor at court; two loving girls, one fair and radiant, the other dark and slighted, and following her lover in boy's dress; two clowns, Speed and Lance, one a mere word tosser, the other of rare humor. The plot is of slighter importance; a discovered elopement, and a maiden rescued from rude, uncivil hands, are the only incidents of account. All ends happily as in romance, and the recreant friend is forgiven.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona was an experiment along certain directions which were later to repay the dramatist most richly. Here first an exquisite lyric interprets the romantic note in the play; here first the production of a troth-plight ring confounds the faithless lover, and here we first meet one of the charming group of loving ladies in disguise.

But as a whole the play is disappointing. The plot is too fantastic; Proteus too much of a cad; Julia, though brave and modest, is yet too faithful; Valentine  too easy a friend. The illusion of romance throws a transitory glamour over the scene, but, save in the development of character, the play seems immature, when compared with the greater comedies that followed it.

Date.—The first mention of the play is by Meres (1598); the first print that in the First Folio (1623). The presence of alternate riming sonnets and doggerel rime on the one hand, and of a number of double endings on the other, render 1592 a reasonable date. In its development of character it marks a great advance over the other two comedies of this period.

Source.—The chief source was a story of a shepherdess, an episode in the Spanish novel, Diana Enamorada, by Jorge de Montemayor (1592). Shakespeare probably read it in an English translation by B. Yonge, which had been in Ms. about ten years. This story gives Julia's part of the play, but contains no Valentine. The Silvia of the story, Celia, falls in love instead with the disguised Felismena, and when rejected kills herself. Whether it was Shakespeare who felt the need of a Valentine to support the tale, or whether this was done in the lost play of Felix and Philiomena, acted in 1584, cannot be told. The Valentine element may have been borrowed from another play, of which a German version exists (1620).

Midsummer Night's Dream is Shakespeare's experiment in the fairy play. Four lovers, two young Athenians of high birth and their sweethearts, are almost inextricably tangled by careless Robin Goodfellow, who has dropped the juice of love-in-idleness upon the eyes of the wrong lovers. King Oberon tricks his capricious and resentful little queen, by the aid of the same juice, into the absurdest infatuation for a clownish weaver, who has come out with his mates to rehearse a play to celebrate Theseus's wedding, but has fallen asleep and  wakened to find an ass's head planted upon him. All comes right, as it ever must in fairyland; the true lovers are reunited; the faithful unloved lady gets her faithless lover; Titania repents and is forgiven; and Theseus's wedding is graced by the "mirthfullest tragedy that ever was seen."

We have in Midsummer Night's Dream three distinct groups of characters—the lovers, the city clowns rehearsing for the play, and the fairies. These three diverse groups are combined in the most skillful way by an intricate interweaving of plot and by the final appearance of all three groups at the wedding festivities of the Duke of Athens and his Amazon bride Hypolita. The characterization, light but delicate throughout, the mastery of the intricate story, the perfection of the comic parts, and the unsurpassed lyrical power of the poetry, are all the evidence we need that Shakespeare is now his own master in the drama, and can pass on to the supreme heights of his art. He has learned his trade for good and all.

It is not a bad way of placing the last of the comedies in the first period of Shakespeare's production, to say that it is the counterpart in comedy of Romeo and Juliet. Like Romeo, Lysander has made love to Hermia, has sung at her window by moonlight, and has won her heart, while her father has promised her hand to another. Like the lovers in the tragedy, Lysander and Hermia plan flight, and an error in this plan would have been as fatal as it was in Romeo and Juliet, but for the kind interposition of the fairies. Again, the "tedious brief scene" of Pyramus and Thisbe, performed by the rustics at the close of the play, is  nothing but a delightful parody on the very theme of Romeo and Juliet, even to the mistaken death, and the suicide of the heroine upon realization of the truth. At the end of the parody, as if in mockery of the Capulets and Montagues, Bottom starts up to tell us that "the wall is down that parted their fathers." Finally, the whole fairy story is the creation of Shakespeare in a Mercutio mood.

In the diversity of its metrical form, Midsummer Night's Dream is also the counterpart of Romeo and Juliet. The abundance of rimed couplet, combined wherever there is intensity of feeling with a perfect form of blank verse, is reminiscent of the earlier play. Passages of equally splendid poetic power meet us all through, while at the same time we feel the very charm of youthful fervor in expression that the tragedy displayed.

Date.—There is nothing certain to guide us in assigning a date to the play, except the mention of it in Meres's list, in 1598. The absence of a uniform structure of verse, the large proportion of rime (partly due, of course, to the nature of the play), the unequal measure of characterization, and the number of passages of purely lyric beauty argue an earlier date than students who notice only the skillful plot structure are willing to assign. Perhaps 1593-5 would indicate this variation in authorities. Some evidence, of the slightest kind, is advanced for 1594. A quarto was printed in 1600, another with the spurious date 1600, really in 1619.

Source.—The plot of the lovers has no known direct source. The Diana Enamorada has a love potion with an effect similar to that of Oberon's. The wedding of Theseus and the Amazon queen is the opening theme of Chaucer's Knight's Tale, and some minor details may also have been borrowed from that story. No doubt, Shakespeare had also read for details North's  account of Theseus in his translation of Plutarch. Pyramus and Thisbe came originally from Ovid's Metamorphoses, which had been translated into English before this time. Chaucer tells the same story in his Legend of Good Women.

The fairies are almost entirely Shakespeare's creation. Titania was one of Ovid's names for Diana; Oberon was a common name for the fairy king, both in the Faerie Queene and elsewhere. Robin Goodfellow was a favorite character among the common folks. But fairies, as we all know them, are like the Twins in Through the Looking-glass, things of the fancy of one man, and that man Shakespeare.

There is the atmosphere of a wedding about the whole play, and this fact has led most scholars to think that the play was written for some particular wedding,—just whose has never been settled. The flattery of the virgin Queen (II, i, 157 f.) and other references to purity might show that Queen Elizabeth was one of the wedding guests.

[1] Schelling, Elizabethan Drama I, 264.

[2] See Chapter I.

CHAPTER XI

THE PLAYS OF THE SECOND PERIOD—COMEDY AND HISTORY

It is difficult for us of to-day to realize that Shakespeare was ever less than the greatest dramatist of his time, to think of him as the pupil and imitator of other dramatists. He did, indeed, pass through this stage of his development with extraordinary rapidity, so that its traces are barely perceptible in the later plays of his First Period. In the plays of his Second Period even these traces disappear. If his portrayal of Shylock shows the influence of Marlowe's Jew of Malta, it is in no sense derivative, and it is the last appearance in Shakespeare's work of characterization clearly dependent upon the plays of his predecessors. However much Shakespeare's choice of themes may have been determined by the public taste or by the work of his fellows, in the creation of character he is henceforth his own master. Having acquired this mastery, he uses it to depict life in its most joyous aspect. For the time being he dwells little upon men's failures and sorrows. He does not ignore life's darker side,—he loved life too well for that,—but he uses it merely as a background for pictures of youth and happiness and success. Although among the comedies of this period he wrote also three historical plays, they  have not the tragic character of the earlier histories. They deal with youth and hope instead of crime, weakness, and failure. In the two parts of Henry IV there is quite as much comedy as there is history; in Henry V, even though the comic interest is slighter, the theme is still one of youth and joy as personified in the figure of the vigorous, successful young king. For convenience' sake, however, we may separate the histories from the comedies. To do this we shall have to depart somewhat from chronological order, and, since there are fewer histories, we shall consider them first.

Henry IV, Part I.—To the development of Henry V from the wayward prince to one of England's most beloved heroes, Shakespeare devoted three plays, Henry IV, Parts I and II, and Henry V. The historical event around which the first of these centers is the rebellion of the Percies, which culminated in the defeat and death of Harry Percy, 'Hotspur,' on Shrewsbury field. In Richard II, Shakespeare had foreshadowed what was to come. The deposed king had prophesied that his successor, Henry Bolingbroke, crowned as Henry IV, would fall out with the great Percy family which had put him on the throne; that the Percies would never be satisfied with what Henry would do for them; and that Henry would hate and distrust them on the ground that those who had made a king could unmake one as well. And this prophecy was fulfilled. Uniting with the Scots under Douglas, with the Archbishop of York, with Glendower, who was seeking to reëstablish the independence of Wales, and with Mortimer, the natural successor of Richard,  the Percies raised the standard of revolt. What might have happened had all things gone as they were planned, we can never know; but Northumberland, the head of the family, feigned sickness; Glendower and Mortimer were kept away; the Archbishop dallied; and failure was the result. This situation gave Shakespeare an opportunity to paint a number of remarkable portraits; but the scheming, crafty Worcester, the vacillating Northumberland, the mystic Glendower, are all overshadowed by the figure of Hotspur, wrong-headed, impulsive, yet so aflame with young life and enthusiasm, so ready to dare all for honor's sake, that he is almost more attractive than the Prince himself. Over against the older leaders of the rebellion stands the lonely figure of Henry IV, misunderstood and little loved by his sons, who has centered his whole existence upon getting and keeping the throne of England. To this one end he bends every energy of his shrewd, strong, hard nature. Such a man could never understand a personality like that of his older son, nor could the son understand the father. Prince Hal, loving life in all its manifestations, joy in all its forms, could find small satisfaction in the rigid etiquette of a loveless court so long as it offered him an opportunity for little more than formal activity. When the rebellion of the Percies showed him that he could do the state real service, he seized his opportunity gladly, gayly, modestly. On his father's cause he centered the energies which he had previously scattered. With this new demand to meet, he no longer had time for his old companions. His old life was thrown off like a coat discarded under stress of work.  Even before that time came, however, Hal was not one who could enjoy ordinary low company; but the friends which had distracted him were far from ordinary. In Falstaff, the leader of the riotous group, Shakespeare created one of the greatest comic figures in all literature. Never at a loss, Falstaff masters alike sack, difficulties, and companions. He is an incarnation of joy for whom moral laws do not exist. Because he will not fight when he sees no chance of victory, he has been called a coward, but no coward ever had such superb coolness in the face of danger. Falstaff's conduct in a fight is explained by his contempt for all conventions which bring no joy—a standard which reduces honor to a mere word. So full of joy was he that he inspired it in his companions. To be with him was to be merry.

Date.—The play was entered in the Stationers' Register, and a quarto was printed in 1598. Meres mentions the play without indicating whether he meant one part or both. The evidence of meter and style point to a date much earlier than Meres's entry, so that 1597 is the year to which Part I is commonly assigned.

Source.—For the serious plot of this play, Shakespeare drew upon Holinshed. He had no scruples, however, against altering history for dramatic purposes. Thus he brings within a much shorter period of time the battles in Wales and Scotland, makes Hal and Hotspur of approximately the same age, and unites two people in the character of Mortimer. The situations in the scenes which show Hal with Falstaff and his fellows are largely borrowed from an old play called The Famous Victories of Henry V, but this source furnished only the barest and crudest outlines, and gave practically no hint of the characters as Shakespeare conceived them. The reference in Act I, Sc. ii, to Falstaff as the 'old lad of the castle' shows that his name was originally  Oldcastle, as in The Famous Victories. Oldcastle was a historical personage quite unlike Falstaff, and it is supposed that the change was made to spare the feeling of Oldcastle's descendants.

