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Presented to the LIBRARY of the
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
by
THE ESTATE OF THE LATE
PROFESSOR
A.S.P. WOODHOUSE
handbound
AT THE
LJ^'IVHRS/TY OF TORONTO PRESS
Digitized by tine Internet Arcliive
in 2008 witli funding from
IVIicrosoft Corporation
Iittp://www.arcliive.org/details/completeworl<swit02sliakuoft
\
.THE DR. JOHNSON EDITION.
The GompIetB Woi^^g of Sk^egpeafB.
■^:-::'yd:q>: and b'satrice
THE DR. JOHNSON EDITION.
THE
COMPLETE WORKS
OF
SHAKESPEARE
WITH LIFE, COMPENDIUM, AND CONCORDANCE.
Minstrauo ujiti) iTiftn IJijoiograonrcs.
VOL. XL
PHILADELPHIA :
THE GEBBIE PUBLISHING CO., Limited.
1896.
^h
an
1145421
CONTENTS.
Pack Mdch Abo about Nothing, 1
A Midsummer Night's Dream, . ... 65
Love's Labour's Lost, 119
Merchant op Venice, 187
As You Like it, 251
All's Well that Ends Well, , , . .317
The Taming of the Shrew, . • , , . 389
The Winter's Tale, , . « , , . 455
List of Illustrations.
VOLUME II.
Benedick and Beatrice, by H. Merle . Frontispiece. Much Ado About Nothing, Act IV., Scene I.
PAGE
Oberon and Titania, by Paul Thumann .... 103 A Midsummer-Night's Dream, Act IV., Scene I.
f
Armado and Jaquenetta 130
Love's Labor's Lost, Act I., Scene II.
Thomas Keene as Shylock, by N. Sarony . . . .197 Merchant of Venice, Act I., Scene III.
Mary Anderson as Rosalind, by Downey .... 270 As You Like It, Act II., Scene IV.
Maurice Barrymore as Orlando, by Falk . . . 280 As You Like It, Act III., Scene II.
Bertram and the Countess (Farewell), by F.
Pecht 320
All's Well that Fnds Well, Act I., Scene I.
Katharina and Petruchio, by E. Grutzner . . . 432 The Taming of the Shrew, Act IV., Scene I.
Ada Rehan as Katharina, by N. Sarony .... 440 I'he l\iming of the Shrew, Act IV., Scene III.
Florizel and Perdita, by G. Max 498
The Winter's Tale, Act IV., Scene III.
Mary Anderson as Hermione, by Van der Weyde . 529 The Winter's Tale, Act V., Scene III.
(vi
MUOH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Don Pedro, Prince of A rragon. Don John, his bastard Brother. Claitdio, a young Lord of Florence, favourite to DoK
Pedro. Benedick, a young Lord of Padua, favourite likewise
of Don Pedro. Leon AT A, Governor of Messina. Antonio, his Brother. Balthazar, Servant to Don Pedro.
Borachio, j 2?'o;/oM;er« o/Don John. Conrade, )
Dogberry, ) ^y,j,^ooZ»«A Officers. Verges, ) A Sexton. A Frias. A Boy.
Hero, Daughter to Leonato. Beatrice, Niece to Leonato.
Margaret, ) Gentlewomen attending on Hero Ursula, j
Messengers, Watch, and Attendants SCENE,— Messina.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
ACT I.
SCENE I. — Before Leonato's Home.
Enter Leonato, Hero, Beatrice, and others with a Messenger.
Leon. 1 learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina.
Mess. He is very near by this ; he was not three leagues off when I left him.
Leon. How many gentlemen have you lost in this action ?
Mess. But few of any sort, and none of name.
Leon. A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers. 1 find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio.
Mess. Much deserved on his part, and equally remem- bered 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 expecta- tion than you must expect of me to tell you how.
Leon. He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much glad of it.
Mess. I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him ; even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of bitter- ness.
Leon. Did he break out into tears ?
Mess. In great measure.
Leon. A kind overtiow of kindness. There are ho faces truer than those that are so washed. How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping ?
Beat. 1 pray you, is Signor Montanto returned from the wars or no ?
Mess. I know none of that name, lady ; there was none such in the army of any sort.
4 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act i
Leon. What is he that you ask for, niece?
jhlcro. My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.
Me-ts. 0, he is returned, and as pleasant as ever he was.
Beat. He set up his bills here in Messina, and challenged Cupid at the Hight: and my uncle's fool, reading the challenge, subscribed for (Jupid, and challenged him at th« bird-bolt. — I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten iji these wars? But how many hath he killed? for, indeed, 1 promised to eat all of his killing.
Leon. Faith, uiece, you tax Signior Benedick too much; but he'll be meet with you, I doiibt it not.
Mess. He hath done good service, lady, in these wars.
Beat. You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it : he is a very valiant trencher-man ; he hath an excellent stomach.
Mess. And a good soldier too, lady.
Beat. And a good soldier to a lady : but what is he to a lord?
Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a man ; stuffed with aU honourable virtues.
Beat. It is so, indeed : he is no less than a stuffed man : but for the stuffing, — well, we are all mortal.
Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my niece: there is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her : they never meet but there is a skirmish of wit between them.
Beat. Alas, he gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the old 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 com- panion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother.
Mess. Is it possible?
Beat. Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat ; it ever changes with the next block.
Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.
Beat. No: an he were I would bum my study. But, T pray you, who is his companion? Is there no young squarer, now, that will make a voyage with him to the devil?
Mess, He is most in the comi^any of the right noble Claudio.
Beat. 0 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 Claut.io ! if he have
SCENE I. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 5
caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere he be cured. i
Mess. I will hold friends with you, lady.
Beat. Do, good friend.
Leon. You will never run mad, niece.
Bf-at. No, not till a hot January.
Mess. Don Pedro ia approached.
Enter Don Pedro, attended by Balthazar and others, Don John, Claudio, and Benebick.
D. Pedro. Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble : the fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and yoii encounter it.
Leon. Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your grace; for trouble being gone, comfort should remain ; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides, and happiness takes his leave.
D. Pedro. You embrace your charge too willingly. — I think this is your daughter.
Jjeon. Her mother hath many times told me so.
Bene. Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?
Leon. Signior Benedick, no ; for then were you a child.
D. Pedro. You have it fuU, 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.
Bene. If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for aU Messina, as like him as she is.
Beat. I wonder that you wiU stiU be talking, Siguioi Benedick ; nobody marks you.
Bene. What, my dear Lady Disdain ! are you yet living?
Beat. Is it possible disdain shoidd 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.
Bene. Then is courtesy a turn-coat. — But it is certain 1 am loved of all ladies, only you excepted : and I would J could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart: for, truly, I love none.
Beat. A dear happiness to women ; they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God, and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.
Bejie. God keep your ladyship stiU in that mind ! so some gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate scratched face.
6 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act i.
Beat. Scratching could not make it worse an 'twere such a fate as yours were.
Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.
Beat. A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.
Bene. I would my norse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way o' God's name ; I have done.
Baat. You always end with a jade's trick ; I know you of old.
D. Pedro. This is the sum of all : Leonato. — Signior Claudio, and Signior Benedick, — my dear friend Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at the least a month ; and he heartily prays some occasion may detain us longer : I dare swear he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart.
Leon. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn. — Let me bid you welcome, my lord : being reconciled to the prince your brother, I owe you all duty.
D. John. I thank you : I am not of many words, but I thank you.
Leon. Please it your grace lead on ?
D. Pedro. Your hand, I.eonato ; we will go together.
[LxeuiU all hut Bene, and Claud.
Claud. Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato ?
Bene. I noted her not : but I looked on her.
Claud. Is she not a modest young lady ?
Be7ie, 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 ?
Claud. No, I pray thee, speak in sober judgment.
Bene. Why i'faith, methinks she is 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.
Claud. Thou thinkest 1 am in sport : I pray thee, teU me truly how thou likest her.
Bene. Would you buy her, that you inquire after her ?
Claud. Can the world buy such a jewel?
Bene. Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this witli 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 1
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
Claud. In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on.
Bene. I can see yet without spectacles, and 1 see no such matter: there's her cousiu, an she were not possessed ■with a fuiy, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December. But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?
Claud. I would scarce tnist myself, though I had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife.
Bene. Is it come to this, i'faith? Hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again? Go to, i'faith; an thou wdt 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.
D. Pedro. What secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato's?
Bene. I would your grace would constrain me to telL
D. Pedro. I charge thee on thy allegiance.
Bene. You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb man,— I would have you think so; but on my alle- giance,— 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.
Claud. If this were so, so were it uttered.
Bene. Like the old tale, my lord : " It is not so, nor 'twas not so ; but, indeed, God forbid it should be so."
Claud. If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise.
D. Pedro. Amen, if you love her ; for the lady u very well worthy.
Claud. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord?
D. Pedro. By my troth, I speak my thought
Claud. And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.
Bene. And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine.
Claud. That I love her, I feel.
D. Pedro. That she is worthy, I know.
Bene. That 1 neither feel how she should be loved, nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that firo cannot melt out of me : I will die in it at the stake.
D. Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty.
8 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. ACJ L
Claud. And never could maintain his part but in ttiu force of his will.
Bene. That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks ; but that I will have a recheat winded in my fore- head, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, aU 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.
£>. Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with lova Bene. With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord; not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen, and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house, for the sign of blind Cupid. _
D. Pedro. Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument.
Bene, If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat, and shoot at me ; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder and called Adam.
D. Pedro. Well, as time shall try : In time the savage bvU doth bear the yohe.
Bene. The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set them in my forehead : and let me be vilely painted ; and in such great letters as they write Here is good horse to hire, -let them signify tmder my sign, — Here you may see Benedick the married man.
Claud. If this should ever happen, thou would'st be hom- mad.
D. Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly. Bene. I look for an earthquake too, then- D. Pedro. WeU, you will temporize with the hours. In the meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to Leonato'<? ; commend me to him, and tell him I will not fail him a.t supper ; for, indeed, he hath made great preparation.
Bene. I have almost matter enough in me for such ao embassage ; and so I commit you —
Claud. To the tuition of God: From my house,— if I had it —
D. Pedro. The sixth of July. Your loving fnend. Benedick.
Bene. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your dis- course is sometime guarded with fragments, and the guarda
BCENE I. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
are but slightly basted on neither: ere you flout old ends anv further, examine your conscience; and so I leave you. ^ ' [Exit Benedick.
Claud. My liege, your highness now may do me good. D. Pedro. My love is thine to teach ; teach it but how. And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn Any hard lesson that may do thee good.
Claud. Hath Leonato any son, my lord? _
D. Pedro. No child but Hero, she's his only heir: Dost thou affect her, Claudio?
Claud. 0 ™y ^"^•^' .
When you went onward on this ended action, 1 looked 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.
Z). 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?
Claud. How sweetly do you minister to love. That know love's grief by his complexion ! But lest my liking might too sudden seem, 1 would have salv'd it with a longer treatise.
i>. Pedro. What need the bridge much broader than the flood! The fairest grant is the necessity. Look, what wiU serve is tit : 'tis once, thou lov st; And I will fit thee with the remedy. 1 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 imclasp 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 practice let us put it presently. [Blxrunt.
10 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act i.
SCENE IL— ^ Room in Leonato's Home. Enter, severally, Leonato and Antonio.
Leon. How now, brother! Where is my cousin, your Bon? Hath he provided this miisic?
A nt. He is very busy aboxit it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet dreamed not of.
Leon. Are they good?
Ant. As the event stamps them; but they have a good cover; they show well outward. The prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in my orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine : the prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter, and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance ; and, if he found her accordant, he meant to take the present time by the top, and instancy break with you of it.
Leon. Hath the fellow any wit that told you this?
Ant. A good sharp fellow; I will send for him, and question him yourself.
Leon. No, no ; we will hold it as a dream, tUl it appear itself: — but I will acquaint my daughter withal, that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if peradventure this be true. Go you and tell her of it. [Several persons cross the stage.'] Cousins, you know what you have to do. — 0, I cry you mercy, friend: you go with me, and T will use your skilL — Good cousin, have a care this busy time.
[ExeunL
SCENE "HI.— Another Room in Leonato's House.
Enter Don John and Conrad.
Con. What the good-year, my lord ! why are you thus out of measure sad?
D. John. There is no measure in the occasion that breeds it ; therefore the sadness is without limit.
Con. You should hear reason.
D. John. And when I have heard it, what blessmg bringeth it? . a-
Con. If not a present remedy, yet a patient sufferance.
D. John. I wonder that thou, being— as thou say'st thou art— bom under Saturn, goest about to ajiply a moral medi- cine to a mortifying mischief! I cannot hide what I arn : 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
SCENE III. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. U
leisure; sleep when I am drowsy, and 'tend to no man's business; laugh when I am merry, and claw no man in his humour.
Con. Yea, but you must not make the full show of this till you may do it without controlment. You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta'en you newly into his grace; where it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that yuu make yourself: it is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest.
D. John. I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace ; and it better fits my blood to be disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob love from any : in this, though T cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied that 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 1 am, and seek not to alter me.
Con. Can you make no use of your discontent?
D. John. I make all use of it, for I use it only. Who comes here? What news, Borachio?
Enter Borachio.
Bora. I came yonder from a great supper: the prince, your brother, is royally entertained by Leonato ; and I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage.
D. John, will it serve for any model to build mischief on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquiet- ness?
Bora. Marry, it is your brother's right hand.
D. John. Who ! the most exqmsite Claudio?
Bora. Even he.
D. John. A proper squire! And who, and who? which way looks he?
Bora. Marry, on Hero, the Hausrhter and heir of Leonato.
D. John. A very forward March-chick ! How came you to this?
Bora. Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a musty room, comes me the prince and Claudio hand in hand, in sad conference. I whipt me behind the arras, and there heard it agreed upon that the prince should woo Hero for himself, and, having obtained her, give her to Count Claudio.
12 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act r.
D. John. Come, come, let us thither; this may prove toed to my displeasure: that young start-iip hath all the glory of my overthrow. If I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me?
Con. To the death, my lord.
D. John. Let us to the great supper : their cheer is the greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were of my miud ! — Shall we go prove what's to be done?
Bora. We'll wait upon your lordship. {Exeunt.
ACT 11.
SCENE I. — A Hall in Leonato's Hmisi.
Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatrice, and others.
Leon. Was not Count John here at supper?
Ant. I saw him not.
Beat. How tartly that gentleman looks ! I never can sen him but I am heart-burned an hour after.
Hero. He is of a very melancholy disposition.
Beat. He were an excellent man that were made just in the mid -way between him and Benedick : the one is too like an image, and says nothing ; and the other too like my lady's eldest son, cA'^ermore tattling.
Leon. Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's mouth, and half Count John's melancholy in Signior Benedick's face, —
Beat. With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world, — if he could get her good-will.
Leon. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.
A nt. In faith, she is too curst.
Beat. Too curst is more than curst. I shall lessen God's Bending that way: for it is said, God sends a curst cow short horns; but to a cow too curst he sends none.
Leon. So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns.
Beat. Just if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord ! I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face : I had rather he in the woollen.
BCENE I. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 13
Leon. You may light upon a husband that hath no beard. Beat. What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel, and make him my waiting gentlewoman ? He that hath a beard is more than a youth ; and he that hath no beard is less than a man : and he that is more than a youth is not for me ; and he that is less than a man I am not for him : therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the bear -ward, and lead his apes into hell. Leon. WeU then, go you into hell?
Beat. No ; but to the gate ; and there will the de\al meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say, Oet you to heav.n, 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.
Ant. Well, niece [to Hero], I trust you will be ruled by your father.
Beat. Yes, faith ; it is my cousin's duty to make courtesy, and say. Father, as it please you:— hut yet for all that, cou- sin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another courtesy, and say. Father, as it please me. „ •, • ,
Leon. Well, niece, I hoi^e to see you one day fitted with a husband. ; , i . •,
Beat. Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered with a piece of valiant dust ! to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl! No, uncle, I'll none: Adam's sons are my brethren; and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.
Leon. Daughter, remember what I told you : if the prmce do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer.
Beat. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time : if the prince be too important, tell him there is measure in everything, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero, wooing, weddmg, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cmque-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, tiU he sink into his grave.
Leon. Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly. .
Beat. I have a good eye, uncle ; I can see a church by daylight. , , ,
Leon. The revellers are entering, brother; make good
14 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act il
Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthazar ; Don John, Bokachig, Margaret, Ursula, and others, masked.
D. Pedro. Lady, will yon 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 1 walk away.
D. Pedro. With me in your company?
Hero. I may say so, when I please.
D. Pedro. And when please you to say so?
Hero. When I like your favour ; for God defend the lute should be like the case !
D. Pedro. My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove.
Hero. Why, then, your visor shoidd be thatched.
D. Pedro. Speak low, if you speak love. [Takes her aside.
Balth. Well, I would you did like me.
Marg. So would not I, for your own sake; for I have many ill qualities.
Balth. Which is one?
Marg. I say my prayers aloud.
Balth. I love you the better ; the hearers may cry Amen.
Marg. God match me with a good dancer !
Balth. Amen.
Marg. And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done ! — Answer, clerk,
Balth. No more words ; the clerk is answered.
Urs. I know you well enough ; you are Siguier Antonio.
Ant. At a word, I am not.
Urs. I know you by the waggling of your head.
A nt. To tell you true, I counterfeit him.
Urs. You could never do him so ill-weU unless you were the very man. Here's his dry hand up and down : you are he ; you are he.
Ant. At a word, I am not.
Urs. Come, come ; do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit ? Can virtue hide itself? Go to ; mum ; you are he : graces will appear, and there's an end.
Beat. Will you not tell me who told you so?
Bene. No, you shall pardon me.
Beat. Nor wHl you not tell me who you are?
Bene. Not now.
Beat. That I was disdainful ! — and that. I had my good wit out of the Hundred merry Tales! — Well, this was Signior Benedick that said so.
SCENE I. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 15
Bene. What's he?
Beat. I am sure you know him well enough.
Bene. Not I, believe me.
Beat. Did he never make you laugh?
Bene. I pray you, what is he?
Beat. Why, he is the prince's jester: a very dull fool; only his gift is in devising impossible slanders : none biit libertines delight in him; and the commendation is not in hia wit but in his villany ; for he both pleaseth 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.
Bene. When I know the gentleman I'll tell him what you say.
Beat. Do, do: he'U 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 wiU eat no supper that night. [Music within.'\ We must follow the leaders.
Bene. In every good thing.
Beat. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning.
{Dance. Then exeunt all hut Don John, Borachio, and Claudio.
D. John. Sure, my brother is amorous on Hero, and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The ladies follow her, and but one visor remahis.
Bora. And that is Claudio. I know him by his bearing.
D. John. Are not you Siguier Benedick?
Claud. You know me well ; I am he.
D. John. Signior, you are very near my brother in his love : he is enamoured on Hero ; I pray you dissuade him from her ; she is no equal for his birth : you may do the part of an honest man in it.
Claud. How know you he loves her?
D- John. I heard him swear his affection.
Bora. So did I too ; and he swore he would marry he* to-night.
D. John. Come, let us to the banquet.
[Exeunt Don .John and BoKACHia
Claud. Thus answer I in name of Benedick, But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. 'Tis certain so ; — the prince woos for himsel£ 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,
16 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act ii.
And trust no agent : for beauty is a witch, Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. This is au accident of hourly proof, Which I mistrusted not: farewell, therefore, Hero!
Re-enter Bknedick.
Bene. Count Claudio?
Claud. Yea, the same.
Bene. Come, will you go with me?
Claud. Whither?
Bene. Even to the next willow, about your own business, count? What fashion will you wear the garland of? About your neck, like 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.
Claud. I wish him joy of her.
Bene. Why, that's spoken like an honest drover ; so they sell bullocks. But did you think the prince would have served you thus?
Claud. I pray you, leave me.
Bene. Ho ! now you strike like the blind man ; 'twas the boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the post.
Claud. If it will not be, I'll leave you. [Exit.
Bene. Alas, poor hurt fowl ! Now will he creep into
sedges. But, that my Lady Beatrice should know me,
and not know me ! The prince's fool ! — Ha, it may be I go under that title because I am merry. — Yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong : I am not so reputed : it is the base, the bitter disposition of Beatrice that puts the world into her person, and so gives me out. Well, I'll be re- venged as I may.
Re-enter Don Pedro.
D. Pedro. Now, siguior, where's the count? Did you Bee him?
Bene. Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. I found liim 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 uim 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 wliijjped.
D. Pedro. To be whipped! What's his fault?
Bene. The fiat transgression of a school-boy, who, being overjoyed with finding a bird's nest, shows it his com* pauiou, and he steals it.
SCENE I. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 17
D. Pedro. Wilt tliou make a trust a transgression? The transgression is in the stealer.
Bene. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland too ; for the garland he might have worn himself ; and the rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his bird's nest.
D. Pedro. I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to the owner.
Bene. If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, you say honestly.
D. Pedro. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you; the gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you.
Bene. 0, she misused me past the endurance of a block ; an oak but vdth one green leaf on it would have answered her ; my very visor began to assume life and scold Avitli her : she told me, — not thinking I had been myself, — that I was the prince's jester; that I was dviUer 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 hving near her ; she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her though she were endowed ^vith all that Adam had left him before he transgressed : she would have made Hercules have turned spit ; yea, and have cleft his chib to make the tire too. Come, talk not of her : you shall tind her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would conjure her; for cer- tainly, 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, aU disquiet, horror, and perturbation follows her.
D. Pedro. Look, here she comes.
Re-enter Claudio and Beatrice, Leonato and Hero.
Bene. Will your grace command me any service to the world's end? I will go on the slightest errand now to the antipodes that you can devise to send me on ; I wiU fetch you a toothpicker now from the farthest inch of Asia ; bring you the length of Prester John's foot ; fetch you a hair off tlie great Cham's beard; do you any embassage to the Pigmies; — rather than hold thi-ee words' conference witri this harpy. You have no employment for me ?
D. Pedro. None, but to desire your good company. VOL. II. C
18 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act n.
Bene. 0 God, sir, here's a dish I love not ; I cannot endure my Lady Tongue. [Ex'd.
D. Pedro. Come, lady, come ; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick.
Beat. Indeed, my loi'd, 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.
D. Pedro. You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.
Beat. So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.
D. Pedro. Why, how now, count! wherefore are you sad?
Claud. Not sad, my lord.
D. Pedro. How then? Sick?
Claud. Neither, my lord.
Beat. The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well : but civil, count ; civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion.
D. Pedro. I'faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; though I'll be sworn, rf he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won. I have broke with her father, and his good -will obtained: name the day of marriage, and God give thee
joy!
Leon. Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes ; his grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it !
Beat. Speak, count, 'tis your cue.
Claud. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy : I were but little happy if I could say how much. — Lady, as you are mine, I am yours : I give away myself for you, and dote upon the exchange.
Beat. Speak, cousin ; or, if you cannot, stop his moutb with a kiss, and let not him sjjeak neither.
D Pedro. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.
Beat. Yea, my lord ; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. — My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart.
Claud. And so she doth, cousin.
Beat. Good lord, for alliance ! — Thus goes every one t;o the world but I, and I am sun-burned; I may sit in a comer and cry heigh-ho ! for a husband.
D. Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.
Betit. I would rather have one of your father's getting,
SCENE I. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 19
Hath your grace ne'er a brother like you ? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them.
D. Pedro. Will you have me, lady?
Bmt. No, my lord, unless I might have another for workmcr-days ; your grace is too costly to wear every day. But, 1 beseech your grace, pardon me ; I was born to sj)eak all mirth and no matter.
D. P<nlro. Your silence most offends me, and to he merry best becomes you ; for, out of question, you were born in a
inerry hour. • i r . xi.
Beat No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.- Cousins, God give you joy !
Leon. Niece, will you look to those things I told you ot 1 Beat. I cry you mercy, uncle.— By your grace's pardon.
[Exit Beatrice.
D. Pedro. By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.
Leon. There's little of the melapcholy element m 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 wiUi
laughing. , n i. , ^ i
D. Pedro. She cannot endure to hear tell ot a husbanrl. Leon. 0, by no means ; she mocks all her wooers out of
D. Pedro. She^were an excellent wife for Benedick.
Leon. 0 Lord, my lord, if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad.
I) Pedro. Count Claudio, when mean you to go to churcli.
Claud. To-morrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.
Leon. Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just seven -night; and a time too brief too, to have all things answer my mind.
D. Pedro Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing ; but I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the mterim undertake one of Hercules's labours; which is, to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of aflection 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.
Leon. My lord, I am for you, though it cost me t«u nights' watchings.
C]a,vd. And I, my lord,
D. Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero t
20 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act n.
Hero. I will do any modest ofl&ce, my lord, to help my ' cousin to a good husband.
D. Pedro. And Benedick is not the unhopefuUest husband that I know : thus far can I praise him ; he is of a nolile strain, of approved valour, and confirmed honesty. I will teach you how to humour j'our cousin that she shall fall in love with Benedick : — and I, with your two helps, will so practise on Benedick, that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer ; his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in \^nth me, and I will tell you my drift. [Mxeunt.
SCENE II. — Another Room in Leonato's Houst.
Enter Don John and Borachio.
D. John. It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato.
Bora. Yea, my lord, but I can cross it.
D. John. Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be medicinable to me : I am sick in displeasure to him ; and wliatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges evenly with mme. How canst thou cross this marriage?
Bora. Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me.
D. John. Show me briefly how.
Bora. I think I told your lordship a year since how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting-gentle- woman to Hero.
D. John. I remember.
Bora. I can at any unseasonable instant of the night appoint her to look out at her lady's chamber-window.
D. John. What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage?
Bora. The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the prince your brother ; spare not to tell him that he hath wronged his honour in maiTying the reuowned Clawdio — whose estimation do you mightily hold up — to a con- taminated stale, such a one as Hero.
D. John. What proof shall I make of that?
Bora. Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato. Look you for any other issue ?
D. John. Only to despite them I will endeavour anything.
Bvia. Go, then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro
6CENE II. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHmO. 21
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 with- out trial: offer them instances; which shall bear no less likelihood than to see me at her chamber- vdndow ; hear me call Margaret Hero; hear Margaret term me Borachio; and brintr them to see this the very night before the intended wed3ing : 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 aU the preparation overthrown.
D. John. Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I wiU put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this and thy fee is a thousand ducats.
Bora. Be you constant in the accusation and my cunning shall not shame me.
D. John. I will presently go learn their aay of marriage.
[^Exeunt.
SCENE HI. — Leonato's Garden. Enter Benedick and a Boy.
Bene. Boy, —
Boy. Signior.
Bene. In my chamber-window lies a book ; bring it hither to me in the orchard.
Boy. I am here already, sir.
Bene. I know that; but I would have thee hence and here again. {Exit Boy.] 1 do much wonder that one man, seeing'how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love. And such a man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and fife ; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe : 1 have known when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake carving the fashion of a new doublet. Ho was wont to speak plain and to the pui-pose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he ttirued orthographer ; his words are very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I b& so converted, and see with these eyest
22 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHUSTG. act ii.
I cannot tell ; T think not : I will not be sworn but I^ove may transform me to an oyster; but I'll take my oath on it, till he have made au oj'ster 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: I tut till aU graces be in one woman, one woman shall not ntmie 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 augel; of good discourse, an excellent musi- cian, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha ! the prince and Monsieur Love ! I will hide me in the arbour. [ Withdrawa.
Enter Don Pedro, Leonato, and Claudio.
D. Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music ?
Claud- Yea, my good lord. — How still the evening is. As hiished on purpose to grace harmony !
D Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid himself?
Clarul. 0, very well, my lord : the music ended. We'll fit the kid- fox with a pennyworth.
Enter Balthazar, with Music
D. Pedro. Come, Balthazar, we'll hear that song again.
Balth 0, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice To slander music any more than once.
D. Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency To put a strange face on his own perfection : — I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.
Balth. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing: Since many a wooer doth commence his suit To her he thinlis not worthy ; yet he woos ; Yet will he swear he loves.
D. Pedro. Nay, pray thee, come :
Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument, Do it in notes.
Balth. Note this before my notes.
There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.
D. Pedro. Why these are very crotchets that he speaks; Note notes, forsooth, and noting ! [Music
Bene. Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it not strange that sheeps' guts should hale souls out of men's bodies? — Well, a horn for my money, when all's done.
SCENE III. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 23
Balthazar dngs.
I. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more:
Men were deceivers ever ; One loot in sea and one on shore. To one tiling constant never : Tlieii sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and iJonny ; Converting all your sounds of wne Into, Hey uonuy, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no more
Of dumps so (lull and heavy ; The fraud of men was ever so
Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh not so, &c.
jy. Pedro. By my troth, a good song.
Balth. And an ill singer, my lord.
Claiul. Ha, no; no, faith; thou singest well enough for 8 shift.
Bene, [aside.] An he had been a dog that should have howled thus they would have hanged him : and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief! I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it.
D. Pedro. Yea, marry [to Claudio]. — Dost thou hear, Balthazar ? I pray thee get us some excellent music ; for to-morrow night we would have it at the lady Hero's chamber- window.
Balth. The best I can, my lord.
D. Pedro. Do so: farewell. [Exeunt Balthazar and Musk.] Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day,— that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?
Claud. 0 ay : — stalk on, stalk on : the fowl sits [aside to Pedro]. I did never think that lady would have loved any man.
Leon. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor.
Bene. Is't possible? Sits the wind in that corner?
[Aside.
Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it ; but that she loves him with an enraged afl'ection, — it is past the infinite of thought.
D Pedro. May be she doth but counterfeit
Claud. 'Faith, like enougli.
W MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act n.
Leon. 0 God ! counterfeit ! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it.
D. Pedro. Wliy, what effects of passion shows she?
Claud. Bait the hook well ; this fish will bite. ' [Aside.
Leon. What effects, my lord! She will sit you, — You heard my daughter tell you how.
< 'Imid. She did, indeed.
D. Pedro. How, how, I pray you? You amaze me: T ■would have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.
Leo7i. I would have sworn it had, my lord ; especially against Benedick.
Bene, [a.swfe.] T should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it : knavery cannot, sure, hide itself in sitch reverence.
Claud. He hath ta'en the infection ; hold it up. [A -nde.
D. Pedro. Hath she made her affection Icnown to Bene- dick?
Leon. No ; and swears she never will : that's her torment
Claud. 'Tis true, indeed ; so your daiighter says : Shall T, Bays she, thnt hare so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him ?
Leon. This says she now when she is beginning to write to him : for she'll be up twenty times a night : and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper : ^my daughter tells us all.
Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of.
Leon. 0! — Wlien she had writ it, and was reading it over, she foxmd Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet? —
Claud. That.
Tjeon. 0 ! she tore the letter into a thoiisand hal^ence ; railed at herself that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her. / measure him, says she, hy my o%vn spirit; for I should fout him if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should
Claud. Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; — 0 sweet Benedick! God give me patience!
Leon. She doth indeed ; my daughter says so : and the ecstacy hath so much overborne her that my daughter is sometime afraid she will do a desperate outrage to herself It is very true.
D. Pedro. It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it.
SCENE III. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 25
Claiid. To what end? He would but make a sport of it, and torment the poor lady worse.
D Pedro An he should, it were an ahns to hang him. She's an excellent sweet lady; and, out of all suspicion, she is virtiious.
Clavd And she is exceeding wise. D. Pedro In everjrthing but in loving Benedick. Leon. O my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian.
D Pedro. I would she had bestowed this dotage on me : I would have daffed aU other respects and made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say.
Leon. Were it good, think you?
Claud. Hero thinks surely she wiU die ; for she says she win die if he love her not ; and she wiU die ere she makes her love known : and she wiU die if he woo her, rather than Bhe will 'bate one breath of her accustomed crossness.
D. Pedro. She doth weU : if she should make tender of her love, 'tis very possible he'll scorn it : for the man, as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit. Claud. He is a very proper man.
I) Pedro. He hath, indeed, a good outward happiness. Claud. 'Fore God, and in my mind, very vsdse. D. Pedro. He doth, indeed, show some sparks that are like wit.
Leon. And I take him to be valiant. D. Pedro. As Hector, I assure you : and in the managing of quarrels you may say he is wise ; for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear.
Leon. If he do fear God, he must necessarily keep peace; if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling
D. Pedro. And so will he do ; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go see Benedick, and tell him of her love ?
Claud. Never tell him, my lord ; let her wear it out with good counsel.
Leo7i. Nay, that's impossible; she may wear her heart out first.
D. Pedro. Well, we'll hear further of it by your daughter : let it cool the while. 1 love Benedick well : and I could
26 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act ii.
wish he would modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy to have so good a lady.
Leon. My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.
Claud. If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation. [^Aside.
D. Pedro. Let there be the same net spread for her : and that must yoiir daughter and her gentlewoman carry. The sport wiU be when they hold one an opinion of another's . dotage, and no such matter ; that's the scene that I would see, wliich will be merely a dumb show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner. {Aside.
[Exeunt D. Pedro, Claud., and Leon.
Benedick advances from the arbour.
Bene. 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 Moll 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 menchng. They say the lady is fair; 'tis a tnith, 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 wdl 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 man-iage; 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 woidd die a bachelor I did not thiiik 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 iu her.
Enter Beatrice.
Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.
Berte Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.
Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks than yon take pains to thank me; if it had been painful I would not have come.
Bene. You take pleasure, then, in the message?
SCENE HI. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHma 27
Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point, and choke a daw withal.— You have no stomach, signior ; fare you well. {hxtt.
Bene. Ha ! Against my will I am sent to hid you come to dinner— there's a double meaning in that. / took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank rae— 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 viUaui; if I do not love her, I am a Jew: 1 will go get her picture. L-^-^*^
ACT III.
SCENE I. — Leonato's Garden.
Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. Hero. Good Margaret, run thee into the parlour;
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 aU 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 ;— lilie favourites,
Made proud by princes, that advance their pride
Against that power that bred it :— there will she hide her,
To hsten our propose. This is thy office.
Bear thee weU in it, and leave us alone. _
Marg. I'U make her come, I warrant you, presently. [MxiU Hero. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,
As we do trace this alley up and down,
Our talk must only be of Benedick :
Wnen 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. Now begin ;
Enter Beatrice, behind. For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, rung Close by the ground, to hear our conference.
28 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act ni.
Urs. The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, A nd greedily devour the ti'eacherous bait : So angle we for Beatrice ; who even now Is couched in the woodbine coverture : tear 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. —
[Th'y advance to the howtr. No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful ; I know her spirits are as coy and wild As haggards of the rock. ~
Urs. But are you sure
That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ?
Hero. So says the prince and my new-trothed lord.
Urs. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?
Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it ; But I persuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick, To wish him wrestle with affection, And never to let Beatrice know of it.
Urs. Why did you so ? Doth not the gentlemaa Deserve as full, as fortunate a bed As ever Beatrice shall couch upon ?
Hero. 0 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. Misprizing 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.
Urs. 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'd swear the gentleman should be her sister ; If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic. 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 J If silent, why, a block moved with none.
BCE?5E I.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 29
So turns she every man the wrong side out ; And never gives to truth and \'irtue that Which simpleness and merit ])urchaseth.
Urs. 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'd mock me into air ; 0, she would laugh me Out of myself, press me to death with wit. Therefore let Benedick, like covered fire, Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly: It were a better death than die with mocks ; Which is as bad as die with tickling.
(Irs. 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.
(7r.y. 0, 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 priz'd 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.
Urs. I pray you be not angry with me, m.-vdam, Speakmg 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. Urs. His excellence did earn it ere he had it. — "WTien 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, [her, madam. Urs. [aside.] She's Um'd, I warrant you; we have caught Hero. If it prove so, then loving goes by haps : Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
[Exeunt Hero and Uesula.
Beatrice advances. ■ Beat. What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true Stand I coudemn'd for pride and scorn so much? Contempt, farewell ! and maiden pride, adieu ! No glory lives behind the back of such.
so MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act m.
Anrl, Benedick, love on ; I will requite thee ;
'I'aniing my wild heart to thy lovins hand : If thou dost love, my kindness ehall ilicite thee
To bind our loves up in a holy band : For others say thou dost deserve, and I Believe it better than reportingly. [Exit.
SCENE II. — A Room in Leonato's House.
Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Leonato.
D. Pedro. I do but stay till your marriage be consum- mate, and then I go towanl Arragon.
Claud. I'll bring you thither, my lord, if you'll vouch- safe me.
Z>. 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 P)rliid hun to wear it. 1 ■will only be bold with Benedick for lus 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-strmg, 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 thinka his tongue speaks.
Bene. Gallants, I am not as I have been.
Leon. So say I ; methinks you are sadder.
Claud. I hope he be in love.
D. Pedro. Hang him, truant; there's no trite drop of blood in him to be truly touched with love : if he be sad he wants money.
Bene. I have the toothache.