Henry IV, Part II.—This part is less a play than a series of loosely connected scenes. The final suppression of the rebellion, which had been continued by the Archbishop of York, the sickness and death of Henry IV, and the accession of Prince Hal as Henry V, are matters essentially undramatic and incapable of unified treatment, while the growing separation of Hal and Falstaff deprived the underplot of that close connection with the main action which it had in the preceding play. Feeling the weakness of the main plot, Shakespeare reduced it to a subordinate position, making it little more than a series of historical pictures inserted between the scenes in which Falstaff and his companions figure. He enriched this part of the play, on the other hand, by the introduction of a number of superbly poetical speeches, the best known of which is that beginning, "O Sleep, O gentle Sleep." To the comic groups Shakespeare added a number of new figures, among them the braggart Pistol, whose speech bristles with the high-sounding terms he has borrowed from the theater, and old Justice Shallow, so fond of recalling the gay nights and days which are as much figments of his imagination as is his assumed familiarity with the great John of Gaunt. By placing more stress upon the evil and less pleasing sides of Falstaff's nature, Shakespeare evidently intended to prepare his readers' minds for the definite break between old Jack and the new king; but in this wonderful man he had created a character so fascinating that he could not spoil it; and  the king's public rejection of Falstaff comes as a painful shock which, impresses one as much with the coldly calculating side of the Bolingbroke nature as it does with the sad inevitability of the rupture.

Source and Date.—The sources for this play are the same as those of its predecessor. Although the first and only quarto was not printed until 1600, there is a reference to this part in Jonson's Every Man Out of his Humour, which was produced in 1599. It must, therefore, have been written shortly after Part I, and it is accordingly dated 1598.

Henry V.—In this, which is really the third play of a trilogy, Shakespeare adopted a manner of treatment quite unlike that which characterizes the other two. Henry V is really a dramatized epic, an almost lyric rhapsody cast in the form of dialogue. Falstaff has disappeared from view, and is recalled only by the affecting story of his death. This episode, however, brief as it is, reveals the love which the old knight evoked from his companions, while the narrative of his last hours is the more pathetic for being put in the mouth of the comic figure of Dame Quickly. Falstaff's place was one which could not be filled, and the comic scenes become comparatively insignificant, although the quarrels of Pistol and the Welshman Fluellen have a distinctive humor. A figure which replaces the classic chorus connects the scattered historical scenes by means of superb narrative verse. Each episode glorifies a new aspect of Henry's character. We see him as the valiant soldier; as the leader rising superior to tremendous odds; as the democratic king who, concealing his rank, talks and jests with a common soldier; and  as the bluff, hearty suitor of a foreign bride. In thus seeing him, moreover, we see not only the individual man; we see him as an ideal Englishman, as the embodiment of the type which the men of Shakespeare's day—and of ours, too, for that matter—loved and admired and honored. In celebrating Henry's victories, Shakespeare was also celebrating England's more recent victories over her enemies abroad, so that the play is a great national paean, the song of heroic, triumphant England.

Date and Source.—Like its predecessors, Henry V is founded on Holinshed, with some additions taken from the Famous Victories. The allusion in the chorus which precedes Act V to the Irish expedition of the Earl of Essex fixes the date of composition between April 14 and September 28, 1599. A quarto, almost certainly pirated, was printed in 1600 and reprinted in 1602, 1608, and 1619 (in the latter with the false date of 1608). The text of these quartos is, therefore, much inferior to that of the Folio.

The Merchant of Venice.—As usually presented on the modern stage, The Merchant of Venice appears to be a comedy, which is overshadowed by one tragic figure, that of the Jew Shylock, the representative of a down-trodden people, deprived of his money by a tricky lawyer and deprived of his daughter by a tricky Christian. Students, on the other hand, have maintained that to the Elizabethans Shylock was merely a comic figure, the defeat of whose vile plot to get the life of his Christian debtor, Antonio, by taking a pound of his flesh in place of the unpaid gold, was greeted with shouts of delighted laughter. As a matter of fact, Shylock, then as now, was a human being, and by virtue  of that fact both ridiculous and pathetic. In any case, whatever the dominant note of his character, he is not the dominant figure of the play. If he were, the fifth act, which ends the play with moonlight and music and the laughter of happy lovers, would be distinctly out of place. Yet it is in reality the absence of such defects of taste, the ability to bring everything into its proper place, to make a harmonious whole out of the most various tones, which best characterizes the Shakespearean comedy of this period. Instead of being a play in which one great character is set in relief against a number of lesser ones, The Merchant of Venice is a comedy in which there is an unusually large number of characters of nearly equal importance and an unusually large number of plots of nearly equal interest. There is the plot which has to do with Portia's marriage, in which the right lover wins this gracious merry lady by choosing the proper one of three locked caskets. There is the plot which deals with the elopement of the Jew's daughter, Jessica. There is the plot which relates the story of the bond given by Antonio to the Jew in return for the loan which enables Antonio's friend, Bassanio, to carry on his suit for Portia's hand, the bond, which, when forfeited, would have cost Antonio his life had not Portia, disguised as a lawyer, defeated Shylock's treacherous design. There is the plot which tells how Bassanio and his friend Gratiano give their wedding rings as rewards to the pretended lawyer and his assistant, really their wives Portia and Nerissa in disguise,—an act which gives the wives a chance to make much trouble for their lords. And all these plots are worked out with an abundance of  interesting detail, and are so perfectly interwoven that the play has all of the wonderful harmony of a Turkish rug, as well as its brilliant variety. No play of Shakespeare's depends more for its effect on plot, on the sheer interest of the stories, and no one has, consequently, situations which are more effective on the stage. It is, perhaps, an inevitable result that the individual characters have a somewhat less permanent, less deeply satisfying charm than do those of the comedies which follow. None of these successors, however, presents a larger or more varied group of delightful men and women.

Date.—The later limit of the date is settled by the mention of this play in Meres's catalogue, and by its entry in the Stationers' Register of that same year. Basing their opinion on extremely unsubstantial internal evidence, some scholars have dated the play as early as 1594, but the evidence of style and construction make a date before 1596 unlikely. Two quartos were printed, one in 1600; the other, though copying the date 1600 upon its title-page, was probably printed in 1619.

Source.—The story of the pound of flesh and that of the choice of caskets are extremely ancient. The former is combined with that of the wedding rings in Fiorentino's Il Pecorone (the first novel of the fourth day), a story which Shakespeare probably knew and may have used. Alexander Silvayn's The Orator, printed in English translation in 1596, has, in connection with a bond episode, speeches made by a Jew which may be the source of some of Shylock's lines. The combination of these plots with those of Jessica and Nerissa is, so far as we can yet prove, original with Shakespeare; but we cannot be certain how much The Merchant of Venice resembles a lost play of the Jew mentioned in Gosson's School of Abuse (1579), "representing the greediness of worldly chusers, and bloody mindes of Usurers."

The Taming of the Shrew.—The Taming of the Shrew is only in part the work of Shakespeare. Just how  much he had to do with making over the underplot, we shall probably never know; but, in any case, he did not write the dialogue of this part of the play, and its construction is not particularly remarkable. The winning of a girl by a suitor disguised as a teacher is a conventional theme of comedy, as is the disguising of a stranger to take the place of an absent father in order to confirm a young lover's suit. The main plot Shakespeare certainly left as he found it. It tells how an ungovernable, willful girl was made into a submissive wife by a husband who assumed for the purpose a manner even wilder than her own, so wild that not even she could endure it. This story is presented in scenes of uproarious farce in which there is little opportunity for subtle characterization or the higher sort of comedy. What Shakespeare did was to give to the hero and heroine, Petruchio and Katherine, a semblance of reality, and to add enormously to the life and movement of the scenes in which they appear. Some of these scenes are very effective on the stage, but they are not of a sort to reveal Shakespeare's greatest qualities. The induction, the framework in which the play is set, is, however, quite another matter. The story of the drunken tinker, Sly, unfortunately omitted in many modern presentations, is a little masterpiece. A nobleman returning from the hunt finds Sly lying in a drunken stupor before an inn. The nobleman has Sly taken to his country house, has him dressed in rich clothing, has him awakened by servants who make him believe that he is really a lord, and finally has the play performed before him. The outline of this induction was in the old play which Shakespeare revised; but  he developed the crude work of his predecessor into scenes so delightfully realistic, into characterization so richly humorous, that this induction takes its place among the great comic episodes of literature.

Date.—No certain evidence for the date of this play exists, even the metrical tests failing us because of the collaboration. It is commonly assigned to the years 1596-7, but this is little more than a guess.

Source.—As has already been indicated, this play is the revision of an older play entitled The Taming of a Shrew. The latter was probably written by a disciple of Marlowe, and was first printed in quarto in 1594. The chief change which the revision made in the plot was that which gave Katherine one sister instead of two and added the interest of rival suitors for this sister's hand. Stories concerning the taming of a shrewish woman are both ancient and common, but no direct antecedent of the older play has been discovered, although some incidents seem to have been borrowed from Gascoigue's Supposes, a translation from the Italian of Ariosto.

Authorship.—The identity of Shakespeare's collaborator is unknown, nor is it possible to define exactly the limits of his work. It is practically certain, however, that Shakespeare wrote the Induction; II, i, 169-326; III, ii, with the possible exception of 130-150; IV, i, iii, and v; V, ii, at least as far as 175.

The Merry Wives of Windsor.—The Merry Wives is the only comedy in which Shakespeare avowedly presents the middle-class people of an English town. In other comedies English characters and customs appear through the thin disguise of Italian names; in the histories there are comic scenes drawn from English life; but only here does Shakespeare desert the city and the country for the small town and draw the larger number of his characters from the great middle class.  A tradition has come down to us, one which is supported by the nature of the play, that Queen Elizabeth was so fascinated by the character of Falstaff as he appeared in Henry IV that she requested Shakespeare to show Falstaff in love, and that Shakespeare, in obedience to this command, wrote the play within a fortnight. Unless this tradition be true, it is difficult to explain why Shakespeare should have written a comedy which is, in comparison with his other work of this period, at once conventional and mediocre. The subject—the intrigues of Falstaff with two married women, and the wooing of a commonplace girl by two foolish suitors and another as commonplace as herself—gave Shakespeare little opportunity for poetry and none for the portrayal of the types of character most congenial to his temperament. The greatest blemish on the play, however, from the standpoint of a student of Shakespeare, is that the man called Falstaff is not Falstaff at all, that this Falstaff bears only an outward resemblance to the Falstaff of the historical plays. If we may misquote the poet, Falstaff died a martyr, and this is not the man. The real Falstaff would never have stooped to the weak devices adopted by the man who bears his name, would never have been three times the dupe of transparent tricks. The task demanded of Shakespeare was one impossible of performance. Falstaff could not have fallen in love in the way which the queen desired. Nor is there much to compensate for this degradation of the greatest comic figure in literature. Falstaff's companions share, although to a lesser degree, in their leader's fall, while the two comic figures which are original with this play are  comparatively unsuccessful studies in French and Welsh dialect. Judged by Shakespeare's own standard, this work is as middle-class as its characters; judged by any other, it is an amusing comedy of intrigue, realistic in type and abounding in comic situations which approach the borderland of farce.

Date.—This play was entered on the books of the Stationers' Company January 18, 1602. It was certainly written after the two parts of Henry IV, and if, as is most probable, the character of Nym is a revival and not an imperfect first sketch, the play must have succeeded Henry V. On these grounds the play is best assigned to 1599. It was first printed in quarto in 1602, but this version is extremely faulty, besides being considerably shorter than that of the First Folio. The quarto seems to have been printed from a stenographic report of an acting version of the play, made by an unskillful reporter for a piratical publisher.

Source.—The main plot resembles a story derived from an Italian source which is found in Tarlton's News out of Purgatorie. For the underplot and a number of details in the working out of the main plot, no source is known.

Much Ado About Nothing.—In this play, as nowhere else, Shakespeare has given us the boon of laughter—not the smile, not the uncontrolled guffaw, but rippling, melodious laughter. From the beginning to the end this is the dominant note. If the great trio of which this was the first be classified as romantic comedies, we may perhaps say that in speaking of the others we should lay the stress on the word 'romantic,' in this, on the word 'comedy.' As regards the main plot, Much Ado is, to be sure, the most serious of the three. When the machinations of the villainous Prince John lead Claudio to believe his intended bride  unfaithful, and to reject this pure-scaled Hero with violence and contumely at the very steps of the altar, we have a situation which borders on the tragic. The mingled doubt, rage, and despair of Hero's father is, moreover, undoubtedly affecting. Nevertheless, powerful as these scenes are, they are so girt about with laughter that they cannot destroy our good spirits. Even at their height, the manifestations of human wickedness, credulity, and weakness seem but the illusions of a moment, soon to be dissipated by the power of radiant mirth. It is not without significance that the deep-laid plot should be defeated through the agency of the immortal Dogberry, most deliciously foolish of constables. Nor is it mere chance that Hero and Claudio are so constantly accompanied by Beatrice and Benedick, that amazing pair to whom life is one long jest. In the merry war which is constantly raging between these two, their shafts never fail of their mark, but neither is once wounded. Like magnesium lights, their minds send forth showers of brilliant sparks which hit, but do not wound. But their wit is something more than empty sparkle. It is the effervescence of abounding life, a life too sound and perfect to be devoid of feeling. Their brilliancy does not conceal emptiness, but adorns abundance. When such an occasion as Hero's undeserved rejection called for it, the true affection of Beatrice and the true manliness of Benedick appeared. Hence, although both seem duped by the trick which forms the underplot, the ruse which was to make each think the other to be the lovelorn one, it is really they who win the day. Their feelings are not altered by this merry plot; they  are merely given a chance to drop the mask of banter and to express without confusion the love which had long been theirs. Thus the play which began with the silvery laughter of Beatrice ends in general mirth which is yet more joyous.

Date.—Since Much Ado is not mentioned by Meres, it can hardly have been written before 1598. Entries in the Stationers' Register for August 4 and 24, 1600, and the appearance of a quarto edition in this same year limit the possibilities at the other end. Since the title-page of the quarto asserts that this play had been "sundry times publicly acted," we may assign the date 1599 with considerable confidence.

Source.—The main plot was derived originally from the twentieth novel of Bandello, but there is no direct evidence that Shakespeare used either this or its French translation in Belleforest. In this story Benedick and Beatrice do not appear; there is no public rejection of Hero; there is no discovery of the plot by Dogberry and his fellows; and the deception of Claudio is differently managed. Shakespeare's treatment of this last detail has its source in an episode of the fifth book of Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, a work several times done into English before Shakespeare's play was written. There is considerable reason for assuming the existence of a lost original for Much Ado in the shape of a play, known only by title, called Benedicke and Betteris; but it is, of course, impossible to say how much Shakespeare may have owed to this hypothetical predecessor.

As You Like It.—Of this most idyllic of all Shakespeare's comedies, the Forest of Arden is not merely the setting; it is the central force of the play, the power which brings laughter out of tears and harmony out of discord. It reminds us of Sherwood forest, the home of Robin Hood and his merry men; but it is more than this. Not only does it harbor beasts and trees never found on English soil, but its shadowy  glades foster a life so free from care and trouble that it becomes to us a symbol of Nature's healing, sweetening influence. Here an exiled Duke and his faithful followers have found a refuge where, free from the envy and bickerings of court, they "fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the Golden Age." To them comes the youth Orlando, fleeing from the treachery of a wicked elder brother and from the malice of the usurping Duke. To them comes Rosalind, daughter of the exiled Duke, who has lived at the usurper's court, but has, in her turn, been exiled, and who brings with her Celia, the usurper's daughter, and Touchstone, the lovable court fool. And through these newcomers the Duke and his friends are brought into contact with a shepherd and shepherdess as unreal and as charming as those of Dresden china, and with other country folk who smack more strongly of the soil. In the forest, Rosalind, who has for safety's sake assumed man's attire, again meets Orlando, and the love between them, born of their first meeting at court, becomes stronger and truer amid scenes of delicate comedy and merry laughter. Once in Arden, Orlando ceases to brood morosely over the wrongs done him; Rosalind's wit becomes sweeter while losing none of its keenness; and Touchstone feels himself no longer a plaything, but a man. So we are not surprised when Oliver, the wicked brother, lost in the forest and rescued from mortal danger by the lad he has always sought to injure, awakens to his better self; nor when the usurping Duke, leading an armed expedition against the man he has deposed, is converted at the forest's edge by an old hermit, abandons the throne to  its rightful occupant, and enters upon the religious life. Thus the old Duke comes into his own again, wiser and better than before; and if, among the many marriages which fill the last act with the chiming of marriage bells, there are some which seem little likely to bring lasting happiness, the magic of the woods does much to dissipate our doubts. Only Jaques, the melancholy philosopher, fails to share in the general rejoicing and the glad return. He has been too hardened by the pursuit of his own pleasure and is too shut in by his delightfully cynical philosophy to feel quickly the forest's touch. Yet not even his brilliant perversities can sadden the joyous atmosphere; it is only made the more enjoyable by force of contrast. Since Jaques wishes no joy for himself, we wish none for him, and with little regret we leave him as he has lived, a lonely, fascinating figure.

Date.—Like Much Ado, As You Like It is not mentioned by Meres, and was entered in the Stationers' Register on August 4, 1600. Some critics have placed this play before Much Ado, but, although there is little evidence on either side, the style and tone of the play incline us to place it after, dating it 1599-1600.

Source.—As You Like It is a dramatization of Lodge's pastoral novel entitled Rosalynde, which was founded in its turn on the Tale of Gamelyn, incorrectly ascribed to Chaucer. Shakespeare condensed his original to great advantage, leaving out many episodes and so changing others as to give the subject a new and higher unity. The atmosphere of the forest is all of his creation, as are many of the characters, including Jaques and Touchstone.

Twelfth Night, or What You Will.—In Twelfth Night romance and comedy are less perfectly fused than in  the comedy which preceded it. Here there are two distinct groups of characters, on the one hand riotous old Sir Toby and his crew leading the Puritanical steward Malvolio into the trap baited by his own egotism; on the other, the dreaming Duke, in love with love rather than with the beautiful Olivia whom he woos in vain, and ardently loved by Viola, whose gentle nature is in touching contrast with the doublet and hose which misfortune has compelled her to assume. There is, however, no lack of dramatic unity. In Olivia the two groups meet, for Toby is Olivia's uncle, Malvolio her steward, the Duke her lover, Viola—later happily supplanted by her twin brother Sebastian—the one she loves. Thus the romantic and comic forces act and react upon each other. Yet this play, by reason of its setting, the court of Illyria, was bound to lack the magical atmosphere of the forest, which inspired kindly humor in the serious and gentle seriousness in the merry. If Peste is as witty as Touchstone, he is less of a man; if Viola is more appealing than Rosalind, she has a less sparkling humor. Here the love story is more passionate, the fun more uproarious. Toby is not Falstaff; he is overcome by wine and difficulties as that amazing knight never was; but it is a sad soul which does not roar with Toby in his revels; shout with laughter over the duel which he arranges between the shrinking Viola and the foolish, vain Sir Andrew; and shake in sympathy with his glee over Malvolio's plight when that unlucky man is beguiled into thinking Olivia loves him, and into appearing before her cross-gartered and wreathed in the smiles  which accord so ill with his sour visage. All the more affecting in contrast to this boisterous merriment is the frail figure of Viola, who knows so well "what love women to men may owe." Amid the perfume of flowers and the sob of violins the Duke learns to love this seeming boy better than he knows, and easily forgets the romantic melancholy which was never much more than an agreeable pose.

Date.—In the diary of John Manningham for February 2, 1602, is a record of a performance of Twelfth Night in the Middle Temple. The absence of the name from Meres's list again limits the date at the other end. The internal evidence, aside from that of style and meter, is negligible, while the latter confirms the usually accepted date of 1601.

Source.—The principal source of the plot was probably Apolonius and Silla, a story by Barnabe Riche, apparently an adaptation of Belleforest's translation of the twenty-eighth novel of Bandello. There was also an Italian play, Gl' Ingannati, acted in Latin translation at Cambridge in 1590 and 1598, which has a similar plot. A German play on the same subject, apparently closely connected with Riche, has given rise to the hypothesis that a lost English play preceded Twelfth Night; but this is only conjectural, and there is some evidence that Shakespeare was familiar with Riche's story. If this be the original, Shakespeare improved on it as much as he did on Rosalynde, condensing the beginning, knitting together the loose strands at the end, and introducing the whole of the underplot with its rich variety of characters. The only hint for this known is a slight suggestion for Malvolio's madness found in another story of Riche's volume.

CHAPTER XII

THE PLAYS OF THE THIRD PERIOD—TRAGEDY

The Second and Third periods slightly overlap; for Julius Caesar, the first play of the later group, was probably written before Twelfth Night and As You Like It. But the change in the character of the plays in these two periods is sharp and decisive, like the change from day to night. Shakespeare has studied the sunlight of human cheerfulness and found it a most interesting problem; now in the mysterious starlight and shadow of human suffering he finds a problem more interesting still.

The three comedies of this period, partly on account of their bitter and sarcastic tone, are not widely read nor usually very much admired; but the great tragedies are the poet's finest work and scarcely equaled in the history of the world.

Troilus and Cressida.—Here the story centers around the siege of ancient Troy by the Greeks. Its hero, Troilus, is a young son of Priam, high-spirited and enthusiastic, who is in love with Cressida, daughter of a Trojan priest. Pandarus, Cressida's uncle, acts as go-between for the lovers. Just as the suit of Troilus is crowned with success, Cressida, from motives of policy, is forced to join her father Calchas, who is in the camp of the besieging Greeks. Here her fickle and sensuous nature reveals itself rapidly. She yields to  the love of the Greek commander Diomed and promises to become his mistress. Troilus learns of this, consigns her to oblivion, and attempts, but unsuccessfully, to take revenge on Diomed.

While this love story is progressing, meetings are going on between the Greek and Trojan warriors; a vivid picture is given of conditions in the Greek camp during the truce, and particularly of the insolent pride of Achilles. The story ends with the resumption of hostilities, the slaying of Hector by Achilles, and the resolution of Troilus to revenge his brother's death.

It is very difficult to understand what Shakespeare meant by this play. If it is a tragedy, why do the hero and heroine meet with no special disaster at the end, and why do we feel so little sympathy for the misfortunes of any one in the play? If it is a comedy, why is its sarcastic mirth made more bitter than tears, and why does it end with the death of its noblest minor character and with the violation of all poetic justice? From beginning to end it is the story of disillusion, for it sorts all humanity into two great classes, fools who are cheated and knaves who cheat. Some people think that Shakespeare wrote it in a gloomy, pessimistic mood, with the sardonic laughter of a disappointed, world-wearied man. Others, on rather doubtful grounds, believe it a covert satire on some of Shakespeare's fellow dramatists.