D. Pedro. Draw it.
Bene. Hang it !
Claud. You must hang it first and draw it afterwards.
D. Pedro. What, sigh for the toothache !
Leon. Where is but a humour or a worm !
Bene. Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.
Claiid. Yet, say I, he is in love.
D. Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises ; as, to be a Dutchman to-day, a Frenchman to-morrow, or in the shape of two couutries at once, as a German fi-om the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it
fiCENE II. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 31
appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is.
Claud. If he be not in love with some woman there is no believing old signs : he brushes his hat o'moruiugs : what should that bode ?
D. Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the barber's !
Claud. No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him ; and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stufl'ed tennis-balls.
Leon. Indeed, he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard.
D Pedro. Nay, he rubs himself with civet. Can you smell him out by that?
Claud. That's as much as to say the sweet youth's in love.
D. Pedro, The greatest note of it is his melancholy.
Claud. And when was he wont to wash his face ?
D. Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself 'i for the which I hear what they say of him.
Claud. JSay, but his jesting spirit ; which is now crept into a lute-string, and now governed by stops.
D. Pedro. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale lor him ; con- clude, conclude, he is in love.
Claud. Nay, but I know who loves him.
D. Pedro. That would I know too ; I warrant one that knows him not.
Claud. Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in despite of all, dies for him.
D. Pedro. She shall be buried with her face upwards.
Bene. Yet is this no charm for the toothache. — Old eignior, walk aside with me ; I have studied eight or nine wise wor.ds to speak, to you, which these hobljy-horses must not hear. [Exeunt Beneuick and Leonato.
D. Pedro. For ray life, to break with him about Beatrice.
Claud. 'Tis even so: Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice ; and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet.
Enter Don John. D. John. My lord and brother, God save you. D. Pedro. Good den, brother.
D. John. If your leisure served, I would speak with yon. D. Pedro. In private?
JJ. John. If it please you ; — yet Count Claudio may hear ; for what I would speak of concerns him. D. Pedro. What's the matter?
32 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act nu
D. John. Means your lordship to be married to-morrow?
ITo Claudio.
J). Pedro. You know he does.
Z>. John. I know not that, when he knows what I know.
CI mid. If there be any impediment, I jn-ayyou discover it,
D. John. You may think I love you not ; let that ajjpear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now -will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your ensuing marriage ; surely suit ill spent, and labour ill bestowed !
D. Pedro. Why, what's the matter?
D. John. I came hither to tell you : and, circiimstauces shortened, — lor she hath been too long a-talliiug of, — tne lady is disloyal.
Claud. Who? Hero?
D. John. Even she; Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero.
Claud. Disloyal?
D. John. The word is too good to paint out her wicked- ness ; I could say she were worse : think j'ou of a worse title and I will tit her to it. Wonder not till ftirther warrant : go but with me to-night, you shall see her chamber--ndndo'.v entered, even the night before her wedding-day : if you love her then, to-morrow wed her ; but it would better tit your honour to change your mind.
Claud. May this be so?
D. Pedro. I vfiW not think it.
D. John. If you dare not trust that yon see, confess not that you know: if you will follow me I will show you enough ; and when you have seen more, and heard more, proceed accordingly.
Claud. If I see anything to-night why T should not marry her to-morrow, in the congregation where I sliould wed, there will I shame her.
D. Pedro. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I wdll join with thee to disgrace her.
D. John. I will disparage her no further till yoii are my witnesses : bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself
D. Pedro. 0 day nntowardly turned !
Claud. 0 mischief strangely thwarting !
D. John. 0 plague right well prevented • St) will you say when you have seen the set[aeL [/&.->?«*/*«.
SCENE m. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 33
SCENE III.— ^ Street.
Enter Dogberry and Verges, with the Watch.
Dogh. Are you good men and true?
Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul.
Doqh. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if thay should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for tlie prij ice's watch.
Vi:rg. Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry.
Dogb. First, who think you the most desertless man to be constable?
1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Sea-coal; for they can write and read.
i)ogh. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal : God hath blessed you with a good name: to be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune ; but to write and read comes by nature.
2 Watch. Both which, master constable,
Dogh. You have; I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, aud make no boast of it ; aud 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.
2 Watch. How if 'a will not stand?
Dogh. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go ; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave.
Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the prince's subjects.
Dogh. 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 talk is most tolerable and not to be endured.
2 Watch. We wiU rather sleep than talk ; we know what belongs to a watch.
Doqh. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman; for I caimot 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 them that are drunk get them to bed.
2 Watch. How if they will not? VOL. II. D
34 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act in.
Dogh. Why, then, let them alone till tliey are sober ; if they make you not then the better answer, j'ou may say they are not the men you took them for.
2 Watch. Well, sir.
Doijb. 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.
2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him ?
Dogb. Truly, by your office you may ; but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled : the most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself ■what he is, and steal out of your company.
Verg. You have been always called a merciful man, partner.
Dogh. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will ; much more a man who hath any honesty in him.
Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night you must call to the nurse and bid her still it.
'2 Watch. How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us?
Dogh. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying : for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baas will never answer a calf when he bkats.
Verg. 'Tis very true.
Dogh. 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.
Verg. Nay, by'r lady, that I think 'a cannot.
Dogb. Five shillings to one on't, with any man that
knows the statues, he may stay him : marry, not without
the prince be willing: for, indeed, the watch ought to offend
no man ; and it is an offence to stay a man against his wilL
Verg. By'r lady, I think it be so.
Dogb. 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, aeighbour.
2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge : let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed.
Dogh. 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 vigilant, 1 beseech you. {Exeunt Dogbekky and Vkkgiss,
SCENE III. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 35
Enter Borachio and Conrade.
Bora. What, Conrade ! —
Watch. Peace, stir not. \_Aside.
Bora. Courade, I say ! Con. Here, man, I am at thy elbow.
Bora. Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought there would a scab follow.
Con. I mil owe thee an answer for that; and now forward with thy tale.
Bora. Sta-nd thee close then under this pent-house, for it drizzles rain ; and 1 will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.
Watch, [aside.] Some treason, masters; yet stand close. Bora. Therefore know, 1 have earned of Don John a thousand ducats.
Con. Is it possible that any villany should be so dear? Bora. Thou should'st 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 wiU. Con. I wonder at it.
Bora. That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou knowest that the fas! don of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak is nothing to a man.
Con. Yes, it is apparel. Bora. I mean the fashion. Con. Yes the fashion is the fashion.
Bora. Tush ! I may as well say the fool's the fooL But eee'st thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is ?
Watch. 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.
Bora Did'st thou not hear somebody ? Con. No ; 'twas the vane on the house. Bora. See'st thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is ? how giddily he turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five and-thirty ? sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh's soldiers in the reechy painting ; some- times like god Bel's priests in the old church window ; sometimes like the shaven Hercules in the smirching worm- eaten tapestry, where his cod-piece seems as massy as his club ?
Con. All this I see ; and see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man But art not thou thyself giddy -w'lth the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of tliy tale into telling me of the fashion ?
36 ISrUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act hi.
Bora. Not so neither; but know that I have to-night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero's gentlewoman, by the nanje of Hero ; she leans me out at her mistress's 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, i)lanted and placed and possessed by my master Don John, saw afar off iii the orchard bhis amiable encounter.
Con. And thought they Margaret was Hero?
Bora. Two of them did, the prince and Claudio ; but the devil my master knew she was Margaret ; and partly by hia 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 ajjpoiuted, next morning at the temjile, and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with what he saw over- night, and send her home again without a husband.
1 Watch. We charge j'ou in the prince's name, stand.
2 Watch. Call up the right master constable: we have here recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the commonwealth.
1 Watch. And one Deformed is one of them ; I know liim, 'a wears a lock.
Con. Masters, masters!
2 Watch. You'll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you.
Con. Masters, —
1 Watch. Never speak ; we charge you, let us obey you to go with us.
Bora. We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up of these men's bills.
Con. A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, ■we'll obey you. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV. — A Room in Leonato's House.
Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. Hero. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise.
Urs. I will, lady.
Hero. And bid her come hither.
Urs. Well. [Exit Ursula.
Mar (J. 'Troth, T think your other rabato were better.
Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this.
SCENE IV. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHINOt. 37
Marq. By my troth, it's not so good; aud I warrant your cousin will say so.
Hero. My cousin's a fool, and thou art another; I'll wear none but this.
Marg. I hke 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 pi-aise so.
Hero. 0, that exceeds, they say.
Marg. By my troth, it's but a night-gown in respect of yours. Cloth of gold, and cuts, and laced with silver; set with pearls, down-sieeves, side-sleeves, and skirts round, underborne with a bluish tinsel: but for a tine, quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on't.
Hero. God give me joy to wear it, for my heart is exceed- ing heavy !
Marg. 'TwUl be heavier soon, by the weight of a man.
Hero. Fie upon thee ! art not ashamed ?
Marg. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honour- able without marriage? I think, you would have ine say, saving your reverence, — a husband: an bad thinking do not wrest true speaking I'll offend nobody. Is there any harm in — the heavier for a husband? None, I think, an it be the right husband and the right wife ; otherwise 'tis light, and not heavy. Ask my Lady Beatrice else, — here she comes.
Enter Beatrice.
Hero. Good morrow, coz.
Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero.
Hero. Why, how now ! do you speak in the sick tune?
Beat. I am out of all other tune, methinks.
Marg. Clap's into Light o' love; that goes without a burden : do you sing it and I'll dance it.
Beat. Yea, Light o' love, with your heels!— then if your husband have stables enough, you'U see he shall lack no barns.
Marg. 0 illegitimate construction ! I scorn that with my heels.
Beat. 'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin ; 'tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill : — hey -ho !
Maxg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?
Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H.
Marg. Well, an you be not turned Turk, there's no more sailing by the star.
38 MUCH ADO ABO QT NOTHING. act hi.
Beat. What means the fool, trow?
Marg. Nothing 1 ; but God send every one their heart's desire !
Hero. These gloves the count sent me ; they are an ex- cellent perfume.
Beat. I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell.
Marg. A maid and stuHed ! there s goodly catching of cold.
Beat. 0, God help me ! God help me ! how long have you professed ajiprehension?
Marg. Ever since you left it : doth not my wit become me rarely?
Beat. It is not seen enough ; you should wear it in your cap. — By my troth, I am sick.
Marg. Get you some of this distilled Carduus Benedictua and lay it to your heart ; it is the only thing for a qualm.
Hero. There thou prick'st her with a thistle.
Beat. Benedictus! why Benedictus? you have some moral in this Benedictus.
Marg. Moral? no, by my troth, I have no moral mean- ing; I meant plain holy -thistle. Youmay 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 uiy 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 lie would never marry; and yet now, in despite of hia heart, he eats his meat without grudging: and how you may be converted I know not; but methinks you look with your eyes as other women do.
Beat. What pace is this feat thy tongue keeps !
Marg. Not a false gallop.
Re-enter Ursula.
Urs. Madam, withdraw; the prince, the count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the town are come to fetch you to church.
Hero. Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula. [Exeunt.
SCENE V. — Another Boom in Leonato's House.
Enter Leonato, with Dogberry and Verges. Leon. What would you with me, honest neighbour? Dogb. Marry, sir, I woiild have some coniidence with yoa that decerns you nearly.
SCENE V. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIXG. 39
Leon. Brief, I pray you ; for you see 'tis a busy time with me.
Doiih. Marry, this it is, sir. Verg. Yes, in truth it is, sir. _ Leon. What is it, my good friends ? Dogh. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter : an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, 1 would desire they were ; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows.
Verg. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is an old man and no honester than I.
Dogh. Comparisons are odorous : palabras, neighbour Verges.
Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious. Dogh. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor duke's officers ; but, truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of your worship.
Leon. All thy tediousness on me ! ha ! Doqb. Yea, and 'twere a thousand times more than 'tis: for I hear as good exclamation on your worship as of any man in the city ; and though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it.
Verg. And so a»n I.
Leon. I would fain know what you have to say. Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship's presence, have ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina.
Dogh. 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 !
Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you. Dogh. Gifts that God gives. Leon. I must leave you.
Dog. One word, sir: our 'watch, sir, have indeed com- prehended two auspicious persons, and we would have tliera this morning examined before your worship.
Leon. Take their examination yourself, and bring it me ; I am now in great haste, as it may appear unto you. Dogb. It shall be suffigance. Leon. Drink some wine ere you go : fare you well.
40 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHI^'G. act ul
Enter a Messeng;er.
Mess. My lord, tliey stay for you to give your daughter to her husband.
Leon. I will wait upon them ; I am ready.
[Exeunt Leon, and Messenger.
Doqh. Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacoal ; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol : we are now to examination these men.
Verg. And we must do it wisely.
Dogb. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you ; here's that [touching Ins forehead] shall drive some of them to a non com: only get the learned writer to set down our ex- communication, and meet me at the gaoL [Exeunt.
ACT lY.
SCENE I. — The inside of a Church.
Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Leonato, Friar, CLAtrDio, Benedick., Hero, and Beatrice, a,v .
Leon. Come, Friar Francis, be brief; only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards.
Friar. You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?
Ckiua. No.
Leon. To be married to her, friar; you come to marry her.
Friar. Lady, you come hither to be married to thia count?
Hero. I do.
Friar. If either of you know any inward impediment why you should not be conjoined, I charge you, on your souls, to utter it.
C and. Know you any, Hero?
Hero. None, my lord.
Friar. Know you any, count?
Leon. I dare make his answer, none.
Claud. O, what men dare do ! what men may do ! what men daily do ! not Icnowing what they do !
£ene. How now! Interjections? Why, then, some be of laughing, as, ha ! ha ! he !
Claud. Stand thee by, friar: — Father, by your leave;
scE>rE r. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 41
Will you witli free and imcon strained soul Give me this ma.'d, your daughter?
Leon. As freely, son, as God did give her me. Claud. And what have I to give you back, whose worth May counterpoise tliis rich and precious gift ? D. Pedro. Nothing, unless yoii render her again,
Claud. Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness. — Tliere, 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 ! Conies not that blood as modest e\adence 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.
Leon. What do you mean, my lord?
( laud. Not to be married.
Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.
Leon. Dear, my lord, if you, in your own proof, Have vanqiiish'd the resistance of her youth, And made defeat of her virginity,
Claud. I know what you would say: if I have known her, You'll say, she did embrace me as a husband. And so extenuate the 'forehand sin : No, Leonato,
I never tempted her with word too large ; But, as a brother to his sister, show'd Bashful sincerity and comely love.
Hero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to you?
Claud. Out on thy seeming ! I will write against it: Vou 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?
Claud. Sweet prince, why speak not you'
D. Pedro. WTiat should I speak ?
I stand dishono^i'.r'd, that have gone about To link my dear friend to a common stale.
Leon. Are these things spoken ? or do I but dreaoi \
42 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act iv.
D. John. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are trut.
Bene. This looks not like a nuptial
Hero. True!— 0 God I
Claud. Leonato, stand I here? Is this the prince? Is this the prince's brother? Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own?
Leon. All this is so; but what of this, my lord?
Claud. Let nie but move one question to your daughter j And, by that fatherly and kiud]y power That you have in her, bid her answer tnily.
Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.
Hero. 0 God defend me ! how am I beset ! — What kind of catechising call you this?
Claud. To make you answer tndy to your name.
Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name With any just reiJi'oach?
Claud. 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.
D. 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 wath a ruffian at her chamber-window ; Who hath, indeed, most like a Uberal villain, Confess'd the vile encoimters they have had A thousand times in secret.
D. 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.
Claud. 0 Hero ! what a Hero hadst thou been If half thy outward graces had been placed About thy thoughts and counsels of tliy 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.
Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me?
[Hkko su-oons,
SCENE I.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 43
Beat Why how now, cousin? wherefore sink you down?
D. John. Come, let us go: these tilings, come thus to light, Smother her spirits up.
[Exeunt D. Pedro, D. John, and Claud.
Bene. How doth the lady?
Beat. Dead, I think ;— help, uncle;—
Hero! "why, Hero!— Uncle! — Signior Beaedick !— friar 1
Leon. 0 fate, take not away thy heavy hand ! Death is the fairest cover for her shame That may be wish'd for. .
Beat. How now, cousin Hero?
Friar. Have comfort, lady.
Leon. Dost thou look up?
Friar. Yea; wherefore should she not?
Leon. Wherefore ! Why, doth not §very earthly thing Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny The story that is i)riiited in her blood?— Do not live, Hero ; do not ope thine eyes : For did I think thou would'st not quickly die, Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames, Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches, Strike at thy life. Griev'd I I had but one? Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame? 0, one too much by thee ! Wliy 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, smirched thus and mir'd with infamy, I might have said, No part of it is mine; This'shame derives itself from unknown loins? But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais d. And mine that I was proud on ; mine so much That I myself was lo myself not mine, Valuing of her ; wliy, she— 0, 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 !
Bene. Sir, sir, be patient :
For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder 1 know not what to say. _
Beat. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied ! Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night t Beat. No, truly not ; although, until last ni^ht I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.
44 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHINa. act IV.
Leon. Confinn'd, confirm'd ! 0, that is stronger made Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron ! Would the two princes lie? and Claudio lie, Who lov'd her so that, speaking of her foulness, Wash'd it with tears ? Hence from her ! let her die.
Friar. Hear me a little ; For I have only been silent so long, And given way unto this course of fortune, By noting of the lady : I have mark'd A thousand lilushing apparitions start Into her face ; a thousand iunocent shames In angel whiteness bear away those blushes; And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire To bum the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool ; Trust not my reading, nor my observation. 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.
Leon. Friar, it cannot be :
Thou seest that all the gi-ace that she hath lefb 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. 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 Mdiich maiden modesty doth warrant, Let all my sins lack mercy ! — 0 my father. Prove you that any man with me convers'd 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. There is some strange misprision in the princeBb
Bene. Two of them have the very bent of honour ; And if their Masdoms be misled in this. The practice of it lives in John the bastard. Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies. ^
Leon. I know not. If they speak but truth of her, 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 inveutioa.
s.aENE I. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. ' 46
'N'or fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,
But they shall i'md, awak'd in such a kind.
Both strength of limb and policy of mind,
Abihty in means and choice of friends,
To quit me of them throughly.
Friar. Pause awhile,
And let my counsel sway you in this case.
Your daughter here the princes left for dead ;
Let her awhile be secretly kept in,
And publish it that she is dead indeed :
Maintain a moiirning ostentation,
And on your family's old monument
Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites
That appertain unto a burial.
Leon. What shall become of this? "What will this dot Friar. Marry, this, well carried, shall on her hehalf
Change slander to remorse ; that is some good ;
But not for that dream I on this strange course,
But on this travail look for greater birth.
She dying, as it must be so maintain' d,
Upon the instant that she was acciis'd.
Shall be lamented, pitied, and excus'd
Of every hearer: for it so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth
Whiles we enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost,
Why, then we rack the value ; then we find
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 conie apparell'd in more precious habit.
More moving delicate, and full of life.
Into the eye and prospect of his soul.
Than when she hv'd indeed: — then shall he mourn, —
If ever love had interest in his Uver, —
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 Ukehhood.
But if all aim but this be leveU'd false,
The supposition of the lady's death
Will quench the wonder of her infamy:
46 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act iv.
And, if it sort not well, you may conceal her, —
As best befits her wounded reputation, —
]n some reclusive and religious life,
Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.
Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you; And though you know my inwardness and love ]s 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.
Leon. Being that I flow in grief
The smallest twine may lead me.
Frinr. 'Tis well consented ; jiresently away ; For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure. — Come, lady, die to live : this wedding-day
Perhaps is but prolonged ; have jjatience, and endure.
{Exeunt Feiar, Hero, and LKOJf. Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while? Beat. Yea, and I will weej) a while longer. Bene. I will not desire that. Beat. You have no reason ; I do it freely. Bene. Surely, I do believe your fair cousin is wrong'd. Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that ^vould right her ! Bene. Is there any way to show such friendship? Beat. A very even way, but no such friend. Bene. May a man do it? Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours. Bene. I do love notliing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?
Beat. 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. Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. Beat. Do not swear by it and eat it.
Bene. I will swear by it that you love me ; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you. Beat. Will you not eat your word?
Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to it : I protest I love thee.
Beat. Why, then, God forgive me ! Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice? Bent. You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you.
Bene. And do it with all thy heart?
SCENE I. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 47
Beat. I love you with so much of my heai-t that uoue is left to protest.
Bene. Come, bid me do anything for thee.
Beat. Kill Claudio.
Bene. Ha ! not for the wide world.
Beat. You kill me to deny it. Farewell.
Bene. Tarry, sweet Beatrice.
Beat. I am gone though I am here ; — there is no love in you : — nay, I pray you, let me go.
Bene. Beatrice, —
Beat. In faith, I will go.
Bene. We'll be friends fii'st.
Beat. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.
Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy.
Beat. Is he not approved in the height a villain that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? — 0 that I were a man ! — What ! bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then wiih i>ublic accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,— 0 God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place !
Bene. Hear me, Beatrice ; —
Beat. Talk with & man out at a wmdow! — a proper saying !
Bene. Nay but, Beatrice; —
Beat. Sweet Hero ! — she is wronged, she is slandered, s^ie 5s undone. ,
Bene. Beat —
Beat. Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testi- mony, a goodly count-confect ; 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 wiU die a woman with grieving.
Bene. Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love theo. Beat. Use it for my love some other way than swearino' by it _
Bene. Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wi'onged Hero?
Beat. Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul. Bene. Enough, I am engaged ; 1 will challenge him ; 1 will kiss your hand and so leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of
48 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHINa aotjv.
me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead; and so, farewell. [/'JxeunL
SCENE II.— J Prison.
Enter Dogberry, VerCxES, and Sexton, in fjowns; ami thv Watch, ^oitli CoxRADE and Borauhio.
Doyb. Is our whole dissembly appeared ? ' '
Verrj. 0, a stool and a cushion for the sexton !
Sexton. Which be the malefactors?
Dogh. Marry, that am I and my partner.
Verg. Nay, that's certain; we have the exhibition to examine.
Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be ex- amined ? let them come before master constable.
Dogb. Yea, marry, let them come before me. — What Ie your name, fi-iend?
Bora. Boracliio.
Dogb. Pray write down — Borachio. Yoiirs, sirrah?
Co7i. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.
Dogb. Write down— master gentleman Conrade. — blasters, do you serve God?
Bora. \ ^^^' ®^^' "^^ ^^'^•
Dogb. Write down — that they hope they serve God : — and wi'ite God first; for God defend but God sliould 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 ?
Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none.
Dogb. A marvellous Matty fellow, I assure you; but I will go about with him. — Come you hither, sii-rah : a wo-d in your ear, sir ; I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves.
Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none.
Dogb. Well, stand aside. — 'Fore God, they are both in a tale. Have you writ down — that they are none?
Sexton. Master constable, you go not the way to ex- amine ; you must call forth the Watch that are their accusei's.
Dogb. Yea, marry, that's the eftest way. — Let the Watch come forth. — Masters, I charge you in the prince's name, accuse these men.
1 Vf'atc/i. This man said, sir, that Don John, the priuc«?'« brother, was a villain.
BCEXE II. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 49
Dogh. Write down — prince John a villain. — Why, tliis is Mat perjury, to call a prince's bi-otlier villain.
Bora. Master constable, —
Dogh. Pray tbee, fellow, peace ; I do not like thy look, 1 promise thee.
SeHon. What heard you him say else?
2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats- of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.
Dogh. Flat burglary as ever was committed.
Verg. Yea, by the mass, that it is.
Sexton. What else, fellow?
1 Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her.
Dogb. 0 villain ! thou wilt be condenmed into everlasting redemption for this. Sexton. What else?
2 Watch. This is all.
Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away ; Hero was in this manner accused, in this very manner refused, and upon the grief of this suddenly died. — Master con- stable, let these men be bound and brought to Leonato's ; I will go before and show him their examination- [Jllxit.
Dogb. Come, let them be opinioned.
Verg. Let them be in band. "^Con. Off, coxcomb !
Dogb. God's my life! where' s the sexton? let him write down — the prince's officer, coxcomb. — Come, bind them. Thou naughty varlet !
Con. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass.
Dogh. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years ? — 0 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 iipon 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 fellov/ enough, go to ; and a fellow that hath had losses ; and ijue that hath two gowns, and everything handsome abom; him. — Bring him away. 0 that I had been writ down an ass J [Mxeunt.
VOL. XL
60 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act r.
ACT V.
SCENE 1.— Before Leonato's House.
Miter Leonato and Antonio. • .
Ant, If you go on thus you will kill yourself; And 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief Agaiust yourself.
Leon. I pray thee, cease thy counsel.
Which falls into mine ears as profitless As water in a sieve : give not me counsel ; Is or let no comforter delight mine ear But such a one whose wrongs do suit with minet Bring me a father that so lov'd 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, Cry — sorrow, wag ! and hem when he should groan. Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk With caudle- 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 tliat 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, too ; '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 t My griefs cry louder than advertisement.
Ant. Therein do men from children nothing diifer.
Leon. 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 stj'le of gods, And make a pish at chance and sufferauceu
SCENE I. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 51
Ant. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself; Make those that do offend you suffer too.
Leon. There thou speak'st reason : nay, I will do so. My soul doth tell me Hero is belied ; And that shall Olaudio know ; so shall the prince, And all of them that thus dishonour her.
Aiit. Here comes the prince and Claudio hastily,
Ejiter Don Pedro and Claudio.
D. Pedro. Good den, good den.
Claud. Good day to both of you.
Leon. Hear you, my lords, —
D. Pedro. We have some haste, Leonato.
Leqn. Some haste, my lord ! — well, fare you well, my lord : — • Are you so hasty now ? — well, all is one.
D. Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.
A7it. If he could right himself with quarrelling. Some of us would lie low.
Claud. Who wrongs him?
Leon. Marry, thou dost wrong me : thou dissembler, thou : — Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword — 1 fear thee not.
Claud. Marry, beshrew my hand
If it should give your age such cause of fear : In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.
Leon. Tush, tush, man ; never fleer and jest at me ; I speak «ot 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 forc'd to lay my reverence by, And with gray 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, - 0 ! iii a tomb where never scandal slept, Save this of hers, fram'd by thy villany.
Claud. My villany !
Leon. Thine, Claudio ; thine, I say.
D. Pedro. You say not right, old man.
Leon. My lord, my lord,
I'll prove it on his boily if he dare,
52 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act v.
Despite liis nice fence aud his active practice, Bis May of youth and bloom of lustibood.
Claud. Away ! I will not have to do with yon.
Leon. Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill'd my child; If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.
Ant. He shall kill two of us, and men indeed; Eut that's no matter ; let him kill one first ; — Win me and wear me, — let him answer me. — Come, follow me, boy ; come, boy, follow me : Sir boy, I'll whip j'ou from your foining fence; Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will.
Leon. Brother, —
A nt. Content yoiirself God knows I lov'd my niece ; And she is dead, slander'd to death by villains That dare as well answer a man, indeed, As I dare take a serpent by the tongue : Boys, apes, braggarts. Jacks, milksops ! —
Leon. Brother Antony, —
Ant. Hold you content. What, man ! I know them, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,— Scambling, out-facing, fashion-mong'ring boys. That he, and cog, and flout, deprave, and slander, Go anticly, and show outward hideousness, A nd speak off half a dozen dangerous words, ] low they might hurt their enemies, if they durst ; And this is all.
Leon. But, brother Antony, —
A nt. Come, 'tis no matier ;
Do not you meddle, let me deal in this.
Z>. Pedro. Gentlemen both, we wiU not wake your patience. My heart is sorry for your daughter's death ; But, on my honour, she was charg'd mth nothing But what was true, and very full of proof.
Leon. My lord, my lord, —
D Pedro. I will not hear you-
Leon. Come, brother, away — I will be heard ; —
Ant. And shaU,
Or some of us will smart for it. [Exeunt Leox. and Ant.
D. Pedro. See, see; here comes the man we went t-) seek.
Enter Benedick.
Claud. Now, signior! what news?
BCENB T. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIXG. 53
Bene. Good day, my lord.
D. Pedro. Welcome, signior: you are almost come to part almost a fi'ay. ,
Claad. We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old men without teeth. .v t i i.
D Pedro. Leonato and his brother. What thmk st thou? Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them.
Bene. In a false quarrel there is no true valour, L came to seek you both.
Claud. We have been up and down to seek thee ; tor we are high proof melancholy, and would fain have it beaten away." Wilt thou use thy wit?
Bene. It is in my scabbard : shaJJ I draw it?
D Pedro. Dost thou wear thy -wit by thy side ?
Claud. Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit.— I will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels ; draw, to pleasure us. . , , , . .
D. Pedro. As I am an honest man, he looks pale. — Art
thou sick or angry? „„ , ,, ■, ^ ■^^ a
Claud. What! courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.
Bene. Sir, I shall meet your wit m the career, an you chartre it against me.— I pray you, choose another subject.
Claud. Nay, then, give him another staff ; this last was broke cross. j
D. Pedro. By this light, he changes more and more ; 1 think he be angry indeed.
Claud. If he'be, he knows how to turn his girdle.
Bene. Shall I speak a word in your ear?
Claud. God bless me from a challenge !
Bene. 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, \ ou have killed a sweet lady, and her death shaU faU heavy on you. Let me hear from you. , i, ■
Claud. Well, I ^vm meet you, so I may have good cheer.
D. Pedro. What, a feast? a feast?
Claud I'faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calls bead and a capon, the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife's naught.— ShaU I not fand a woodcock too? . .
Bene. Sir, your wit ambles weU; it goes easily.
D Pedro. I'll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy ynt the other day: I said thou hadst a tine wit; True, says she, a fine little one. No, said I, a great ivit; Right, says she. a
54 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act v.
f/reat grosn one. ^ay, said I, a good wit. Just, said she, it hurts nobody. Nai/, said I, the yentlcrnan its wise. Certahi, said she, a wise (jeiitleman. Nay, said I, lie hath the tonijues. That I belitve, said she, for he. sicore a thing to me on Mon- day nii/ht 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.
Claud. For the which she wept heartily, and said she cared not.
D. Pedro. Yea, that she did ; but yet, for all tliat, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly : the old man's daughter told us all.
Claud. All, all ; and moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden.
D. Pedro. But when shall we set the savage bull's horns on the sensible Benedick's head.
Cltiud. Yea, and text underneath, Here dwells Benedhk the marrh d man ?
Bene. Fare you well, boy ; you know my mind. I will leave you now to your gossip-like humour : you break jests as braggarts do their blades, which, God be thanked, liurt not. — My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you : I must discontinue your company : your brother the bastard is Hed from Messina : you have among you killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lackbeard tJiere, he and 1 shall meet ; and till then, peace be with him.
{Exit. Benedick.
D. Pedro. He is in earnest.
Claud. In most profound earnest ; and I'll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice.
D. Pedro. And hath challenged thee?
Claud Most siiicerely.
D Pedro. What a pretty tlung man is when he goes in his doublet and hose, and leaves off his wit !
Claud. He is then a giant to an ape: but then is an ape a doctor to such a man.
D. Pedro. But, soft you, let be ; pluck up, my heart, and be sad I Did he not say my brother was tied?
Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, with
CONRADE and BORACHIO.
Dogb. Come, you, sir ; if justice cannot tame you, she shal) ne'er weigh more reasons in her balance ; nay, an you be d cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 55
D. Pedro. How now ! two of my brother's men bound ! Borachio one !
Claud. Hearken after their offence, my lord. D. Pedro. Officers, what offence have these men done ? Dogh. 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 con- clude, they are lying knaves.
D. Pedro. First, I ask thee what they have done ; thirdly, I ask thee what's their offence ; sixih and lastly, why they are committed ; and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge ?
Claud. Rightly reasoned, and in his owri division ; and, by my troth, there's one meaning well suited.
D. Pedro. Whom 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?
Bora. Sweet prince, let me go no further to mine answer ; do you hear me, and let this count kill me. I have deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms could not discover these shallow fools have brought to light; who. in the night, overheard me confessing to this man how Don John your brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero ; how you were brought into the orchard, and saw me court Margaret in Hero's garments; how you disgraced her, when you should marry her: my viUany 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 nothmg but the reward of a villain. D. Pedro. Runs not this speech like iron through your
blood? Claud. I have drunk poison whiles he uttered it. D. Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to tliis? Bora. Yea, and paid me richly for the practice of it D. Pedro. He is compos'd and fram'd of treachery : And fled he is upon this viKany.
Claud. Sweet Hero ! now thy image doth appear In the rare semblance that I lov'd it first.
Dogb. Come, bring away the plaintiffs ; by this time our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter : and, masters, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass.
Verg. Here, here comes master Signior Leonato and the 9extou ton.
56 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act v.
Re-enter Lronato and Antonio, with the Sexton.
Leon. WMch 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?
Bora. If you would know your wronger, look on me.
Leon. Art thou the slave that witn thy breath haat kill'd Mine innocent child?
Bora. Yea, even I alone.
Leon. No, not so, villain ; thou bely'st 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 ; Eecord it with your high and worthy deeds ; 'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.
Claud. I know not how to pray your patience, Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself; Impose me to what penance your invention Can lay upon my sin : yet sinned I not But in mistaking.
D. 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.
Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live — That were impossible ; but, I pray you both, Possess the peojde in Messina here How innocent she died : and, if your love Can labour aught 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.
Claud. 0, noble sir.
Your overkindness doth wring tears from me ! I do embrace your offer ; and dispose For henceforth of poor Claudio.
Leon. To-morrow, then, I will expect your coming; To-night I take my leave. — This naughty man Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 57
Who, I believe, was pack'd in all tHs wrong, Hir'd to it by your brother.
Bora. No, by my soul, she was not ;
Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me; But always hath been just and virtuous In anything that I do know by her.
Dogb. Moreover, sir, — which, indeed, is not under white and black,— this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass : I beseech yon, let it be remembered in his punishment. And also, the Watch heard them talk of one Deformed: they say he wears a key in his ear and a lock hanging by it, and "borrows money in God's name ; the which he hath used so long, and never paid, that now men grow hard- hearted, and will lend nothing for God's sake : pray you, examine him upon that point.
Leon. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.
Dofjb. Your worsliip speaks like a most thankful and reverend youth, and I praise God for you.
Leon. There's for thy pains.
I>ogi God save the foundation !
Leon. Go; I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee.
Dogb. 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 Dogb., Verg., and Watch.
Leon. Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell.
Ant. Farewell, my lords; we look for you to-morrow.
D. Pedro. We will not fail.
Claud. To-night I'll mourn with Hero.
[Exeunt D. Pedro awtZ Claud.
Leon. Bring you these fellows on : we'll talk with Margaret How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow. [Exeunt.
SCENE n. — Leonato's Garden.
Enter Benedick and Maegaret, meeting.
Bene. Pray thee, sweet mistress Margaret, deservo well at my hands by helping me to the speech o/ Beatrice.
as MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act v.
Marg. Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of m^
beauDy;
Bene. la so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it ; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it.
Marg. To have no man come over me? why, shall 1 always keep below stairs ?
Bene. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth ; it catches.
Marg And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which hit, but hurt not.
Bene. A most manly wit, Margaret ; it will not hurt a woman ; and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice : I give thee the bucklers.
Marg. Give us the swords ; we have bucklers of our own.
Bene. If you use them, Margaret, you must ])ut in the pikes with a vicej and they are dangerous weapons for maids. •
Marg. Well, I wiU call Beatrice to you, who, I think, hath legs. {Exit Margaret.
Bene. And therefore will come. [Singing.
The god of love, That sits above, And knows me, aiul 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 book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme; I have tried; I can find out no rhyme to ladii but bab]i — an innocent rhyme ; for scorn, horn — a hard rhyme ; for school, fool — a bab- bling rhyme ; very ominous endings. No, I was not bora under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms.
Enter Beatrice.
Sweet Beatrice, woidd'st thou come when I called thee?
Beat. Yea, signior, and depai't when you bid me.
Bene. 0, stay but till then !
Beat. Then is si)oken ; fare you well now : — and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for, wliich is, \\ith knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio.
Bene. Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 59
Beat. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will dejiart unkissed.
Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his nght sense, BO forcible is thy wit. But, I must tell thee plainly, (Jiaudio undergoes my challenge ; and either I must shortly hear from bim, or I wiU subscribe him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou lirst fall in love with me ?
Beat. For them all together; which maintained so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me ?
Bene. Suffer love; a good epithet! T do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.
Beat. In spite of your heart, I think ; alas ! poor heart ! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.
Bene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
Beat. It appears not in this confession: there's not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself.
Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in the time of good neighbours : if a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps.
Beat. And how long is that, think you?
Bene. Question : — why, an hour in clamour, and a quarter in rheum : therefore it is most expedient for the wise (if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment to the con- trary) to be the trumi)et of his own virtues, as I am to myself So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy, and now tell me, how doth your cousin ?
Beat. Very iU.
Bene. And how do you?