Authorship.—It is generally agreed that a small part of this play is by another author. The Prologue and most of the Fifth Act are usually considered non-Shakespearean. They differ from the rest of the play in many details of vocabulary, meter, and style.

Date.—Troilus and Cressida must have been written before 1603, for in the spring of that year an entry in regard to it was made in the Stationers' Register. It must have been written after 1601, for it alludes (Prologue, ll. 23-25) to the Prologue of Jonson's Poetaster, a play published in that year. Hence the date of composition would fall during or slightly before 1602. The First Quarto was not published until 1609.

Sources.—The main source of this drama was the narrative poem Troilus and Criseyde by Chaucer. Contrary to his custom, Shakespeare has degraded the characters of his original, instead of ennobling them. The camp scenes are adapted from Caxton's Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye; and the challenge of Hector was taken from some translation of Homer, probably that by Chapman. An earlier lost play on this subject by Dekker and Chettle is mentioned in contemporary reference. We do not know whether Shakespeare drew anything from it or not. Scattered hints were probably taken from other sources, as the story of Troy was very popular in the Middle Ages.

All's Well That Ends Well.—When a beautiful and noble-minded young woman falls in love with a contemptible scoundrel, forgives his rebuffs, compromises her own dignity to win his affection, and finally persuades him to let her throw herself away on him,—is the result a romance or a tragedy? This is a nice question; and by the answer to it we must determine whether All's Well That Ends Well is a romantic comedy like Twelfth Night or a satirical comedy bitter as tragedy, like Troilus and Cressida.

Helena, a poor orphan girl, has been brought up by the kindly old Countess of Rousillon, and cherishes a deep affection for the Countess's son Bertram, though he neither suspects it nor returns it. She saves the life of the French king, and he in gratitude allows her  to choose her husband from among the noblest young lords of France. Her choice falls on Bertram. Being too politic to offend the king, he reluctantly marries her, but forsakes her on their wedding day to go to the wars. At parting he tells her that he will never accept her as a wife until she can show him his ring on her finger and has a child by him. By disguising herself as a young woman whom Bertram is attempting to seduce, Helena subsequently fulfills the terms of his hard condition. Later, before the king of France she reminds him of his promise, shows his ring in her possession, and states that she is with child by him. The count, outwitted, and in fear of the king's wrath, repentantly accepts her as his wife; and at the end Helena is expected to live happily forever after.

Disagreeable as the plot is when told in outline, it is redeemed in the actual play by the beautiful character given to the heroine. But this, while it vastly tones down the disgusting side of the story, only increases the bitter pathos which is latent there. The more lovely and admirable Helena is, the more she is unfitted for the unworthy part which she is forced to act and the man with whom she is doomed to end her days. A modern thinker could easily read into this "comedy" the world-old bitterness of pearls before swine.

Date.—No quarto of this comedy exists, nor is there any mention of such a play as All's Well That Ends Well before the publication of the First Folio in 1623. A play of Shakespeare's called Love's Labour's Won is mentioned by Francis Meres in 1598; and many think that this was the present comedy under another name. However, the meter, style, and mood of most of the play seem to indicate a later date. The  most common theory is that a first version was written before 1598, and that this was rewritten in the early part of the author's third period. This would put the date of the play in its present form somewhere around 1602.

Sources.—The story is taken from Boccaccio's Decameron (ninth novel of the third day). It was translated into English by Painter in his Palace of Pleasure, where our author probably read it. Shakespeare has added the Countess, Parolles, and one or two minor characters. The conception of the heroine has been greatly ennobled. It is a question whether the bitter tone of the play is due to the dramatist's intention or is the unforeseen result of reducing Boccaccio's improbable story to a living possibility.

Measure for Measure.—When Hamlet told his guilty mother that he would set her up a glass where she might see the inmost part of her, he was doing for his mother what Shakespeare in Measure for Measure is doing for the lust-spotted world. The play is a trenchant satire on the evils of society. Such realistic pictures of the things that are, but should not be, have always jarred on our aesthetic sense from Aristophanes to Zola, and Measure for Measure is one of the most disagreeable of Shakespeare's plays. But no one can deny its power.

Here, as in All's Well That Ends Well, we have one beautiful character, that of Isabella, like a light shining in corruption. Here, too, the wronged Mariana, in order to win back the faithless Angelo, is forced to resort to the same device to which Helena had to stoop. But this play is darker and more savage than its predecessor. Angelo, as a governor, sentencing men to death for the very sin which he as a private man is trying to commit, is contemptible on a huger  and more devilish scale than Bertram. Lucio, if not more base than Parolles, is at least more malignant. And Claudio, attempting to save his life by his sister's shame, is an incarnation of the healthy animal joy of life almost wholly divested of the ideals of manhood. In a way, the play ends happily; but it is about as cheerful as the red gleam of sunset which shoots athwart a retreating thunderstorm.

Date.—The play was first published in the Folio of 1623. It is generally believed, however, that it was written about 1603. In the first place, the verse tests and general character of the play seem to fit that date; secondly, there are two passages, I, i, 68-73 and II, iv, 27-30, which are usually interpreted as allusions to the attitude of James I toward the people after he came to the throne in 1603; and, thirdly, there are many turns of phrase which remind one of Hamlet and which seem to indicate that the two plays were written near together. Barksted's Myrrha (1607) contains a passage apparently borrowed from this comedy, which helps in determining the latest possible date of composition.

Sources.—Shakespeare borrowed his material from a writer named George Whetstone, who in 1578 printed a play, Promos and Cassandra, containing most of the story of Measure for Measure. In 1582 the same author published a prose version of the story in his Heptameron of Civil Discourses. Whetstone in turn borrowed his material, which came originally from the Hecatommithi of Giraldi Cinthio. Shakespeare ennobled the underlying thought as far as he could, and added the character of Mariana.

Julius Caesar.—The interest in Julius Caesar does not focus on any one person as completely as in the other great tragedies. Like the chronicle plays which had preceded it, it gives rather a grand panorama of history than the fate of any particular hero. This  explains its title. It is not the story of Julius Caesar the man, but of that great political upheaval of which Caesar was cause and center. That upheaval begins with his attempt at despotism and the crown; it reaches its climax in his death, which disturbs the political equilibrium of the whole nation; and at last subsides with the decline and downfall of Caesar's enemies. Shakespeare has departed from history in drawing the character of the great conqueror, making it more weak, vain, and pompous than that of the real man. Yet even in the play "the mightiest Julius" is an impressive figure. Alive, he

"doth bestride the narrow world

Like a Colossus";

and his influence, like an unseen force, shapes the fates of the living after he himself is dead.

In so far as the tragedy has any individual hero, that hero is Brutus rather than Caesar himself. Brutus is a man of noble character, but deficient in practical judgment and knowledge of men. With the best of motives he allows Cassius to hoodwink him and draw him into the conspiracy against Caesar. Through the same short-sighted generosity he allows his enemy Antony to address the crowd after Caesar's death, with the result that Antony rouses the people against him and drives him and his fellow conspirators out of Rome. Then when he and Cassius gather an army in Asia to fight with Antony, we find him too impractically scrupulous to raise money by the usual means; and for that reason short of cash and drawn into a quarrel with his brother general. His subsequent  death at Philippi is the logical outcome of his own nature, too good for so evil an age, too short-sighted for so critical a position.

Most of the old Roman heroes inspire respect rather than love; and something of their stern impressiveness lingers in the atmosphere of this Roman play. Here and there it has very touching scenes, such as that between Brutus and his page (IV, iii); but in the main it is great, not through its power to elicit sympathetic tears, but through its dignity and grandeur. It is one of the stateliest of tragedies, lofty in language, majestic in movement, logical and cogent in thought. We can never mourn for Brutus and Portia as we do for Romeo and Juliet, or for Lear and Cordelia; but we feel that we have breathed in their company an air which is keen and bracing, and have caught a glimpse of

"The grandeur that was Rome."

Date.—We have no printed copy of Julius Caesar earlier than that of the First Folio. Since it was not mentioned by Meres in 1598 and was alluded to in 1601 in John Weever's Mirrour of Martyrs, it probably appeared between those two dates. Weever says in his dedication that his work "some two years ago was made fit for the print." This apparently means that he wrote the allusion to Julius Caesar in 1599 and that consequently the play had been produced by then. There is a possible reference to it in Ben Jonson's Every Man Out of His Humour, which came out in 1599. Metrical tests and the general character of the play agree with these conclusions. Hence we can put the date between 1599-1601, with a preference for the former year.

Sources.—Shakespeare drew his material from North's Plutarch, using the lives of Caesar, Brutus, and Antony. He has  enlarged the parts of Casca and Lepidus, and made Brutus much nobler than in the original. This last change was a dramatic necessity in order to give the play a hero with whom we could sympathize.

Hamlet.—On the surface the story of Hamlet is a comparatively simple one. The young prince is heart-broken over the recent death of his father, and his mother's scandalously hasty marriage to Hamlet's uncle, the usurping sovereign. In this mood he is brought face to face with his father's spirit, told that his uncle was his father's murderer, and given as a sacred duty the task of revenging the crime. To this object he sacrifices all other aims in life—pleasure, ambition, and love. But this savage task is the last one on earth for which his fine-grained nature was fitted. He wastes his energy in feverish efforts which fail to accomplish his purpose, just as many a man wavers helplessly in trying to do something for which nature never intended him. Partly to deceive his enemies, partly to provide a freer expression for his pent-up emotions than the normal conditions of life would justify, he acts the role of one who is mentally deranged. Finally, more by chance than any plan of his own, he achieves his revenge on the king, but not until he himself is mortally wounded. His story is the tragedy of a sensitive, refined, imaginative nature which is required to perform a brutal task in a brutal world.

But around this story as a framework Shakespeare has woven such a wealth of poetry and philosophy that the play has been called the "tragedy of thought." It is in Hamlet's brain that the great action of the drama  takes place; the other characters are mere accessories and foils. Here we are brought face to face with the fear and mystery of the future life and the deepest problems of this. It is hardly true to say that Hamlet himself is a philosopher. He gives some very wise advice to the players; but in the main he is grappling problems without solving them, peering into the dark, but bringing from it no definite addition to our knowledge. He represents rather the eternal questioning of the human heart when face to face with the great mysteries of existence; and perhaps this accounts largely for the wide and lasting popularity of the play. Side by side with this deep-souled, earnest man, moving in the shadow of the unseen, with his terrible duties and haunting fears, Shakespeare has placed in intentional mockery the old dotard Polonius, the incarnation of shallow worldly wisdom.

No other play of Shakespeare's has called forth such a mass of comment as this or so many varied interpretations. Neither has any other roused a deeper interest in its readers. The spell which it casts over old and young alike is due partly to the character of the young prince himself, partly to the suggestive mystery with which it invests all problems of life and sorrow.

Date.—'A booke called the Revenge of Hamlett' was entered in the Stationers' Register July, 1602. Consequently, Shakespeare's Preliminary version, as represented by the First Quarto, though not printed until 1603, must have been written in or before the spring months of 1602; the second version 1603-1604.