Beat. Very ill to.
Bene. Serve God, love me, and mend: there will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste.
Enter Ursula.
Urs. Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder's old coil at home: it is proved my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the prince and Claudio mightily abused; and Don John is the author of aU, who is tied and gone. Will you come presently?
Beat. WiU you go hear this news, siguior!
60 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act v.
Bene. I will live in thy heart, die in thy Lap, and be buried in thy eyes J and, moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle's. [ExeuiU.
SCENE III.— The inside of a Church.
Enter Don Pkdro, Claudio, and Attendants, with music and tapers.
Claud. Is this the monument of Leonato? Atten. It is, my lord. Claud, [reads from 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, [affixing it.
Praising her when I am dumb. —
Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.
SONG. Pardon, Goddess of the night. Those that slew thy virgin knight; For the which, with songs of woe. Round ahout her tomb they go. Midnight, assist our moan ! Help us to sigh and groan.
Heavily, heavily ; Graves, yawn, and yield your dead. Till death he uttered. Heavily, heavily.
Claud. Now unto thy bones good night ! Yearly will I do this rite.
Z>. 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 sjiots of gray. Thanks to you all, and leave us : fare you weU.
Claud. Good morrow, masters ; each his several way.
D. Pedro. Come, let us hence, and jiut on other weeds; And then to Leonato's we will go.
Claud. And Hymen now with luckier issue speed's Than this, for whom we render'd up this woe 1 [Exeunt,
BOENE IV.
MITCH A.DO ABOUT NOTHING. 81
SCENE TV.— A Boom in Leonato's Hotise.
Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, Beatrice,
Margaret, Ursula, Friar, and Hero.
Friar. Did I not teU you she was innocent? Leon. So are the prince and Claudio, who accus d her Upon the error that you heard debated : But Margaret was in some fault for this, Althoucrh against her will, as it appears In the true course of all the question.
Ant Well I am glad that all thmgs sort so welL Bene. And so am I, bemg else by faith enforc d To call young Claudio to a reckonmg for it. • Z*on. WeU. daughter, and you gentlewomen all. Withdraw into a chamber by • '
And when I send for you, come hither mask d : The prince and Claudio promis'd by this hour To visit me. -You know your office, brother; You must be father to your brother s daughter, A^d give her to young Claudio. [tan« Ladiea
Ant Which I will do with confirm'd countenance. Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pams, I think. Friar. To do what, signior? Bene. To bind me, or undo me, one ot them, — Si.mior Leonai;o, truth it is, good signior, YSur niece regards me with an eye of favour. Leon. That°eye my daughter lent her. 'Tis most true. Bene. And I do with an eye of love reqmte her. Leon. The sight whereof, I think, you had fi-omme, From Claudio, and the prince. But what s your will I
Bene. 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 lu the estate of honourable marriage ;— In which, good friar, I shall desire your help. Leon. My heart is with your hkmg. Friar. ,. And my help-
Here come the prince and Claudio.
Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, with Attendants.
J) Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assembly.
Leo7i. Good morrow, prince; good morrow Claudio; We here atteud you. Are you yet determin d To^iay to marry with my brother's daughter?
62 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act v.
Claud I'll hold my miud were she an Ethiope.
Leon. Call her forth, brother ; here's the friar ready.
[Exit Antonto.
D. Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness?
Claud. I think he thinks upon the savage bull. — Tush, fear not, man ; we'll tip thy horns with gold And all Europa shall rejoice at thee, As once Europa did at lusty Jove, Wlien he would play the noble beast in love.
Bene. 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 bleafc.
Re-enter Antonto, with the Ladies mashed.
Claud. For this I owe you : here come other reckonings. Which is the lady I must seize upon?
Ant. This same is she, and I do give you her.
Claud. Why, then, she's mine. Sweet, let me see youi face.
Leon. No, that you shall not, till you take her hand Before this friar, and swear to marry her.
Claud. Give me your hand before this holy friar ; I am your husband if you like of me.
Hero. And when I lived I was your other wife :
[ Unmasking. And wken you lov'd you were my other husband,
Claud. Another Hero?
Hero. Nothing certainer :
One Hero died defil'd ; but I do live, And, surely as I live, I am a maid.
D. Pedro. The former Hero ! Hero that is dead !
Leon. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv'd.
Friar. All this amazement can I qualify ; Wlien, 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.
Bene. Soft and fair, friar. — Which is Beatrice?
Beat. I answer to that name; [Unmasking.
What is your will?
Bene. Do not you love me?
Beat. No, no more than reason.
SCENE IV. MFCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 63
Bene. Why, then your uncle, and the prince, and Claudio Have been deceived ; for they swore you did.
Beat. Do not you love me ?
Bene. No, no more than reason.
beat. ^Vhy, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula, Are much deceived ; for they did swear you did.
Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me.
Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.
Bene. 'Tis no such matter. — Then you do not love me?
Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. ~ Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.
Claud. And I'U be sworn ujion'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.
Bene. A miracle! — here's our own hands against our hearts! — Come, I will have thee; but, by this hght, I take thee for pity.
Beat. I would not deny you ;— but, by this good day, I yield upon great i)ersuasion ; and partly to save your hfe, for I was told yoii were in a consumjition.
Bene. Peace ; I will stop your mouth. [Kimng her.
D. Pedro. How dost thou, Benedick the married man ?
Bene. I'U teU 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, he 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 con- clusion.—For thy part, Claudio, I did tliink to have beaten thee; but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, hve tmbruised, and love my cousin.
Claud. I had well hoped thou would'st 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 exceetling narrowly to thee.
Bene. Come, come, we are friends :— let's have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives' lieels.
Ltun. We'll have dancing afterwards.
64 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. act v.
Bene. First, o' my word; therefore, play, music. — Prince, thou art sad ; get thee a wife, get thee a wife : there is no Btaff more reverend than one tipped with horn.
Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, your brother John is ta'en in flight, And brought with arm'd men back to Messina.
Bene- Thinlc not on him till to-morrow : I'll devise tbec brave punishments for him. — Strike up, pipers.
[Dance. Kceunt.
A MIDSUMMEK NIGHT'S DREAM.
PEHSONS REPRESENTfia
Theseus, Duhe of Athens.
Egeus, Fatlier to Hermia.
Lysander, I
Demetrius, i "* ^''^^ ""'^^ Hermia.
Philostrate, Master of the Revels to THUSBua.
Quince, the Carpenter.
Snug, the Joiner.
Bottom, the Weaver.
Flute, the Bellows-mender,
Snout, the Tinker.
Starveling, the Tailor.
Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, betrothed to THESEua
Hermia, Daughter to Egeus, in Inve vnth Lysander.
Helena, in love with Demetrius,
Oberon, King of the Fairies.
Tetania, Queen of the Fairies.
Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, a Fairy.
Peasblossom, \
Cobweb,
Moth,
Mustardseed,
Pyeamus,
Thisbe,
Wall,
Moonshine,
Lion,
Fairies.
Characters in the Interlude performed by the Clowns.
Other Fairies attending their King and Queen.
Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta>
SCENE, — Athens, and a Wood not far from, it
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
ACT I. SCENE I. — Athens. A Room in the Palace of 1'heseu&
Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, and Attendants.
The. Now, fair Hippoly-fca, our nuptial hour Draws on apace ; four hap])y days bring in Another moon : but, oh, methiiiks, 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.
Hip. Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights ; Four nights will quickly dream away the time j And then the moon, like to a silver bow New bent in heaven, shall behold the night Of our solemnities.
The. Go, Philostrate,
Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments ; Awake the pert and nimble spint of mirth ; Turn melancholy forth to funerals — The pale companion is not for our pomp. —
[Exit PniLOSTRATS 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.
E<ye. Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke !
The. Thanks, good Egeus : what's the news with thee?
Efje. Full of vexation come I, with complaint Against my child, my daugliter Hermia. — Stand forth, Demetrius. — My noble lord, This man hath my consent to marry her : — Stand forth, Lysander ; — and, my gracious duke, This hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child-
68 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. act l
Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes,
.And interchang'd love-tokens with my child:
Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,
With feigning voice, verses of feigning love ;
And stol'n the imjiression of her fantasy
With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits,
Kuacks, trilies, nosegays, sweatmeats, -^messengers.
Of strong prevailment in unharden'd youth ; —
With cunning hast thou filch'd my daughter's heart;
Turned 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,
1 beg the ancient privilege of Athens, —
A,s 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.
The. What say you, Hermia? be ad vis' d, fair maidi To you your father should be as a god ; One that compos' d your beauties ; yea, and one To whom you are but as a form in wax. By him imprinted, and within his power To leave the figure, or disfigure it. Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.
Her. So is Lysander.
The. In himself he is :
But, in this kind, wanting your father's v^oice, The other must be held the worthier.
Her. I would my father look'd but with my eyes. 'I
The. Rather your eyes must with his judgment look
Her. I do entreat your grace to pardon me. I know not by what power I am made bold. Nor how it may concern my modesty 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.
The. Either to die the death, or to abjure For ever the society of men. Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires, Know of your youth, examine well your blood. 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,
SCENE I. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 69
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.
Her. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, Ere I wiU yield my virgin patent up Unto his lordship, whose unmshed yoke My soul consents not to give sovei-eigny.
The. Take time to pause ; and by the next new moon,— Tlie 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 Ufa.
Dem. Relent, sweet Hermia ; — and^ Lysander, yield Thy crazed title to my certain right.
Lys. You have her father's love, Demetrius; Let me have Hermia's : do you marry him.
Ege. Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love; And what is mine my love shaU render him; And she is mine ; and all my right of her I do estate unto Demetrius.
Lys. I am, my lord, as well deriv'd as he, As well possess'd ; my love is more than his; My fortunes every way as fairly rank'd. If not with vantage, as Demetrius's ; And, which is more than all these boasts can be, I am belov'd of beauteous Hei-mia : 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.
The. 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 tit your fancies to your father's will,
70 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. act i
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.
Etjt. With duty and desire we follow you.
[Exeunt Thu'A., Hip., Ege., Dem., aw? Train.
Lijs- How now, my love ! why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast?
Her. Belike for want of rain, which I could well Beteem them from the temjiest of mine eyes.
Lys. Ah me ! for aught that ever I coiild read, Could ever hear by tale or history, Hlfi_course of true lovejievet-did-xunsmooth : But either it was^diSer en tin blood, — ^
Her. O cross ! too high to be enthrall'd to low !
Lys. Or else misgraffed in respect of years ; —
iter. O spite ! too old to be engag'd to young !
Lys. Or else it stood upon the choice of friends:
Her. Q^iell_Lto_choose love by anotber'sjeye 1
Lys. Or, liThere WETeTrsymjiathy m 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 Tiiat, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, A nd ere a man hath power to say, Behold ! The jaws of darkness do devour it up : So quick bright things come to confusion-
Her. If, then, true lovers have been ever cross' d, Tt stands as an edict in destiny : Then let us teach our trial jjatience, Because it is a customary cross ; As due to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sigha. Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.
Lys. A good persuasion ; therefore, hear me, Hermiiii 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 lov'st me, then.
BPENE I. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 71
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.
Her. My good Lysander I
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 Trojan under sail was seen, — ■ By all the vows that ever men have broke, In number more than ever woman spoke, — In that same place thou hast appointed me. To-morrow truly will I meet with thee.
Lys. Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Heltma.
Enter Helena.
Her. God speed fair Helena ! Whither away?
Hel. Call you me fair? that fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair. O happy fair ! Your eyes are lode-stars ; and your tongue's sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear. 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 tonOTie's sweet melody Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated. The rest I'U give to be to you translated, O, teach me now you look ; and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart.
Her. I frown upon him, yet he loves me stilL
Hel. 0 that yt)ur frowns would teach my smilea such skiU !
Her. I give him curses, yet he gives me love.
Hel. 0 that my prayers could such affection move !
Her. The more I hate, the more he follows me.
Hel. The more I love, the more he hateth me.
Her. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.
Hel. None, but your beauty: would that fault were mine!
Her. Take comfort ; he no more shall see my face ; Lysander and myseif will fly this place.— Before the time I did Lysander see,
72 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. act I.
Seem'd Athens like a paradise to me :
0 then, what graces in my love do dwell, That he hath tiirn'd a heaven unto heU !
Lys. 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 jiearl the bladed grass, — A time that lovers' flights doth still conceal, — Through Athens' gates have we devis'd to steal.
Her. And in the wood where often you and J Up'on 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 friefids and stranger companies. Farewell, sweet playfellow : jiray thou for us, And good hick grant thee thy Demetrius ! — Keep word, Lysander : we must starve our sight From lovers' food, till morrow deep midnight.
Lya. I win, my Hermia. [Exit Hermia.
Helena, adieu: As you on him, Demetrius dote on you ! [Exit LtsanbbBi
Hel. How happy some o'er other some can be 1 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 aad 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 judgment taste ; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste : And therefore is love said to be a child. Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd. As waggish boys in game themselves forswear. So the boy Love is perjur'd everywhere : For ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's eyne, He hail'd down oaths that he was only mine ; And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt. So he dissolv'd, and showers of oaths did melt.
1 will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight ; Then to the wood will he to-morrow night Pursue her ; and for this inteUigence
If 1 have thanks, it is a dear expense :
BCBNE I. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 73
But herein mean T to enrich my pain, To have his si^'b t thither and back again.
SCENE IL — The Same. A Room in a Cottage.
Enter Snug, Bottom, Flttte, Snout, Quince, and Starveling.
Quin. Is all onr company here ?
Bot. You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip.
Quin. Here is the scroll of every man's name, which is thought fit, through all Athens, to })lay in our interlude . before the duke and duchess on his wedding-day at night. .
Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on ; then read the names of the actors ; and so grow to a point.
Quin. Marry, our play is— The most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.
Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. — Now, good Peter Quince, cjdl forth your actors by the scroU. — Masters, spread yourselves.
Quin. Answer, as I call you. — Nick Bottom, the weaver.
Bot. Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.
Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.
Bot. What is Pyramus? a lover, or a tyrant?
Qmn. A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love.
Bot. That will ask some tears in the true performing of it. If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes ; I will move storms; I wiU 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 apilt.
" The raging rocks, And Phibbus' car
With shiverino; shocks. Shall shine from far,
Shall break the locks And make and mar Of prison gates : 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.
Quin. Francis Flute, the beUows-mender.
Flu. Here, Peter Quince.
Quin. You must take Thisby on you.
Flu. What is Thisby? a wandering knight?
Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must love.
Flu. Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have n btitu-d coming.
74 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. act i.
Quin. That's all one ; you shaU play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will.
Bat. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too: I'll gjieak in a monstrous little voice; — Thvine, Thisne. — Ah, Pi/ramius, my lover dear; thy Thisby dear/ and lady dear!
Quin. No, no, you must play Pyramuaj and. Flute, you Thisby.
Bot. Well, proceed.
Quin Robin Starveling, the tailor.
iSiar. Here, Peter Quince.
Quin, Rol)in Starvehng, yon must play Thisby's motlier. — Tom Snout, the tinker.
Snout. Here, Peter Quince.
Quin. You, Pjrramus's father; myself, Thisby's father; — Snug, the joiner, you, the lion's part: — and, I hojje, here is a play fitted.
Snutj. Have you the lion's part written? pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study.
Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring.
But. Let me play the lion too : I will roar, that I wiU do any man's heart good to hear me ; 1 will roar, that I will make the duke say, Let him roar ai/ain, lei him roar again,
Quin. An you should do it too terribly you would fright the duchess and the ladies, that they would Bhriek ; and that were enough to hang us aU.
A II. That would hang us every mother's son.
But. 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.
Quin. You can play no part but PjTamus: for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man ; a proper man, as one shall see on a simimer's day; a most lovely, gentleman -like man; there- fore you must needs play Pyramus.
But. Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in?
Quin. Why, what you wilL
But. I will discharge it in either your straw-coloured beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow.
Quin. Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and then you will play barefaced. — But, masters, here are your parts: and I am to entreat you, request you, and Oesire you, to con them by to-morrow night; and meet me
SCENE II. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 75
in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight ; there will we rehearse : for if we meet in the city, we shall he dogg'd with company, and our devices known. In the meantime 1 will di'aw a bdl of properties, such as our play wauts. I pray you, fail me not.
Bot. We will meet; and there we may rehearse niore obscenely and courageously. Take pains ; be perfect ; adieu.
Quin. At the duke's oak we meet.
But. Enough; hold, or cut bow-strings. [Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I. — A Wood near AtJt^HS.
Enter a Fairy at one door, and Ppck at another. Puck. How now, spirit ! whither wander you? Fai. Over hill, over dale.
Thorough bush, thorough briar, 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 cowshps 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 dew-drops 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 Tier attendant, hath A lovely boy, stol'n from an Indian king ; She never had so sweet a changehng : And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild : But she jierforce witliholds the loved boy. Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy; And now they never meet in grove or green,
76 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, act ii.
By fountain clear or spangled starlight sheen, But they do square ; that all their elves, for fear, Creej) into acorn cups, and hide them there.
Fai. Either I mistake your shape and making quite, Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite Call'd Robin Goodfellow : are you not he That fright the maidens of the villagery ; Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern, And bootless make the breathless housewife chum ; 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 shaU 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 m. 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 dew -lap pour the ale. The wsest 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 loffe, And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. — But room, fairy, here comes Oberon.
Fai, And here my mistress. — Would that he were gone !
SCENE XL
Enter Obekon, at one door, with Ids Train, and Titania, at another, with hers. "
Ohe. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.
Tita. What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn his bed and company.
Ohe. Tarry, rash wanton: am not I thy lord?
Tita. Then I must be thy lady : but I know When thou hast stol'n away from fairy -land. And in the shape of Conn sat all day, Playing on pipes of com, and versing love
8CKNE IT. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 77
To amorous Phillida Why art thou here, Come from the farthest steep of India, But, that, forsooth, tlie 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.
Obe. How can'st thou thus, for sliame, Titania, Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, Knowing I know tliy love to Theseus ? Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night From Perigenia, whom he ravish'd ? And make him with fair /Egle break his faith. With Ariadne and Antiopa?
Tlia. These are the foj^tjeries 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 on the beached margeut of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, }'ut 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 hxive 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 murrain flock : The nine men's morris is fiU'd up with mud; And the quaint mazes in tl^e wanton green. For lack of tread, are undistinguishabl.e : The human mortals want their winter here ;' No nighT; is now vidth hymn or carol blest : — Therefore the moon, the governess of Hoods, 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 Fall in the fresh lap qf the crimson rose ; And on old Hyem's chin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set : the spring, the summer. The childing autumn, angry vmiter, change Their wonted liveries ; and the maz'd world,.
78 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, act il
By tlieir increase, now knows not whicli is which : And this same progeny of evils comes From our debate, from our dissension : We are their parents and original.
Obe. Do you amend it, then : it lies in you : Why should Titania cross her Oberon? 1 do but beg a little changeling boy To be my henchman.
Tita. Set your heart at reat ;
The fairy -land buys not the child of me. His mother was a vot'ress 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 vnth merchandise. But she, being mortal, of that boy did die ; And for her sake I do rear up her boy : And for her sake I will not part with him.
Ohe. How long within this wood intend you stay?
Tito, Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-day. If you will patiently dance in our round, Aiid see our moonlight revels, go with us ; If not, shun me, and I will spare your haiants.
Ohe. (five me that boy and I will go with thee.
Tita. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away : We shall chide downright if I longer stay.
" . [Exit Titania and her Train.
Obe. Well, go thy way : thou shalt not from this grove Till I torment thee for this injury. — My gentle Puck, come hither: thou remember' st Since once I sat upon a promontory. And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back, Uttermg 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.
Olin. That very time I saw, — but thou could'st not, — Flying between the cold moon and the eaxth,
SCENE II. A MIPS-UMM7.R NIGHT'S DREAM. 79
Oupid all ami'd : a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal, throned bj'^ the west ;
And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his how.
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 ])assfed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid feU:
It fell upon a little western flower, —
Before milk-white, now pur])le with love's wound, —
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that fioM^er ; the herb I show'd thee once :
The juice of it on sleeping eyehds laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creatiire that it sees.
Fetch me this herb : and be thou here again
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.
Puch. I'll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes. _ _ [Exit Pucx.
Ohe. 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 vrith the sotil of love. And ere I take this charm off' from 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 j And I will overhear their conference.
Enter Demetrius, ^-elesk following Mm.
Dem. 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 stol'n into this wood. And here am I, and wood within this wood, Becaiise I cannot meet with Hermia. Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.
Hel. You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant ; But yet you draw not ii on, for my heart Is true as steel. licave you your power to draw. And I shall have no power to follow you.
Dem. Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair?
60 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM act n.
Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth Tell you I do not, nor I cannot love you?
Hel. And even for that do I love you the more. I am your spaniel ; and, Demetrius, The more you beat me, I will fawn on you : 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?
Dem. Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit ; For I am sick when I do look on thee.
Hel. And I am sick when I look not on you.
Dem. You do impeach your modesty too much, To leave the city, and conunit yourself Into tlie hands of one that loves you not; To trust the oi)portuiuty of night, And tne ill counsel of a desert place. With the rich worth of your virginity.
Hel. 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?
Dem. I'll run from thee, and hide me in the braka^ And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.
Hel. The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will, the story shall be chang'd ; Apollo tiies, 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 tiies.
Dem. I will not stay thy questions ; let me go : Or, if thou follow me, do not beheve But I shall do tliee miscliief in the wood.
Hel. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field. You do me mischief Fie, Demetrius ! Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex : We camiot tight for love as men may do : We should be woo'd, and wei'e not made to woa I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well.
{Exeunt Demetrius and Helkna,
BCENE II. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. J81
Obe. Fare thee well, njonph : ere he do leave this grove, Thou shalt Hy him, and he shall seek thy love. —
Re-enter Puck. Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.
Puck. Ay, there it is.
Ohe. I pray thee, give it me.
I know a bank whereon the wild thjnne blows, Where ox -lips and the nodding violet grows ; Q\;ite over-canopied with lush woodbine, With sweet musk roses, and with eglantine : There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, Lulled 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'U 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 disdauiftil youth : anoint his eyes ; But do it when the next thing he es^jies May be the lady : thou shalt know the man By the Athenian garments he hath on. Efl"ect it with some care, that he may prove More fond on her than she upon her love : And look thou meet me ere the flrst cock crow.
Puck. Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so.
{Exeuni.
SCENE 111.— Another part of the Wood.
Enter Titania, with her Train. Tita. 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 s.uall elves coats ; and some keep back The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and woj?dera At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep; Then to your offices, and let me rest.
SONG. I. 1 Fai. You spotted snakes, with double tongue.
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; Newts and blind-worms do no wroiitj; Come not near our faiyy queen; VOL. II. Q
82 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. act n.
Philomel, with melody. Sing in our sweet lullaby : Lnlla, lulla, lullaby ; luUa, lulla, lullaby: Never liarm, nor spell, imr charm, Come our lovely lady uitrh ; So, good night, with'lullaby. II. 2 Fai. Weaving spiders, come not here ;
Hence, you lonfr-legsr'd spinners, hence; Beetles blank, approach not near; Worm nor snail do no offence.
cnouus. Philomel -with melody, &c.
1 fat. Hence, away ; now all is well : One, aloof, stand sentinel. [Exeunt Fairies. Titania sleeps.
Enter Oberok. Obe. Wliat thou seest, when thou dost wake,
[Squeezes the /lower on Titania's eyelids. Do it for thy true-love take ; Love and langiiish for his sake ; Be it ovmce, or cat, or bear, Pard, or boar with bristled hair, In thy eye that shall appear When thou wak'st, it is thy dear ; Wake when some vile thing is near. [Exit,
Enter Lysander and Hermia.
Lys. Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood;
Aid, to speak troth, I have forgot our way ; We'U rest us, Hermia, if you think it good.
And tarry for the comfort of the day.
Her. Be it so, Lysander : find you out a bed. For I upon this bank will rest my head.
Lys. One turf shall serve as pillow for us both ; One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.
J-ler. Nay, good Lysander ; for my sake, my dear. Lie farther off yet, do not lie so near.
Lys. 0, 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.
Her. Lysander riddles very prettily : —
SCENE III. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 83
Now much beshrew my mcanners and my jiride
If Hermia meant to say Lysaii<ler lied.
But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy
Lie farther off; in human modesty,
Such se])aration 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 !
Lys. Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I ; And then end life when I end loyalty ! Here is niy bed : Sleep give thee all his rest !
Her. With half that wish the wisher's eyes be pressed !
[They deep.
Enter Puck.
Puch 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 soimd, 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 wak'st 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, nmninrf.
Hel. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.
Dem. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.
Hel. 0, wilt "thou darkling leave me? do not so.
Dem. Stay on thy peril ; I alone will go.
[Exit Demetrius.
Hel. 0, 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 teal's: If so, my eyes are oftener wash'd than hers.
84 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. act u.
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. Wliat wicked and dissembling glass of mine Made me compare with Herinia's sphery eyne? — But who is here? — Lysauder ! on the ground ! De^d? or asleep? 1 see no blood, no wound- Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.
Lys. And run through tire I will for thy sweet sake.
[ IVaking, Transparent Helena ! Nature here shows art, That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. Where is Demetrius? 0, how fit a word Is that vile name to perish on my sword !
Hel. 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.
Lys. 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? Tljewill ofmands by his reagon sway'd ; And reasoiTsays ycju are the~worthier maiH. 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.
Hel. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? Wlien 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 insufliciency? 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. 0, that a lady of one man refus'd. Should of another therefore be alnis'd ! [ Exit
Ly-i. She sees not Hermia: — Hermia, sleep thou thLTu; And never may'st thou come Lysander near ! For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings;
SCENE in. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 85
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, aU my powers, address your love and might To honour Helen, and to be her knight ! [Exit
Her. [startiiKj. ] Help me, Lysander, help me ! do thy best To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast ! Ah 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 smihng at his cruel prey. — Lysander! what, removed? Lysander! lore?* 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'U find immediately. [Exii.
ACT III.
SCENE L — The Wood. The Queen of Fairies lying asleep.
Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Si^'out, and Starveling.
Bot. Are we all met ?
Quin. Pat, pat; and here's a marvellous conr^nient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn brake our tiring-house ; and we will do it in action, as we will do it before the duke.
Bot. Peter Quince, —
Quin. What say'st thou, bully Bottom?
Bot. There are things in this comedy of Pyra.rmis 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.
Star. I believe you must leave the killing out, when aU is done.
Bot. Not a whit : I have a device to make all weU. Write me a prologue ; and let the prologue seem to say, we will do 1,0 harm with oiir swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed : and for the more better assurance, teU them that
86 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, act hi.
I Pyramus am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver : this will put them out of fear.
Qidn. Well, we will have such a prologue ; and it shall be written in eight and six.
Bot. No, make it two more ; let it be written in eight and eight.
Snout. Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion ?
Star. I fear it, I promise you.
Bot. Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves : to bring in, God shield us ! a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing : for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living ; and we ought to look to it.
Snout. Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion.
Bot. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion's neck ; and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect, — '' Ladies," or " Fair Ladies ! I would wish you, or, I would request you, or, I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble : my life for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. No, I am no such thing : I am a man as other men are : " — and there, indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner.
Quin. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things ; that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber : for, you know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight.
Snug. Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?
Bot. A calendar, a calendar ! look in the almanack; lind out moonshine, find out moonshine.
Qtun. Yes, it doth shine that night.
Bot. Why, then you may leave a casement of the great chamber-window, where we play, open ; and the moon may shine in at the casement.
Quin. Ay ; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes to disfigure or to i^resent the person of moonshine. Then there is another thing: we must have a M'all in the great chamber ; for Pyramus and Thisby, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall.
Snug. You never can bring in a wall. — What say you, Bottom.
Bot. Some man or other must present wall : and let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to si,t:nify wall ; or let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper.
QuiU" If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down, every mother's son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you
SCENE T. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 8?
begin : when you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake ; and so every one according to his cue.
Enter PccK behind.
Puck. What hempen homespuns 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.
Quin. Sjieak, Pyramus. — Thisby, stand forth.
Pyr. Thisby, the Jioivers of odious savours siveet, —
Quin. Odours, odours.
Pyr. odours savours siveet:
So doth thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear. — But hark, a voice! stay thou bid here awhile,
A nd by and by I will to thee appear. ' [Exit.
Puck. A stranger Pyramus than e'er played here !
[Aside. — Acit.
This. Must I speak now?
Quin. Ay, marry, must you: for you must imderstand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again.
This. Most radiant Pyramus, most lily white of hue.
Of colour like the red rose on triumpha/it brier. Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew,
A s true as truest horse, that yet would never tire, ril meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny''s tomb.
Quin. Ninus' tomb, man : why, you must not speak that yet : that you answer to Pyramus. You speak all your part at once, cues and aU. — Pyramus enter: your cue is past; it is, never tire.
Re-enter Puck, and Bottom with an ass^s head. This. 0, — As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire, Pyr. If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine: — Quin. 0 monstrous ! 0 strange ! we are haunted. Pray,
masters ! fly, masters ! — Help ! [Exeunt Clowns.
Puck. I'U follow you ; I'll lead you about a round, Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier;
Sometime a horse I'U be, sometime a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometime a tire ;
And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn.
Like horse, hound,- hog, bear, tire, at every turn. [Exit.
Bot. Why do they run away? this is a knavery of them
to make me afeard.
Re-enter Snout. Snout. 0 Eottom, thou art changed ! what do I see on thee!
S8 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. act til
Bot. Wliat do you see? you see an ass-head of your own, do you ?
Be-enter Quince.
Quin. Bless thee, Bottom ! bless thee ! thou art trans- lated. [Bxit.
Bot. I see their knavery ; this is to make an ass of me ; to fright me, if they could. But I wall 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-cook, so hlack of hue,
With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true.
The wren with little tiuill ;
Tita. What angel wakes me from my flowery bed ? [ Waking.
Bot, The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,
The plain-song cuckoo uray. 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?
T'tta. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again : Mine e.ar is much enamour'd of thy note. So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape ; And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move mo, On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.
Bot. Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that : and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days: the more the pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, 1 can gleek upon occasion.
Tita. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful
Bot. Not so, neither : but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.
Tita. Out of this wood do not desire to go ; Thou shalt remain here whether thou wdt or no. I am a spirit of qo 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 ; Anct they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep. And sing, while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep; And I will purge thy mortal grossnesa so T1int thou shalt like an airy spirit go. — feasbiossom ! Cobweb ! Moth 1 au(^ Mustardseed ?
SCENE I. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 89
Enter Four Fairies.
1 Fai. Ready.
2 Fai. And I.
3 Fai. And I.
4 Fai. Wliere sliall we gO? Tita. Be Idnd and courteous to tliis gentleman ;
Hop in his -w^alks and gambol in his eyes ; Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, With puq)le grapes, green figs, and mulberries ; The honey bags steal from the humble-bees. And, for night-taiiers, crop their waxen thighs, And light them at the fiery glowworm's eyes, To have my love to bed and to arise ; And pluck the wings fi-om painted butterflies. To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes: Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.
1 Fai. Hail, mortal I
2 Fai. Hail! ^Fai. Hail! A Fai. Hail!
Bot. I cry your worship's mercy heartily. — I beseech your worship's name.
Gob. Cobweb.
Bot. 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?
Peas. Peasblossom.
Bot. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peasblossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too. — Your name, I beseech you, sir?
Mus. Mustardseed.
Bot. Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well : that same co-H;ardly giant-like ox-beef hath devoured many a gentleman of your house: I promise you, your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed.
Tita. Come, wait upon him ; lead him to my bower.
The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye ; And when slie weeps, weeps every little iiower,
Lamenting some enforced chastity.
Tie uj) my love's tongue, bring him silently. \F<ceanU
90 A MIDSUMMEE, NIGHT'S DREAM, act nt,
SCENE II.— Another part of the Wood.
Enter Oberon. Ohe. I wonder if Titania be awak'd ; 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 spirits What night-rule now about this haunted grove?
Pack. My misti'ess with a monster is in love. Near to her close and consecrated bower, AVliile she was in her dull and sleeping hour, A crew of patches, rude mechanicals. That woi'k 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, WTio Pyramus presented in their sport, Foi'sook his scene and enter'd in a brake; Wheu I did him at this advantage take. An ass's nowl 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, Ilising 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 jdelders aU things catch. I led them on in this distracted fear. And left sweet Pyramus translated there : AVhen in that moment, — so it came to pass, — Titania wak'd, and straightway lov'd an ass.
Obe. This falls out better than I could devise. But hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's eyes With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do?
Puck. I took him sleeping, — that is finish'd too,— And the Athenian woman by his side ; That, when he wak'd, of force she must be ey'd.
SCENE II. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DEEAM. 91
Enter Demetrius and Hermia.
Ohe. Stand close ; this is the same Athenian.
Puck. This is the woman, biit not this the man.
Dem. 0, why rebuke you him that loves you so? Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.
Her. Now 1 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, A ud kill me too.
The sun was not so true unto the day As he to me : would he have stol'n away From sleeping Hermia? I'll believe as soon This whole earth may be bor'd ; and that the moon May through the centre creep, and so displease Her brother's noontide with the antipodes. It cannot be but thou hast murder'd him ;_ So should a murderer look ; so dead, so grim.
Dem. So should the murder'd look ; and so should I, Pierc'd through the heart with your stern cruelty : Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.
Her. Wliat's this to my Lysauder? where is he? Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?
Dem. I had rather give his carcase to my hounds.
Her. Out, dog ! out, cur ! thou driv'st me past the bounds Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him, then? Henceforth be never number'd among men ! Oh ! once tell true, tell true, even for my sake ; Durst thou have look'd upon him, being awake, And hast thou kiU'd him sleeping? 0 brave touch I Could not a worm, an adder, do so much? An adder did it ; for with doubler tongue Than thme, thou serpent, never adder stiing. ^
Dew.. You spend your passion on a mispris'd mood : I am not guilty of Lysander's blood ; Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.
Her. I pray thee, teU me, then, that he is well. Dem. An if I could, what should I get therefore? Her. A privilege never to see me more. — And from thy hated presence part I so : r a' v
See me no more whether he be dead or no. [Axw.
Dem. There is no following her in this tierce vein : ' Here, therefore, for awhUe I will remain. So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow
J»2 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DEEAM. act hi.
For debt that bankrupt sleep dotb sorrow owe ;
Which now in some light measure it wiU pay,
If ftir his tender here 1 make some stay. [Lipn dnion,
Obe. What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken quite, And laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight •■ 01 thy misprision must perforce ensue Some true-love turn'd, and not a false turn'd true.
Puck. Then fate o'er-riiles, that, one man holding troth, A million fail, confounding oath on oath.
Obe. About the wood go, swifter than the wind, And Helena of Athens look thou find : All fancy -sick she is, and pale of cheer, VTifch sighs of love, that cost the fresh blood dear. "By some illusion see thou bring her here ; I'll charm his eyes against she do apjjear.
Puck. I go, I go; look how I go, — Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow. [Exit.
Obe. Flower of this purple dye,
Hit with Cupid's archery,
Sink in apple of his eye !
When his love he doth espy.
Let her shine as gloriously
A-S the Venus of the sky. —
When thou wak'st, if she be by.
Beg of her for remedy.
Re-entex 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! Ohe. 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 befaU preposterously.
Enter Lysander and Helen.v-
Lyx. 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.
SCENK II. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DEEAM. 93
How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true ?
Hel. You do advance your cunning more and more.
When truth kills truth, U devilish-holy fray ! These vows are Hermia's : will you give her o'er?
Weigh oath with oath aud you will nothing weigh : Your vows to her and me, put in two scales, Will even weigh ; and both as light as tales.
Lys. I had no judgment when to her I swore.
Hel. IS or none, in my mind, now you give her o'er.
Lys. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you.
Devi. \awakin(j.'\ OHelen,goddess, nymph, perfect, diviuel To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyue ? Crystal is muddy. (.), 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 : 0 let me kiss This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss !
lid. 0 spite ! 0 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, aud supei-praise my parts. When I am sure you hate me with your hearts. Yoii both are rivals, and love Hermia; And now both rivals, to mock Helena : A trim exjiloit, 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.
Lys. You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so; For you love Hermia : this you know I know : And here, with all good will, with all my heart, In Hermia's love I yield you up my part; And yours of Helena to me bequeath, Whom I do love, and will do to my death.
Hel. Never did mockers waste more idle breath.
Dem. Lysander, keej) thy Hermia; I will none: If e'er I lov'd her. all that love is gone My heart with her but as guest-v/isf sojourn' cl^
94 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, act in.
Aiid now to Helen is it home return' d. There to remain,
Lys- Helen, it is not so.
Dem. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, Lest, to thy peril, thou aliy it dear. — Look where thy love comes , y<juder is thy dear.
Enter Hermta.
Her. Dark night, that from the eye his function takes^ The ear more quick of a])prehension makes ; Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, It pays the hearing double recompense : — Thou art not by mine eye. Lysaiuler, found ; Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound. But why unkindly didst thou leave me so ?
Lyn. Wliy should he stay whom love doth press to go?
Her. What love could press Lysander from my side?
Lys. Lysander's love, that would not let him bide, — Fair Helena, — who more engilds the night Than all yon tiery oes and eyes of light. Wliy seek'st thou me? could not this make thee know The hate I bare thee made me leave thee so?
Her. You speak not as j^ou think ; it cannot be.
If el. 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 conspir'd, have you with these contriv'd To bait me with this foul derision? Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd, The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent. When we have chid the hasty-footed time For parting us, — 0, is all forgot? All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence? We, Hermia, like two artilicial gods. Have with our neelds created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on oue cushion. Both warbling of one song, both in one key ; As if our hantls, our sides, voices, and minds Had been incorporate. So we grew together. Like to a double cherry, seeming parted ; But yet a 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.
SCENE II. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DEEAM. »5
And will you rent our ancient love asxinder, To join with men in scorning your poor fiiend? 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.
Her. I am amazed at your passionate words \ I scorn you not ; it seems that you scorn me.
Hel. Have you not sent 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, njmiph, divine, and rare, Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this To her he hates? and wherefore doth Lysander Deny your love, so rich vidthin 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 ui>on with love, so fortunate ; But miserable most, to love unlov'd? This you shoidd pity, rather than despise.
Her. I understand not what you mean by this.
Hel. Ay, do persever, counterfeit sad looks, Make mows iipon me when I turn my back ; Wuik at each 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 mine own fault ; Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy.
Lys. Stay, gentle Helena ; hear my excuse ; My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena !
Hel. 0 excellent !
Her. Sweet, do not scorn her so.
Dem. If she cannot entreat, I can compel.
Lys. Thou canst compel no more than she entreat , Thy threats have no more stj'ength than her weak pi ayers, Helen, I love thee ; by my Me I do ; I swear bj'^ that which I will lose for thee To prove him fiilse that says I love thee not.
Dein. I say I love thee more than he can do.
Lys. If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too
Dem. Qui'ik, come, —
Her. Lysander, whereto tends all this?
Lys. Away, you Ethiop !
DeTTU No, no, sir : — he will
96 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DEE AM. act in.
Seem to break loose; take on as you would follow: But yet come not. You are a tame man ; go !
Liis. Hang off, thou cat, tliou burr : vile thing, let loose, Or I will shake thee from me like a serjieut.
Her. Why are you grown so rude? what change is thia, Sweet love?
Lys. Thy love ? out, tavsmy Tartar, out !
Out, loath'd medicine ! hated potion, hence !
Her. Do you not jest?
Hel. Yes, 'sooth ; and so do you.
Lys. Demetrius, I will keej) my word with thee.
Dein. 1 would I had your bond ; for I perceive A weak liond holds you ; I'll not trust your word.
Lys. What ! should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead Although I hate her I'll not himn her so.
Her. What ! can you do me greater harm than hate? Hate me! wherefore? 0 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 lov'd me ; yet since night yon left me: Whj'. then, you left me, — 0, the gods forbid 1 — In earnest, shall 1 say?
Lys. Ay, by my life ;
And never did desire to see thee more. Therefore be out of hope, of question, doubt, Be certain, nothing truer ; 'tis no jest That I do hate tliee and love Helena
Her. 0 me ! you juggler ! you cai ker-blossom ! You thief of love ! What ! have you come by night. And stol'n my love's heart from him !
Hel. Fine, i'faithi
Have you no modesty, no maiden shame. No touch of bashfulness? What ! will you Impatient answers from my gentle tongue? Fie, tie ! you counterfeit, you puppet you !
Httr. Puppet! why so? Ay, that way goes the game Now I perceive that she hath made compare Between our statures; she hath urg'd her height; And with her personage, her tall personage. 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.
Hel, 1 pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen.
ecENE II. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 97
Let her not hui-t me. I was never curst ;
I have no gift at all in shrewishness ;
1 am a right maid for my cowardice;
Let her not strike me. You perhaps may thinli.
Because she's something lower than myself,
That i can match her.
Her. Lower! hark, again.
Ihl. 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, 1 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 wall let me quiet go, To Athens will I bear my folly back, And follow you no farther. Let me go : You see how simple and how fond I am.
Her. Why, get you gone: who is't that hinders you?
Hel. A foolish heart that I leave here behind.
Her. What! with Lysander?
Hel. With Demetrius.
Lys. Be not afraid ; she shall not harm thee, Helena.
Dem. No, sir, she shall not, though you take her jMrt;
Hel 0, 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 tierce.
Her. Little again ! nothing but low and little ! — Why will you suifer her to liout me thus? Let me come to her.
Lys. Get you gone, you dwarf;
You minimus, of hind'ring knot-grass made; You bead, you acorn.
DeTn. You are too oflicious
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.
Lys. Now she holds me not ;
Now follow, if thou dar'st, to try whose right, Or thine or mine, is most in Helena.
DeTn. Follow ! nay, I'll go with thee, cheek by jole.
[Exeunt Lys. and Dkm. VOL. II, H
98 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, act iil
Her. You, mistress, all this coil is 'long of you : Nay, go not back.
ITeL I will not trust yon, 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. [Erit,
Her. I am amaz'd, and know not what to say.
[Exit, pxirsuinrj Helena.
Ohe. This is thy negligence : still thou mistak'st, Or else commit' st thy knaveries wilfully.
Puck. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. Did not you tell me I should know the man By the Athenian garments he had on ? And so far blameless proves my enterpiise. 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.
Ohe. Thou seest 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. Lilie 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 ynth. hastfl^ For night's svidft dragons cut the clouds full fast ; And j'onder shines Aurora's harbinger, At whose approach ghosts, wandering here and there^
SCENE Ti. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 9»
Troop home to church -yards: damned spirits all,
That in cross-ways and tioods have burial,
Already to tlieir wormy beds are gone ;
For fear lest day should look their shames upon
They wilfully tliemselves exile from light,
And must for aye consort with black-brow'd night.
Ohe. But we are spirits of another sort : I with the morning's love have oft made sport ; Aiid, like a forester, the groves may tread Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red. Opening on Ne])tune with fair blessed l)eamg, Turns into yellow gold his salt-green streams. Biit, notwithstanding, haste ; make no delay : We may effect this business yet ere day. {Exit Oberon.
Puck. Up and down, up and down;
I will lead them m]} and down :
I am fear'd in field and town ;
Goblin, lead them up and down. Here comes one.
Enter Lysaxder. Lys. Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak then now. Puck. Here, villain ; draAvn and ready. Where art thou? Lys. I will be with thee straight. Puck. FoUow me, then,
To plainer ground- [Exit Lys. as following the voice.
Enter Demetrius.
Dem. 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, TeUing 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-
Bern. Yea, art thou there?
Puck. FoUow my voice ; we'll try no manhood here.
[Eaeuiit. Re-enter Lysander.
Lya. He goes before me, and stiU dares me on ; Wfien I come where he calls, then he is_gone. The villain is much lighter heeled than 1: I fo'iow'd fast, but faster he did fly; That fallen am I in dark uneven way.
100 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, act ui.
And here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day! [Lies down
For if but once thou sh.ow me thy gray light,
I'll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite. [SUeps.
Re-enter Puck and Demetrius.
Puck. Ho, ho ! ho, ho! Coward, why com'st thou not?
Dem. Abide me if thou dar'st ; for well I wot Tliou riinn'st before me, shifting every place ; And dar'st not stand, nor look me iu the face. Where art thou?
Puck. Come hither ; I am here.
Dem. Nay, then, thou mock'st me. Thou shalt buy this dear, If ever I thy face by daylight see : Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me To measure out my lengtli on this cold bed. — By day's approach look to be visited, [ites down and sleeps
Enter Helena. Hel. O weary night, 0 long and tedious night, Abate thy hours ! Shine comfoi-ts 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. [SUieps.
Puck. Yet but three? Come one more; Two of both kip.ds makes up four. Here she comes, curst and sad : — Cupid is a knavish lad. Thus to make poor females mad.
Enter Hermia. Her. Never so weary, never so in woe. Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with briers ; I can no farther crawl, no farther go ;
My legs can keep no pace with my desires. Here will I rest me till the break of day. He;iven shield Lysander, if they mean a fray! {Lies dojon. Pack. On the ground Sleep sound : I'll apply To your eye. Gentle lover, remedy.
\_Squeezinr] the juice on Lvsander'9 eye. When thou wak'st, Thou tak'st
BCBNEii. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 101
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 J ill ;
Nought shall go iU ; The man shall have his mare again, and a\\ shall be well.
• [Exit Puck.— Dem., Hel., tfcc, vleep.
ACT IV.
SCENE L—The Wood.
■ Enter Titania and Bottom, Fairies attending; behind, unseen.
Tito. 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.
Bot. Where's Peasblossom ?
Peas. Ready.
Bot. Scratch my head, Peasblossom. — Where's Monsieur Cobweb?
Cob. Ready.
Bot. Monsieur Cobweb ; good monsieur, get your weapons in your hand and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle ; and, good monsieur, bring me the honey' bag Do not fret yourself too much in the action, monsieur ; and, good monsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have you overflown witli a honey-bag, sigtiior.— Where's Monsieur Mustardseed ?
Alu>it. Ready.
Bot. Give me your neif, Monsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your courtesy, good monsieur.
Must. What's your will ?
Bot. Nothing, good monsieur, but to help Cavalero Cob- web 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.
102 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, act iv.
TitM. What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love?
Bot. I have a reasonable good ear in music : let us have the tongs and the bones.
Tita. Or say, sweet love, what thou desir'st to eat.
Bot. Truly, a peck of provender; I could munch yout good dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay : good hay, sweet hay, hatli no fellow.
Tita. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new uuts.
But. I had rather have a handful or two of dried peaa But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me; I have an exposition of sleep come upon me.
Tita. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently entwist, — the female ivy so Enrings the barky lingers of the elm. O, how I love thee ! how I dote on thee ! [Tliey sleep.
Oberon advances. Enter Puck.
Ohe. Welcome, good Robin. Seest thou this sweet sightl Her dotage now I do begin to pity. For, meeting her of late behind the wood. Seeking sweet savours for this hateful fool, 1 did upbraid her, and fall out with her : For she his hairy temples then had roimded With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers ; And that same dew, which sometime on the buds Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls. Stood now within the pretty flow'rets' 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 ; \\niich straight she gave me, and her fairy sent To bear him to my bower in fairy -land. And now 1 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 aU to Athens back again repair, And think no more of this night's accidents But as the fierce vexation of a dream. Bat tiist 1 will release the fairy queeu.
■ OBERON AND TITANIA. ■/i Mid Su>nmer-J\''iahtpX'ream . jQct IK Seen f /.
BCENE I. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 103
Be as thou wast wont to be ;
[Touching her eyes with an herb. 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. Tita. My Oberon 1 what ^^sions have 1 seen ! Methought I was enamour'd of an ass. Ohe. There lies your love.
Tita. How came these things to pass?
0, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now !
Ohe. Silence awliile. — Robin, take off this head. Titania, music call ; and strike more dead Than common sleep, of all these five, the sense. Tita. Music, ho! music; such as charm eth sleep. Puck. Now, when thou wak'st, with thine own fool's
eyes peep. Obe. Sound, music. [Still music] Come, my queen, take hands with me, And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be. Now thou and I are new in amity, And will to-morrow midnight solemnly Dance in Duke Theseus' house triumphaiftly, And bless it to aU fair posterity : There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity. Fuck. Fairy king, attend and mark ;
I do hear the morning lark. Obe. Then, my queen, in silence sad. Trip we after the night's shade : We the globe can compass soon. Swifter than the wand'ring moon. Tita. Come, my lord ; and in our flight, Tell me how it came this night That I sleeping here was found.
With these mortals on the ground. [Exeunt.
[Horns sound within.
Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and Train. 77ie. 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 ; go : — Despatch, I say, and find the forester. — We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top.
104 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, act iv.
And mark the musical confusion Of hounds and echo in conjunction.
Hip. I was with Hercules and Cadmus once, When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear With hounds of Sparta : never did I hear Such gaUant 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.
The. My hounds are bred out of the Spai'tan kind, So flew'd, so sanded ; and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew ; Crook-kneed and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian Inills; Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells. Each under each. A cry more tuneable Was never hoUa'd to, nor cheer'd with horn, In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly :
Judge when you hear. — But, soft; what nymphs are these ?
Ege. My lord, this is my daughter here asleep ; And this I^ysander ; this Demetrius is ; This Helena, old Nedar's Helena : I wonder of their being here together.
Tlie. No doubt, they rose up early to observe The rite of May ; aud, 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 !
Ege. It is, my lord.
Tlie. Go, bid the huntsmen wake them ^vith their horns. [Horns, and .shout within. Dem., Lys., Her., and Hel., awake and start up.
The. Good -morrow, friends- Saint Valentine is past ; Begin these wood -birds but to couple now?
Lys. Pardon, my lord. [He and the rest kneel to Theseus.
The. 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?
Lys. My lord, I shall re})ly amazedly. Half 'sleep, half waking : but as yet, I swear, I cannot truly say how I came here : But, as I think, — for tndy would I speak — And now I do bethink me, so it is, — I came with Hermia hither : our inteut
WKNE I. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DEEAjM. 105
Was to be gone from Athens, where we might be Without the peril of the Athenian law.
Ege. Enough, enough, my lord ; you have enough ; I beg the law, the law upon his head. — They would have stol'n away, they would, Demetrius, Thereby to have defeated you and me : You of your wife, and me of my consent,— Of my consent that she should be your wife.
Dem. My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth, Of this their purpose hither to this woodj 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 doth the snow — seems to me now As the remembrance of an idle gawd Which in my chddhood 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 do I wish it, love it, long for it. And will for evermore be true to it.
The. Fair lovers, you are fortunately met : Of this discourse we more wiU 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 puri)os'd hunting shall be set aside. — Away with us to Athens three and three. We'll hold a feast in great solemnity. — Come, Hippolyta. [Exeunt The., Hip., Ege., and Traia
Dem. These things seem small and undistingixishable. Like far-off mountains turned into clouds.
Her. Methinks I see these things with parted eye, When everything seems double.
Hel. So methinks :
And I have found Demetrius like a jeweL Mine own, and not mine own.
Dem. . It seems to me
Tliat yet we sleep, we dream. — Do you not think The duke was here, and bid us foUow him?
Her. Yea, and my father.
106 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, act iv.
Hel. And Hippolyta.
Lys. And he did bid us foUow to the temple. Dem. Why, then, we are awake : let's follow him ; And by the way let us recount our dreams. [Exeunt,
As they go out, Bottom awaJces. Bot. When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer r- -
my next is, Most fair Pi/ramus. 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 jt was. — Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this di-eam. Methought I was— there is no man can tell what. Me- thought I was, and methought I had,— But man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought T 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 con- ceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was. I wiU get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream : it shall be called Bottom's Dream, because it hath no bottom ; and I win sing it in the latter end of a i)Iay, before the duke : peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall sin;; it at her death. l^^i^-
SCENE II.— Athens. A Boom in Quince's Ilotise.
Enter Quince, Flute, Snout, and Starveling. Quiu. Have you sent to Bottom's house? is he come home yet?
Star. He cannot be heard o£ Out of doubt, he is trana-
ported. .
Flu. If he come not, then the play is marred; It goes not forward, doth it? • n
Quin. It is not possible: you have not a man m all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he.
Flu. No ; he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in Athens.
Quin. Yea, and the best person too: and he is a very paramour for a sweet voice.
Flu. You must say paragon: a paramour is, God blesa ns, a thing of naught. •
Enter Snug. Snug. Masters, the duke is coming from the temple;
BCJ5NE II. A MIDSmiMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 107
and there is two or three lords and ladies more mamed: if uur sport had gone forward we had all been made men.
Ftv. 0 sweet bully Bottom ! Thus hath he lost sixpence a-day during his life ; he could not have 'sca}>ed 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 notliing.
Enter Bottom.
Bot. Where are these lads? where are these hearts?
Quin. Bottom ! — O most courageous day ! O most happy hour ! .
Bot. Masters, I am to discourse wonders: but ask mo not what ; for if I tell you, I am no true Athenian. I will tell j'ou everything, right as it lell out.
Quin. Let us hear, sweet Bottom.
But. Not a word of me. All that I will teU 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 over his part ; for, the short and the long is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisby have clean linen ; and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for they shall hang (nit for the lion's claws. And, most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlick ; 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 I [Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE L — Athens. An A'partment in the Palace
0/ Theseus.
Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, Lords and Attendants.
Hip. 'Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.
The. More strange than true. I never may believe These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains. Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet Are of imagination all compact :
108 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. act v.
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold ;
That is the madman : the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt :
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
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 com^jrehends some bringer of that joy ;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear?
Hip. But aU the story of the night told over. And all their minds traustigiir'd so together, More witnesseth than fancy's images. And grows to somethmg of great constancy; But, howsoever, strange and admirable.
Enter Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena.
The. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. — Joy, gentle friends ! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your heai'ts !
Lys. More than to us
Wait on your royal walks, your board, your bed !
The. Come now ; what masques, wliat dances shall we To wear away this long age of three hours [have,
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 tox-turing hour? Call Philostrate.
Philost. Here, mighty Theseus.
The. Say, what abridgment have you for this evening? What masque? what music? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some dehght?
Philost. There is a brief how many sports are ripe : Make choice of which your highness will see first.
[Giving a paper.
The. [reads.'] The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung
By an A Ihenian eunuch to the harp. We'll none of that : that I have told my love, In glory of my kinsman Hercules.
The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,
Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.
8CENE I. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 10_9
That is an old device, and it was play'd When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. The thrice-lhree Mxises mourning for the death Of learning, late deceased in beggari/. That is some satire, keen and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. A tedious brief scene ofyung Pyramus, And his love Thishe; venj 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?
Philost. 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 rehears'd, I must confess, Made mine eyes water ; but more meiTy tears The passion of loud laughter never shed.
The. What are they that do play it? , , ,
Philost. Hard-handed men that work m Athens here, Which never labour'd in their minds till now ; And now have toil'd their unbreath'd memories With this same play against your nuptial The. And we will hear it. Philost. No, my noble lord.
It is not for you : I have heard it over. And it is nothmg, nothing in the world ; Unless you can hnd sport in their intents, Extremely stretch' d, and conn'd with cruel pain, To do you service.
The. I will hear that play ;
For never anything can be amiss When simpleness and duty tender it. Go brina them in : and take your places, ladies.
' -^ {Exit Philostk.vtk,
Hip. I love not to see wretchedness o'ercharged, And duty in his service perishing.
The. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no siich thing. Hip He says they can do nothing in this kind. The. Vhi'. kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing. Our spoi-t shall be to take what they mistake: And what poor duty cannot do. Noble respect takes it in might, not ment
no A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. ACT-»,
Where I have come, great clerks have purposed To greet me with premeditated welcomes ; Wliere I have seen them shiver and look pale, Make periods in the midst of sentences, Throttle their practis'd accent in their fears. And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off. Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome; 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 I a least speak most to my capacity.
Enter Philostrate.
Philost. So please your grace, the prologue is addresp'd. The. Let him approach. [Flourish of Trumpeta,
Enter Prologue.
Prol. If we offend, it is with our good will.
That you should think we come not to op end But with good will. To show otir simple skill,
That is the true beginning of our end. Consider, then, we come hut in despite.
We do not come as minding to content you. Our t)-ue intent is. A II 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.
The. This fellow doth not stand upon points.
Lys. He hath rid his prologue hke a rough colt ; he knnwa not the stop. A good moral, my lord : it is not enough to speak, but to speak true.
Hip. Indeed he hath played on this prologue like a child on a recorder ; a sound, but not in goveniment.
The. His speech was like a tangled chain ; nothing im- paired, but all disordered. Who is next?
En.ter Pyramus and Thisbe, Wall, Moonshtne, avd Lion, as in dumb shoio.
Prol. Gentles, perchance you wonder at this shor'T But wonder on, till truth make all things plaiiu This man is Pyramus, if you would know ; This beauteous lady Thisby is, certain.
SCENE I. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DEEAM. Ill
This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present
Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder: And through Wall's chink, i)oor souls, they are coutent
To whisper, at the which let no man wonder. This man, with lantern, dog, and bush of thorn,
Presenteth Moonsliine : 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 by name Lion hight. The trusty Thisby, coming first by night, Did scare away, or rather did affright : And as she t\ed, 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 lajge discourse while here they do remain.
[Exeunt Prol., This., Lion, and Moon.
The. I wonder if the lion be to speak.
Dem. No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do.
Wall. In this same interlude it doth befall That I, one Snout Vy 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, Pyrainus and Thisby, Did whisper often very secretly. This loam, tliis 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.
The. Would you desire lime and hair to s]teak better?
Dem. It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard dis- course, my lord.
2V<e. Pyramus draws near the wall : silence I
Enter Pyramus. Pyr. 0 grim-look'd night ! 0 night with hue so black 1
0 night, which ever art when day is not I O night, 0 night, aiack, alack, alack,
1 tear my Iniaby's promise is forgot ! —
112 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. act v.
And thoii, 0 wall, 0 sweet, 0 lovely wall,
That stand'st between lier father's ground and mine; Thoii wall, 0 wall, O sweet and lovely wall,
Show me thy chink, to bhnk through with mine eyne.
[Wall holds up his fini/cra. Thanks, courteoiis wall : Jove shield thee well for this !
But what seel? No Tliisby do I see. 0 wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss ;
Curst be thy stones for thus deceiving me !
The. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curso again.
Pl/r. No, in truth, sir, he should not. Deceiving w 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.
This. 0 wall, full often hast thou heard my moans,
For parting my fair Pjrramus and me : My cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones:
Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. '
Pt/r. I see a voice : now will I to the chink,
To spy an I can hear my Thisby's face. Thisby !
71us. My love ! thou art my love, I think.
Pyr. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace ; And like Limander am I trusty still.
77tis. And I like Helen, till the fates me kUL
Pyr. Not Shafalus to Proems was so true.
This. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.
Pyr. 0, kiss me through the hole of this vile walL
This. I kiss the wall's hole, not your lij^s at all.
Pyr. Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straightway?
This. 'Tide life, 'tide death, I come without dela}'.
WalL Thus have I, wall, my part discharged so ; And, being done, thus wall away doth go.
[Exeunt Wall, Pyr., and Tins.
The. Now is the mural down between the two neighbours,
Dem. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear witliout warning.
Hip. This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.
The. The best in this kind are but shadows ; and the worst •re no worse, if imagination amend them.
Hip. It must be your imagination then, and not tlieirs.
T/ie. If we imagine no worse of them than they of them-
SCENE I. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 113
selves, they may pass for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts in, a moon and a lion.
Enter Lion and Moonshine.
Lion. You, ladies, you, wliose 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 of my life.
TJie. A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience.
Dem. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er 1 saw.
Lys. This lion is a very fox for his valour.
The. True ; and a goose for his discretion.
Dem. Not so, my lord ; for his valour cannot carry hia discretion ; and the fox carries the goose.
y/ifi. 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.
Moon. This lantern doth the horned moon present :
Dem. He should have worn the horns on his head. The. He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference.
Moon. This lantern doth the homed moon present ; Myself the man i' the moon do seem to be.
The. This is the greatest error of all the rest : the man should be put into the lantern. How is it else the man i' the moon?
Dem. He dares not come there for the candle : for, you Bee, it is already in snuff.
Hip. I am weary of this moon : would he would change !
The. It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane : but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time.
Lys. Proceed, moon.
Moon. All that I have to say, is to tell you that the lan- tern is the moon; I, the man in the moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn -bush ; and this dog, my dog.
Dem. Why, all these should be in the lantern ; for all these are in the moon. But, silence ; here comes Thisbe. VOL. II. 1
114 A MIDSrAIMER NIGHTS DREAM. act v.
Enffr Thisbs. Tliit. This is old ^Niimys tomb. Where is my Irve? Liori. Oh I iThe Lios roan. — Thxsbs runs o§.
Dem. Well roarecL Hon. Tht. Wen nm, Tiiisbe.
H\-n. Well shone, moon. — ^Tmly, the moon shin^ with a gooi graee.
The. Wdl moused, lioai.
\Tke. Lick tfttn Thisbs's ouuitle, amd exiC I>em. And so comes Pyramns. Lyt. And then the Hon Tanishes.
Eidar PrEAJirs. P^. Street morai, I tlunk thee for thy snnny beams; 1 thaTiV thee, mooao, for shiniT^g now so briirht : For, by thy gradons, gcdden, glinering streanis, I truss to taste rf tmest Thisbys sight. But stay ; — 0 sp.ite : Bat mark, — ^pcor knight, What dreadful dole is here I Eyes, do you see?
How can it be? "^
O dainty duck ! O dear ! Thy mantle gocd. What .' stained with blood? Approach, ye furies fell I O &tea ! eoooe, come ; Cnfc thread and thmm ; Quail, ilish, ooncJnde, and quell !
The. Una pa8Bi(Hi,aiidl£edea&<^a dear &iend, wonldgo near to make a man lo(^ sad
Hrp. Beshieir my heart, but I pdty the Tnan
Pjrr. O -wheTefcffe, nature, didst thon lions frame? &noe tioTi vile hath h^e deflower'd my dear : Which is — no, no — ^which was the fairest dame That lir'd, that IotU that Kkd, that looked with cheea Come, tears, confonnd; C>nt, sword, and wound The pap of I*yranms : Ay, that left pap, Whae heart doth hop : — Thus die I, thus, thus, thua 2^ow am 1 dead, 2fow am 1 fled;
srEJTE I. A MIDSUililEP. MGHTS DEEAiL 113
My sonl is in the skj :
Tongue, Icsa tliv lirfit!
Moon, take tiij fi^at! Now die, die, die, die, die.
[Dies. — Ext MoovsHivg.
/)«tii. Ko die, but an ace. Cor him ; for he is bat one.
Lys. Leas than an ace, man ; for he is dead ; he is nqthin^
The. With the help td a sazgecEQ he mi^it yet recoTer and prove an aaa.
Hip. How diance OMWoshine is gone befoze llnsbe comes back and finds her lorer?
The. She will find him by ntarii^t — Here she oomes; and her paatinn tm{a the play.
Enter Thbbil
Hip. MetMnks she shonld not nae ^lang one fioraodh a PyramtLS : I hope she will be \me£.
Ifem. A mote will turn the balanfp, whidi Pyiamna, *hicli Thisbe, is the better.
Lya. She hath spied bTm already -wUh those swteb eyes.
Jjem. And thus she moans, vidtukxi,
TrJa. Asleep, my love?
^V>at, dead, my dove? O Pyramua, arise.
Speak, speak. Quite dnmb?
Dead, dead? A tomb Most cover thy sweet ey^.
These Uly brows.
This chOTy nose. These yellow eow^ip che^a^
Are gone, are gcoe :
Lovers, make moon ! His eyes were green as leeksL
0 Sisters Three,
Come, cc>me to me. Wi& hands as pale as milk ;
Lay than in goxe,
Smx yon have shore With shears his tiiread of silk.
Tongue, not a ¥nord : —
Come, tmstv sword; Come, blade, my breast imbrue;
And farewell, friends : —
Thus Thisby ends : Adieu, adieu, adieu. [Dies.
116 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DEEAM. act v.
The. Moonshine and lion are left to bury the dead.
Dan. Ay, and wall too.
Bot. No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our compau y.
The. No epilogue, I pray you ; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse ; lor when the players are all dead there need none to be blamed. Marrj', if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hanged himself in Thisbe's garter, it would have been a fine traijedy : and so it is, truly ; and very notably discharged. But come, your Bergomask : let your eijilogue alone. [Here a dance o/" Clowns.
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-gi'oss play hath well beguil'd The heavy gait of night. — Sweet friends, to bed. — A fortnight hold we this solemnity, In nightly revels and new jollity. [ExeunL
SCENE IL
Enter Puck. Puck. Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon ; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with wtary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching 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 its 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.
SCENE II. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREATif. 117
Entfir Oberon and Titania, with their Train.
Obe. Through this house give glimmering light, By the dead and drowsy tire :
Every elf and fairy sprite
Hop as light as bird from brier ,
And this ditty, after me,
Sing and dance it trippingly. Tiia. First, rehearse your song by ro*-©,
To each word a warbling note,
Hand in hand, with fairy grace.
Will we sing, and bless this place.
Song and Dance. Ohp. 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 gate ;
And each several chamber bless,
Through this palace, with sweet peace :
E'er shall it in safety rest.
And the owner of it blest. Trip away : Malce no stay:
Meet me all by break of day.
[Exeunt Obe., Tita., and Train. Puch. 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.
118 A MIDSCnVIMER NIGHT'S DREAM. act v.
And, as I'm an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck.
Kow 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,
Aud Robiu shall restore ameuds. [Exit.
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Ferdinaitd, King of Navarre.
BiRON, \
LoNGAViLLE, > Lords attending on the 'K.isa.
DUMAIN, )
BoYET, I Lords attending on the Princess
Mercade, ) OF France.
Don Adriano de Armado, a Fantastical Spaniard.
Sir Nathaniel, a Curate.
Holofernes, a Schoolmanier.
Dull, a Constable.
Costard, a Clown.
Moth, Page to Armado. V
A Forester.
Princess of France.
Rosaline, j
Maria, | Ladies attending on the Princess.
Katharine, )
Jaquenetta, a Country Wench,
Officers and Others, Attendants on the King and Pbincbss
SCENE,— Navabbjs.
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
ACT I.
SCENE L — Navaerb. A Pari:, with a Palace in lU
' Enter the Kino, Biron, Longaville, and Dumain
King, Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live register'd upon our brazen tombs, And then grace us in the disgrace of death ; When, spite of cormorant devouring time, The endeavour of this present breath may buy That honour which shall bate liis scythe's keen edge, And make us neks 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 shidl be a little Academe, Still and contemplative in living art. You three, Biron, Dumain, and Lougaville, Have sworn for three years' term to live with me My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this schedide here : Your oaths are pass'd ; and now subscribe your namps. That his own hand may strike his honour down That violates the smallest branch herein : If you are arm'd to do as sworn to do. Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too.
Long. I am resolv'd ; 'tis but a three years' fast : The mind shall banquet though the body pine : Fat paunches have lean pates ; and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wita,
Dum. My loving lord, Dumain is mortified : The grosser manner of these world's delisilits lie throws upon the gross world's baser slaves :
122 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act i.
To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die ; With all these living in philosophy.
Biron. I can but say their protestation ovor; So much, dear liege, I have ah-eady sworn, Tliat is, to live and study here three years. But there are other strict observances : As, not to see a M^oman 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 : 0, these are barren tasks, too hard to keep ; Not to see ladies — study — fast — not sleep.
King. Your oath is pass'd to pass away from these,
Biron. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please , 1 only swore to study with your grace, And stay here in your court for three years' space.
Long. 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.
King. Why, that to know which else we should not know
Biron. Things hid and barr'd, you mean, from coiomon sense?
King Ay, that is study's god-like 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 1 to feast expressly am forbid ; Or study where to meet some mistress fine,
When mistresses from common sense are hid : Or, having sAvorn 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.
King- These be the stops that hinder study quite, And train our intellects to vain delight.
Biron. Wliy, all delights are vain ; but that most vain Which, with jjain purchas'd, doth inherit pain : As painfully to pore upon a book
To seek the light of truth ; while truth the while
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 128
Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look :
Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile. So, ere you tind where light in darkness lies. Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. Study me how to jilease the eye indeed,
By tixing it upon a faii-er 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 contiiuial plodders ever won,
Save base authority from others' books. These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights,
That give a name to every hxed star, Have no more protit of their shining nights
Than those that walk and wot not what they are. Too much to know is to know naught but fame ; And every godfather can give a name.
King. How well he's read, to reason against reading! Dum. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding ! Limg. He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the weeding. Biron. The spring is near, when green geese are a-
breeding. Dum. How follows that?
Biron. Fit in his place and time.
Dum. In reason nothing.
Biron. Something then in rhyme.
Long. 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 an abortive birth? At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows; But like of each thing that in season grows. So you, to study now it is too late, Clunb o'er the house to unlock the little gate. King. 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'U 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'U write my name. King. How well this yielding rescues thee from shame I
124 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act i.
Biron. [reads. ] Item, That no woman sliall come within a mile of my court. — And hath this been proclaim'd?
Long. Four days ago.
Biron. Let's see the penalty. [R(iads.'\ — On pain of losing her tongue.
Who devis'd this?
Long. Marry, that did I.
Biron. Sweet lord, and why?
Long. To fright them hence with that dread penalty.
Biron. A dangerous law against gentility.
[Beads.] 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 Aquitain
To her decrepit, sick, and bed-rid father : Therefore this article is made in vaiu.
Or vainly comes the admired princess hither.
King. What say you, lords ? why, this was quite forgot.
Biron. So study evermore is over-shot ; 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 tire, — so won, so lost.
King. We must, of force, dispense with this decree; She muFt lie here on mere necessity.
Biron. Necessity will make us ail forsworn
Three thousand times within this three years' space : For every man with his affects is bom ;
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 others as to me ; But I believe, although I seem so loath ; I am the last that will last keep his oath- But is there no quick recreation granted?
King. Ay, that there is: our court, you know, is haunted
With a refined traveller of Spain;
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 126
A man in all the world's new fashion planted.
That hath a mint of phrases in his brain : One whom the njusic of his own vain tongue
Doth ra\ash, 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 loixls, 1 know not, I; But, I protest, I love to hear him lie, And I will use him for my minstrelsy.
Blron. Armado is a most illustrious wight, A man of iire-new words, fashion's own knight.
Low//. Costard, the swain, and he ahall be our s]iort; And so to study — three years is but. short.
Enter Dull with a letter, and Costaru.
Dull. Which is the duke's own person?
Bir<m. This, fellow ; what would'st ?
Dull. I myself reprehend his own person, for I am hia grace's tharborough: but I would see his own person in flesh and bloocL
Blron. This is he.
Dull. Signior Arme — Arme — commends you. There's villany abroad : this letter will tell yon more.
Coat. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me.
King. A letter from the magnificent Armado. _
Blron. How low soever the matter, I hope in God for high words.
^Lovg. A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience !
Blron. To hear? or forbear laughing?
Long. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately ; or to forbear both.
Blron. Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness.
Cost. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner.
Biron. In what manner?
Cost. In manner and form following, sir, all those three : I was seen with her in the manor house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park; which, put together, is in manner and form following.
126 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. aot i.
Now, sir, for the manner, — it is the manner of a man to gpeuk to a woman : for the form, — in some form.
Blron. For the following, sir?
Cost. As it shall follow in my correction : and God defend the right !
King. Will yon hear this letter with attention?
Biron. As we would hear an oracle.
Coat. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh.
King, [reads."] Great deputy, the welkin's vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul's earth's God and body's fostering patron,- —
Cost. Not a word of Costard yet.
King, [reads.] So it is, —
Cost. It may be so : but if he say it is so, he is, in telling true, but so so.
King. Peace!
Cost. — be to me, and every man that dares not fight?
King. No words !
Cost. — of other men's secrets, I beseech you.
King, [reads.] So it is, besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressiug 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 nourish- ment which is called siipper : so much for the time when. Now for the gi'ound which; which, I mean, I walked upon : it is ycleped thy park. Then for the place where ; where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and most pre- posterous event that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which here thou viewest, beholdest, sur- veyest, 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, —
Cost. Me.
King. — that unlettered small-knowing soul, —
Cost. Me.
King. — that shallow vassal, —
Cost. Stni me.
King. — which, as I remember, hight Costard, —
Cost. 0, me.
King. — sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon, with — with, — O, with — but with this I passion to say wherewith, —
BCENE I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 127
Cost. With a wench.
King, —with a child of onr 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, Antony Dull, a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation.
Dull. Me, an't shall please you ; I am Antony Dull.
King, [reads.] For Jaquenetta,— so is the weaker vessel called, which I ajiprehended with the aforesaid swain,— I keep her as a vessel of thy law's fury ; and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all com- plunents of devoted and heart-burning heat of duty,
Don Adriano de Arm ado.
Biron. This is not so well as I looked for, but the best that ever I heard.
King. Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, what say you to this ?
Cost. Sir, I confess the wench.
King. Did you hear the proclamation?
Cost. I do confess much of the hearing it, but little ot the marking of it.
King. It was proclaimed a year's imprisonment, to Ijfi taken with a wench.
Cost. I was taken with none, sir; I was taken with a damosel.
King. Well, it was proclaimed damosel.
Cost. This was no damosel neither, sir ; she was a virgin-
King. It is so varied too ; for it was proclaimed virgin.
Cost. If it were, I deny her virginity; I was taken with a maid.
King. This maid wiU not serve your turn, sir.