Sources.—The plot came originally from the Historia Danica, a history of Denmark in Latin, written in the twelfth century  by Saxo Grammaticus, a Danish scholar. About 1570 the story was retold in French in Belleforest's Histoires Tragiques. Besides his debt to Belleforest, it seems almost certain that Shakespeare drew from an earlier English tragedy of Hamlet by another man. This earlier play is lost; but Nash, a contemporary writer, alludes to it as early as 1589, and Henslowe's Diary records its performance in 1494. Somewhat before 1590, an early dramatist, Thomas Kyd, had written a play called The Spanish Tragedy, which, though far inferior to Shakespeare's Hamlet, resembled it in many ways. This likeness has caused scholars to suspect that Kyd wrote the early Hamlet; and their suspicions are strengthened by an ambiguous and apparently punning allusion to Æsop's Kidde in the passage by Nash mentioned above. A crude and brutal German play on the subject has been discovered, which is believed by many to be a translation of Kyd's original tragedy. If this is true, it shows how enormously Shakespeare improved on his source.

Editions.—A very badly garbled and crude form of this play was printed in 1603, and is known as the First Quarto. A much better one, which contained most of the tragedy as we read it, appeared in 1604, and is called the Second Quarto. Several other quartos followed, for the play was exceedingly popular. The Folio omits certain passages found in the Second Quarto, and introduces certain new ones. Both the new passages and the omitted ones are included in modern editions; so that, as has often been said, our modern Hamlet is longer than any Hamlet which Shakespeare left us. The First Quarto is generally regarded as a pirated copy of Shakespeare's scenario, or first rough draft, of the play.

Othello.—This play has often been called the tragedy of jealousy, but that is a misleading statement. Othello, as Coleridge pointed out, is not a constitutionally jealous man, such as Leontes in The Winter's Tale. His distrust of his wife is the natural suspicion of a man lost amid new and inexplicable surroundings.  Women are proverbially suspicious in business, not because nature made them so, but because, as they are in utter ignorance of standards by which to judge, they feel their helplessness in the face of deceit. Othello feels the same helplessness. Trained up in wars from his cradle, he could tell a true soldier from a traitor at a glance, with the calm confidence of a veteran; but women and their motives are to him an uncharted sea. Suddenly a beautiful young heiress falls in love with him, and leaves home and friends to marry him. He stands on the threshold of a new realm, happy but bewildered. Then comes Iago, his trusted subordinate, —who, as Othello knows, possesses that knowledge of women and of civilian life which he himself lacks,—and whispers in his ear that his bride is false to him; that under this fair veneer lurks the eternal feminine as they had seen it in the common creatures of the camp; that she has fooled her husband as these women have so often fooled his soldiers; and that the rough-and-ready justice of the camp should be her reward. Had Othello any knowledge or experience in such matters to fall back on, he might anchor to that, and become definitely either the trusting husband or the Spartan judge. But as it is, he is whirled back and forth in a maelstrom of agonized doubt, until compass, bearings, and wisdom lost, he ends all in universal shipwreck.

The character of Iago is one of the subtlest studies of intelligent depravity ever created by man. Ostensibly his motive is revenge; but in reality his wickedness seems due rather to a perverted mental activity, unbalanced by heart or conscience. As Napoleon enjoyed manoeuvring armies or Lasker studying chess, so  Iago enjoys the sense of his own mental power in handling his human pawns, in feeling himself master of the situation. If he ever had natural affections, they have been atrophied in the pursuit of this devilish game.

With Desdemona the feminine element, which had been negligible in Julius Caesar and thrown into the background in Hamlet, becomes a prominent feature, and remains so through the later tragedies. There is a pathetic contrast between the beautiful character of Desdemona and her undeserved fate, just as there is between the real nobility of Othello and the mad act by which he ruins his own happiness. For that reason this is perhaps the most touching of all Shakespeare's tragedies.

Date.—The play was certainly published after 1601, for it contains several allusions to Holland's translation of the Latin author Pliny, which appeared in that year. Malone, one of the early editors of Shakespeare, says that Othello was acted at Hallowmas, 1604. We not know on what evidence he based this assertion; but since the metrical tests all point to the same date, his statement is generally accepted. The First Quarto did not appear until 1622, six years after Shakespeare died and one year before the appearance of the First Folio. This was the only play published in quarto between Shakespeare's death and 1623. There are frequent oaths in the Quarto which have been very much modified in the Folio, and this strengthens our belief that the manuscript from which the Quarto was printed was written about 1604, for shortly after that date an act was passed against the use of profanity in plays.

Sources.—The plot was taken from Giraldi Cinthio's Hecatommithi (seventh novel of the third decade). A French translation of the Italian was made in 1583-1584, and this Shakespeare may have used. We know of no English translation until  years after Shakespeare died. Many details are changed in the play, and the whole story is raised to a far nobler plane. In the original the heroine is beaten to death with a stocking filled with sand; Othello is tortured, but refuses to confess, and later is murdered by his wife's revengeful kinsmen. This crude, bloody, and long-drawn-out story is in striking contrast with the masterly ending of the tragedy.

King Lear.—As Romeo and Juliet shows the tragedy of youth, so Lear shows the tragedy of old age. King Lear has probably been a good and able man in his day; but now time has impaired his judgment, and he is made to suffer fearfully for those errors for which nature, and not he, is to blame. Duped by the hypocritical smoothness of his two elder daughters, he gives them all his lands and power; while his youngest daughter Cordelia, who truly loves him, is turned away because she is too honest to humor an old man's whim. The result is what might have been expected. Lear has put himself absolutely into the power of his two older daughters, who are the very incarnation of heartlessness and ingratitude. By their inhuman treatment he is driven out into the night and storm, exposing his white head to a tempest so fierce that even the wild beasts refuse to face it. As a result of exposure and mental suffering, his mind becomes unhinged. At last his daughter Cordelia finds him, gives him refuge, and nurses him back to reason and hope. But this momentary gleam of light only makes darker by contrast the end which closely follows, where Cordelia is killed by treachery and Lear dies broken-hearted.

The fate of Lear finds a parallel in that of  Gloucester in the underplot. Like his king, this nobleman has proved an unwise father, favoring the treacherous child and disowning the true. He also is made to pay a fearful penalty for his mistakes, ending in his death. But he is represented as more justly punished, less excusable through the weaknesses of age; and for this reason his grief appeals to us as an intensifying reflection of Lear's misery rather than as a rival for that in our sympathy. The character of Edmund shows some likeness to that of Richard III; and a comparison of the two will show how Shakespeare has developed in the interval. Both are stern, able, and heartless; but Edmund unites to these more complex feelings known only to the close student of life. Weakness and passion mingle in his love; superstition and some faint, abortive motion of conscience unite to torment him when dying.

There is a strangely lyric element about this great tragedy, an element of heart-broken emotion hovering on the edge of passionate song. It is like a great chorus in which the victims of treachery and ingratitude blend their denouncing cries. The tremulous voice of Lear rises terrible above all the others; and to his helpless curses the plaintive satire of the fool answers like a mocking echo in halls of former enjoyment. Thunder and lightning are the fearful accompaniment of the song; and like faint antiphonal responses from the underplot come the voices of the wronged Edgar and the outraged Gloucester.

Date.—The date of King Lear lies between 1603 and 1606. In 1603 appeared a book (Harsnett's Declaration of Egregious Popish Impostures) from which Shakespeare afterward drew  the names of the devils in the pretended ravings of Edgar, together with similar details. In 1606, as we know from an entry in the Stationers' Register, the play was performed at Whitehall at Christmas. A late edition of the old King Leir (not Shakespeare's) was entered on the Register May 8, 1605; and it is very plausible that Shakespeare's tragedy was then having a successful run and that the old play was revived to take advantage of an occasion when its story was popular. Hence the date usually given for the composition of King Lear is 1604-5. A quarto, with a poor text, and carelessly printed, appeared in 1608; another, (bearing the assumed date of 1608) in 1619. The First Folio text is much the best. Three hundred lines lacking in it are made up for by a hundred lines absent from the quartos.

Sources.—The story of Lear in some form or another had appeared in many writers before Shakespeare. The sources from which he drew chiefly were probably the early accounts by Geoffrey of Moumouth, a composite poem called The Mirrour for Magistrates, Holinshed's Chronicles, Spenser's Faerie Queene, and lastly an old play of King Leir, supposed to be the one acted in 1594. This old play ended happily; Shakespeare first introduced the tragic ending. He also invented Lear's madness, the banishment and disguise of Kent, and the characters of Burgundy and the fool. The underplot he drew from the story of the blind king of Paphlagonia in Arcadia, a long, rambling novel of adventure by Sir Philip Sidney.

Macbeth.—Macbeth, one of the great Scottish nobles of early times, is led, partly by his own ambition, partly by the instigation of evil supernatural powers, to murder King Duncan and usurp his place on the throne of Scotland. In this bloody task he is aided and encouraged by his wife, a woman of powerful character, whose conscience is temporarily smothered by her frantic desire to advance her husband's career. We are forced to sympathize with this guilty pair, wicked as they  are, because we are made to feel that they are not naturally criminals, that they are swept into crime by the misdirection of energies which, if directed along happier lines, might have been praiseworthy. Macbeth, vigorous and imaginative, has a poet's or conqueror's yearning toward a larger fullness of life, experience, joy. It is the woeful misdirection of this splendid energy through unlawful channels which makes him a murderer, not the callous, animal indifference of the born criminal. Similarly, his wife is a woman of great executive ability, reaching out instinctively for a field large enough in which to make that ability gain its maximum of accomplishment. Nature meant her for a queen; and it is the instinctive effort to find her natural sphere of action,—an effort common to all humanity—which blinds her conscience at the fatal moment. Once entered on their career of evil, they find no chance for turning back. Suspicions are aroused, and Macbeth feels himself forced to guard himself from the effects of the first. The ghosts of his victims haunt his guilty conscience; his wife dies heart-broken with remorse which comes too late; and he himself is killed in battle by his own rebellious countrymen.

Between the characters of Macbeth and his wife the dramatist has drawn a subtle but vital distinction. Macbeth is an unprincipled but imaginative man, with a strong tincture of reverence and awe. Hitherto he has been restrained in the straight path of an upright life by his respect for conventions. When once that barrier is broken down, he has no purely moral check in his own nature to replace it, and rushes like a flood, with ever growing impetus, from, crime to crime. His  wife, on the other hand, has a conscience; and conscience, unlike awe for conventions, can be temporarily suppressed, but not destroyed. It reawakes when the first great crime is over, drives the unhappy queen from her sleepless couch night after night, and hounds her at last to death.

This is the shortest of all Shakespeare's plays in actual number of lines; and no other work of his reveals such condensation and lightning-like rapidity of movement. It is the tragedy of eager ambition, which allows a man no respite after the first fatal mistake, but hurries him on irresistibly through crime after crime to the final disaster. Over all, like a dark cloud above a landscape, hovers the presence of the supernatural beings who are training on the sinful but unfortunate monarch to his ruin.

Authorship.—The speeches of Hecate and the dialogue connected with them in III, v and IV, i, 39-47 are suspected by many to be the work of Thomas Middleton, a well-known contemporary playwright. They are unquestionably inferior to most of the play. Messrs. Clark and Wright have assigned several other passages to Middleton; but these are now generally regarded as Shakespeare's, and some of them are considered as by no means below his usual high level.

Date.—We find no copy of Macbeth earlier than the First Folio. It was certainly written before 1610, however; for Dr. Simon Forman saw it acted that year and records the fact in his Booke of Plaies. The allusion to "two-fold balls and treble sceptres" (IV, i, 121) shows that the play was written after 1603 when James I became king of both Scotland and England. So does the allusion to the habit of touching for the king's evil (IV, iii, 140-159),—a custom which James revived. The reference to an equivocator in the porter's soliloquy (II, iii) may allude to Henry Garnet, who was tried in 1606 for complicity in the  famous Gunpowder Plot, and who is said to have upheld the doctrine of equivocation. The date of composition is usually placed 1605-6.

Sources.—The plot is borrowed from Holinshed's Historie of Scotland. Most of the material is taken from the part relating to the reigns of Duncan and Macbeth; but other incidents, such as the drugging of the grooms, are from the murder of Duncan's ancestor Duffe, which is described in another part of Holinshed.

Antony and Cleopatra.—There is no other passion in mankind which makes such fools of wise men, such weaklings of brave ones, as that of sinful love. For this very reason it is the most tragic of all human passions; and from this comes the dramatic power of Antony and Cleopatra. The ruin of a contemptible man is never impressive; but the ruin of an imposing character like Antony's through the one weak spot in his powerful nature has all the somber impressiveness of a burning city or some other great disaster.

Like Julius Caesar, this play is founded on Roman history. It begins in Egypt with a picture of Antony fascinated by the Egyptian queen. The urgent needs of the divided Roman world call him away to Italy. Here, once free of Cleopatra's presence, he becomes his old self, a reveler, yet diplomatic and self-seeking. From motives of policy he marries Octavia, sister of Octavius Caesar, and for a brief space seems assured of a brilliant future. But the old spell draws him back. He returns to Cleopatra, and Octavius in revenge for Octavia's wrongs makes war upon him. Cleopatra proves still Antony's evil genius. Her seduction has already drawn him into war; now her cowardice in the crisis of the battle decides the war  against him. From that point the fate of both is one headlong rush to inevitable ruin.

In the character of Cleopatra, Shakespeare has made a wonderful study of the fascination which beauty and charm exert, even when coupled with moral worthlessness. We do not love her, we do not pity her when she dies; but we feel that in spite of her idle love of power and pleasure, she has given life a richer meaning. We are fascinated by her as by some beautiful poison plant, the sight of which causes an aesthetic thrill, its touch, disease and death.

Powerful as is this play, and in many ways tragic, it by no means stirs our sympathies as do Macbeth, King Lear, and Othello. Sin for Antony and Cleopatra is not at all the unmixed cup of woe which it proves for Macbeth and his lady. Here at the end the lovers pay the price of lust and folly; but before paying that price, they have had its adequate equivalent in the voluptuous joy of life. Moreover, death loses half its terrors for Antony through the very military vigor of his character; and for Cleopatra, because of the cunning which renders it painless. What impresses us most is not the pathos of their fate, but rather the sublime folly with which, deliberately and open-eyed, they barter a world for the intoxicating joy of passion. Impulsive as children, powerful as demigods, they made nations their toys, and life and death a game. Prudence could not rob them of that heritage of delight which they considered their natural birthright, nor death, when it came, undo what they had already enjoyed. Folly on so superhuman a scale becomes, in the highest sense of the word, dramatic.

Date.—In May, 1608, there was entered in the Stationers' Register 'A Book called Antony and Cleopatra'; and this was probably the play under discussion. The internal evidence agrees with this; hence the date is usually set at 1607-8. In spite of the above entry, the book does not appear to have been printed at that time; and the first copy which has come down to us is that in the 1623 Folio.

Sources.—Shakespeare's one source appears to have been the Life of Marcus Antonius in North's Plutarch; and he followed that very closely. The chief changes in the play consist in the omission of certain events which would have clogged the dramatic action.

Coriolanus.—Here follows the tragedy of overweening pride. The trouble with Coriolanus is not ambition, as is the case with Macbeth. He cares little for crowns, office, or any outward honor. Self-centered, self-sufficient, contemptuous of all mankind outside of his own immediate circle of friends, he dies at last because he refuses to recognize those ties of sympathy which should bind all men and all classes of men together. He leads his countrymen to battle, and shows great courage at the siege of Corioli. On his return he becomes a candidate for consul. But to win this office, he must conciliate the common people whom he holds in contempt; and instead of conciliating them, he so exasperates them by his overbearing scorn that he is driven out of Rome. With the savage vindictiveness characteristic of insulted pride, he joins the enemies of his country, brings Rome to the edge of ruin, and spares her at last only at the entreaties of his mother. Then he returns to Corioli to be killed there by treachery.

Men like Coriolanus are not lovable, either in real life or fiction; but, despite his faults, he commands  our admiration in his success, and our sympathy in his death. We must remember that ancient Rome had never heard our new doctrine of the freedom and equality of man; that the common people, as drawn by Shakespeare, were objects of contempt and just cause for exasperation. Again, we must remember that if Coriolanus had a high opinion of himself, he also labored hard to deserve it. He was full of the French spirit of noblesse oblige. Cruel, arrogant, harsh, he might be; but he was never cowardly, underhanded, or mean. He was a man whose ideals were better than his judgment, and whose prejudiced view of life made his character seem much worse than it was. The lives of such men are usually tragic.

Date.—The play was not printed until the appearance of the First Folio, and external evidence as to its date is almost worthless. On the strength of internal evidence, meter, style, etc., which mark it unquestionably as a late play, it is usually assigned to 1609.

Sources.—Shakespeare's source was Plutarch's Life of Coriolanus (North's translation). As in Julius Caesar and Antony and Cleopatra, he followed Plutarch closely.

Timon of Athens.—As Coriolanus was the tragedy of a man who is too self-centered, so Timon is the tragedy of a man who is not self-centered enough. His good and bad traits alike, generosity and extravagance, friendship and vanity, combine to make him live and breathe in the attitude of other men toward him. From this comes his unbounded prodigality by which in a few years he squanders an enormous fortune in giving pleasure to his friends. From this lack of self-poise, too, comes the tremendous reaction later,  when he learns that his imagined world of love and friendship and popular applause was a mirage of the desert, and finds himself poverty-stricken and alone, the dupe of sharpers, the laughing-stock of fools.

Yet in spite of his lack of balance, he is full of noble qualities. Apemantus has the very thing which he lacks, yet Apemantus is contemptible beside him. The churlish philosopher is like some dingy little scow, which rides out the tempest because the small cargo which it has is all in its hold; Timon is like some splendid, but top-heavy, battleship, which turns turtle in the storm through lack of ballast. There is something lionlike and magnificent, despite its unreason, in the way he accepts the inevitable, and later, after the discovery of the gold, spurns away both the chance of wealth and the human jackals whom it attracts. The same lordly scorn persists after him in the epitaph which he leaves behind:—

"Here lie I, Timon; who alive all living men did hate.

Pass by and curse thy fill, but pass, and stay not here thy gait."

Yet this very epitaph of the dead misanthrope shows the same lack of self-sufficiency which characterized the living Timon. He despises the opinion of men, but he must let them know that he despises it. Coriolanus would have laughed at them from Elysium and scorned to write any epitaph.

No other Shakespearean play, with the exception of Troilus and Cressida, shows the human race in a light so contemptible as this. Aside from Timon and his faithful steward, there is not one person in the play  who seems to have a single redeeming trait. All of the others are selfish, and most of them are treacherous and cowardly.

Authorship.—It is generally believed that some parts of the play are not by Shakespeare, although opinion is still somewhat divided as to what is and is not his. The scenes and parts of scenes in which Apemantus and some of the minor characters appear are most strongly suspected.

Date.—This play was not printed until the publication of the First Folio, and the only evidence which we have for its date is in the meter and style and in the fact that some of the speeches show a strong resemblance to certain ones in King Lear. The date most generally approved is 1607-8.

Sources.—The direct source was probably a short account of Timon in Plutarch's Life of Marcus Antonius. The same story also appears in Painter's Palace of Pleasure, where Shakespeare may have read it. Both of these accounts, however, contain but a small part of the material found in the play. Certain details missing in them, such as the discovery of the gold, etc., are found in Timon or the Misanthrope, a dialogue by Lucian, one of the later of the ancient Greek writers. As far as we know, Lucian had not been translated into English at this time; but there were copies of his works in Latin, French, and Italian. We cannot say whether Shakespeare had read them or not. In 1842 a play on Timon was printed from an old manuscript which is supposed to have been written about 1000. This contains a banquet scene, a faithful steward, and the finding of the gold. This has the appearance of an academic play rather than one meant for the public theaters, so it is probable that Shakespeare never heard of it; but it is barely possible that he knew it and used it as a source.

CHAPTER XIII

THE PLAYS OF THE FOURTH PERIOD—ROMANTIC TRAGI-COMEDY

No less clear than the interest in tragic themes which attracted the London audiences for the half-a-dozen years following 1600, is the shifting of popular approval towards a new form of drama about 1608. This was the romantic tragi-comedy, a type of drama which puts a theme of sentimental interest into events and situations that come close to the tragic. Shakespeare's plays of this type are often called romances, since they tell a story of the same type found in romantic novels of the time. His plays contain rather less of the tragic, and more of fanciful and playful humor than do the plays of the other famous masters in this type, Beaumont and Fletcher; his characters are rather more lifelike and appealing.

While the tragi-comedies of Beaumont and Fletcher, which were written from 1609 to 1611, have been shown to have influenced Shakespeare in his romances, yet in several ways they are very different. The work of Beaumont and Fletcher tells of court intrigue and exaggerated passions of hatred, envy, and lust; Shakespeare's plays tell of out-of-door adventures, and the restoration and reconciliation of families and friends parted by misfortune. Fletcher contrives  well-constructed plots, depending, indeed, rather too much on incident and situation for effect; Shakespeare chooses for his plots stories which possess only slight unity of theme, and depends upon character and atmosphere for his appeal. Thus the romances of Shakespeare stand out as a strongly marked part of his work, different in treatment from the plays of his rivals which perhaps suggested his use of this form. Here, as everywhere, Shakespeare exhibits complete mastery of the form in which he works.

In addition to the romances of this period, Shakespeare had some share in the undramatic and belated chronicle play, The Life of Henry the Eighth, most of which is assigned to John Fletcher. In looseness of construction, in the emphasis on character in distress, and in the introduction of a masque, as well as in other ways, this play resembles the tragi-comedies of the period rather than any earlier chronicle. Thus the term "romantic tragi-comedy" may be properly used to describe all the work of the Fourth Period.

Pericles, Prince of Tyre, was probably the earliest, as it is certainly the weakest, of the dramatic romances. But the story was one of the most popular in all fiction, and Pericles was, no doubt, in its time what its first title-page claimed for it, a 'much-admired play.' Its hero is a wandering knight of chivalry, buffeted by storm and misfortune from one shore to another. The five acts which tell his adventures are like five islands, widely separated, and washed by great surges of good and ill luck. The significance of his daughter's name, Marina, is intensified for us when we realize that in this play the sea is not only her birthplace, but is the  symbol throughout of Fortune and Romance. From the polluted coast of Antioch, where Pericles reads the vile King his riddle and escapes, past Tarsus, where he assists Creon, the governor of a helpless city, to Pentapolis, where, shipwrecked and a stranger, he wins the tournament and the hand of the Princess Thaïsa, the waves of chance carry the Prince. They overwhelm him in the great storm which robs him of his wife, and gives him his little Marina; but they bear the unconscious Thaïsa safely to land, and in after years their wild riders, the pirates, save Marina from death at the hands of Creon, and bring her to Mitylene. Here, upon his storm-bound ship, the mourning Pericles recovers his daughter; and at Ephesus, near by, the waves give back his wife, through the kind influence of Diana, their goddess. We are never far from the sound of the shore, and the lines of the play we best recall are those that tell of "humming water" and "the rapture of the sea."