Cost. This maid will serve my turn, sir.
King. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you sh;iH fist a week with bran and water.
Cost. I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge.
King. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. — My Lord Biron, see him delivered over. — And go we, lords, to put in practice that
Which each to other hath so strongly sworn. —
[Exeunt King, Long., and Dum.
Biron. I'll lay my head to any good man's hat.
These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. — Sirrah, come on.
Cost. I suffer for the truth, sir: for true it is, I was
128 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act i.
taken witli 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 J [j!Jxeu7U.
SCENE 11.— Another part of the Park.
Enter Aemado and Moth.
A rm. Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy ?
Motli. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad.
A rm. Why, sadness is. one and the self-same thing, dear imp.
Moth. No, no ; O lord, sir, no.
A rm. How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender Juvenal?
Moth. By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough senior.
A rm. Why tough senior? why tough senior?
Moth. Why tender Juvenal? why tender juvenal ?
Arm. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epithoton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender.
Moth. And T, tough senior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough.
A rm. Pretty, and apt.
Moth. How mean you, sir; I pretty, and my saying apt? or I apt, and my sa5dno; pretty?
Arm. Thou pretty, becav. e little.
Moth. Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt?
Arm. And therefore apt, because quick.
Moth. Speak you this in my jiraise, master?
Arm. In thy condign praise.
Moth I will praise an eel with the same praise.
A rm. What, that an eel is ingenious ?
Moth. That an eel is quick.
A rm.. I do say thou art quick in answeis : thou heate.st my blood-
Moth. T am answered, sir.
A rm. I love not to be crossed.
Jlloth. He speaks the mere contrary; crosses love not him. [A .mie.
A rm. I have promised to study three years with the duka
Moth. You may do it in an hour, sir.
Arm,. Impossible.
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 129
Moth. How mauy is one thrice told ?
Arm. I am ill at reckoning; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster.
Moth. Yon are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.
Arm. 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.
Arm. It doth amount to one more than two.
Moth. Wliich the base vulgar do call three.
Arm. Triie.
Moth. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here is three studied ere you'll thrice wink : andliow easy it is to put years to the word three, and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you.
Arin. A most fine figure!
Moth. To prove you a cipher. [A side.
Arm. I will hereujwn 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 coui-tier for a new devised courtesy. I think scurn to sigh; methinks, I should out-swear Cupid. Comfort me, boy : what great men have been in love ?
Moth. Hercules, master.
Arm. Most sweet Hercules! — More authority, dear boy, name more ; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good re])ute 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.
Arm. 0 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, uiy dear Moth ?
Moth. A woman, master.
A rm. Of what complexion ? [the four.
Moth. Of all the four, or the three, or the two ; or one of
A rm. Tell me precisely of what complexion.
Moth. Of the sea-water green, sir.
Arm. Is that one of the four complexions?
Moth. As I have read, sir : and the best of them too.
Arm. Green, indeed, is the colour of lovers; but to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for i+ He surely affected her for her wit.
VOL. 11. K
130 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act i.
Moth. It was so, sir ; for she had a green wit. Arm. My love is most immaculate white aud red. Moth. Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked nnder such colours.
Arm. Define, define, well-educated infant. Moth. My father's wit and my mother's tongue, assist me ! Arm. Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty, aud pathetical !
Moth. If she be made of white and red, Her faidts 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.
Arm. 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.
Arm. I will have the subject newly writ o'er, that 1 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. To be whipped : and yet a better love than my master. [Asidt.
Arm. Sing, boy; my spirit grows heavy in love. Moth. And that's great marvel, loving a light wench. Arm. 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 Bafe : and you must let him take no delight nor no penance ; but 'a must fast three days a-week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park: she is allowed foir the day- woman. Fare you weD.
Arm I do betray myself with blushing. — Maid.
Jaq. Man.
Arm. I will visit thee at the lodge.
Jaq. That's here by.
Arm. I know where it is situate.
ARMADO AND JAQUENETTA, Aoi-iis LaJiOuj-'s I-ost. .id/., S'cefif //.
BCBNEii. LOVE'S LABOUR'S L-iST. 131
Jaq. Lord, how wise you are !
A rni. I will tell thee wonders.
Jaq. With that face?
Arm. I love thee.
Jaq. So I heard you say.
Arm. And so farewell.
Jaq. Fair weather after you !
DwLl. Come, Jaquenetta, away.
[Exeunt Dull and Jaqttenetta.
A rm. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy otfeuces ere thou be pardoned.
Cost. Well, sir, I hope when I do it 1 shall do it on a full stomach.
Arm. Thou shalt be heavily punished.
Cost. I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded.
Arm,. Take away this villain ; shiit him up.
Moth. Come, you transgressing slave : away.
Cost. Let me not be pent up, sir ; I will fast, being loose.
Moth. No, sir ; that were fast and loose : thou shalt to prison.
Cost. Well, if ever T do see the merry days of desolation that I have seen, some shall see —
Moth. What shall some see?
Cost. Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look U])on. It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their words ; and therefore I will say nothing : I thank God, I have as little patience as another man ; and therefore I can be quiet. [Exeunt Moth and Costard.
Arm. I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, ■v^hich 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 famiUar ; love is a devil : there is no evil angel but love. Yet Samson was so tempted, — and he had an excellent strength : y«t was Solomon so seduced, — and he had a very good wit Cupid's butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules's club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard's rapier. The first and second cause will not serve my turn; the passado he resi>ects 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 extem])oral god of rh^Tne, for I am sure I shall turn sonneteer. Devise, wit; wnto, pen ; for I am for whole volumes in folio. lExit.
132 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act n.
ACT II.
SCENE I. — Another part of the Park. A Pavilion and Ttnts at a distance.
Enter the Princess of France, Rosaline, Maria, Katii- ARiNE, BoYET, Lords, and otiier Attendants.
Boyet. Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits: Consider who the king your father sends ; Tt) whom he sends ; and what's his embassy : Yourself, hekl precious in the world's esteem, To ])arley with the sole inheritor Of all perfections that a man may owe. Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight Than Aiiuitain, — 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 i)rodigally gave them all to you.
Prla. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but me«n. Needs not the painted tlourish of your praise ; Beauty is bought by jxidgment of the eye, Not utter'd by base sale of chapmen's tongues : I am less proud to hear you tell my woi'th 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 out-wear three years No woman may approach his silent court : Therefore to us seemeth it a needful course, Before we enter his forbidden gates. To know his pleasure ; and in that behalf, Bold of yoiir worthiness, we single you As our best-moving fair solicitor. Tell him the daughter of the King of France, On serious business, craving quick despatch. Importunes personal conference with his grace. Haste, signify so much ; while we attend, Like humbly -visag'd siiitors, his high wUl.
Boyet. Proud of employinent, wilUngly Iga [£x/t
Prin. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so, — Who are the votaries, my loving lords. That are vow-feUows with this viituous duk^-.
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 133
1 Lord. Longaville is one.
}^rin. Know you the man ?
Mar. I know him, madam ; at a marriage feast, Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir Of Jaques Falconb ridge, solemnized In Normandy, saw I this Longaville : A man of sovereign parts he is esteem'd ; Well fitted in the arts, glorious in arms : Nothing becomes him ill that he would welL The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss, — If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil, — Is a sharp wit matched with too blunt a will ; Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still WUs It should none spare that come within his power.
Prin. Some merry mocking lord, belike ; is't so ?
Mar. They say so most that most his humours know.
Prin. Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they grow. Who are the rest?
Kath. The young Dumain, a well-accomplish'd youth, Of all that virtue love for virtue lov'd : Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill ; For he hath wit to make an ill shape good, And shape to win grace though he had no wit. I saw him at the Duke Aleuyon's once ; And much too little of that good I saw Is my report to his great worthiness.
Ros. Another of these students at that time Was there with him : if I have- heard a truth, Biron they call him ; but a merrier mail. Within the hmit 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.
Prin. God bless my ladies ! are they all in love. That every one her own hath garnished With such bedecking ornaments of praise?
Mar. Here comes Boyet.
Re-enter Boykt. Prin. JSow, what admittance, lord!
134 LOVE'S LABOUE'S LOST. act ii.
Boyet. Navarre had notice of your fair approacli ; And he and his competitors in oath Were all address'd to meet yon, gentle lady, Before I came. Many, thus much 1 have learnt,-^ He rather means to lodge you in the held, 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. [The Ladies rrunsk.
Enter King, LoNGA-^rrLLE, Dumain, Biron, and Attendants.
King. Pair princess, welcome to the court of Navarre.
Pnn. Fair, I give you back again ; and, welcome I have not yet : the roof of this court is too high to be j'ours ; and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine.
King. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court.
Prin. I will be welcome then ; conduct me thither.
King. Hear me, dear lady, — I have sworn an oath.
Prill. Our lady help my lord ! he'll be forsworn.
King. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will.
Prill. Why, will shall break it ; will, and nothing else.
King. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is.
Prin. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. I hear your grace hath sworn-out housekeeping : 'Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord. And sin to break it : But pardon me, I am too siidden bold; To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, And suddenly resolve me in my suit. [Gives a paper.
King. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may.
PHn. You will the sooner that I were away ; For you'll prove perjur'd if you make me stay.
Biron. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?
Bos. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?
Biron. I know you did.
Eos. How needless was it then
To ask the question !
Biron. You must not be so quick.
Bos. 'Tis 'long of you, that spur me with such questions.
Biron, Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire.
Bos. Not till it leave the rider in the mire.
Biron. What time o' day?
R<>4. The hour that fools should ask.
SCENE I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 135
.Biron. Now fair befall your mask 1
Hos. Fair fall the face it covers !
Biron. And send you many lovers !
J?os. Amen, so you be none.
Biron. Nay, then wiU I be gone.
King. Madam, your father here doth intimate The payment of a hundred thousand crowns; Being but the one-half of an entire sum Disbursed by my father in his wars. But say that he or we, — as neither haA^e, — llcceiv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid A hundred thousand more ; in surety of the which. One part of Aquitain 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 Aquitain, And hold fair friendship with his majesty. But that, it seems, he little purposeth, For here he doth demand to have repaid An hundred thousand crowns ; and not demands On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, To have his title live in Aquitain ; Which we much rather had depart withal, And have the money by our father lent, Than Aquitain 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.
Prin. You do the king my father too much wrong. And wrong the reputation of your name, In so unseeming to confess receipt Of that which hath so faithfully been paid.
King. I do protest I never heard of it ; And if you prove it, I'll repay it back. Or jrield up Aquitain.
Prin. We arrest your word : —
Boyet, you can produce acqiuttances For such a sum from special officers Of Charles his father.
King. Satisfy me so.
Boyet. So please your grace, the packet is not comi^ Where that and other specialties are bound ; To-morrow you shall have a sight of them. King. It shall suffice me ; at which interview
136 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act ii.
All liberal reason I will yield unto.
Meantime receive sncli 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 gatea ;
But here without you shall be so receiv'd
As you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart,
Though so denied fair harbour in my house.
Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell :
To-morrow shall we visit you again.
Prin. Sweet health and fair desires consort your grace I
King. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place !
[Exeunt King and his Train.
Biron. Lady, I will commend you to my own heart.
Ros. 'Pray you, do my conunendationa ; I would be glad to see it.
Biron. I would you heard it groan.
Ros. Is the fool sick?
Biron. Sick at heart.
Ros. Alack, let it blood.
Biron. Would that do it good?
Ros. My physic says ay.
Biron. Will you prick't with your eye?
Ros. No poynt, with my knife.
Biron. Now, God save thy life !
Ros. And yours from long living !
Biron. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Retiring.
Dum. Sir, I pray you, a word : what lady is that same?
Boyet. The heir of Alen9on, Katherine her name.
Dum. A gallant lady ! Monsieur, fare you well. [Exit.
Long. I beseech you a word: what is she in the white?
Boyet, A woman sometimes, an you saw her iu the light.
Long. Perchance, light in the light. I det^iie her name.
Boyet. She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame.
Long. Pray you, sir, whose daughter?
Boyet. Her mother's, I have heard.
Long. God's blessing on your beard I
Boyet. Good sir, be not offended : She is an heir of Falconbridge.
Long. Nay, my choler is ended. She is a most sweet lady.
Br'/et. Not unlike, sir ; that may be. [Exit hove AVilXJt,
Birov.. What's her name in the cap?
Boyet. Rosaline, by good hap.
Biron. la she wedded or no?
SCENE I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 137
Bayet. To her will, sir, or so.
Biron. You are welcome, sir : adieu !
Boyet. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.
[Exit BiKON. — Ladies unmask.
Mar. That last is Biron, the merry mad -cap lord ; Not a word with him but a jest.
Boyet. And every jest but a word.
Prin. It was well done of you to take him at his word.
Boyet. I was as willing to grapple as he was to board.
Mar. Two hot sheeps, marry !
Boyet. And wherefore not ships ?
No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips.
3Iar. You sheep and I pasture : shall that finish the jest?
Boyet. So you grant pasture for me. [Offering to kiss her.
Mar. Not so, gentle beast
My lips are no common, though several they be.
Boyet. Belonging to whom?
2far. To my fortitnes and me.
Prin. Good wits will be jangling : but, gentles, agree : The civil war of wits were much better used On Navarre and his book-men ; for here 'tis aljus'd.
Boyet. If my observation, — which very seldom lies, — By the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected.
Prin. With what?
Boyet. With that which we lovers entitle affected.
Prin. Your reason?
Boyet. Why, all his behaviours 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 eye-sight to be ; All senses to that sense did make their repair. To feel only looking on fairest of fair : Methought aU his senses were lock'd in his eye, As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy; Who, tend' ring their own worth from where they were Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd. [glass' d, His face's own margent did quote such amazes That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes : I'll give you Aquitain, and all that is his, A.n you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.
Prin. Come to our pavilion : Boyet is dispos'd —
Boyet. But to speak that in words which hia eye hath discloa'd :
138 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act ii.
I only have made a mouth of his eye.
By adding a tongue which I know will not lie.
Bo.'i. liiou art an old love-monger, and speak'st skilfully.
Mar. He is Cu])id's grant ifather, and learns news of him.
Bos. Then was Venus like her mother ; for her father is but grim.
Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches?
Mar. No.
Boyet. What, then; do you see?
Rati. Ay, our way to be gone.
Boyet. You are too hard for me.
l^Exeunt.
ACT III. SCENE I.— ^ part of the Park.
Enter Aemado and Moth.
Arm. Warble, child ; make passionate my sense of hearing.
Moth. Concolinel [Sinking.
Arm. Sweet air ! — Go, tenderness of years ! take tliis key, gvve enlargement to the swam, bring him festiuately hither; I must employ him in a letter to my love.
Moth. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl ?
A rm. How mean'st 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 singiug love ; sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smeUing 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 keej) not ttio Jong in one tune, but a snip and away. These are comple- ments, these are humours; these betray fiice wenches — that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note, — do you note me? — that most are affected to these.
Arm. How hast thou purchased this experience?
Moth. By my penny of observation.
Arm. But 0,— butO—
SCENE I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 139
Moth. — the hobby-horse is forgot.
Arm. Callest thou my love hobby-horse?
Motk. No, master ; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your love'i
A rm. Almost 1 had.
Moth. Negligent student ! learn her by heart.
Arm. By heart and in heart, boy.
Moth. And out of heart, master: all those three I will prove.
A rm. "What vsdlt thou prove?
Moth. A man, if I Hve ; and this, by, in, and vnthout, 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.
A rm. I am all these three.
Moth. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all.
A rm. Fetch hither the swain ; he must carry me a letter.
Moth. A message well sympathized; a horse to be ambassador for an ass !
A rm. 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.
A rm. The way is but short : away.
Moth. As swift as lead, sir.
Arm. Thy meaning, pretty iagenious? Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?
Moth. Minime, honest master ; or rather, master, no.
Arm. I say lead i.s slow.
Moth. You are too swift, sir, to say so:
Is that lead slow which is fired from a gun?
A rm. Sweet smoke of rhetoric ! ITe reputes me a cannon ; and the bullet, that's he : — 1 shoot thee at the swaia.
Moth. Thump, then, and I flee. [Exit.
Arm. A most aciite 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. Arm. Some enigma, some riddle: come, — t\iy V envoy , —
begin. Voi'. No egma, no riddle, no Venvoy ; — no salr-? in the
140 LOVES LABOUR'S LOST. act in.
mail, sir: 0, sir, plantriin, a plain plantain; no P envoy, no renvoi/, no salve, sir, but a plantain !
Arm- By virtue thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought my spleen ; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiUng : 0, pardon me, my stars ' Doth the in considerate take salve for Venvoy, and the word Venvoy for a salve?
Moth. Do the wise think them other? is not Venvoy a salve ?
Arm. 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 Venvoy.
Moth. I will add the Venvoy Say the moral again. Arm. 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 Venvoy.
The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three : Arm. Until the goose came out of door, Stajdng the odds by adding four. Moth. A good Venvoy, ending in the goose ; Would you desire more? [flat : —
Cost. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that's Sir, your penny^vorth is good, an your goose be fat. — To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose : Let me see a fat Venvoy; ay, that's a fat goose.
Arm. Come hither, come hither. How did this argument
begin? Moth. By saying that a Costard was broken in a shin. Then call'd you for the Venvoy.
Cost. True, and I for a plantain: thus came your argument in ; Then the boy's fat Venvoy, the goose that you bought; And he ended the market.
A rm. But tell me ; how was there a Costard broken in A shin?
Moth. I will tell you sensibly.
Cogt. Thou bast no leeiing of it, Moth; I will speak that t<.nc^y.
BCENE 1. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 141
I, Costard, running out, that was safely within, Fell over the threshold and broke my shin.
A rm. We will talk no more of this matter.
Coat. Till there be more matter in the shin.
Arm. Sirrah, Costard, I will enfranchise thee.
Cost. 0, marry me to one Frances;— I smell soma re?i?'o?/, some goose in this.
Arm. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person; thou wert immured, restrained, captivated, bound.
Cost. True, true; and now you will be my purgation, and let me loose.
Arm. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this :— bear this significant to the country maid Jaquenetta: there is re- muneration [giving him money] ; for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow. [Exit.
Moth. Like the sequel, I.— Siguier Costard, adieu.
Cost. My sweet ounce of man's flesh ! my incony Jew !
[Exit Moth. Now will I look to his remuneration Eemuneration ! O, that's the Latin word for three farthings : three farthings —remuneration.— ^r/ia^'s the price of this inkle?— A penny. — No, ril give you a remuneration: why, it carries it.— Eemuneration! — why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word.
Enter Biron.
Biron. 0, my good knave Costard ! exceedingly well met
Cost. Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon may a man buy for a remuneration?
Biron. What is a remuneration ?
Cost. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing.
Biron. 0, why then, three-farthings-worth of silk.
Cost. I thank your worship : God be with you 1
Biron. 0, stay, slave ; I must employ thee : A.S thou wilt win my favour, good my knave, Do one thing for me that 1 shall entreat.
Cost. Wlien would you have it done, sir ?
Biron. 0, this afternoon.
Cost. Well, I will do it, sir : fare you welL
Biron. 0, thou knowest not what it is.
Post. I shall know, sir, when I have done it
tiiron. Why, villain, thou must know first.
Cost. I will come to your worship to-morrow morning.
142 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
Biron. It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it
is but this ;
The princess comes to hunt here in the park,
A nd 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 ;
A ud to her whitehand see thou do commend
This seal'd-up counsel. There's thy guerdon ; go.
[Gives him money. Cost. Gardon, — 0 sweet garden! better than remuner- ation; eleven jience farthing^ better : most sweet gardon!— I will do it, sir, in print. — Gardon — remuneration. [Mi-it. Biron. O !— 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 dommeering pedant o'er the boy. Than whom no mortal so magnificent ! This vmnpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy ; This senior -junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid : l^iegent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, J>icge of all loiterers and malcontents, Dread jjrince of plackets, king of codpieces. Sole imperator, and great general Of trotting paritors : 0 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 perjur'd, which is worst of all ; Aud, among three, to love the worst of all; A whitely 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 f to sigh for her ! to watch for her ! To pray for^her ! Go to ; it is a plague That Cupid wall impose for my neglect Of his almighty dreadful little might. Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, watch, groan ; Some men must love my lady, and some Joan. {Exit,
SCENE I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 143
ACT IV. SCENE 1.—A part of the Parh.
Enter the Princess, Eosaline, Maria, Katharine, BoYET, Lords, Attendants, and a Forester.
Prin. Was that the king that spurr'd his horse so hard Against the steep uprising of the hill?
Boyet. I know not ; but I think it was not he.
Prin. Whoe'er he was, he show'd a mounting mind. WeU, lords, to-day we shall have our despatch; On Saturday we will return to France. — Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush That we must stand and play the murderer in ?
For. Here by, upon the edge of yonder coppice ; A stand where you may malce the fairest shoot.
Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot, And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot.
For. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.
Prin. What, what? first praise me, and again say no? O short-liv'd pride ! Not fair ? alack for woe !
For. Yes, madam, fair.
Prin. Nay, never paint me now ;
Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here, good my glass, take this for telling true ;
[Giving him money. Fair payment for foul words is more than due.
For. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.
Prin. See, see, my beauty will be sav'd by merit. 0 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 wiU I save my credit in the shoot : Not wounding, pity would nob let me do't; If wounding, then it was to show my skill, That more for praise than pui-pose meant to kUL 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.
Bnyet. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty
144 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Acr iv.
Only for praise' sake, when they strive to be Lurds o'er their lords?
Prill. Only for praise : and praise we may afford To any lady that subdues a lord. Here comes a member of the commonwealth.
Enter Costard.
Coat. God dig-you-den all ! Pray yoii, which is the head- lady?
Frin. Thou shalt Itnow her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads.
Cost. Wliich is the greatest lady, the highest?
Prin. The thickest and the tallest.
Cost. The thickest and the tallest! it is so; truth is truth. An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit, One of these maids' girdles for your waist should l>e fit. Are not you the chief woman? you are the thickest here.
Prin. What's your will, sir ? what's your will ?
Cost. I have a letter from Monsieur Biron, to one Lady Rosaline.
Prin. 0, thy letter, thy letter ; he's a good friend of miuo : Stand aside, good bearer. — Boyet, you can carve j Break up this capon.
B lyet. I am bound to serve. —
This letter is mistook, it importeth none here ; It is writ to Jaquenetta.
Prin. We will read it, I swear :
Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear.
Boyet. \reads.'\ By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible; true that thou ai-t 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 illus- trious king Gophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelvphon ; and he it was that might rightly say, veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomize in the vulgar, — 0 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 beg- gar s : the catastrophe is a nuptial ; on whose side ? the king's ? — no on both in one, or one in both. 1 am the
ernNE T. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 145
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, exjtect- ing 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 Armauo. Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar
'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that staudest as his prey Submissive fall his princely feet befqre.
And he from forage will incline to play : But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then? ' Food for his rage, rejiasture for his den.
Frin. What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter? What vane? what weather -cock? did you ever hear better?
Boyet. I am much deceiv'd but I i-emember the style.
Prin. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhile.
Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court; A j)hantasm, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport To the prince and his book-mates.
Prin. Thou fellow, a word :
Who gave thee this letter?
Cost. I told you ; my lord.
Prin. To whom should' st thou give it?
Cost. From my lord to my lady.
Prin. From which lord to which lady?
Cost. From my Lord Biron, a good master of mine, To a lady of France that he cail'd EosaUne.
Prin. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. Here, sweet, put up this ; 'twill be thine another day.
[Exeunt Princess and Train.
Boyet. Who is the shooter? who is the shooter?
Bos. Shall I teach you to know?
Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty.
Ros. 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 !
Bos. Well then, I am the shooter.
Boyet. And who ia your deer?
VOL. II T
146 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act iv.
Ros. If we choose by the horns, yourself : come near. Finely put *on indeed ! —
Mar. You stiU wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes
at the brow. Boyet. But she herself is hit lower : have I hit her now ? Ros. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was » man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it ?
Boyet. So I may answer thee vnth. one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinever of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it.
Ros. Thou catist not hit it, hit it, hit it, [Singing.
Thou canst not hit it, my good man. £oyei. An I cannot, cannot, cannot, An I can7iot, another can.
[Exeunt Ros. and Kath. Cost. By my troth, most pleasant ! how both did fit it ! Mar. A mark marveUoua well shot ; for they both did
hit it. Boyet. A mark ! 0, mark but that mark ! A mark, saya my lady ! Let the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be- Mar. Wide o' the bow-hand ! I'faith your hand is out. Cost. Indeed, 'a must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the
clout. Boyet. An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. Cost. Then will she get the upshot by cleaving the pin. Mar. Come, come, you talk greasily, your lips ^row foul. Cost. She's too hard for you at pricks, sir ; challenge her to bowl. Boyet. I fear too much rubbing ; good night, my good owl. [Exeunt Boyet and Mari^u Cost. By my soul, a swain ! a most simple clown ! Lord, lord ! how the ladies and I have put liim down ! 0' my troth, most sweet jests ! most incony vulgar vyit ! _ When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were,
so fit. Armador o' the one side, — 0, 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 wiU
swear ! — And his page o' t'other side, that handful of wit ! A h, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit ! Sola, solal [Shouting within.
[Exit Costard nunning.
BCKNEii. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 147
SCENE IL— Another part of the Park.
Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull. Nath. Very revereud sport, truly ; and done in the testi- mony of a good conscience.
Hoi. The deer was, as yon know, sanguis, — in blood ; ripe as a pomewater, who now haugeth like a jewel in the ear of c«/o,— the skj'-, the welkin, the heaven ; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra,— the soil, the land, the earth.
Nuth. Truly, Master Holofemes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least : but, sir, I assure ye it was a buck of the first head. Hoi. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo. Dull. 'Twas not a haud credo ; 'twas a pricket. Hoi. Most barbarous intimation ! yet a kiud of insinua- tion, as it were, in via, in way, of explication ; facere, as it were, rephcation, or, rather, ostentarc, to show, as it were, his inclination, — after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruued, untrained, or, rather, unletteretl, or, ratherest, unconhrmed fashion, — to iusert again my hand credo for a deer.
bull. I said the deer was not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. Hoi. Twice sod simplicity, bis coctusf — 0 thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look ! Nath. Sir, he hath never fed of the damties 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 thanliful
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 bv your wit What was a month old at Cain's birth that's not live weeka old as yet? Hoi. Dictynna, good man Dull; Dictynna, good maw Dull. Dull. What is Dictynna?
148 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act iv.
Nath. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon.
Hoi. The moon was a month old when Adam was no more, And rauglit not to five weeks when he came to five-score. The allusion holds in the exchanjie.
Dull. 'Tis true indeed ; the collusion holds in the exchange.
Hoi. God comfort thy capacity ! I say the allusion holda in the exchange.
Dull. And I say the poUusion 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.
Hul. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal ejntaph on the death of the deer? and, to humour the ignorant, I have called the deer the princess killed a pricket.
Nath. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge ; so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility.
Hoi I wiU something affect the letter; for it argues facility.
The j5raiseful princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing pricket ; Some say a sore ; but not a sore, till now made sore with shooting. The dogs did yellj put 1 to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket ; Or pricket, sore, or else sorel ; the people fall a-hooting. If sore be sore, then 1 to sore makes fifty sores ; 0 sore 1 ! Of one sore I an hundred make by adding but one more L
Nath. A rare talent !
Dull. If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent.
HoL This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions : these are begfit in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of ]>ia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am tliankful for it.
Nath. Sir, I praise the Lord for you ; and so may my parishioners ; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you : you are a gooil nieniber of the commonwealth.
Hoi. Afeherc'e, if their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction: if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them: but, vlr sapit qui pauca luiiuitur: a soul feniiuiiie Haluteth us.
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 149
Enter Jaquknetta and Costard.
Jaq. God give you good-morrow, master person.
Hoi. Master person, — quasi '^eva-on. And if one should be pierced, which is the one ?
(Jost. Marry, master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead.
HoL Of piercing a hogshead ! a good lustre of conceit in a turf of earth ; fire enough for a tiint, peaii enougli for a 8 wine ; 'tis pretty ; it is well.
Jaq. Good master person, be so good as read me tliia letter ; it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Dou Armado : I beseech you, read it.
Hoi. Fauste, precor gelidd quando p^cns omne md> umbrd Buminat, — and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan !
I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice :
Vinegla, Vinegia, Chi non te vede, ei non te prrgia. Old Mantuan ! old Mantuan ! who understandcth thee not, loves thee not? — Ut, re, sol, la, mi, /a. — Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather, as Horace says in his — What, my soul, verses?
Nath. Ay, sir, and very learned.
Hoi. Let me hear a staff, a stanza, a verse ; Lege, domine.
2^ath. [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 osiera bow'd. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes ; Where all those pleasures live that art would com- prehend: If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice ;
Well learned is that tongue that well can thee c<immend : All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder, —
Which is to me some praise that I thy parts adimre, — 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.
Hnl. You find not the apostrophes, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are unly
150 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act iv
nnm1)ers ratified ; but, for tlie elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of i)oesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man : and why, indeed, Naso; but for smelling out the odoriforoiis flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing : so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, tlie tired horse his rider. But damosella virgin, was tkis directed to you?
Jaq. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one of the strange queen's lords.
Hoi I will overglance the superscript.
Tu the snow-white hand of the rnuat beauteous Lady Bona line.
I wdU look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomi- nation of the party ^vl-iting 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.
Jaq. Good Costard, go with me. — Sir, God save your tfe!
Cost. Have with thee, my girl. [Exeunt Cost, and Jaq.
Nath. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain father saith
Hoi. Sir, tell not me of the father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses : did they please you, Sir Nathaniel?
Nath. Marvellous well for the pen.
Nol. 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 tlie 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 un- learned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention : I beseech your society.
Nath. And thank you too : for society, saith the text, is the hapi)iness of life.
7/0/. And certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. — Sir [to Dull], I do invite you too ; you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away; the gentles ai'e at their ga«ie, and we will to our recreation. [Extant.
SCENE iir. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 151
SCENE 111.— Another part of the Park. Enter BiRON, with a jyaper. Blron 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: detile ! a foul word. Well, sit tliee down sorrow! for so they say the fool said, aud 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 on my side! I will not love: it 1 do hang me; i'faith, I will not. 0, but her eye,— by this 'Ucrht. but for her eye 1 would not love her ; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing ui the world but be, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love: and it hath taucrht me to rhjnne, and to be melancholy ; and here is iiai-t of my rhyme, and here my melancholy. WeU, she hath one o' my sonnets akeady; 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 pm if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper ; God give him grace to groan- [Gets up into a tree.
Enter the King, with a paper.
King. Ah me! , . /> • j
Biron. [aside-l Shot, by heaven !— Proceed, sweet Cupid ;
thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the left
pap; — I'faith, secrets. —
King, [reads.'] So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not
To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, As thy eyebeams, when their fresh rays have smote
The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows : For 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 shin'st in every tear that I do weep; No drop but as a coach doth carry thee;
So ridest thou triumpliing in my woe. Do but behold the tears that swell iu 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. 0 queeu of queens, how far dost thou excel ! No thought can think nor tongue of mortal telL--
152 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST act iv.
How shall she know my griefs ? I'll droj) the pa]ier ; Sweet leaves, shade foljy. Who is he comes here?
[Step.i axUlt,
Enter Longaville, with a paper. What, Longaville ; and reading ! listen, ear.
Biron. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool, appear !
[Anide. Long. Ah me ! I am forsworn.
Biron. Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.
[Ashle. King. In love, I hope : sweet fellowship in shame ! [A .tide, Biron. One drunkard loves another of the name. [Aside. Long. Am I the lirst that have been perjur'd so? Biron. [aside. ] I could pnt thee in comfort ; not by two that I know : Thou mak'st the triumviry, the comer cap of society, ■ The shape of Love's Tybiim that hangs up simplicity.
Long. 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. [aside.} 0, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's Disfigure not his slop. [hobe:
Long. This same shall go. —
[He reads the sonn. t.
Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, —
'Gaiust 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, tliou 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, Exhal'st this vapour vow ; in thee it is :
If broken, then it is no fault of miue: If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To lose an oath to ^vin a paradise?
Biron. [aside.l 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 mucli out o' the way. Long. By whom shaU I send this? — Company! stay-
[Stepping aside.
scENBm. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 153
Biron. [aside.] AM hid, all bid, an old infant play. Like a demi-god here sit I in the sky, And wretched fools' secrets heedfully o'er-eye. More sacks to the mill ! 0 heavens, I have my wish.
Enter Dumain, with a paper.
Diimain transform'd : four wood-cocks in a dish !
J)um. 0 most di\'ine Kate !
Biron. 0 most profane coxcomb !
[Aside.
Dum. By heaven, the wonder of a mortal eye !
Biron. By earth, she is but corporal: vhere you lie. [Asiile.
Dum. Her amber hairs for foul have amber quoted.
Biron. An amber-colour'd raven was well noted. [Aside.
Dam. As upright as the cedar.
Biron. Stoop, I say ;
Her shoulder is with child. [Aside.
Dum. As fair as day.
Biran. Ay, as some days ; but then no sun must shme.
[A side.
Dum. 0 that I had my wish !
Long. And I had mine ! [A .lide.
Kinrj. And I mine too, good Lord ! [A shle.
Biron. Amen, so I had mine: is not that a good word?
[Aidde.
Dum. 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 ! [Aside.
Dum. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ.
Biron. Once more I'll mark how love can vary wit [Aside.
Dum. [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'd 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.
154 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for tliee :
Thon for whom even Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiop were ;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love. —
Tliis will I send ; and something else more plain, That shall express my true love's fasting pain. O, would the King, Biron, and i'jongaviile, Were lovers too ! Ill, to example ill, Would from my forehead wipe a perjur'd notej For none offend where all ahke do dote.
Long. Dumain {(ulvancin{i\ thy love is far from charity. That in love's grief desir'st society : You may look i)ale, but I should blush, I know, To be o'erheard and taken napping so.
King. Come, sir [advanc'mg'\, you blush; as his your case is such ; You chide at him, offending twice as much : You do not love Maria ; LongaviUe Did never sonnet for her sake compile ; Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart His loving bosom, to keep down his heart. 1 have been closely shrouded in this bush. And mark'd you both, and for you both did blusb. I heard your guilty rhymes, observ'd your fashion ; Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion : Ah me ! says one ; 0 Jove ! the other cries ; One her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes ; You would for paradise break faith and troth ; [To Long. And Jove for your love would infringe an oath. [To Dumain What will Biron say when that he shall hear A faith infring'd which such a zeal did swear? How will he scorn ! how will he spend his wit 1 How \vill he trimnph, leap, and laugh at it ! For all the wealth that ever I did see 1 would not have him know so much by me.
Biron. Now step 1 forth to whip hypocrisy. —
[Descends from the tree. All, 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 jirincess that appears: You'll not be perjur'd, 'tis a hateful thing;
SCENE III. LOVE'S LIBOUE'S LOST. 15b
Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting. But are you not asham'd? nay, are yon 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.
0, what a scene of foolery I have seen.
Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen !
0 me, with what strict patience have 1 sat To see a king transformed to a gnat !
To see gi'eat Hercules whipping a gig,
And profound Solomon tuning a jig.
And Nestor play at pusli-])in with the boys,
And critic Tmion laugh at idle toys !
Where lies thy gi'ief, 0, tell me, good Dumain?
And, gentle LougaviUe, where lies thy pain?
And where my liege's? all about the breast : —
A caudle, ho!
King. Too bitter is thy jest.
Are we betray'd thus to thy over-view?
Biron. Not you to me, but I betray'd by you :
1, that am honest ; I, that hold it sin To break the vow I am engaged in ;
1 am betray'd by keejiing company
With moon-hke men of strange inconstancy. When shall yon see me write a thing in rhjone? Or groan for Joan? or spend a minute's time In pruning me? When shall you hear that I Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, A leg, a limb ? —
King. Soft ! whither away so fast ?
A tnie man or a thief that gallops so ?
Biron. I post from love ; good lover, let me go.
Enter Jaquenetta and Costard.
Jaq. God bless the king !
King. What present hast thou there?
Coat. Some certain treason.
King. What makes treason here?
Cost. Nay, it makes nothing, sir.
King. If it mar nothing neither,
'iTie treason and you go in peace away together.
Jaq. I beseech your grace, let this letter be read ; Our parson misdoubts it ; 'twas treason he said.
King. Biron, read it aver. \Giving him the letter.
Where hadst thou it?
156 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act iv.
Jaq. Of Costard.
King. .Where hadst thou it ?
Cost. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.
King. How now ! what is in you ? why dost thou tear it?
Biron. Atoy, myliege, a toy: your grace needs not fear it.
Long. It did move him to passion, and therefore let s hear it.
Dum. It is Biron's writing, and here is his name.
[Pkkf! up the pipcps.
Biron. Ah, you whoreson loggerhead [to Costard], you were born to do me shame. — Guilty, my lord, guilty ; I confess, I confess.
King. What?
Biron. That you three fools lack'd me fool to make up the mess ; He, he, 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.
Dum. Now the number is even.
Biron. True, true ; we are four : —
Will these turtles be gone ?
King. Hence, sirs, away.
Cost. W^alk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay.
[Exi^nnt Cost, and Jaq.
Biron. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O let us embrace 1
As true we are as flesh and blood can be ; The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face ;
Young blood will not obey an old decree : We cannot cross the cause why we were born ; Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn.
King. What! did these rentlines showsomelove of thine?
Biron. Did they, quoth you ? Who sees the heavenly That, like a rude and savage man of Inde [Rosaline
At the first opening of the gorgeous east. Bows not his vassal head ; and, struoken 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 ?
King. What zeal, what fury hath inspir'd thee now ? My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon, *he an attending star, scarce seen a light.
Biron. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Bir6n:
O, but for my love, day would turn to night 1 I »f all complexions the culi'd sovereignty
Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek ;
SCENE III. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 157
Where several wortliies make one dignity ;
Where nothing wants that want itself iloth seek- Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues, —
Fie, painted rhetoric ! 0, she needs it not : To things of sale a seller's praise belongs ;
She passes praise : then praise too short doth blot. A witherVl hermit, tive-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 makcth all things shme !
Khvj. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony.
Biron. Is ebony like her? 0 wood divine!
A wife of sxich wood were felicity. O, who can give an oath ? where is a book ?
That 1 may swear beauty doth beauty lack If that she learn not of her eye to look :
No face is fair that is not fidl so black.
King. 0 j)aradox ! Black is the badge of hell,
The hue of dungeons, and the scowl of night ; And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well.
Bh-on. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light O, if in black my lady's brows be deck'd.
It mourns that painting and usui-ping hair Should ravish doters with a false aspect ;
And therefore is she bom to make black fair. Her favour turns the fashion of the days ;
For native blood is counted paintiug no-.v; And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,
Paints itself black, to imitate her brow.
Dam. To look like her are chimney-sweepers black.
Long. And, since her time, are colliers counted bright.
King. And Etliiops of their sweet complexion crack.
Duni. Dark needs no candles now, tor dark is light.
Biron. Your mistresses dare never come in rain.
For fear their colours should be wash'd away.
King. 'Twere good yours did ; for, sir, to tell you plaift,
I'll find a fairer face not wash'd to-day.
Biron. I'll prove her fair, or talk tdl doomsday here.
Kmg. No devil will fright thee then so much as she.
Dum. I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear.
Long. Look, here's thy love : my foot and her face see.
[Showing /m ahoo.
Biron. 0, if the streets were paved with thine eyes
Her feet were much too dainty for such tread 1
158 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act iv.
Diim. O vile ! then, as she goes, what upward lies
The street should see as she walk'd over head.
Kinrj. But what of this? are we not all in love?
Biron. 0, nothing so sure ; and thereby all forsworn.
King. Then leave this chat; and, good Biron, now prove
Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn.
Dum. Ay, marry, there ; — some flattery for this evil.
Long. O, some authority how to proceed ; Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the deviL
Dum. Some salve for perjury.
Biron. 0, '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, Aud abstinence engenders maladies. And where that you have vow'd to study, lords, lu that each of you hath forsworn his book, — Can you still dream, and pore, and thereon look I Why, universal plodding prisons up Tlie nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tirea The sinewy vigour of the traveller. Now, for uot looking on a woman's face, You have in that forsworn the use of eyes, Aud study, too, the causer of your vow: For when would you, my liege, or you, or you. In leaden contemplation, have found out Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes Of beauteous tutors have enrich'd you with? Other slow arts entirely keep the brain, Aud therefore, tinding barren practisers, Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil ; B}it love, first learned in a lady's eyes, Lives not alrme 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, WTien the suspicious head ot theft is stopp'd \
SCENE III. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. __^9
Ix)ve's feeling is more soft and sensible Than are tlie tender horns of cockled snails ; Love's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste: For valoiir, 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: 0, then his lines would ravish savage ears, And plant in tyrants mild humility. From women's eyes this doctrine I derive : They s]iarkle 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 aught proves excellent. Then fools you were these M^omen to forswear ; Or, keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools. For wisdom's sake — a word that aU 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 ouce lose our oaths to tind ourselves, Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths : It is rehgion to be thus forsworn; For charity itself fulfils the law. And who can sever love from charity?
King. Saiut Cupid, then ! and, soldiers, to the field !
Biron. Advance your standards, and upon them, lords; Pell-mell, down with them ! but be first advis'd In conflict that you get the sun of them.
Long. Now to plain-dealing ; lay these glozes by ; Shall we resolve to woo these giiis of France?
King. And win them too : therefore let us devise Some entertainment for them in their tents.
Biron. First, from the park let us conduct them tluther; 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.
King. Away, away ! no time shall be omitted. That will be time, and may by. us be fitted-
160 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act iv.
Biron. Allons! Aliens! — Sow'd cockle reap'd no com; And justice always whirls in equal measure : Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn ; If 80, our copper buys no better treasure. [Exeunt.
ACT Y.
SCEXE I.— Another part of the Park.
Enter Holoferxes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull.
HoJ. Satis quod sufficit.
Kath. I praise God for you, sir : your reasons at diimer have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scur- rility, witty without affection, audacious ^vithout impu- deucj', learned -without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day vnth. a cf)mpanion of the king's, who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado.
Kol. Xovi hominem tanquam te: his humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue tiled, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical, and his general beha\'iour vain, ridicu- lous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, t<>o affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as 1 may call it.
Nath. A most singular and choice epithet
[Takes out his table-book.
Hoi. He draweth out the thread of his verbositj' Huer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical fantasnis, 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 caK, cauf ; half, hauf ; neighlx)ur vacatur nebour ; neigh abbreviated ne. This is abhominable (which he would call abominable), it insinuateth me of insanie : Ne intelligis, domine? to make frantic, lunatic.
Xath, Laus Deo, bone intelligo.
I/o'. Bone! bone for bene: Priscian a little scratched,
twill berve.
Nath. Videsne quis venit ?
HoU Video, et gaudeo.
Enter Armado, Moth, and Costard. Arm. Chirra I [TV Moth.
SCENE I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 161
Hoi. Quare Ckirra, not sirrah?
Arm. Men of peace, well encountered.
Hoi Most militarj'' sir, salutation.
Moth. Thej' have been at a great feast of languages and ■tolen the scraps. {To Costaru, aside.
Cost. O, thej' 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 honorl/icabilUudin'Uatibit.s: thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon.
Moth. Peace ; the peal begins.
Arm. Monsieur [to HoL.], are you not lettered?
Moth. Yes, yes ; he teaches boys the horn-book. — What is a, b, spelt backward -with the horn on his head ?
JIoL Ba, pueritia, with a horn added.
Moth. Ba, most silly sheep, with a horn. — You hear his learning.
Hoi. Qtiis, qui?, thou consonant?
Moth. The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them ; or the fifth, if I.
HoL I win repeat them, a, e, i. —
Moth. The sheep ; the other two concludes it ; o, n.
Arm. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum. a fi'weet toixch, a quick venew of wit : snip, snap, quick and home ; it rejoiceth my intellect : triie wit.
Moth. Offered bj' a child to an old man ; which is wit-old.
Hoi. What is the figiire ? what is the figure ?
Moth. Horns.
Hoi. Thou disputest like an infant : go, whip thy gig.
Moth. Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy circiim circa; a gig of a cuckold's horn !
C<M. An I had but one penny in the world thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread : hold, there is the very remunera- tion I had of thy master, thou halffjennj' purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. 0, an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou malve me ! Go to ; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers' ends, as they say.
HoL 0, I smell false Latin; dunghill for unguem.
Arm. Arts-man, prceamhula ; we will be singled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge- house on the top of the mountain ?
Hoi. Or mons, the hill.
A rm. At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain.
Hoi. I do, sans question.
Arm^ Sir, it is the kind's most sweet pleasure and •flection to congratulate the princess at her pavilion in VOL. II. M
162 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act v.
the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon.
Hoi. The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable for the afternoon : the word is weU culled, choice ; sweet and apt, I do assure you, sir, I do assure.
A rm. Sir, the king is a noble gentleman, and myfamiliar, I do assure you, 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 importiiuate and most seinous designs, — and of great import ifidaed, 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 linger, thus, dally with my excrement, with my mustachio : laut, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable ; some certain sj^cial honours it pleaseth liis great- ness 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 antic, oi" fu'e-work. Now, understanding that the curate and your SAveet self are good at such eru]itic)ns and sudden breaking out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance.
Hoi. Sir, you shall present before her the nine worthies. — Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some entertainment of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by our assistance, — the king's command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, — before the piuicess; I say, none so tit as to present the nine worthies.
Nath. Where will you find men worthy enough to present them.
Hoi. Joshua, yourself; myself, or this gallant gentle- man, Judas Maccabasus ; this swain, because of his great limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules.
Arm. Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for that worthy's thumb : he is not so big as the end of his club.
Hot 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, it any of the audience hiss, you may cry: WeU done, Hercules t now thou crushest
SCENE I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 163
the make! that is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it.
Arm. For the rest of the worthies? —
Hoi. . I will play three myself.
Moth. Thrice-worthy gentleman !
Arm. Shall I tell you a thing?
Hoi. We attend.
Ann. We will have, if this fadge not, an antic. I beseech you, follow.
Hoi. Via, goodman Dull ! thou hast spoken no word all this while.
Dull. Nor understood none neither, sir.
Hoi. .4 //oMj}/ we -ftill employ thee. • Dull. I'll make one in a dance, or so ; or I will play on the tabor to the worthies, and let them dance the hay.
Hoi. Most duU, honest Dull ! — to our sport, away. [ExeunL
SCENE IL — Another part of the Park. Before the Princess's Pavilion.
Enter the Princess, Katharine, Rosaline, and Maria,
Prin. Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart, If fairings come. thus plentifully in: A lady waU'd about with diamonds ! Look you what I have from the loving king.
Hos. Madam, came nothing else along with that ?
Prin. Nothing but this ? yes, as much love in rhyme As would be cramm'd up in a sheet of paper. Writ on both sides the leaf, margent and all ; That he was fain to seal on Cupid's name.
Jios. That was the way to make his godhead wax; For he hath been five thousand years a boy.
Kath. Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too.
Bos. You'll ne'er be friends with him; he kill'd your sister.
Kath. He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy; And so she died : had she been light, like you, Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit, She might have been a grandam ere she died: And so" may you ; for a light heart lives long.
Ros. What's your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word?
Kafh. A light condition in a beauty dark.
Jio^^. We need more light to find your meaning oati
i64 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. lorv.
Kath. You'll mar the light by taking it in snuff; Therefore, I'll darkly end the argument.
Eos. Look what you do, you do it still i' the dark.
Kalh. So do not you ; for you are a light wench.
Ros. Indeed, I weigh not you ; and therefore light.
Kath. You weigh me not? — 0, that's you care not for me.
Ros. Great reason ; for. Past cure is still past care.
Prin. Well bandied both ; a set of wit well play'd. But, Rosaline, you have a favour too : Who sent it ? and what is it ?
Ros. I would you knew !
An if my face were but as fair as yours, My favour were as great ; be witness this. Nay, I have verses too, I thank Biron : The numbers true ; and, were the numb'ring too, I were the fairest goddess on the ground: I am compar'd to twenty thousand fairs. O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter !
Prin. Anything like ?
Ros. Much in the letters ; nothing in tlie praise.
Prin. Beauteous as ink ; a good conclusion.
Kath. Fair as a text B in a co])y-book.
Ros. 'Ware ])encils, ho ! let me not die your debtor. My rod dominical, my golden letter: 0 that your face were not so full of O's !
Kath. A pox of that jest ! and beshrew all shrows!
Prin. But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fa'r Dumain ?
Kath. Madam, this glove.
Prin. Did he not send you twain?
Kath. Yes, madam; and, moreover. Some thousand verses of a faithful lover; A huge translation of hyfjocrisy. Vilely compil'd, profound simplicity.
Mar. This, and these pearls, to me sent Longaville The letter is too long V)y half a mile.
Prin. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heai-t The chain were longer and the letter short?
Mar. Ay, or I would these hands might never part.
Prin. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.
Ros. They are worse fools to purchase mocking sex. That same Biron I'll torture ere I go. 0 that I knew he were but in by the week ! How I would make.him fawn, and beg, and seek, Aoid wait the season, and observe the times.
BCBNE II. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 165
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 portent-like would I o'ersway his state
That he should be my fool and I his fate.
Prill. None are so surely caught, when they are catched, As wit tum'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.
Ros. The blood of youth burns not with such excess As gravity's revolt to wantonness.
Mar. Folly in fools bears not so strong a note As foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote. Since all the power thereof it doth apply To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity.
Prin. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face.
Enter Boyet.
Boyet. 0, 1 am stabb'd with laughter ! Where's her grace ?
Prin. Thy news, Boyet ?
Boyet. Prepare, madam, prepare ! —
Arm, wenches, arm ! encounters mounted a,re Against your peace : Love doth approach disguis'd. Armed in arguments ; you'll be suiijris'd ; Muster your wits ; stand in your omti defence ; Or hide your heads hke cowards, and fly hence.
Prin. Saint Dennis 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 purpos'd rest, Toward that shade I might behold addi-est The king and his companions : warily I stole into a neighbour thicket by. And overheard what you shall overhear, That, by and by, disguis'd they will be here. Their herald is a pretty knavish page. That well by heart hatli conn'd his embassage : Action and accent did they teach him there ; Thus must thou speak and tlms 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 reply' d. An angel is not evil; 1 shmdd have fear' d her had she been a dtftAl,
166 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act v.
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 doH, 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 check their folly, ])assion's solemn tears.
Prin. But what, but what, come they to visit us? Boyet. They do, they do ; and are ajjparel'd thus,— Like Muscovites, or Russians, as I guess ; Their purpose is to parle, to court, and dance; And every one his love-suit will advance Unto his several mistress ; which they'll know By favours several which they did bestow.
Prin. And will they so ? the gallants shall be task'd: — • For, ladies, we will every one be mask'd ; And not a man of them shall have the grace, 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, deceiv'd by these removes.
Eos. Come on, then ; wear the favours most in sight. Kath. But, in this changing, what is your intent? Prin. The eifect of my intent is to cross theirs : They do it but in mocking merriment ; And mock for mock is only my intent. Their several coimsels they unbosom shall To loves mistook ; and so be mock'd withal Upon the next occasion that we meet With visages display'd to talk and greet.
Pos. But shall we dance if they desire us to't? Prin. No ; to the death we will not move a foot : Nor to their penn'd speech render we no grace: But while 'tis sjioke, each turn away her fiice.
Boyet. Why, that contempt will kill the speaker's heai-t, And quite divorce his memory from his part.
Prin. Therefore 1 do it ; and I make no doubt The rest will neer come in if he be out.
SCENE 11. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 1G7
There's no sucli sport as sport by sport o'erthrown ; To make theirs ours, and oura none but our owii : 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 the King, Biron, Longavtlle, and Dumain, in
Bussian habits and masked; Moth, Musicians, and
Attendants.
Moth. All hail the richest beauties on the earth!
Boyet. Beauties no richer than rich taffeta.
Moth. A holy parcel of the fairest dames f
[The Ladies turn their backs to him. That ever turned their — backs — to mortal views/
Biron. Th,eir 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 be/iold—
Biron. Once to beJiold, rogue.
Motli. 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.
Motli. They do not mark me, and that bi-ings me out.
Biron. Is this your perfectness? be gone, you rogue.
\Exit Moth.
Ros. What would these strangers? Know their minds, Boyet : If they do sjieak our language, 'tis our will That some plain man recount their pur^wses : Know what they would.
Boyet. What would you with the princess?
Biron. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.
Ros. What would they, say they?
Boyet. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.
Ros. Why, that they have ; and bid them so be gone.
Boyet. She says you have it, and you may be gone.
King. Say to her we have measui-ed 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.
Ros. It is not so. Ask them how many inches
168 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. actv
Is in one mile : if they have measur'cl many, The measure, then, of one is easily told.
Boyet. If to come hither yon have measur'd miles, And many miles, the princess bids you tell How many inches do fill up one mile.
Biron. Tell her we measure them by weary steps.
Boyet. She hears herself.
Bos. 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 worsliip ib.
Bos. My face is but a moon, and clouded too.
King. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do ! Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine, — Those clouds removed, — upon our wat'ry ejaie.
Ros. 0 vain petitioner ! beg a greater matter ; Thou now request'st but moonshine in the water.
Kino. Then, in our measure do but vouchsafe one change: Thou bid'st me beg; this begging is not strange.
Ros. Play music, then : nay, you must do it soon.
[Music plays. Not yet; — no dance: — thus change I like the moon.
King. Will you not dance? How come you thus estrang'd?
Bos. You took the moon at full ; but now she's chang'd.
King. Yet still she is the moon and I the man. The music plays ; vouchsafe some motion to it.
Bos. Our ears vouchsafe it.
King. But your legs should do it.
Bos. Since you are strangers, and comehere l^y chance, We'll not be nice ; take hands ; — we will not dance.
King. Why take we hands, then?
I^os. Only to part friends ; —
Court' sy, sweet hearts ; and so the measure euds.
King. More measure of this measure ; be not nice.
Ros. We can afford no more at such a price.
King. Pi-ize you yourselves : what buys your company?
Ros. Your absence only.
King. That can never be.
Ros. Then cannot we be bought : and so adieu ; Twice to your visor and half once to you !
King. If you deny to dance, let's hold more chat.
Rot, In private, then.
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOSl. 169
King. I am best pleas'd •with that.
[ Thfy converse apart.
Biron. White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee.
Prin. Honey, and milk, and sugar ; there is thr(;e.
Biron. Nay, then, two treys, — an if yon grow so nice, — Metheglin, wort, and malmsey ; — well run, dice ! There's half a dozen sweets.
Prin. Seventh sweet, adieu !
Since you can cog, I'll play no more with you.
Biron. One word in secret.
Prin. Let it not be sweet.
Biron. Thou griev'at my galL
Prin. Gall? bitter.
Biron. Therefore meet.
[They converse apart.
Dum, Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?
Mar. Name it.
Dum. Fair lady, —
Mar. Say you so? Fair lord, —
Take that for your fair lady.
Dum. Please it you,
As much in private, and I'll bid adieu. {They converse apart,
Kath. What, was your visard made without a tongue ?
Long. I know the reason, lady, why you ask.
Kath. 0 for your reason ! quickly, sir; I long.
Long. You have a double tongue within your mask, And would afford my speechless visard half.
Kath. Veal, quoth the Dutchman; — is not veal a calf?
Long. A calf, fair lady !
Kath. No, a fair lord calf.
Long. Let's part the word.
Kaili. No, I'U not be your half :
Take all, and wean it ; it may prove an ox. *
Long. Look how you butt yourself in these shai-p mocks! Will you give horns, chaste lady ? do not so.
Kath. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow
Long. One word in private with you ere I die.
Kath. Bleat softly, then ; . the butcher hears you cry.
[They converse a/part.
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.
Eos. Not one woid more, my maids; break off, break oS.
170 LOVE'S LABOUK'S LOST.
Biron. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!
King. Farewell, mad wenches ; you liave shnple wits.
Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites. —
[Exeunt King, Lords, Musk, and Attendants. Are these the breed of wits so wonder'd at?
Boyet. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puffed out.
Bos. Well-liking wits they have ; gross, gross ; fat, fat.
Prin. 0 poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout ! Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night?
Or ever, hut in visards, show their faces? This pert Biron was out of countenance quite.
Ros. 0, they were all in lamentable cases ! The king was weeping-ripe for a good word.
Prin. Biron did swear himself out of all suit.
3Iar. Dumain was at my service, and his sword: No point, quoth I ; my servant straight was mute.
. Kath. Lord Longaville said I came o'er his heart; Aiid trow you what he called me?
Prin. Qualm, perhaps.
Kath. Yes, in good faith.
Prin. Go, sickness as thou art !
Ros. Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps. But will you hear? the king is my love sworn.
Prin. And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me.
Kath. And Longaville was for my service born.
Mar. 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 dii^est this harsh indignity.
Prin. 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.
Prin. How blow? how blow? s]ieak 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.
Prin. Avaunt,'per|^lexity ! What shall we do If they return in their own shapes to woo?
Ros. Good madam, if by me you'll be ad vis' d. Let's mock them still, as well known as disguis'd: Let us complain to them what fools were here, Disguis'd like Muscovites, in shapeless gear;
BOENK II. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 171
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.
Prin. Whip to our tents, as roes run over land.
[Exeunt Pkin., Ros., Kath., and Mar.
Re-enter the King, Biron, Longaville, and Dumain,
in their iJrojmr habits. King. Fair sir, God save you ! Where is the princess Boyet. Gone to her tent. Please it your majesty
Command me any service to her thither?
Kinq. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word. Boyet. I will ; and so will she, 1 know, my lord. [EvAU Biron. This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons' peas,
And utters it again when God doth please:
He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares
At wakes, and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs?
And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know.
Have not the grace to grace it with such show.
This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve, —
Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve :
He can carve too, and lisp : why this is he
That kiss'd away his hand 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 hini 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 -tongu'd Boyet.
KiiHj. A bUster on his sweet tongue, with my heart,
That put Armado's page out of his part !
Biron. See where it comes !— Behaviour, what wert thou
Till this man show'd thee? and what art thou now ?
Re-enter the Princess, ushered by Boyet; Rosaline,
Maria, Katharine, and Attendant.^. King. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day I Prin. Fair, in all hail, is foul, as I conceive. King. Construe my speeches better, if you may. Prin. Then wish me better, I will give you leave.
172 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act v.
King. We came to visit you ; and purpose now
To lead you to our court : vouchsafe it then.
Prin. This field shall hold me; and so hold your vow:
Nor God, nor I, delight in perjur'd men.
King. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke;
The virtue of your eye must break my oath.
Prin. 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.
King. O, you have liv'd in desolation here,
Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.
Prin. Not so, my lord ; it is not so, I swear;
We have had pastime here, and pleasant game ; A mess of Russians left us but of late.
King. How, madam ! Russians !
Prin Ay, in truth, my lord ;
Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state.
Ros. Madam, speak true. — It is not so, my lord ; My lady, — to the manner of the days, — lu courtesy, gives undeserving praise. We four, indeed, confronted here 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, Wlien 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.
Bos. This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye,—
Biron. I am a fool, and full of poverty.
Ros. But that you take what doth to you belong, It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue.
Biron. O, I am yours, and all that I possess.
Ros. All the fool mine?
Biron. I cannot give you less.
Ros. Which of the visards was it that yoii wore? [this?
B'Ton, Where? when? what visard? why demand yoa
BCBNE II. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 173
Bos. There, then, that visard ; that superfluous case That hid the worse and show'd the better face.
King. We are descried : they'll mock us now downright Dum. Let us confess, and turn it to a jest. Prin. Amaz'd, my lord? why looks your hicrhness sad? Ro8. Help ; hold his brows ! he'll swoon ! Why look yon 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 nie ".
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 danoe,
Nor never more in Russian habit wait. 0, never will I trust to speeches penn'd,
Nor to the motion of a school -boy's tongue; Nor never come in visard to my friend ;
Nor woo in rhyme, like a bhnd hai-per's song : Taff'eta phrases, silken terms precise,
Three-pil'd hypei'boles, spruce aff'ectation, Figures pedantical ; these summer-flies
Have blown me full of maggot ostentation ; I do forswear them : and 1 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.
Bos. Sans sans, I pray you.
Emm. 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.
F7-in. No, they are free that gave these tokens to us.
fliron. Our states are forfeit : seek not to undo us.
Bos. It is not so ; for how can this be true. That you stand forfeit, being those that sue ?
Jiiron. Peace ; for I will not have to do with you.
Bos. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.
Mron. Speak for yourselves j my wit is at an end.
174 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act v.
Kinff. Teach us, sweet madam, lor our rude trausi^ression Some fair excuse.
Prin. The fairest is confession.
Were you not here but even now, disguis'd?
King. Madam, I was.
Prin. And were you well advis'd?
King. I was, fair madam.
Prill- 'When you then were here.
What did you whisper in your lady's ear?
King. That more than all the world I did respect her.
Prin. When she shall challenge this you will reject her.
King. Upon mine honour, no.
Prin. Peace, peace, forbear;
Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear.
King. Despise me when I break this oath of mine.
Prin. I will : and therefore keep it : — RosaUne, What did the R.ussian whisi)er in your ear?
Ros. Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear As precious eyesight ; and did value me Above this world : adding thereto, moreover. That he would wed me, or else die my lover.
Prin. God give thee joy of him ! the noble lord Most honourably doth uphold his word.
King. What mean you, madam ? by my life, my troth, I never swore this lady such an oath.
Ros. By heaven you did ; and, to confirm it plain. You gave me this : but take it, sir, again.
King. My faith and this the princess I did give ; I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve.
. Prin. 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 mei'riment, To dash it like a Christmas comedy : Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany. Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some I^ick, — That smiles his cheek in years, and knows the trick To make my lady laugh when she's dispos'd, — Told our intents before : which once disclos'd. The ladies did change favours ; and then we, FoUowuig 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 BovitT.
SCENE II. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST, ^5
Forestal our sport, to make us thus untrue? Do not you know my lady's foot by the squire,
And laugh upon the apple of her eye? 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 sraock shall be your shrond- 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 havf. done.
Enter Costard. Welcome, pure wit ! thou partest a fair fray.
Cost. 0 Lord, sir, they would loiow Whether the three worthies shall come in or no.
Biron. What, are there but three?
Cost. No, sir ; but it is vara fine.
For every one pursents three.
Biron. And three times thrice is nine.
Cost. Not so, sir ; under correction, sir ; I hope it is not so : You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir: we know
what we know ^ I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir, —
Biron. Is not nine, [amount.
Cost. Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth
Biron. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.
Cost. 0 Lord, sir, it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir.
Biron. How much is it?
Cost. 0 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?
Cost. It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion the Great : for mine own part, I know not the degree of the worthy ; but I am to stand for him.
Biron. Go, bid them prepare.
Cost. We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take some care. {Exit Co.stakd.
King. 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.
176 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act v.
King. I say they shall not come.
Prin. Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule you now : That sport best pleases that doth least know how ; Where zeal strives to content, and the contents Dies in the zeal of them which it presents, Their form confounded makes most form in mirth, When great things labouring perisli in their birth.
Biron. A right description of our sport, my lord.
Enter Armado.
Arm. Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal Bweet breath as will utter a brace of words.
[Converneii with the King, and delivers Mm a paper.
Prin. Doth this man serve God ?
Biron. Why ask you ?
Prin. He speaks not like a man of God's making.
Arm. That's all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch : for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical ; too, too vain ; too, too vain : but we will put it, as they say, to fo7-t-iaia delta ciuerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal complement ! [Exit.
King. Here is like to be a good presence of worthies. He presents Hector of Troy ; the swain, I'ompey tlie ( ireat; 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.
King. 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 prick out five such, take each one in his vein
King. The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain.
Pageant of the Nine Worthies.
Enter Costard, armed, for Pompey.
CoRt. I Pompey am
Boyet. You lie, you are not he.
Cost. I Pompey am
Boyet. With libbard's head on knne.
Biron. Well said, old mocker ; 1 ujust needs be friends with thee.
SCENE II. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 177
Cost. 1 Pompey am, Pompey sur named the Big, —
Dum. The Great.
Cost. It is Great, sir; — Pompey mmamed the Great, Tliut oft in f eld, with targe and shield, did make my foe to
siopat ; A nd 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.
Prin. Great thanks, great Pompey.
Cost. 'Tis not so much worth ; but I hope I was parfect : I made a little fault in Great.
Biron. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best worthy.
Enter Sir Nathaniel, armed, for Alexander.
Ifath. When in the world I Wd, I was the worlcFs commander ; By east, west, north, and south I spread my conquering
might : My Scutcheon plain declares that I am AU sender.
Boyet. Your nose says, no, you are not ; for it stands
too right. Biron. Your nose smells no in this, most tender-smeUing
knight. Prin. The conqueror is dismay'd. — Proceed, good Alex- ander. Nath. When in the world I liv^d, I ivas the world's
commander: — Boyet. Most true, 'tis right ; you were so, Alisander. Biron. Pompey the Great, —
Cost. Your servant, and Costard.
Biron. Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander. Cost. 0, sir [to Nath.], you have overthrown Alisander the conqueror ! You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this: your lion, that holds his poll-ax 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 Nath. 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'er parted. — But there are "worthies a-comincr r^]] speak their mind in some other Bort.
Prin. Stand aside, good Pompey. VOL. II. N
178 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
©i<er HoLOFERNES, armed, for Jnd&s ; and Moth, armed, for Hercules.
ITol. Great Hercules is presented by this imp.
Whose club kiWd Cerberus, that three-headed camis; And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp.
Thus did he strangle serpents in his inanua : Quoniam he seemeth in minority, Ergo / come with this apology. —
Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish. [Moth retirea. Judas 1 am, —
Dum. A Judas !
Hoi. Notlscariot, sir, — Judas I am, ycleped Maccdhteus.
Dum. Judas Maccabseus cUpt is plain Judaa.
Biron. A kissing traitor. How art thou proved Judas ?
Hoi. Judas I am, —
Dum. The more shame for you, Judas.
Hoi. What mean you, sir?
Boyet. To make Judas hang himselfl
Hoi. Begin, sir ; you are my elder.
Biron. Well followed: Judas was hanged on an elder.
Hoi. I will not be put out of countenance.
Biron. Because thou hast no face.
Hoi. What is this?
Boyet. A cittern head.
Dum. The head of a bodkin.
Biron. A death's face in a ring.
Long. The face of an old Eoman coin, scarce seen.
Boyet. The pummel of Csesar's faulchion.
Dum. The carv'd-bone face on a flask.
Biron. St. George's half-cheek in a brooch.
Dum. Ay, and m a brooch of lead.
Biron. Ay, and worn in the cap of a toothdrawer ; And now, forward ; for we have put thee in countenance.
Hoi. You have put me out of countenance.
Biron. False : we have given thee faces.
Hoi. But you have outfaced them aU.
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?
Dum. For the latter end of his name.
Biron. For the ass to the Jude; give it him:— Jud-aa, away.
Hoi. This is not generous, not gentle, not humbleu
SCENE 11. LOVE'S LABOUE'S LOST. 179
Boyet. A light for Monsieur Judas ! it grows dark, he
may stumble. Prin. Alas, poor Maccabseus, how hath he been baited !
Enter Armado, armed, for Hector.
Biron. Hide thy head, Achilles : here comes Hector in arms.
Dum. Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry.
King. Hector was but a Trojan in respect of this.
Boyet. But is this Hector ?
Dum. I think Hector was not so clean-timbered.
Long. His leg is too big for Hector.
Dam. More calf, certain.
Boyet. No ; he is best indued in the small.
Biron. This cannot be Hector.
Dum. He's a god or a painter, for he makes faces.
Arm The armipotent Mars, of lances the al/mighty. Gave Hector a gift, —
Dum. A gilt nutmeg.
Biron. A lemon.
Long. Stuck with cloves.
Dum. No, cloven.
A7-m. Peace ! The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty.
Gave Hector a gift, the heir of I Lion ; A man so breath\l, that certain he would fight, yea,
From morn till night, out of his pavilion. J am that Jlower, —
Dum. That mint.
Long. That columbine.
Arm. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.
Long. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector.
Dum. Ay, and Hector's a greyhotmd.
A rm. 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. Sweet royalty [to the Princess], bestow on me the sense of hearing [BiRon whispers Costa rO.
Prin. Speak, brave Hector : we are much delighted.
Arm. I do adore thy sweet grace's slipper.
Boyet. Loves her by the foot.
Dum. He may not by the yard.
A Tin. This Hector fur surmounted Hannibal, —
180 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act v.
Cost. The party is a;one, fellow Hector; she is gone: she is two months on her way.
Ar7n. What meanest tiiou?
Cost. Faith, unless you play the honest Trojan, the poor wench is cast away : she's quick ; the child brags in her belly already; 'tis yours. [shalt die.
Ai-m. Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? thou
Cost. Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him.
Dicin. Most rare Pom])ey !
Boyet. Renowned Pompey !
Biron. Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge !
Dum. Hector trembles.
Biron. Pompey is mov'd. — More Ates, more Ates! stir them on ! stir them on !
Dum. Hector wiU challenge him.
Biron. Ay, if he have no more man's blood in's beUy than will sup a flea.
Arm. By the north pole, I do challenge thee
Co.'it. I will not tight with a pole, like a northern man : I'll slash; I'll do it by the sword. — I pray you, let me borrow my arms again.
Dum. Room for the incensed worthies.
Cost. I'll do it in my shii't.
Dum. Most resolute Pompey!
Moth. Master, let me take you a button-hole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? you wiU lose your re])utation.
Arm. Gentlemen and soldiers, pai-don me; I wiU not combat in my shirt.
Dum. You may not deny it: Pompey hath made the challenge.
A rm. Sweet bloods, I both may and wiU.
Biron What reason have you for't ?
Arm. 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 waiat of linen; since when, I'll be sworn, he wore none but a dish-clout of Jaquenetta's ; and that 'a wears next his heart for a favour.
Enter Mercade. Mer. God save you, madam ! Prin. Welcome, Mercade ; But that thou iuterrupt'st our motrimeut
SCENE n. LOVE'S LABOUE'S LOST. 181
Mer. I am sorry, madam ; for tlie news T bring Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father,—
Prin. Dead, for my life !
Mer. Even so ; my tale is told.
Biron. Worthies, away ; the scene begins to cloud.
Arm. For mine owii part, I breathe free breath : I have seen the day of wrong through the Uttle hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.
[Exeunt Worthies.
King. How fares your Majesty? Prin. Boyet, prejiare ; I will away to-night. King. Madam, not so ; I do beseech you, stay. Prin. Prepare, I say.— I thank jou, gracious lords, For all your fair endeavours ; and entreat, Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe, In your rich wisdom, to excuse or hide The Hberal 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 so short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtain' d.
King. The extreme jiart of time extremely forma 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 moumiug brow of progeny Forbid the smOing 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 purpos'd : since to wail friends lost
la not by much so wholesDme-profitable As to rejoice at friends but newly found.
Prin. I understand you not : my griefs are dull.
Biron. Honest ])lain words best pierce the ear of gnef ;~
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 defomi'd us, fashioning our humours
Even to the opposed end of our intents :
And what iu us hath seem'd ridiculous, —
As love is full of unbefitting strains, — _
All wanton as a child, skipping, and vain ;
Foim'd by the eye, and therefore, like the eye,
182 LOVE'S LABOUH'S LOST. act v.
lAill of strange shapes, of habits, and of forms.
Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll
To every varied object in his glance :
Which party-coated presence of loose love
Tut on by us, if in your heavenly eyes
Have misbecora'd 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,
IJy 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.
Prin. We have receiv'd 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 lovca In their own fashion, like a merriment.
J)um. Our letters, madam, show'd mach more than jest.
Long. So did our looks.
Bos. We did not quote them so.
King. Now, at the latest minute of the hour. Grant us your loves.
Pr'm. A time, methinks, too short
To make a world-without-end bargain in. No, no, my lord, you grace is perjur'd 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 1 will not trust ; but go with speed To some forlorn and naked hermitage, Kemote from all the pleasures of the world ; There stay until the twelve celestial signs Have brought about their annual reckoning. If this austere insociable life Change not your ofl'er, 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, challenge me by these deserts. And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine,
SCENE II. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. _ 188
I will be thine ; and, till tliat instant, shut My woeful self up in a mournful house, Raining the tears of lamentation For th-e remembrance of my father's death. If this thou do deny, let our hands part, Neither intitled in the other's heart.
Kin(j. If this, or mofe than this, I would Aeuy, 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. Bvron. And what to me, my love? and what to nici Ros. You must be purged too ; your sins are rank; You are attaint ^^-ith faults and jierjury; Therefore, if you my favour mean to get, A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest, But seek the weary beds of people sick.
Dwm. But what to me, my love? but what to me? Kath. A wife !— A beard, fair health, and honesty ; With threefold love I wish you all these three. Dum. O, shaU I say I thaulc you, gentle wife? Kath. Not so, my lord ; — a twelve month and a day III mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooers say : Come when the king doth to my lady come, Then, if I have much lov«, I'll give you some. Dum. I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then. Kath. Yet swear not, lest you be forsworn again. Long. "What says Maria?
Mar. At the twelvemonth's ead
m change my black gown for a faithful friend. Long. i'U stay vdth patience; but the time is long. Mar. 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.