Pericles in its original scheme was a play of adventure rather than a dramatic romance. The first two acts, in which Shakespeare could have had no hand, are disjointed and ineffective. To help out the stage action, Shakespeare's collaborator introduced John Gower, the mediaeval poet, as a "Prologue," to the acts. He was supplemented, when his affectedly antique diction failed him, by dumb show, the last straw clutched at by the desperate playwright. But at the beginning of Act III the master's music swells out with no uncertain note, and we are lifted into the upper regions of true dramatic poetry as Pericles speaks to the storm at sea:—

"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! ...

The seaman's whistle

Is as a whisper in the ears of death,

Unheard."

In the shipwreck which follows, some phrases of which anticipate the similar scene in The Tempest; in the character of Marina, girlish and fair as Perdita; in the grave physician Cerimon, whose arts are scarcely less potent than Prospero's; in the grieving Pericles, who, like remorse-stricken Leontes, recovers first his daughter, then his wife, we see the first sketches of the most interesting elements in the dramatic romances which are to follow. Throughout all this Shakespeare is manifest; and even in those scenes which depict Marina's misery in Mytilene and subsequent rescue, there is little more than the revolting nature of the scenes to bid us reject them as spurious, while Marina's speeches in them are certainly true to the Shakespearean conception of her character.

Authorship and Date.—The play was entered to Edward Blount in the Stationers' Register, May 20, 1608. It was probably written but little before. Quartos appeared in 1609, 1611, 1619, 1630, and 1635. It was not included among Shakespeare's works until the Third Folio (1664). The publishers of the First Folio may have left it out on the ground that it was spurious, or because of some difficulty in securing the printing rights. The former of these hypotheses is generally favored, since, as we have said, a study of the play reveals the apparent work of another author, particularly in Acts I and II, and the earlier speech of Gower, the Chorus in the play. In 1608 a novel was  published, called "The Painful Adventures of Pericles, Prince of Tyre. Being the true History of the Play of Pericles, as it was lately presented by the worthy and ancient poet John Gower." The author was George Wilkins, a playwright of some ability. He is generally accepted as Shakespeare's collaborator. The claims of William Rowley for a share in the scenes of low life have little foundation.

Source.—Shakespeare used Gower's Confessio Amantis, and the version in Laurence Twine's Pattern of Painful Adventures, 1606. The tale is also in the Gesta Romanorum.

Cymbeline.—"A father cruel, and a step-dame false,

A foolish suitor to a wedded lady,

That hath her husband banish'd."

Thus Imogen, the heroine of the play, and the daughter of Cymbeline, king of Britain, describes her own condition at the beginning of the story. The theme of the long and complicated tale that follows is her fidelity under this affliction. Neither her father's anger, nor the stealthy deception of the false stepmother, nor the base lust of her brutish half-brother Cloten, nor the seductive tongue of the villainous Italian Iachimo, her husband's friend; nor even the knowledge of her own husband's sudden suspicion of her, and his instructions to have her slain, shake in the least degree her true affection. Such constancy cannot fail of its reward, and in the end Imogen wins back both father and husband.

In such a story, where virtue's self is made to shine, other characters must of necessity suffer. Posthumus, Imogen's husband, appears weak and impulsive, foolish in making his wife's constancy a matter for wagers, and absurdly quick to believe the worst of her. His weakness is, however, in part atoned for by his gallant fight in defense of his native Britain, and by his  outburst of genuine shame and remorse when perception of his unjust treatment of Imogen comes to him. Cymbeline, the aged king, has all the irascibility of Lear, with none of his tenderness. The wicked Queen and her son are purely wicked. Only the faithful servant, Pisanio, a minor figure, has our sympathy in this court group.

But in the exiled noble Belarius, and the two sons of Cymbeline whom he has stolen in infancy and brought up with him in a wild life in the mountains, single-hearted nobility rules. When Imogen, disguised as a page, in her flight from the court to Posthumus comes upon them, there is the instant sympathy of noble minds, and there is a brief respite from her misfortunes. They rid her of the troublesome Cloten, and their victory over Rome brings to book the intriguing Iachimo and accomplishes her final recovery of love and honor. A reading of the play leaves as the brightest picture upon the memory their joy at meeting Imogen, and their grief when the potion she drinks robs them of her. In them we find expressed that noble simplicity which romanticists have always associated with true children of nature.

To Imogen, who has a far longer part to play than any other of Shakespeare's heroines, the poet has also given a completer characterization, in which every charm of the highest type of woman is delineated. The one trait which a too censorious audience might criticize, that meekness in unbearable affliction which makes Chaucer's patient Griselda almost incomprehensible to modern readers, is in Imogen completely redeemed by her resolution in the face of danger, and by a certain  imperiousness which well becomes the daughter of a king.

Authorship.—Some later hand probably made up the vision of Posthumus (V, iv, 30-90), where a series of irregular stanzas of inferior poetical merit are inserted to form "an apparition."

Date.—Simon Forman, the writer of a diary, who died in 1611, describes the performance of Cymbeline at which he was present. The entry occurs between those telling of Macbeth (April 20, 1610) and The Winter's Tale (May 15, 1611). The tests of verse assign it also to this period. The first print was that of the First Folio, 1623.

Source.—From Holinshed Shakespeare learned the only actual historical fact in the play, that one Cunobelinus was an ancient king of Britain. Cymbeline's two sons are likewise from Holinshed, as is the rout of an army by a countryman and his two sons; but the two stories are separate. The ninth novel of the second day of the Decameron of Boccaccio tells a story much resembling the part of the play which concerns Posthumus. The play called The Rare Triumphs of Love and Fortune (1589) contains certain characters not unlike Imogen, Posthumus, Belarius, and Cloten. Fidelia, Imogen's name in disguise, is the heroine's name. But direct borrowing cannot be proved.

The Winter's Tale.—Nowhere is Shakespeare more lavish of his powers of characterization and of poetic treatment of life than in this play. He found for his plot a popular romance of the time, in which a true queen, wrongly accused of infidelity with her husband's friend, dies of grief at the death of her son, while her infant daughter, abandoned to the seas in a boat, grows up among shepherds to marry the son of the king of whom her father had been jealous. Disregarding the essentially undramatic nature of the story, as well as its improbabilities, he achieved a signal  triumph of his art in the creation of his two heroines, and in his conception of the pastoral scenes, so fresh, joyous, and absolutely free from the artificiality of convention.

In the deeply wronged queen he drew the supreme portrait of woman's fortitude. Hermione is brave, not by nature, but inspired by high resolve for her honor and for her children. Nobly indignant at the slanders uttered against her, her wifely love forgives the slanderer in pity for the blindness of unreason which has caused his action. Shakespeare's dramatic instinct made him alter Hermione's death in the earlier story to life in secret, with poetic justice in store. Artificial as the long period of waiting seems, before the final reconciliation takes place, it is forgotten in the magnificent appeal of the mother's love when the lost daughter kneels in joy before her.

In Perdita, Shakespeare, with incredible skill, depicted the true daughter of such a mother. Although her nature at first seems all innocence, beauty, youth, and joy, yet when trial comes to her in the knowledge that she, a shepherdess, has loved a king's son, and that his father has discovered it, her courage rises with the danger, and her words echo her mother's resolution:—

"I think affliction may subdue the cheek,

But not take in the mind."

In the pastoral scenes, the poet gives us an English sheepshearing, with its merrymaking, a pair of honest English country fellows in the old shepherd and his son, the Clown, and the greatest of all beloved vagabonds  in the rogue Autolycus, whose vices, like Falstaff's, are more lovable than other people's virtues. Fortune, which will not suffer him to be honest, makes his thieveries, in her extremity of whim, to be but benefits for others.

Of the other characters, Prince Florizel, Perdita's lover, is that rarest of all dramatic heroes, a young prince with real nobility of soul. Lord Camillo and Lady Paulina are well-drawn types of loyalty and devotion. Leontes alone, the jealous husband, is unreasoning in the violence of his jealousy. As the study of a mind overborne by an obsession, it is a strong yet repulsive picture.

Date.—Simon Forman narrates in his diary how he saw the play at the Globe Theater, May 16, 1611. It was probably written about this time. Jonson's Masque of Oberon, produced January 1, 1611, contains an antimasque of satyrs which may bear some relation to the similar dance in IV, iv, 331 ff. The First Folio contains the earliest print of the play.

Source.—The romance, to which reference has been made above, as the source of The Winter's Tale, was Robert Greene's Pandosto: The Triumph of Time, sometimes called by its later title, The History of Dorastus and Fawnia. Fourteen editions followed one another from its appearance in 1588. Greene made the jealous Pandosto king in Bohemia, and Egistus (Polixenes in the play) king of Sicily. In The Winter's Tale two kingdoms are interchanged. Nevertheless the "seacoast of Bohemia," so often ridiculed as Shakespeare's stage direction, is found in Greene's story. Three alterations by Shakespeare are of vital importance in improving the plot: the slandered queen is kept alive, instead of dying in grief for her son's death, to be restored again in the famous but theatrical statue scene; Autolycus is created and is given, with Camillo, an important share in the restoration of Perdita; and the complications of  Dorastus's (Florizel's) destiny as the prospective husband of a princess of Denmark, and Pandosto's (Leontes's) falling in love with his own daughter and his suicide on learning of her true birth, are wisely omitted. The characters of Paulina, the Clown, and some minor persons are Shakespeare's own invention.

According to Professor Neilson, Autolycus and his song in IV iii, 1 ff., may have been partly based on the character of Tom Beggar in Robert Wilson's Three Ladies of London (1584).

The Tempest, probably the last complete drama from Shakespeare's pen, differs from the other "romances" in possessing a singular unity. It comes, indeed closer than any play, save the Comedy of Errors, to fulfilling the demands of unity of action, time, and place. This may be due to the fact that the poet is here making up his own plot, not, as in other cases, dramatizing a novel of extended adventure.

The central theme of The Tempest is, like that of the other romances, restoration of those exiled and reconciliation of those at enmity; but the treatment of the story could not be more different. Where the chance of fortune has hitherto brought about the happy ending, here magic and the supernatural in control of man are the means employed. Those who had plotted or connived at the expulsion of Prospero, Duke of Milan, and his being set adrift in an open boat, with his infant daughter and his books for company, are wrecked through his art upon the island of which he has become the master. Ariel, the spirit who serves Prospero, a mysterious, ever changing form, now fire, now a Nymph, now an invisible musician, now a Harpy, striking guilt into the conscience (and yet apparently not interested in either vice or virtue, but  longing only for free idleness), guides all to Prospero's cave, and receives freedom for his toil. His spirit pervades every scene, whether we view the king's son Ferdinand loving innocent Miranda, or the silent king mourning his son's loss, or the guilty conspirators plotting the king's death, or the drunken steward and jester plotting with the servant monster Caliban the overthrow of Prospero. All of them are led, by the wisdom of Prospero acting through Ariel, away from their own wrong impulses, and into reconcilement and peace. How much of The Tempest Shakespeare meant as a symbol can never be told; but here, perhaps, as much as anywhere the temptation to read the philosophy of the poet into the story of the dramatist comes strongly upon the reader.

There are two speeches of Prospero, in particular, where the reader is inclined to believe he is listening to Shakespeare's own voice. In one, Prospero puts a sudden end to his pageant of the spirits, and compares life itself to the transitory play. In the other, Prospero bids farewell to his magic art. These are often interpreted as Shakespeare's own farewell to the stage and to his art,—with what justification every reader must decide for himself.

In this last play there is, it should be said, not the slightest hint of a weakening of the poetic or the dramatic faculty. The falling in love of Miranda, the wonderful and wondering child of purity and nature; the tempting of Sebastian by the crafty Antonio; and the creation of Caliban, half-man, half-devil, with his elemental knowledge of nature, and his dull cunning, and his stunted faculties,—all these are the work of  a genius still in the full pride of power. Shakespeare's dramatic work ends suddenly, "like a bright exhalation in the evening."

Date.—Edmund Malone's word, unsupported by other evidence, puts the play as already in existence in the autumn of 1611. The play certainly is later than the wreck of Somers's ship, in 1609. It was acted during the marriage festivities of the Princess Elizabeth in 1613, when other plays were revived.

Sources.—Two accounts by Sylvester Jourdan and William Strachey told, soon after the event, of the casting away upon the Bermuda Islands of a ship belonging to the Virginia expedition of Somers in 1609. From these Shakespeare drew for many details. His island, however, is clearly not Bermuda, nor, indeed, any known land. Other details have been traced from various sources. Ariel is a name of a spirit in mediaeval literature of cabalistic secrets. Montaigne's Essays, translated by Florio (1603), furnished the hint of Gonzalo's imaginary commonwealth (II, i, 147 ff.). Setebos has been found as a devil-god of the Patagonians in Eden's History of Travaile (1577). The rest of the story, which is nine-tenths of the whole, is probably Shakespeare's own, though the central theme of an exiled prince, whose daughter marries his enemy, who has an attendant spirit, and who through magic compels the captive prince to carry logs, may come from some old folk tale; since a German play, Die Schöne Sidea, by Jakob Ayrer of Nuremberg (died 1605), possesses all these details. The relations, if any, between the two plays are remote.

The Life of Henry the Eighth, the last of the historical plays, in date of composition as in the history it pictures, suffers from the very fact that it boasts in its second title, All is True. The play might have been built around any one of the half-dozen persons which in turn claim our chief interest,—Buckingham, Queen Katherine, Anne Bullen; the King, Wolsey, or  Cranmer; but fidelity to history, while it did not hinder some slight alteration of incident and time, required that each of these should in turn be distinguished, if a complete picture of the times of Henry VIII were to be given. The result was a complete abandonment of anything like unity of theme.

It is, of course, a disappointment to one who has just read I Henry IV. On the other hand, this play may be regarded as a kind of pageant, as the word is used nowadays in England and America. It presents, in the manner of a modern pageant, a series of brilliant scenes telling of Buckingham's fall, of Wolsey's triumph and ruin, of Katherine's trial and death, of Anne Bullen's coronation, and of Cranmer's advancement, joined together by the well-drawn character of the King, powerful, masterful, selfish, and vindictive, but not without a suggestion of better qualities. The gayety of the Masque, in the first act, where King Henry first meets Anne Bullen, is also in perfect harmony with the modern pageant, which always employs music and dancing as aids to the picture.

In Queen Katherine we have a suffering and wronged woman, gifted with queenly grace and dignity, and with strong sympathies and a keen sense of justice. From her first entrance, when she ventures, Esther-like, into the presence of the king to intercede for an oppressed people, through all her vain struggle against the King's wayward inclination and the Cardinal's wiles, up to the very moment when she is stricken with mortal illness, she holds our sympathy. If in her great trial scene she is weaker and more impulsive than Hermione in hers, yet the circumstances are  different; she is not keyed up to so high an endeavor as that lady, nor in so much danger for herself or her children.

Authorship.—Differences in style and meter, and the fragmentary quality of the whole play have long confirmed the theory that Shakespeare in Henry VIII engaged in a very loose sort of collaboration. Only the Buckingham scene (I, i,), the scenes of Katherine's entrance and trial (I, ii, II, iv), a brief scene of Anne Bullen (II, iii), and the first half of the scene in which Wolsey's schemes are exposed and Henry alienated from him (III, i, 1-203) are confidently ascribed to Shakespeare. The rest of the play fits best the style and metrical habit of John Fletcher, at this time one of the most popular dramatists of London.

Date.—The Globe Theater was burned on June 29, 1613, when a play called Henry VIII or All is True was being performed. So far as stylistic tests can decide, this was not long after the composition of the play. Sir Henry Wotton, the antiquarian, writing from hearsay knowledge, says that the play being acted at the time of the fire was "a new play called All is True." Shakespeare's scenes in this drama may thus have been his last dramatic work. A praise of King James in the last scene was probably written not later than the rest of the play, and thus insures a date later than 1603. The earliest print of the play was the First Folio, 1623.

Source.—Holinshed was the chief source. Halle furnished certain details. Foxe's Book of Martyrs tells the Cranmer story.

CHAPTER XIV

FAMOUS MISTAKES AND DELUSIONS ABOUT SHAKESPEARE

The mystery which enwraps so much of Shakespeare's life, combined with the interest which naturally centers around a great genius, is ideally calculated to stimulate human imagination to fantastic guess-work. It is probably for this reason that a number of famous delusions about Shakespeare have at different times arisen. Some of these are of sufficient importance to deserve attention. Three widely different types of mistakes can be observed.

The Shakespeare Apocrypha.—The most excusable of these delusions was the belief that Shakespeare wrote a large number of plays which are now known to be the work of other men. Some of these plays were printed, either during the poet's life or after his death, with "William Shakespeare" or "W. S." on the title-page. It is now practically certain that the full name was a printer's forgery, and that the letters W. S. were either designed to deceive or else the initials of some contemporary dramatist (such as Wentworth Smith, for example). Six of these spurious dramas were included in the Third Folio of Shakespeare's complete works. Since this came out forty years after the First Folio, when men who had known Shakespeare personally  were dead, we certainly cannot believe that its editor had better information than those of the First Folio, who were the poet's personal friends, and who did not include these plays. The spurious dramas printed in the Third Folio were: The London Prodigal, The History of the Life and Death of Thomas Lord Cromwell, The History of Sir John Oldcastle, The Puritan Widow, Yorkshire Tragedy, and The Tragedy of Locrine.

Among the other plays imputed to Shakespeare at various times are: Fair Em, The Merry Devil of Edmonton, Arden of Feversham, The Two Noble Kinsmen, Edward Third, and Sir Thomas More. Some good critics, chiefly literary men, not scholars, still believe that Shakespeare wrote parts of the last three; but it is practically certain that he had nothing to do with the others, and his part in all these disputed plays is extremely doubtful.

Shakespearean Forgeries.—Men who assigned the above spurious plays to Shakespeare made an honest error of judgment, but other men have committed deliberate forgeries in regard to him. At the end of the eighteenth century, W. H. Ireland forged papers which he attempted to impose on the public as recently discovered Mss. of the 'Swan of Avon.' One of these finds, a play called Vortigern, was actually acted by a prominent company. But the unShakespearean character of these 'great discoveries' was soon perceived, and Ireland at length confessed.

Another famous fraud of a wholly different kind was that of J. P. Collier. The great services which this man has rendered to the world of scholarship make  all men reluctant to pass too severe censure on his conduct; but it is only fair that the public should be warned against deception. He pretended to have found a folio copy of the plays corrected and revised on the margin in the handwriting of a contemporary of Shakespeare. Some of these revisions were actual improvements on the carelessly printed text; but it is now known that they were forgeries. Similar changes were made by him in other important documents, and were for some time accepted as genuine.

The Bacon Controversy.—During the latter part of the nineteenth century, the contention was started that Shakespeare was merely an obscure actor who never wrote a line, and that the Shakespearean plays were actually written by his great contemporary, Francis Bacon, who was pleased to let these products of his own genius appear under the name of another man. This delusion is usually considered as beginning with an article by Miss Delia Bacon in Putnam's Monthly (January, 1856), although the idea had been twice suggested during the eight years preceding.

The Baconian arguments fall into four groups. First, they argue that there is no proof to establish the identity of Shakespeare, the actor, with the author of the plays. This is untrue. We have more than one reference by his contemporaries, identifying the actor with the poet, some so strong that the Baconians themselves can explain them away only by assuming that the writer is speaking in irony or that he willfully deceives the public. By assumptions like that, any one could prove anything.

The second point of the Baconians is that a man of  Shakespeare's limited education could not have written plays replete with so many kinds of learning. This argument is weak at both ends. It assumes as true that Shakespeare had a limited education and that his plays are full of knowledge learned from books rather than from life. The first of these points rests on vague tradition only, and the second is still a debatable question. But even if we admit these two points, what then? Shakespeare was twenty-nine years old and had probably lived in London for five or six years when the first book from his hand appeared in its present form. Any man capable of writing Hamlet could educate himself during several years in the heart of a great city.

Thirdly, a certain lady found in Bacon's writings a large number of expressions which seemed to her to resemble similar phrases in Shakespeare. Except to the mind of an ardent Baconian many of these show no likeness whatever. Most of those which do show any likeness were proverbial or stock expressions which can be found in other writers.

Lastly, various Baconians have repeatedly asserted that they had found in the First Folio acrostic signatures of Bacon's name; that one could spell Bacon or Francis Bacon by picking out letters in the text according to certain rules. But unfortunately either these acrostics do not work out, or else the rules are so loose that similar acrostics can be found anywhere, in modern books or pamphlets, and even on the gravestones of our ancestors. Many of the more intelligent Baconians themselves have no faith in this last form of evidence.

On the other hand, there are certain very weighty objections to Bacon as author of the plays. In the first place, it is a miracle that one man should produce either the works of Bacon or Shakespeare alone; it is a miracle past all belief that the same man in one lifetime should have written both. In the second place, the little verse which Bacon is known to have written shows clearly how limited he was as a poet, no matter how great in other directions. Moreover, his prose, though splendid in its kind, is wholly unlike the prose of Shakespeare. Finally, Bacon's contemptuous attitude toward woman and marriage was diametrically opposed to that found in Shakespeare. To imagine that the same man wrote both sets of writings is to assume that he was one man one day and another the next.

The advocates of this strange theory vary greatly in fairmindedness and ability, and it is not just to judge them all by the mad extremes of some; but, nevertheless, their writings, taken as a whole, form one of the strangest medleys of garbled facts and fallacious reasoning which has ever imposed on an honest and intelligent but uninformed public.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Illustrations

The Complete Tragedies

Titus Andronicus

Romeo and Juliet

The Life and Death of Julius Caesar

The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

Troilus and Cressida

Othello, the Moor of Venice

King Lear

The Tragedy of Macbeth

The Life of Timon of Athens

The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra

The Tragedy of Coriolanus

The Complete Histories

The Life and Death of King John

The Life and Death of Richard the Second

The First Part of King Henry the Fourth

The Second Part of King Henry the Fourth

The Life of King Henry the Fifth

The First Part of King Henry the Sixth

The Second Part of King Henry the Sixth

The Third Part of King Henry the Sixth

The Life of King Henry the Eighth

The Life and Death of Richard the Third

The Complete Comedies

All’s Well That Ends Well

As You Like It

The Comedy of Errors

Love’s Labour ’s Lost

Measure for Measure

The Merry Wives of Windsor

The Merchant of Venice

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Much Ado About Nothing

The Taming of the Shrew

Twelfth Night or, What You Will

The Two Gentlemen of Verona

The Complete Romances

Pericles, Prince of Tyre

Cymbeline

The Winter’s Tale

The Tempest

A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO SHAKESPEARE