Ros. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Bir(>T!, 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 tliis twelvemonth term from day to day Visit the speechless sick, and still converse
184 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. act v.
With groaning wretclies ; and your task shall be, With all the faerce endeavour of your wit To enlorce the pained impotent to smile.
Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of A^a^}^ I It cannot be ; it is impossible : Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
Bos. Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit, Whose influence is begot of that loos? grace Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools : A jest's prosperity lies m the ear Of him that hears it, never m the tongue Of him that makes it : then, if sickly ears, Deaf 'd with the clamours of their own dear groaos, Will hear your idle scorns, continue them, And I will have you and that fault withal ; But if they will not, throw away that spirit. And I shall tind 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.
Prill. \to the King] Ay, sweet my lord ; and so I take my leave.
King. No, madam : we will bring you on your way.
Biron. Our woniug doth not end like an old play ; Jack hath not Jdl : these ladies' eotirtesy Might well have made our sport a comedy.
King. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day, And then 'twill end.
Biron, That's too long for a play.
Enter Armado.
Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me, —
Prin. Was not that Hector?
Dum. The \\ orthy knight of Troy.
Arm. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave: I am a votary ; 1 have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three years. But, most esteemed greatness, wiU 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.
King. Call them forth quickly, we will do so.
Arm. Holla ! approach.
Enter Holofernks, Nathaniel, Moth, Costaed,
and others.
This side is Hiema, Winter — this Ver, the Spring ; the one
LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.
185
maintained by the owl, the other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin.
Spring. When daisies pied, and violets blue.
And lady-smocks ail silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of jellow hue,
Do paint tlie meadows with delight. The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men, for thus sings he- Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo, — 0 word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear !
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are plougiimen's clocks.
When turtles tread, and rooks and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smucka^
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings ho— Cuckoo ;
Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear !
fFinter. Wlien icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his naii. And Tdiii bears logs into the hall,
And milk conies frozen home in pail. When blond is nipp'd and ways be foul. Then niglitly sings the staring owl — To- who; • Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
Willie greasy Juan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coUi'hinK drowns the iiarson's saw.
And birds sit brooding in the snow. And Marion's nose looks red and raw
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then niglitly sings the staring owl— To-who ;
Tu-whlt, to-who, a merry note.
While greasy Juan doth keel the .pot.
A rtru The worda of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apolla You that way ; we this -way [Extuut.
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
DlTKB OF VeNICB.
Prince of Morocco, ) „ .^ , t>
,, . ' i Suitors to Portia.
Prince of Arragon, )
Antonio, the Mercfiant of Venice.
Bassanio, his Friend.
SOLANIO, )
Salarino, > Friends to Antonio and BASSAmo
Gratiano, )
Lorenzo, in love with Jessica.
Shylock, a Jew.
Tubal, a Jew, his Friend.
Launcelot Gobbo, a Clown, Servant to Siiv^ocK.
Old Gobbo, Father to Launcelot.
Salerio, a Messenger from Venice,
Leonardo, Servant to Bassanio.
Balthazar, ) „ ^ . n
^ ' \ servants to Portia.
Stephano. )
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.
SCENE, — Partly at Venice, and partly at Belm«»NT, the Seat oj P )rtl^ on the Coniinent,
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.— Venice. A Street.
Enter Antonio, Salarino, and SolaniO.
Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad: It wearies me ; you say it wearies you ; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn ;
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me That I have much ado to liiiow myself.
Salar. Your miud is tossing on the ocean ; There, where your argosies, with jiortly sail, — Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or, as it were, the j)ageants of the sea, — Do overpeer the petty traffickers That curt'sy to them, do them reverence. As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Solan. Believe me, sir, had 1 such venture forth. The better jjart 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.
Salar. My wind, cooling my broth.
Would blow me to an ague when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run Bi.t 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 churcli. And see the holy edifice of stone.
190 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act l
Anrl not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, Which, tonching bnt 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 bechanc'd would make me sad? But tell not me ; I know Antonio Is sad to think upon his merchandize.
Ant. Believe me, no: I thaiik 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 merchandize makes me not sad. Saiar. Why, then you aie in love. Ant. Fie, fie!
Salar. Not in love neither? Then let's say you are sad
Because you are not merry : and 'twere as easy
For you to laugh, and leap, and say you are merry,
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.
Solan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
Gratiano, and Lorei>zo. Fare ye well ;
We leave you now with better company. Salar. I would have stay'd till I had made you merry.
If worthier frieuds had not prevented me. Ant. Your worth is very dear in my regard.
I take it your own business calls on you.
And you embrace the occasion to depart.
Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano.
Salar. Good -morrow, my good lords.
Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when! You grow exceeding strange : must it be so?
Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.
[Exeunt Salarino and Solanio.
Lor. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, We two will leave you ; but at dinuer-timo, I pray you, have iu mind where we must meet.
Bass. I will not fail you.
MERCHANT OF VENICE. 191
Gra. You look not well, Signior Antonio ; You have too much respect ui)on the world : They lose it that do buy it with much cnro. Believe me, you are marvellously chaug'd.
Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano— A stage, where every man must play a pai-t. And mine a sad one.
Gra. Let me play the fool :
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles cuu.e ; 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 pui'pose to be dress'd in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit ; As who should say, / arti Sir Oracle, And, when I ope my I'qjs, let no do<j barh, 0, niy Antonio, I do know of these, 1'hat therefore only are reputed wise For saying notliing ; when, I am very sure. If they should speak, would almost damn those cars 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 exliortation after dinner.
Lor. Well, we will leave you, then, till dinner-time I must be one of these same dumb wise men, For Gratiano never lets me speak.
Gra, Well, ktep me company but two years more, Thou shalt not know tlie sound of thine own tongue.
Ant. Farewell : I'll gi-ow a talker for this gear.
Gra. Thanks, i'faith ; for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vendible.
[Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo.
Ant. Is that anything now ?
Bass, Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as twt^ grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff : you shall seek all day
102 MERCHANT OF VENICE. acj t.
ei e you find them ; and, when you have them, they are not
worth the search.
Ant. Well ; tell me now, what lady is this same To wnom you swore a secret piigrmia^e, That you to-day promis'd to tell me of?
Bass. '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 abridg'd 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 gag'd. 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 purj)0se3 How to get clear of all the debts I owe.
Jnt. I i^ray you, good Bassanio, let me know it. And if it stand, as you yourself still do. Within the eye of honour, be assur'd !My purse, ray person, my extreniest means Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.
Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft. I shot his fellow of the self-same flight The self-same way, with more advised watch, To find the other forth ; and by advent'riug both 1 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 tlie aim, or to find both Or bring your latter hazard back again, And thankfully rest debtor for the first.
A lit. You know me well, and herein spend but tini« To wind about my love with circumstance ; And out of doubt you do me now more wioug, In making question of my u.ttei-most. 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 press'd unto it : therefore, speak.
Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left. And she is fair, and, fairer than that woni.
SCENE I. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 193
Of wondrous virtues : sometimes from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages :
Her name is Portia ; nothing undervahied
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia.
Nor is the wide workl ignorant of her worth ;
For the four winds blow in from every coast
RenoAvned suitors : and her sunny locks
Hang on her temples like a golden Heece ;
Wliich makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand.
And many Jasons come in quest of her.
0 my Antonio, had I but the means To hold a rival place with one of tliem,
1 have a mind presages me such thrift That I should questionless be fortunate.
A id. 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, Wliere money is ; and I no question make To have it of my trust or for my sa^b. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. — Belmont. A Room in Portia's House.
Enter Portia aiid Nerissa.
Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my httle body is a-weary of this great workl.
AVr. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are : aud yet for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothiug. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean : superfluity comes Boouer by white hairs, but competency lives longer.
Por. Good sentences, and well i)ronounced.
JVer. They would be better if well followed.
Por. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions : I can easier teach twenty what wei'e good to be doue, than be one of the twenty to follow mme own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps over a cold decree ; such a hare is mad- ness, the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel, VOL. II. O
194 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act i.
the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. — 0 me, the word choose! I may neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I disMke ; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a deaa father. — Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none ?
Ner. Your father was ever virtuous ; and holy men, at their death, have good inspirations; thei-efore, the lottery that he hath devised in these three chests, of gold, silver, and lead, — whereof who chooses his meaning chooses j'ou, — wiU, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come ?
P(yr. I pray thee, over-name them; and as thou naraest them, I will describe them ; and according to my descrip- tion, level at my aifection.
Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince.
Por. Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse ; and he makes it a great appropriation to his OAvn good parts tliat he can shoe liira himself: I am much afraid my lady his mother played false with a smith.
Ner. Then is there the County Palatine.
Por. He doth uothmg but frown; as who should say, An you will not Jtave vie, choose: he hears men-y tales and smiles not : I fear he mil prove the weepuig philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sacbiess in his youth. I had rather be man-ied to a death's head witli a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two !
Ner. How say you by the French lord. Monsieur Le Bon?
Por. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker : but, he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's; a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine : he is every man in no man : if a throstle sing he falls straight a-capering ; he will fence with his own shadow : if I should marry him I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me I would forgive him ; for if he love me to mad- ness I shall never requite him.
Ner. What say you then to Falconbridge, the yoimg baron of England ?
Por. You know I say nothing to him; for he under- stands not me, nor I him : he hath neither Latin, Freucli, nor Italian ; and you will come into tlie court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the Eughsh. Lie is a
RCKNE II. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 195
proper man's picture ; but, alas ! who can converse witli a dumb show? How odcUy he is suited! 1 think, he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonuet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere.
Ner. What thiuk you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?
For. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him ; for he
borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore lie
would pay him again when he was al)le : I thmk t\\e
Frenchman became his surety, and sealed under for another.
Ner. How like you the young German, the Duke of
Saxony's nephew ? • v j
For. Very vilely in the morning when he is sober ; and
most vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk ; when he is
best he is a little worse than a man ; and when he is worst,
he is little better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever
fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.
Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will if you should refuse to accept liim.
For. 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 wiU do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge.
Ner. You ueed 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
For. 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.
Ner. 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 ?
For. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so was he called.
Ner. True, madam; he, of all the men that ever my foohsh eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair laily.
For. I remember him well ; and I remember him worthy of thy praise. —
Enter a Servant
How now! what new3?
]96 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act t.
Serv. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave; and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word, the prince hia master mil be here to-night.
Par. If I could bid the tifth welcome with so good heart as 1 cau bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of hia apjjroach : if he have the condition of a saint and the com- plexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. — Sirrah, go before. — Wliiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door. [Exeuut.
SCENE III.— Venice. A public Place.
Enter Bassanio and Shylock.
Shy. Three thousand ducats, ^well.
Bass. Ay, sir, for three months.
Shy. For three mouths, — well.
JJass. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be boiuid.
S/ij/. Antonio shall become bound, — well.
Bass. May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I know your answer?
Shi/. Three thousand ducats for three months, and Antonio bound.
Bass. Your answer to that.
Shy. Antonio is a good man.
Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?
Shy. Ho, no, no ; no, no ; — my rjieaning, 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 under- stand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico,
a fourth for England, and other ventures he hath,
squandered abroait. 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 ])eril ot waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient; — three thousand ducats: — I think 1 may take his bond.
Bass. Be assured you may.
Shy. 1 will be assxired I may; and, that I may be assiued, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?
JUiss. If it please you to dine with us.
6.hy Yes, to smell pork; to eat of the habitation which
FROM A PHOTOQRAPH Bi' M 8AF C in'
THOMAS KEENE A3 SHYLOCK.
Merchati/ ofVej^-ict^ ./. v /, Scene /I/.
SCENE in. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 197
your prophet, the Nazarite, conjvired the d-i^vil 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, di-ink with you, nor pray with you. — ^What news on the Kialto? — Who is he cornea here?
Enter Antonio.
Bass. This is Signior Antonio.
Shy. [aside. ] How like a faAvning publican he looks ! I hate him for he is a Christian ; But more for that, in Jow simplicity, He lends out money gratis, and bi'ings 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 !
Bass. Shjdock, do you hear?
Skp. 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, WiU furnish me. But soft ! how many months Do you desire? — Best you fair, good signior: [To Antonio, Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
Ant. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow, By taking nor by giving of excess, Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, I'll break a custom. — Is he yet possess'd How much he would?
Shy. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.
A7it. And for three months.
Shy. 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.
A lit. I do never use it.
Shy. Wlien Jacob graz'd his uncle Laban's sheep, — This Jacob fi'om our holy Abraham was — As his wise mother wrought in his behalf — The third possessor ; ay, he was the third.
AnL And what of liim? did he take interest?
193 MERCHANT OP VENICE. act i.
Shy. No, not take interest ; not, as you would say, Directly interest : mark what Jacob did. When Laban and himself were comi)roinis'd That all the eanhngs which were streak'd and pied Should fall as Jacob's hire ; the ewes, being rank, In end of autumn turned to tlie rams : Aud 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 i)arty-coloiir'd lambs, and those were Jacob's. This was a way to thrive, and he was blest; And thrift is blessing if men steal it not.
Ant. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv'd for; 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?
Shy. 1 caimot tell ; I make it breed as fast -.-^ But note me, signior.
Ant. Mark you this, Bassanio,
The devil can cite scripture for his ])urpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain vdth a smiling cheek — A goodly apple rotten at the lieart : O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath !
Sliy. Three thousand ducats, — 'tis a good round sum. Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate.
Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholden to you?
Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft, In the Eialto, you have rated me About my moneys and my usances : Still have I boriie 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 j'ou say, Shylock, wi 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 Bhoidd 1 say to you ? Should I not say,
SCENE 111. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 199
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 humljleness,
Say this,
Fair sir, you spii on me on Wednesday last: You spurn' d me such a day ; another time You calPd me dog ; and for these coui'tesies ril lend you thus much moneys.
A nt. 1 am as like to call thee so again, To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. If thou Avilt 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 may'st with better face Exact the penalty.
Shy. Wby, look you, how you storm !
I would be friends with you, and hnve your love. Forget the shanies that you have stain'd me with, Supj)ly your present wants, and take no doit Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me : This is kind I offer.
Bass. This were kindness.
Shy. This kindness will I show.—
Go with me to a notary, seal me there Your single bond ; and, in a merry sport. If yoi; 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.
Ant. Content, in faith : I'll seal to such a bond, And say there is much kindness in the Jew. •
Bass. You shall not seal to such a bond for me : I'll rather dwell in my necessity.
A nt. Why, fear not, man ; I will not forfeit it ; Within these two mouths — that's a month before This bond expires— I do expect return Of thrice three times the value of this bond.
Shy. O father Abraham, what these Christians are< Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect The thoughts of others ! Pra5'- you, tell me tliis ; If he should break his day, what should I gain By the exaction of the forfeiture?
200 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act i.
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.
Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.
Shi/. Then meet me forthAvith 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.
Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew ; [Exit Shylock.
This Hebrew will turn Cliristian : he ctows kind.
Bass. I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.
Ant. Come on ; in this there can be no dismay; My ships come home a month before the day. [Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE 1. — Belmont. A Boom in Portia's Hoitae.
Flourish of Cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco and his Train; Portia, Nerissa, and other of her Atteudanta. Mor. Mislike me not for my complexion,
The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun.
To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred.
Bring me the falsest creature northward born,
Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,
And let us niake 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 lov'd it too : I would not change this hue.
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. Por In terms of choice I am not solely led
By nice direction of a maiden's eyes :
Besides, the lottery of my destiny
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing:
But, if my father had not scanted me,
gOENE I. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 201
And hedg'd me by his Avit, 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 lock'd on yet For my affection.
Alor. 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 out-stare the sternest eyes that look. Out-brave 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.
Por. You must take your chance ;
And either not attempt to choose at all. Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong, Never to sj)eak to lady afterward In way of marriage ; therefore be advis'd.
Mor. Nor will not ; come, brmg me unto my chance.
Por. First, forward to the temple : after dinner Your hazard shall be made.
Mor. Good fortune then !
Yo make me blest or cursed' st among men
\Cornets and exeunt.
SCENE II.— Venice. A Street.
Enter Launcelot Gobbo. Laun. Certainly my conscience will serve me to mn fiom 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
202 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act ii.
bids me pack: Via! says the fiend; aivay! says the fiend, for the heavens; rouse up a brave mind, says tlie fiend, and run. Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of ray heart, says very wisely to me, — Aly honest J'rlend, Launce- lot, being an honest man's son, or rather an honest woman's son ; — for, indeed, my father did something smack, some- thing grow to, he had a kind of taste ; — well, my consciencft says, Launcelot, budge not. Budge, says the fiend. Budne not, says my conscience. Conscience, say I, you couubel well ; fiend, say 1, 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 ruleil by the fiend, who, aavang your reverence, is the devil hi)nself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnation : and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to olfer to counsel me to stay witli the Jew. The fieud gives the more Iriendly counsel : I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment ; I will run.
Enter Old Goebo, loith a basket.
Gob. Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's ?
Laun. [a-iide.] 0 heavens, tliis is my triie-begotten father! who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel bhnd, knows me not : — I will try confusions with him.
Gob. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's ?
Laun. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left ; marry, at the very next tunung, tui-n of no hand, but tui'n down indi- rectly to the Jew's house.
Gob. By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Oaa you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no ?
Lawn. Talk you of young Master Launcelot ? — [Aside.'\ Mai'k me now ; now will I raise the waters. — Talk you of young Master Launcelot?
Gob, No master, sir, but a poor man's son: his father, though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live.
Laun. Well, let his father be what 'a will, we talk of young Master Launcelot.
Gob. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir.
Laun. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, i beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot?
SCENE II.
MERCHANT OF VENICE. 203
Goh. Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.
Laun. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman,— according to Fates and Destinies, and such odd sayings, the bisters Three, and such branches of learning,— is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.
Goh. Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very start of my age, my very prop.
Laun. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel -post, a stati or a prop ? — Do you know me, father ?
Goh. Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman: but, I pray you, teU me, is my boy (God rest his soul !) alive or dead ?
Laun. Do you not know me, father ?
Gob. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind, I know you not.
Laun. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes you might fail of the knowing me : it is a vnse father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I wiU tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing ; truth will come to bght ; murder cannot be hid long : a man's son may ; but, in the end, truth •will out. ^ ,
Goh. Pray you, sir, stand up ; I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy. ^ -i. v ^■
Laun. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing ; I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.
Goh. I cannot think you are my son.
Laun. I know not what I shall think of that ; but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man; and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.
Goh. Her name is Margery, indeed : I'll be sworn, it thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped mif^ht he be ! what a beard hast thou got ! thou hast got moreliair on thy chin than Dobbin my thiU-horse has on his tail. ^ , , . , ^ .,
Laun. It should seem, then, that Dobbm 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.
Goh. Lord, how art thou changed ! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now ? t i_ i
Laun. Well, well ; but, for mine own part, as I have set np my rest to run away, so 1 will not rest till I have run some ground. My master's a very .lew : give him a pre- sent ! give him a halter : I am famished in his service ; you may tell every tingef I have with my ribs. Father, I aan
204 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act ii.
glad you are come; give me your present to one Maste? Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries : if I serve not him, I wiU run as far as God has any ground. — 0 rare for- tune ! here comes the man ; — to him, father ; for I am a Jew if I serve the Jew any longer.
Enter Bassanio, imth Leoxakdo, and other Followers.
Bass. You may do so; — but let it be so liasted 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.
Laun. To him, father.
Goh. God bless your worship !
Bass. Gramercy: would'st thou aught with me?
Goh. Here's my son, sir, a poor boy, —
Laun. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man, that would, sir, as my father shall specify,—
Goh. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve, —
Laun, Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify, —
Goh. His master and he, — saving your worship's rever- ence,— are scarce cater-cousins, —
Laun. To be brief, the very truth is, that the Jew having done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto you, —
Gob. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow npon your worship ; and my suit is, —
Laun. In verj'^ brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man; and, though I say it, though old man, yet, poor man, my father.
Bass. One speak for both. — What would you ?
Laun. Serve you, sir.
Gob. That is the very defect of the matter, sir.
Bass. I know thee well ; thou hast obtain'd thy suit : Shylock, thy master, spoke with me tliis 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.
Laun. The old proverb is very well parted between my master, Shylock, and you, sir; you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough.
Bass. Thou speak'st it welL Go, father, with thy son.— Take leave of thy old master, and inquire My lodging out. — Give him a livery [ To his FoUowera.
Alore guarded than his fellows': see it done.
6CENE II. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 205
Laun. Father, in. — I cannot get a service, no: — I have be'er a tongue in my head. — Weil; [lookinrj on his palm] if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth otier to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune ! — Go to, here's a simple line of life ! here's a small tritie of wives : alas, fifteen wives is nothing ; eleven widows and nine maids is a simple coming in for one man! and then tr 'scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life witli 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 Laun. and Old Gob.
Bass. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on tliis : These things being bought and orderly bestow'd, Ketum in haste, for 1 do feast to-night My best esteem'd acquaintance : hie thee, go.
Leon. My best endeavours shall be done herein.
Enter Gratiano.
Ch-a. Where is your master ?
Leon. Yonder, sir, he walks. [Exit.
Gra. Signior Bassanio,
Bass. Gratiano !
Gra. I have a suit to you.
Bass. You have obtain'd it.
Gra. You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont.
Bass. Why, then you must. — But hear thee, Gratiano ; Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice ; — Parts that become thee happily enough, 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 behaviour, I be misconstrued in the place I go to And lose my hopes.
Gra. Signior Bassanio, hear me :
If 1 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 eyea 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.
206 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act n.
Bass. Well, we shall see your bearing.
Gra. Nay, but I bar to-night ; you shall not gauge me By what we do to-night.
Bass. No, that were pity,
I would entreat you rather to put on Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends That purpose merriment. But fare you well : I have some business.
Gra. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest ; But we will visit you at supper-time. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. — llie same. A Boom in Shylock's House.
Enter Jessica and Launcelot.
Jes. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so : Our house is hell ; and thou, a merry devil, L)idst 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.
Laun. Adieu ! — tears exhibit my tongue. — Most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew ! if a Christian did not play the knave, and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu ! these foolish drops do somewhat drown my manly spirit ; adieu ! [Exit.
Jes. Farewell, good Launcelot. Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be asham'd to be my father's child ! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, — Become a Christian, and thy loving wife. [Exit
SCENE IV.— r/te same. A Street.
Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salartno, and Solanio.
Lor. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time ; Disguise us at my lodging, and return All in an hour.
Gra. We have not made good preparation.
ISalar. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.
SCENE IV. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 207
Solan. 'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd; And better, in my mind, not undertook.
Lor. 'Tis now but four o'clock ; we have two hours To furnish us ; —
Enter Launcelot, with a letter.
Friend Launcelot, what's the news ?
Laun. An it shaU please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify.
Lor. I know the hand : in faith, 'tis a fair hand ; And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ.
Gra. Love-news, in faith.
Laun. By your leave, sir.
Lor. Whithei goest thou ?
Laun. Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the Jew, to sup to-night with my new master, the Christian.
Lor. Hold here, take this : — teU gentle Jessica I will not fail her ; — sjieak it privately ; go. — Gentlemen, [Exit Launcelot.
Will you prepare yon for this masque to-night ? I am provided of a torch -bearer.
Salar. Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.
Solan, And so will I.
Lor. Meet me and Gratiano
At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.
Salar. 'Tis good we do so. [Exeunt Salar. and Solan.
Gra. Was not that letter from fair Jessica ?
Lor. 1 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 exciise, — That she is issue to a faithless Jew. Come, go with me ; penise this as thou goest : Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. [Exeunt
SCENE V. — The same. Before Shylock's House.
Enter Shylock and Launcelot. Shy. Well, thou slialt see ; thy eyes shall be thy judge. The uiffei-eiace of old Shylock and Basaamo : —
208 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act n.
What, Jessica ! — thou shalt not gormandize As thou hast done with me ; — What, Jessica ! — And sleep and snore, and rend appai-el out; — Wliy, Jessica, I say !
Laun. Wliy, Jessica !
Shy. Wlio bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.
Laun. Your worship was wont to tell me I could do nothing without bidding.
Enter Jessica.
Jes. Call you? what is your will?
Shy. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica: There are my kej^s. — 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. — 1 am right loath to go ; There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night.
Laun. I beseech you, sir, go; my young master doth expect your reproach.
*%?/. So do I his.
Laun. And they have conspired together, — I will not say you shall see a masque; but if yoii d-o, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black -Monday last at six o'clock i' the morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year in the afternoon.
Shy. What! are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica: Lock up my doors ; and when you hear the drum, iVnd the vile squeaking of the wry-neck'd tite. Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thriist 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 fojipery enter My sober house. — By Jacob's staff, I swear I have no mind of feasting forth to-night: But I wiU go. — Go you before me, siiTah; Say I will come.
Laun. I will go before, sir. —
Mistress, look out at window for all this; There will come a Christian by Will be worth a Jewess' eye. [Exit,
Shy. What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?
Jes. His words were. Farewell, mistress ; nothing claif>
Shy The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder.
SCENB V. MEPvOHANT OF VENICE. 20<>
Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day
More than the wild cat : di'ones liive not with mo;
Therefore I part with him ; and part with him
To one that I would have him help to waste
His borrow'd })urse. — 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.
Jes. Farewell ; and if my fortune be not cross'd, I have a father, you a daughter, lost. YExU,
SCENE VI.— The same.
Enter Gratiano and Salarino, masTced.
Gra. This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo Desir'd us to make stand.
Salar. His hour is almost past.
dra. And it is marvel he out -dwells his hour, For lovers ever run before the clock.
Salar. 0, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly To seal love's bonds new made, than they are wont To keep obliged faith uuforfeited !
Gra. 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 ril)s and ragged sails, Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind !
Solar. Here comes Lorenzo ; — more of this hereafter.
Enter Lorenzo.
Lor. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode; Not 1, but my affairs, have made you wait : WTien you shall please to play the thieves for wives ril watch as long for you then. — Approach ; Here dwells my father Jew. — Ho ! who's within?
VOL. u. p
210 MERCHANT OP VENICE. act ii.
Enter Jessica, above, in boy's clothes.
Jes, Who are you ? Tell me, for more certainty Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.
Lor. Lorenzo, and thy love.
Jes. Lorenzo, certain ; and my love indeed ; For who love I so much ? and now who knows But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours ?
Lor, Heaven and tliy thoughts are witness that thou art,
Jes. Here, catch this casket ; it is worth tiie pams. I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me, For I am much asham'd of my exchange : But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit ; For if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy.
Lor. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer.
Jes. What ! must 1 hold a candle to my shames ? They in themselves, good sooth, are too, too light. Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love ; And I should be obscur'd.
Lor. So are you, sweet,
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.
Jes. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself With some more ducats, and be with you straiglit.
[Exit, above,
Gra. Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew,
Lor. 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 prov'd 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 Jes. and Sauar,
Enter Antonio. Ant. Who's there? Gra. Signior Antonio ! Ant. Fie, he, Gratiauo ! where are all the rest?
soENE VI. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 211
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.
Gra. I am glad on't ; I desire no more delight Than to be under sail, and gone to-night. [Exeunt.
SCEME VII. — Belmont. A Room in Portia's House,
Flourish of Cornets. Enter Poetia, with the Prince o? Morocco, and their Trains.
Por. Go draw aside the curtains, and discover ITie several caskets to this noble prince. — Now make your choice.
Mor. The first of gold, who this inscription bears ; — Who chooseth me shall gain what many men de-nre. The second, silver, which this promise carries; — Who chooseth me shall <j(t as much as he deserves. This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt ; — Who chooseth me must f/lve and hazard all he hath. How shall I know if I do choose the right ?
Por. The one of them contains my picture, prince ; If you choose that, then I am yours withal.
Mor. Some god direct my judgment! Let me see, I will survey the inscriptions back again : What says this leaden casket? — Who chooseth me must <ji.ve 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. Wliat says the silver with her virgin hue? Who chooseth me shall pet as much as he desertfea. 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 enougli ; and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady ; And yet to be afeard of my deserving "VV ere 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, iu love I do deserves
212 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act il
\^^^at if I stray'd no further, but chose here? —
I<et's see once more this saying grav'd in gold.
Who choosHh 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 saiut.
The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilda «
Of wide AraV)ia are as throughfares now
For princes to come view fair Portia :
The wat'ry kingdom, whose ambitious head
Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar
To stop the foreign s])irits ; 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 1 think in silver she's immur'd,
Bemg ten times undervalued to tried gold?
O sinful thought ! Never so rich a gein
Was set in worse than gold. They have in England
A coin that bears the figiire of an augel
Stamped in gold ; but that's insculp'd upon ;
But here an angel in a golden bed
Lies all within. — Dehver me the key ;
Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may '
Por. There, take it, prince ; and my form lie there, Then I am yours. [He opens the golden caskeL
Mor 0 hell ! what have we here ? A carrion Death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll ! I'll read the writing.
All that glisters is not gold,—
Often have you heard that told ;
Many a man his life hath sold
Bnt my outside to behold ;
Gillie 1 tomlis do worms infold.
Had yon lieen as wise as bold,
Youns in limbs, in judgment old.
Your answer had not been inscroU'd
Fare you well ; your suit is cold.
Cold indeed, and labour lost : Then, farewell heat ; and, welcome frost. — Portia, adieu ! I have too griev'd a heart To take a tedious leave : thus losers part.
\Exii with his Train.
Por. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, co
Let aU of his complexion choose me so. [Exeunt
SCENE VIII. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 21^3
SCENE VIII.— Venice. A Street.
Enter Salarino and Solanio.
Solar. ^Vhy, man, I saw Bassanio uuder sail ; With him is Gratiauo gone along; And in their shi]> I am sure Lorenzo is not.
Solan. The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the duke, Who went with him to search Bassanio' s ship.
Salar. He came too late, the ship was under sail : But there the duke was given to understand That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous .Jessica: Besides, Antouio certify'd the duke They were not with Bassanio in his ship.
Solan. I never heard a passion so confused. So strange, outrageous, and so variable As the dog Jew did utter in the streets : My dauf]hter! — 0 my ducats! — 0 my daughter! Fled with a Christian! — 0 my Christian ducats! — Justice! the lav)! my ducats and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, 0/ double ducats, stolen from vie by my daughter! And jewels, — two stones, ttvo ricfi and precious stones, Stolen by my daug!Uer! — Justice! find tlie girl! Site hath the stones upon her and the ducats!
Salar. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, Crying, — his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.
Solan. Let good Antonio look he keep his day, Or he shall pay for this.
Salar. Marry, well remember'd ;
I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday. Who told me, — in the narrow seas that part 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.
Solan. You were best to tell Antonio what you hearj Yet do Dot"suddenly, for it may grieve him.
Salar. 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 inry riping of tlie tinif : And for t/ie Jew's bond w/uch he hath q/'ine.
214 MEKCHA NT OF VENICE. act li.
Let it not enter in your mind of love : Be merry; and employ your chiefest thvughta 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 -HTung Bassanio's hand ; and so they rartecL
Sulan. I think he only loves i;lie world lor hiin. 1 pray thee, let us go and find him out, And quicken his embraced heaviness With some delight or other.
Solar. Do we so. [Exeunt
SCENE IX. — Belmont. A Boom in Portia's House.
Enter Nertssa, xvith a Servant. Ner. Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw the curtain The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath, [straight:
And comes to his election presently.
Flourish of Cornets. Enter the Prince of Arragon, Portia, and their Trains.
For. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince. If you choose that wherein I am contain' d, Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemuiz'd : But if you fail, vrithout more speech, my lord, ■ You must be gone from hence immediately.
Ar. I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things: First, never to unfold to any one Which casket 'twas I chose ; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage ; lastly, If I do fan in fortune of my choice. Immediately to leave you and be gone.
For. To these injunctions every one doth swear That comes to hazard for my worthless self.
A r. And so have I address'd me. Fortune now To my heart's hope! — Gold, silver, and base lead. 1)7*0 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.
SCENE Tx. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 215
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach ; Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet. Bunds in the weather on tJie 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 multititdes. 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: A nd well said too ; for who shall go about To cozen lortune, and be honourable VVitliout the stamp of merit ! Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. O, that estates, degrees, and offices, Were uot deriv'd corruptly ! and that clear honour Were purchas'd by the merit of the wearer ! How many then should cover that stand bare? How many be commanded that command ! How much low peasantry would then be glean 'd From the true seed of honour ! and how much honour Pick'd from the chatf 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 siliyr casket.
For. Too long a pause for that which you find there.
Ar. What's here? the portrait of a blinking idiot Presenting me a schedule ! I will read it. How much unlike art thou to Portia ! 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?
Por. To oifend and judge are distinct offices And of opposed natures.
Ar. What is here?
Tlie fire seven times tried this ; Seven times tried that judtrnient is That did never choose amiss : Some there be that shadows Idse 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. 1 will ever be your head : So be gout:: you are sped.
216 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act n.
Still more fool 1 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 roth. [Exit with his Train, Pot. Thus hath the caudle singed the moth. () these deliberate fools! when they do choosey They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. Ker. The ancient saying is no heresy, — Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. Por. Come, draw the cui-tain, Nerissa,
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Where is my lady?
Por. Here ; what would ray lord'f
Serv. Madam, there is alighted at your gate A young Venetian, one that comes before To signify the a]iproaching of his lord : From whom he bringeth sensible regreets ; To wit, V)esides commends and courteous breath, f;ifts of rich value. Yet T have not seen So likely an ambassador of love : A day in April never came so sweet. To show how costly sununer was at hand, As this forespurrer comes before his lord.
Pur. No more, I pray thee ; I am half afoard 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.
Ner. Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be ! [Exeura-
ACT III. SCENE I.— Venice. A Street.
Enter Solanio and Salarino.
Solan. Now, what news on the Rialto?
Salar. Why, yet it lives there unchecked, that Antonio hath a ship of rich ladiug ^vrecked on the narrow seas ; the Goodwins I think they call the place; a very dangerous tiat
SCENE I. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 217
and fatal, where the carcases of many a tall ship lie burieil, as they say, if my gossip report be an honest woman of
her word. . • .i .
Solan. 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!
had a title good enough to keep his name company !—
Salar. Come, the full stop.
Solan. Ha,— what sayest thou?— Why the end is, he hath lost a ship.
Salar. I would it might prove the end of his losses !
Solan. Let me say amen betimes, lest the de\al cross my prayer; for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.
Enter Shylock. How now, Shylock? what news among the merchants?
Shy. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter's flight. ^i . -i
Salar. That's certain : I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal.
Solan. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledg'd ; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam.
Shy. She is damned for it.
Salar. That's certain, if the devil may be her judge.
Shy. My own flesh and blood to rebel !
Solan. Out upon it, old carrion ! rebels it at these years?
Shy. I say my daughter is my flesh and blood.
Salar. There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory ; more between your bloods than there is between red wine and Rhenish.— But tell us, do vou hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no?
Shy. There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto ; — a bee-gar, that was used to come so smug upon the maS-t ;— 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 ^or a Christian courtesy ;— let him look to his bond.
Salar. Why, I am sure if he forfeit thou wilt not take his flesh. What's that good f or ?
Shy. To bait fish withal : if it will feed nothing else it will feed my revenge. He bath disgraced me and hmdercil me of half a million ; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargams, cooled my
21 S MERCHANT OF VENICE. act m.
frieuds, heated mine enemies ! and what's his reason ? I am a Jew ! Hath not a Jew eyes ? hath not a Jew handa, organs, dimensions, senses, atfections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt ■with the same weapons, subject to tlie 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, sphat is his humility? revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his suffei-ance 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. Serv. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires to speak with you both.
Salar. We have been up and down to seek him. Solan. Here comes another of the tribe; a third cannot be matched unless the devil himself turn Jew.
[Exeunt Solan., Salar., and Serv.
Enter Tubal.
Sliy. How now, Tubal, what news from Genoa? hast thou fouiid my daughter?
Tub. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot tiud her.
Shy. Why there, there, there, there! a diamond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our nation tiU now; I never felt it till now : — two thousand ducats in that ; and other precioxis, jirecious 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 lind the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge: nor no ill luck stirring but what lights o' my shoulders; no sighs but o' my breathing; no tears but o' my shedding.
Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too ; Antonio, as I heard in Genoa, —
Shy. What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?
Tiib. —hath an argosy cast away coming from Tri polls.
Hhy. I thank God, I thauk God. — Is it true? is it true?
SCENE I. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 219
Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped th« wreck.
Shy. I thank thee, good Tub;U.— Good news, good news: La ! iia ! — Where ! in Genoa?
Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night fourscore ducats.
^Sliy. Thou stick'st a dagger in me : -I shall never see
Diy gold again. Fourscore ducats at a sitting ! fourscore ducats !
Tub. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my com]iany to Venice that swear he cannot choose but break.
*S7t^. I am very glad of it : I'll plague him ; I'U torture him : I am glad of it.
Tub. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey.
Slui. Out upon her ! Thou torturest me, Tubal. It was my turquoise : I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor : I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.
Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone.
Shy. Nay, that's true ; that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an officer ; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him if he forfeit ; for, were he out of Venice, I can make what merchandize I will. Go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue: go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, TubaL {ExeunU
SCENE II. — Belmont. A Room in Poktia's House.
Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, arid Attendants. Por. I pray you, tarry : pause a day or two Before you hazard ; for, in choosing wrong, 1 lose your comjiany ; 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 siich a quality : But lest you should not ixnderstand me svell, — 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 then I am forsworn ; So will I never be ; so may you miss me : But if you do, you'll make me vtdsh a sin. That T had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, They have o'erlook'd me and divided ra«;
220 MERCHANT OP VENICE. act hi.
One half of me is yours, the other half yours, — Mine own, I would say ; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours. 0 ! 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 peise the time, To eke it, and to draw it out in length, To stay you from election.
Bass. Let me choose ;
For, as I am, I live upon the rack.
Por. Upon the I'ack, Bassanio ? then confess What treason there is mingled with your love.
Bass. 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.
Por. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack, {VTiere men, enforced, do speak any-thing.
Bass. Promise me hfe, and I'll confess the truth.
Por. Well, then, confess and live.
Bass. Confess and lo\'e
Had been the very sum of my confession : 0 happy torment, when my torturer Doth teach me answers for deliverance ! But let me to my fortune and the caskets.
\Chirtain drawn from before the casbjta,
Por. Away, then. I am locked 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 wat'ry death-bed for him. He may win, And wliat is music theii? then music is Even as the flourish when true svibjects bow I'o 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 ]>resence 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; Tiie rest aloof are the Dardanian wivee^
Pt:ENE 11. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 221
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 light than thou that mak'st the fi-ay.
Music and the followinrj Song whilst Bassanio commenU on the caskets to himself.
Tell me, where is fancy lireil. Or in the heart, or in the head? How hegot, liow nourished?
Repl>. iei)ly. It is enjrenderM in the eyes, ■Will) uazin',; led; and fancy dies 111 the cradle where it lies : Let us all ring fancy's knell :
ril begin it, Ding, dong, belL
All. Dint,, dong, bell.
Bass. So may the outward shows be least themselves ; The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. lu law, what plea so tainted and corrupt But, being season'd with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? lu religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and a])prove it with a text. Hiding the gTossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so sim])le 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 searcli'd, have livers white as milk ! And these assume but valour's excrement To render them redoulited. Look on beauty And you shall see 'tis jjurchas'd by the weight ^\'llich 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 entra]i the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee : Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drud^
222 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act )T^
"T-neen man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threat'nest than dost promise aught, Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I. Joy be the consequence ! Por. How all the other passions fleet to air, As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair. And shudd'ring fear, and green-ey'd jealousy !
0 love, be moderate, allay thy ecstacy.
In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess ;
1 feel too much thy blessing ; make it less, For fear I surfeit !
Baas. What find I here?
[Opening the leaden caskets 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 le-ave itself unfiiruish'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.
You that choose not by the view, Chance as fair and choose as true 1 Since this fortune falls to you, Be content and seek no new. If yon be well pleased with this, And hold your f(n'tune for your bliss, Turn you where your lady is, And claim her with a loving kiss.
A gentle scroll. — Fair lady, by your leave : [Kissing /tcT.
\ come by note, to give and to receive.
ijike 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 those peals of praise be his or no,
So, thrice fair lady, stand I even so ;
As doubtful whether what I see be true,
Until conlirm'd, sign'd, ratilied by yon.
sc^vn. 11. . MERCHANT OF VENICE. 223
Por. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand. Such as I am : though for myself alone I would not be ambitious in my wish To wish myself much better ; yet for you 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 ia virtues, beauties, livings, friends. Exceed account : but the full sum of me Is sum of nothing, which, to term in gross, Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd: Happy in this, she is not yet so old 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 loi'd, her governor, her kmg. Myself, and what is mine, to you and ywurs 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.
Bass. Madam, you have bereft me of all words ; Only my blood si:)eaks 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 linger, then ])arts life from hence j 0, then, be bold to say Bassanio's dead.
Ner. My lord and lady, it is now our time That have stood by and seen our wishes jirosper To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady I
Gra. My Lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady, I wish you all the joy that you can wish ; For I am sure you can Mash none from me : And, when your honours mean to eolemni?e
5524 MERCHANT OF VENICE. . act itt.
ITie bargain of your faith, I do beseech you, Even at that tiiiie I may be married too.
Ban)!. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife.
Gra. I thank your lordship ; you have got me one. My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours: You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid ; You lov'd, I lov'd ; lor intermission No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. Your fortune stood upon the caskets there, ^
And so did mine too, as the matter falls: For wooing here until I sweat again. And swearing till my very root was dry With oaths of love, at last, — if promise last, — I got a promise ol this fair one here, To have her love ])rovided that your fortune Achiev'd her mistress.
For. Is this true, Nerissa?
A'fr. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal.
Bass. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith ?
Gra. Yes, faith, my lord.
Bass. Our least shall be much honour'd in your marriage.
Gra. We'll play with them, the tii'st boy for a thousanci ducats.
A'er. What, and stake down?
Gra. No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and stake down. — But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? What, and my old Venetian friend, Solanio !
Enter Lorenzo, Jessica, and Sola.vio.
Bass. Lorenzo and Solanio, welcome hither. If that the youth of my new interest here Have power to bid you welcome. — By your leave, [ bid my very friends and countrymen. Sweet Portia, welcome.
For. So do I, my lord ;
They are entirely welcome.
Lor. 1 thank your honour. — For my part, my lord. My purpose was not to have seen you here ; But meeting with Solanio by the way. He did entreat me past all saying nay, To come with him along.
So/on. I did my lord,
And 1 have reason for it. Signior Antonio. Commends him to you. [Gives Bassanio a lnUer.
SCKNK II. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 225
Bass. Ere I ope his letter,
I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth.
Solan. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind ; Nor well, unless in mind : his letter there Will show you his estate. [Bass, reads the letter.
Gra. Nerissa, cheer yond stranger ; bid her welcome. Your hand, 8olanio : 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.
Solan. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost I
Por. There are some shrewd contents in yond same paper, That steal the colour from Bassanio's cheek ; Some dear friend dead ; else nothing in the world Could turn so mucli tlie constitution Of any constant man. What, worse and worse? — With leave, Bassanio ; I am half yourself, Aud I must freely have the half of anything That this same paper brings you.
Bass. 0 sweet Portia.
Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words That ever blotted paper ! Geutle 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 yon 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, t should then have tolrt you That I was worse than nothing ; for, indeed, I have engag'd myself to a dear friend, Engag'd my friend to his mere enemy, To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady, The paper as the body of my friend, And every word in it a gaping wound, Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Solanio? Have all his ventures fail'd? What ! not one hit ? From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England ; From Lisbon, Barbary, aud India? And not 07ie vessel 'scape the dreadful touch Of merchant-marring rocks?
Solan. Not one, my lord.
Besides, it should appear that if he had The present money to dischai'ge the Jew He would not take it. Never did I know
226 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act iil
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 aU persuaded with him ; But none can drive him from the envious plea Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond.
Jes. When I was with him I have heard him swear To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, That he would rather have Antonio's flesh Than twenty times the value of the sum That he did owe him ; and I know, my lord, If law, authority, and power deny not, It will go hard with poor Antonio.
Por. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble?
Bass. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man. The best condition'd and unwearied spirit In doing courtesies ; and one in whom The ancient Roman honour more appears Than any that tlraws breath in Italy.
Por. What sum owes he the Jew?
Bass. For me, three thousand ducats.
Por. What ! no more?
Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond ; Double six thousand, and then treble that. Before a fi-iend 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, 1 will love you dear. But let me hear the letter of your friend.
Bass, [reads.l Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all mis- carried, my creditors grow cruel, tny estate is very low, my IxtHil to the Jew is forfeit; and since, in paying it, it is im- jmsiiible T should live, all debts are cleared between yon and It if 1 might but see you at my death: notwithstanding.
SCENE 11. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 227
use your pleasure; if your love do not persuade you, to come, let not my letter.
For. O love, despatch all business, and be gone. Ba^ss. Since I have your good leave to go away, I will make haste : but, till I come again, Ho btd shall e'er be guilty of my stay,
li 0 rest be iuterposer 'twixt us twain. \_Ej.eunt,
SCENE III.— Venice. A Street.
Enitr Shylock, Salarino, Antonio, and Gaoler.
Shy. Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of mercy; — Tlus is the fool that lent out money gratis. — Gaoler look to him.
Ant. Hear me yet, good Shylock.
Shy. I'll have my bond : speak not against my bead. I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. Thou call'dst me dog before thou had'st a cause: But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs : The duke shall grant me justice. — 1 do wonder, Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad with him at his request.
Ant. I pray thee, hear me speak.
Shy. I'll have my bond ; I will not hear thee speak : I'll have my bond ; and therefore speak no more. rU not be made a soft and dull-ey'd fool. To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield To Christian intercessors. Follow not ; I'll have no speaking : 1 will have my bond. [Exit.
Salar. It is the most impenetrable cur That ever kept Avith men.
Ant. Let him alone ;
I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers. He seeks my life ; his reason well I know : ] oft deliver'd from his forfeitures Many that have at times made moan to me; Therefore he hates me.
Salar. T am. sure the duke
Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.
A nt. 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 the state; Since that the trade and profit of the city Consistcth of all nations. Therefore, go :
228 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act rir.
These griefs and losses have so 'bated me
That I shall hardly sjiare 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 Balthazar.
Lor. Madam, although I speak it in your presence, You have a noble and a true conceit Of god-Uke 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 Thau customary bounty can enforce you.
Por. I never did repent for doing good, Nor shall not now : for in companions That do converse and waste the time together. Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love. There must be needs a lOie propoi-tion Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit, Which makes me think that this Antonio. Being the bosom lover of my lord, Must ueeds 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 cruelty ! This comes too near the praising of myself ; Therefore, no more of it : hear other things. — iorenzo, I conmiit into your hands The husbandry and manage of my house Until my lord's return : for mine own part, I have toward heaven breath'd a secret vow To live in prayer and contemplation, Only attended by Nerissa here, Until her husband and my lord's return : There is a monastery two miles off. And there we will abide. I do desire you Not to deny this uuposition. The which niy love and some necessity Kow lays upon you.
SCENE IV. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 229
Lor. Madam, witli all my heart
I shall obey yoii in all fair commands.
Por. My people do already know my mind, And will acknowledge you and Jessica In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. So fare you well till we shall meet again.
Lor. Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you ! Jes. I wish your ladyship all heart's content. Par. I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas'd To wish it back on you: fare you well, Jessica. —
^Exeunt Jessica and liORENZO. Now, Balthazar,
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 imagin'd speed Unto the tranect, to the common feny Which trades to Venice :— waste no time in words, But get thee gone ; I shall be there before thee.
Balth. Madam, I go with all convenient speed. {Exit. Por. Come on, Nerissa ; I have work in hand That you yet know not of : we'll see our husbands Before they think of us.
Ner. Shall they see us?
Por. They shall, Nerissa ; but in such a habit That they shall think we are accompUshed 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 line bragging youth : and tell quaint lies. How honouralile ladies sought my love. Which I denjdng, they fell sick and died ; I could not do withal : then I'U repent, And wish, for all that, that I had not kill'd them: And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell. That men shall swear I have discontinued school Above a twelvemonth. — 1 have within my mind A thousand raw tricks of these bragghig Jacks Which I will practise.
230 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act hi.
Ner. Wliy, shall we turn to men?
Por. Fie ! what a question's that If thou wert ne'er a lewd interpreter? But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device Wlien 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 Y.—The same. A Garden.
Enter Launcelot and Jessica.
Laun. Yes, truly ; — for, look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children ; therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now [ speak my agitation of the matter : therefore, be of good cheer ; for, truly, I think you are damned. There is V)ut one hope in it that can do you any good ; and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither.
Jea. And what hope is that, I pray thee?
Lawn. Marry, you may partly liope that your father got you not, — that you are not the Jew's daughter.
Jes. That were a kind of bas^tard hope, indeed; so the Bins of my mother should be visited upon me.
Laun. Truly then I fear you are damned both by father and mother : thus when I shun Scylia, your father, I fall into Chary bdis, j'our mother; well, you are gone both ways.
Jes. I shall be saved by my husband ; he hath made me a Christian.
Laun. Truly, the more to blame he : we were Christians enow before; e'en as many as could well live, oue by another. This making of Christians will raise the ])rice of hogs ; if we groAV aU to be pork-eaters we shall not shortly have a raslier on the coals for money.
Jes. I'll tell my husband, Lauucelot, what you say ; here he comes.
Enter Lorenzo.
Lor. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into corners.
Jes. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo ; Launcelot and I are out : he tells me tiatly 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 cou- rertiug Jews to Chiistians, you raise the price of pork.
fir^NE V.
MERCHANT OF VENICE. ^^l
Lor. I shall answer that better to the ««™,"^°»^Yr^ M^IrT, you can tlie getting up of the negro's belly; the Mo«r i3 with child by you, Launcelot. , , , i +i,„„
Lain. It is much that the Moor should be more than reason: but if she be less than an honest womaai, she is indeed more than I took her for. Tfhink
Lor. How every fool can play upon the word ! 1 thin^. thrbest grace oi wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none oidy but parrots. -Go in sirrah : bid them, prepare for dmner.
Laun. That is done, sir; they have all stomachs. Lor. Goodly lord, what a wit snapiJer are you! then bia them prepare dinner. • xv„ .^^^^i
Laun. That is done too, sir : only, cover is the worcL Lor. Will you cover, then, sir? Laun. Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty. Lm- Yet more quarrellmg with occasion! Wilt thon show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? 1 pray thee, understand a plain man in his plam meanuig : go to thy fellows; bid them cover the table, serve m the meat, and we will come in to dinner. a ■ t^^ +>,„
Laun. For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat, sir, it shaU be covered; for your commg m to dumer, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall S^^®"^,^^^
Lor. 0 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 hke him, that for a tricksy word Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, JessicaT And now, good sweet, say thy opimon — How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio s wile .'
Jes. Past aU expressing. It is very meet The Lord Bassanio live an upright hfe ; 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 somethmg else Pawn'd with the other; for the poor rude world Hath not her fellow.
2,oj-. Even such a husband
Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.
232 MEKCfl ANT OF VENICE. acttti.
Jea. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.
Lor. I will anon ; first let us go to dinner.
Jes. Nay, let me praise you while 1 have a stomach.
Lor. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk ; Then, howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things 1 shall digest it.
JeA. Well, I'll set you forth. lExeunl
ACT ly.
SCENE L— Venice. A Court of Justice.
Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes : Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Solanio, Salarino, and others.
Duke. What, is Antonio here ?
Ajif. Ready, so please your grace.
L>ui-e. 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.
■^ nt. I have heard
Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify His rigorous course ; biit smce he stands obdurate, And that no laAvful 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.
Solan. 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 thouoht, Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange Than is thy strange apparent cruelty ; And where thou now exact' st the i)enalty, — Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh, — Thou wilt not only lose the forfeiture. But, touch'd with human gentleness and love.
flOENE I. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 233
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.
Shy. 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 liave A weight of carrion flesh than to receive Three thousand ducats : I'll not answer that : But say, it is my humour. Is it answered ? What if my house be troubled with a rat, And I be pleas'd 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, Master 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 swollen bagpipe, but of force Must yield to such inevitable shame As to otfend, himself being ofi'ended ; So can I give no reason, nor I will not. More than a lodg'd hate and a certain loathing I bear Antonio, that I follow thus A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd ?
Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man. To excuse the current of thy cruelty.
Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
Bass. Do all men kill the things they do not love ?
Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not kill ?
Bass. Every otience is not a hate at first.
Shy. What! would' st thou have a serpent sting thee twice?
Ant. I pray you, tliink you question with the Jew : You may as well go stand upon the beach
234 MEKCHANT OF VENICE. act iv.
And bid the main -flood beat 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 fretted with the gusts of heaven ; You may as well do anything most hard As seek to soften that, — than which what's harder' — His Jewish heart. — Therefore, I do beseech you, Make no more offers, use no further means, But, with all brief and plain conveniency. Let me have judgment and the Jew his wdl.
Bass. For thy three thousand ducats here is six.
Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats Were in six pai'ts, and everj^ part a ducat, I would not draw them ; I would have my bond.
Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring none?
Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wroo^^ .' You have among you many a purchas'd slave, Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules, You use in abject and in slavish parts, Because you bought them. — Shall I say to you, Let them be free, marry them to your heirs ? Why sweat they under burdens ? let their beds Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates Be season'd with such viands ? You will answer, The slaves are ours : — So do I answer you ; The poimd of flesh which I demand of him Is dearly bought, is mine, and I will have it: If you deny me. He 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.
Solan. My lord, here stays without
A messenger -with letters from the doctor, New come fi-om Padua.
Duke. Brmg us the letters ;— call the messenger.
Bass. Good cheer, Antonio ! What, man ? coura^je jeb ? llie Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all. Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.
A nt. I am a tainted wether of the flock, Meetest for death : the weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground, and bo let lue :
SCENE I. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 235
You cannot better be employ' cl, Bassanio, Thau to live still, and write mine epitaph.
Enter Nerissa, dressed like a laivyer^s clerk.
Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario ?
Her. From both, my lord : Bellario greets your grace.
[Presents a lettfT.
Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?
Sky. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.
Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou mak'st thy knife keen : but no metal can. No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness Of thy sharp envy. Can no praj'^ers pierce thee ?
Shy. No ; none that thou hast wit enough to make.
(?ra. O, be thou damn'd, inexorable dog ! And for thy life let justice be accus'd. Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith, To hold opinion with Pythagoras, That souls of animals infuse themselves 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 Heet, And, wliilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam, Infus'd itself in thee ; for thy desires Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd, and ravenous.
Shy. Till thou can'st rail the seal from off my bond Thou but offend'st thy lungs to sjjeak so loud : Eepair 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 ?
Ner. He attendeth here hard by,
To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.
Duke. With all my heart : — some three or four of you Go give him courteous conduct to this place. — ^leantime, the court shall hear Bellario's letter.
[Cleric reads.] Your grace shall understand that, at the receipt of your letter, I am very sick: but in tlie instant that your messeiigcr came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Kome: Ids name is Balthasar: I acquainted him with the cause in cojitroversy between the .lew and Antonio the merchant: we turned o'er many books together : he is furnish'd with my opinion ; which, better'd with his own learning (the greatness wliereof 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 80 old a head. I leave him to your, gracious acceptance, wUuf<e trial shall better pubiisli Ills comuieudatiuu.
236 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act iv.
Duhe. You hear the learn'd Bellario, what he wi'ites: And here, I take it, is the doctor come. —
Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws.
Give me your hand : came you from old Bellario ?
Par. I did, my lord.
Duke. You are welcome : take your place.
Are you acquainted with the diflerence That holds this present question in the court ?
Por. I am informed throughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?
Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.
Por. Is your name Shylock ?
Shy. Shylock is my name.
Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow : Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. — You stand within his danger, do you not? [To Antonio*
Ant. Ay, so he says.
Por. Do you confess the bond ?
Ant. I do.
Por. Then must the Jew be merciful.
Shy. On what compulsion must 1 1 tell me that.
Por. The qiiality of mercy is not strain'd ; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 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 scepter'd sway, — It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself ; And earthly power doth then show Ukest Ood'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 stiict coiirt of Venice Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.
SCENE L MERCHANT OF VENICE. ^237
Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave tlie law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
For. Is he not able to discharge the money? Baas. Yes ; here I tender it for him iu 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 yoa, Wrest once the law to your authority : To do a great right do a little wrong, And curb this cruel devil of his will.
For. 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.
Shy. A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 0 wise young judge ! how I do honour thee ! For. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. Shy. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor ; here it is. For. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee. Shy. An oath, an oath ; I have an oath iu heaven : Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice.
For. 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.
Shy. 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.
Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court To give the judgment.
For. Why, then, thus it is.
You must prepare your bosom for his knife : Shy. 0 noble jutlge ! O excellent young man ♦ For. For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty, Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
238 MERCHANT OF VENICE.
Shy. 'Tis very true : O wise and upright judge. How much more eldei art thou than thy looks?
Por. Therefore, lay bare your bosom.
Shy. Ay, his breast:
So says the bond ; — doth it not, noljle judge? — Nearest his lieart : those are the very words.
Por. It is so. Are tliere balance here to wei^h The flesh?
Shy. I have them ready.
Por. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge^ To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.
Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond?
Por. It is not so express'd ; but what of that? 'Twere good you do so much for charity.
Shy. 1 caimot find it ; 'tis not in the bond.
Por. Come, merchant, have you anything to say?
Ant. But little; I am arm'd and well prepar'd.— Give me your hand, Bassanio ; fare you well ! Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; For herein fortune shows herself more kind 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 pove'ly ; from which hngering 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 lov'd you ; speak me fair in death ; And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge Whether Bassanio had not once a love. Eepeut not you that you shall lose your friend, And lie repents not that he pays your debt ; For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough, I'll pay it instantly with all my heart.
Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife Which is as dear to me as life itself; But life itself, my wife, and all the world Are not with me esteem'd above thy life ; I woidd lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to this devil, to deliver you.
Por. Your wife would give you little thanlis for that. If she weie by to hear you make the offer.
Gra. I have <* wife whom, I protest, I love ; I would she were in heaven, so she could JSiitieat some power to change this currish Jew.
SCENE I. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 239
Ner. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back ; The wish would make else au unquiet house.
Shy. These be the Christian husbands : I have a daughter ; Would any of the stock of Barrabas
Had been her husband, rather than a Christian ! [Anide, "We trifle time ;— 1 pray thee pursue sentence.
Por. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; The court awards it and the law doth give it.
Shy. Most rightful judge !
For. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast ; The law allows it and the court awards it.
Shy. Most learned judge !— A sentence ; come, prepare.
Por. Tarry a little ; — there is something else. — This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; The words expressly are a pound of flesh : 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.
Gra. O upright judge ! — Mark, Jew ; — 0 learned judge !
Shy. Is that the law ?
Por. Thyself shalt see the act •
For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st.
Gra. O learned judge !— Mark, Jew ;— a learned judge I
Shy. I take this offer then,— pay the bond thrice, And let the Christian go.
Bass. Here is the money.
Por. Soft; The Jew shall have all justice : — soft ; — no haste : — He shall have nothing but the penalty.
Gra. 0 Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge! •
Por. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesli- Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less nor more But just a pound of flesh : if thou tak'st more Or less than a just pound, — be it btit so mucn 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.
Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew ! Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.
Por. Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture. Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go.
240 MERCHANT OF VENICE. Arr iv
Bass. I have it ready for thee : here it is.
Por. He hath refus'd it in the open court ; He shall have merely justice, and his bond.
Gra. A Daniel, still say I ; a second Daniel ! I tliank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
SJty. Shall I not have barely my principal ?
Por. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture. To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
Shy. Why, then the devil give him good of it ! I'll stay no longer question.
Por. Tarry, Jew ;
The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, — If it be prov'd against an alien, That by direct or indirect attempts He seek the life of any citizen, The party 'gainst the whicli he doth contrive Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half Comes to the privy cofJ'er 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 contriv'd against the very life Of the defendant ; and thou hast inourr'd The danger formerly by me rehears'd. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.
Gra. Beg that thou may'st 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 spirit, 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 tine.
Por. Ay, for the state ; not for Antonio.
Shy. Nay, take my life, and all, pardon not that : You take my house when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house ; you take my life When you do take the means whereby I live.
Por What mercy can you render him, Antonio ?
Gra. A halter, gratis ; nothing else ; for God's sak«.
Ant. So please my lord the duke, and all the court. To quit the tine for one half of his goods ;
scKN E I. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 241
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 Ijorenzo and his daughter.
Duke. He snail do this ; or else I do recant The pardon that I late pronounced here.
Por. Art thou contented, Jew, what dost thou say ? Shy. I am content.
Por. Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
Shy. I pray you, give me leave to go from hence : 1 am not well ; send the deed after me And I will sign it.
Duhe. Get thee gone, but do it.
Gra. In christening shalt thou have two godfathers : Had I been judge, thou should'st 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. Por. 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 ; I'or, in my mind, you are much bound to him.
[Exeunt Duke, Magnificoes, and Train. Bass. Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted Of grievous penalties ; in lieu whereof, Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, '\\'^e freely cope your courteous pains withal. Ant. And stand indebted, over and above, In love and service to you evermore.
Por. He is well paid that is well satisfied, 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 ; 1 wish you well, and so I take niy leave.
Bass. Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further ; Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute. Not as a fee : grant me two things, I pray you, Not to deny me, and to pardon me. VOL. II. ^
242 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act iv.
Por. You press me far, and therefore T will yield. Give me your jrloves, I'll wear them for yoiir sake; And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you: — Do not draw back your hand ; III take no more; And you in love shall not deny me this.
Bass, This ring, good sir, — alas, it is a tnfle; I will not shame myself to give you this.
Por. I will have nothing else but only thi^ ; A tid now, methinks, I have a mind to it.
Bosk. 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.
Por. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers : You taught me first to beg ; and now, methinks, You teach me how a beggar should be answei d.
Bass. Good sir, this ring was given me by mj M'if j ; And, when she put it on, she made me vow That I should neither sell, uor give, nor lose it.
Por. That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifte. An if your wife be not a mad woman. And know how well I have deserv'd this ring. She would not hold out enemy for ever. For giving it to me. Well, jieace be with you !
[Exeunt Portia and Nerissa.
Ant. My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring: Let his deservings, and my love withal. Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandment.
Bass. Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him. Give him the ring ; and bring him, if thou canst. Unto Antonio's house : — away, make haste. [JUxit Gkatiano. Come, you and I will thither presently ; And in the morning early will we both Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio. [Exeunt
SCENE IL—The same. A Street.
Enter Portia and Nerissa. Por. Inquire the Jew's house out, give hini 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. €hn. Fair sir, you are well overta'en :
SCEN^ Ti. MEECHANT OF VENICE. 243
My Lord Bassanio, upon more advice,
Hath sent you here this ring ; aud doth entreat
Your company at dinner.
Por. 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.
Gra. That Willi do.
Ner. Sir, T would speak with vou : —
I'll see if I can get my husband's ling, [ To Portia.
Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.
Por. Thou may'st, I wai-rant. We shall have old swearing That they did give the rings away to men ; But we'll outface them, and outswear them too. Away, make haste ; thou know'st where I wiU tarry.
^'"r. (Jome, good sir, will you show me to this house?
\^Exevnt.
ACT Y.
SCENE I. — Belmont. Pleasure grounds oj Portia's House.
Enter Lorenzo and Jessica,
Lor. The moon shines bright ! — In such a night as this, When the sweet winds did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise ; in such a night, Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, Where Cressid lay that night.
•ff^f- In such a night
Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew. And saw the lion's shadow ere himself. And ran dismay'd away.
Lor. In such a night
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage.
Jcs. In such a night
Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs That did renew old ^son.
Lor. In such a night
244 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act v.
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,
And, with an unthrift love, did run from Venice
As far as Belmont.
Jes. In such a night
Did young Lorenzo swear he lov'd her well^ Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, And ne'er a true one.
Lor. In such a night
Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew. Slander her love, and he forgave it her.
Jes. I woiild out-night you, did nobody come: But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.
Enter Stephano.
Lor. Who comes so fast in silence of the night?
Steph. A friend.
Lor. A friend! what friend? your name, I pray you, friend ?
Steph. Stephdno 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.
Lor. Who comes with her?
Steph. None but a holy hermit and her maid. I pray you, is my master yet returu'd?
Lor. 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.
Laun. Sola, sola, wo ha, ho, sola, sola !
Lor. Who calls?
Laun. Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo and Mistress Lorenzo? sola, sola!
Lor. Leave hollaing, man : here.
Laun. Sola! where? where?
Lor. Here.
Laun. Tell him there's a post come from my master with his horn full of good news ; my master will be here ere morning. [EriL
Lor. Sweet soiil, let's in, and there expect their coming. And yet no matter; — why should we go in? My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you, Witliin the house your mistress is at hand :
SCENE I. MERCHANT OF VENICE. 245
And bring your music forth into the air. — [Exit Stephano.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank 1
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 patiues 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-ej''d cherubims :
Such liarmony 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 hjonn ; With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, And draw her home with music. [Music
Jes. I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive : For do but note a wild and wanton herd, Or race of youthful and iinhandled 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 i Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself. Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds. Is lit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night. And his affections dark as Erebus: Leo no such man be trusted. — Mark the n)usic
Enifir Portia and Nerissa, at a dtst^nnce. Pot. That light we see is burning in my hall:
How far that little candle throws his beams !
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Ner. When the moon shone we did not see the cancQe. Par. So doth the greater glory dim the less :
A suDstitute shines brightly as a king
UiitU a king be by ; and then his state
246 MERCHANT OF VENICE.
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook Into the main of waters. Music ! hark !
Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house.
Por. Nothing is good, I see, without respect ; Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.
Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.
Por. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark "When neither is attended ; and, I think. The nightingale, if she should sing by day, Wien 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 ! [Muaic cemtcs.
Lor. That is the voice,
Or I am much deceived, of Portia.
Por. He knows me, as the blind man knows the cuckoo, By the bad voice.
Lor. Dear lady, welcome home.
Por. We have been praying for our husbands' welfare. Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. Are they retum'd?
Lor. Madam, they are not yet ;
But there is come a messenger before, To signify their coming.
Por. Go in, Nerissa ;
Give order to my servants that they take No note at all of our being absent hence ; — Nor you, Lorenzo ; — Jessica, nor you. [A tucket tnunds.
Lor. Your husband is at hand, I hear his trumpet: We are no tell-tales, madam ; fear you not.
Por. This night methinks is but the daylight sick — It looks a little paler ; 'tis a day Such as the day is when the sun is hid.
Enter Bassai^io, Antonio, Gratiano, and their foUouvn.
Bass. We should hold day with the Antipodes Xf you would walli in absence of the sun.
Por. Let me give light, but let me not be light ; Por a light wife doth make a heavy husband, And never be Bassanio so for me ; But God sort all ! — you are welcome home, my lord.
Bass. I thank you, madam ; give welcome to my friei«ti.~» This is the man ; this is Antonio, To whom I am so infinitely bound.
MERCHANT OF VENICE. 247
Por. You should in all sense be mucli bound to him, For, as I hear, he was much bound for you.
A nt. No more than I am well acquitted of.
Por. Sir, you are very welcome to our house : It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore, I scant this breathing courtesy.
[Gra. anf? Ner. seem to talk apart,
Gra. 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.
Por. A quarrel, ho, already? what's the matter?
Gra. About a hoop of gokl, 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.
Net. 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.
Gra. He will, an if he live to be a man.
Ner. Ay, if a woman Uve to be a man.
Gra. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth, — A kind of boy ; a httle 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.
Por. You were to blame, I must be plain with you. To part so slightly with your wife's first gift ; A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger, And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. I gave my love a ring, and made him swear Never to part v^ith 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.
Bo •>»■ Why, I were best to cut my left hand oflF, Ana swear 1 lost the ring defending it. [Aside,
Gra. My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away Uulo the judge that begg'd it, and, indeed.
248 MERCHANT OF VENICE. A(
Peserv'd it too ; and then fhe boy, his clerk,
That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine:
And neither man nor master would take aught
But the two rings.
Por. What ring gave you, my lord?
Not that, I hope, which you receiv'd of me. Bass. If I could add a lie unto a fault
I would deny it ; but yon see my tiuger
Hath not the ring upon it ; it is gone.
Por. Even so void is your false heart of trutb.
By heaven, I will ne'er come iu your Insd
Until I see the ring.
Ner. Nor I in yours
TiU I again see mine.
Baas. 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 naught would be accepted but the ring,
You would abate the strength of your displeasure
Por. If you had known the virtue of the ring. Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, Or your own honour to contain the ring, You would not then have parted -with the ring. What man is there so much unreasonable, If you had pleas'd to have defended it With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty To urge the thing held as a ceremony? Nerissa teaches me what to believe ; I'll tlie for't, but some woman had the ring.
Bass. No, by mine 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 thd deny him, And suffer'd him to go disjjleas'd away ; Even he that had held up the very hfe Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady ? I was enforc'd 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 rinf; of me to give the worthy doctor.
Por. Let not that doctor e'er come near my bouset
MERCHANT OF VENICE. 249
Since he hath got the jewel that I lov'd.
And that Avhich you did swear to keep for me,
I will become as liberal as you ;
I'll not deny him anything I have,
No, not my body, nor my husband's bed :
Know him 1 shall, I am weU sure of it:
Lie not a night from home ; watch me like Argus :
If you do nut, if I be left alone.
Now, by mine honour, which is yet mine own,
I'U have that doctor for my bedfellow.
Ner. And I his clerk; therefore be well advis'd How you do leave me to mine own protection.
Gra. Well, do you so : let not me take him then ; For, if I do, I'll mar the young clerk's pen.
Ant. I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels.
Por. Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwith- standing.
Bass. 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,
Por. Mark you but that !
In both my eyes he doubly sees himself : In each eye one : — swear by your double seK, And there's an oath ot credit.
Ba^s. Nay, but hear me :
Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear, I never more will break an oath with thee.
A nt. 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.
Por. Then you shall be his surety : give him thisj And bid him keep it better than the other.
Ant. Here, Lord Bassanio ; swear to keep this ring.
Bass. By heaven, it as the same I gave the doctor!
Por. I had it of him : pardon me, Bassanio ; For by this ring the doctor lay with me.
Ner. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano ; For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk. In lieu of this, last night did lie with me.
Gra. Why, this is like the mending of highways In summer, where the ways are fjiir enough : What ! are we cuckolds ere we have deserv'd it?
Por. Speak not so grossly. — You are all amaz'dj
250 MERCHANT OF VENICE. act v.
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 but even now return'd ; I have not yet
Euter'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.
Ant. 1 am dumb.
Bass. Were you the doctor, and I knew you not ?
Gra. Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold T
Ner. Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it, Unless he live until he be a man.
Bass. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow ; When I am absent, then lie with my wife.
Ant. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living ; For here I read for certain that my ships Are safely come to road.
For, How now, Lorenzo ?
My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.
Ner. Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee.— There do I give to you and Jessica, From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, After his death, of all he dies possess'd of.
Lor. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way Of starved people.
Por. It is almost morning,
And yet, I am sure, you are not satisfied Of these events at full. Let us go in ; And charge us there upon inter'gatories, And we will answer all things faithfully.
Gra. Let it be so : — the first inter'gatory 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, 'J'hat 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.
AS YOU LIKE IT.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Duke, living in exile.
Frederick, Brother to the Duke, and Usurper of his
Dominions. Amiens, ) Lords attending upon the Duke in hit Jaques, ) Banishment.
Le Beau, a Courtier attending upon Frederick. Charles, his Wrestler. Oliver, ^
Jaques, [ Sons of Sir Rowland de Bois. Orlando, )
Adam, ) g^^^nts to Oliveb.
Dennis, )
Touchstone, a Clowii.
Sir Oliver Martext. a Vicar.
CoRiN, ) shepheras.
SiLVIUS, )
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 Duhes; Pages, Foresters, and other Attendants.
The SCENE lies first near Oliver's House; aftenvards partly in the Usurper's Court and partly in tlie Forest of Arden.
AS YOU LIKE IT.
ACT I. SCENE I. — An Orchard near Oliver's House,
Enter Orlando and Adam,
Orl. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me, — by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st, charged my brother, ou his blessing, to breed me well : and there begins ray sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goUlenly of his protit : 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 tliat differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better; for, besides that they are fair with tlieir feeding, they are taught their manage, and to that end rulers dearly hired: but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth ; for the which his animals ou his dunghills ai-e as much bound to him as L Besides this nothing that he so jilentifully 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 1 know no wise remedy how to avoid it.
A dam. Yonder comes my master, your brother.
Orl. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up. [Adam retina.
Enter Oliver. OU. Now, sir ! what make you here ? Orl. Nothing : 1 am not taught to make anythiim, Oli. What mar you then, sir?
2.54 AS YOU LIKE IT. act i.
Orl. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.
OIL Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught awhile.
Orl. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What prodigal portion have I spent, that 1 should come to Euch penury?
OH. Know you where you are, sir?
Orl. O, sir, very well : here in your orchard.
Oli. Know you before whom, sir?
Orl. 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-bom ; 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.
OH. What, boy!
Orl. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this.
OH. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?
Orl. I am no villain: I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois : 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, [coming forward.] Sweet masters, be patient; for your father's remembrance, be at accord.
OH. Let me go, I say.
Orl. I will not, till I please : you shall hear me. My father charged you in his will to give me good education: you have trained me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman -like qualities: the spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it: therefore, allow me such exercises as may become a gentle- man, or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament ; with that 1 will go buy my fortunes.
Oli. And what wilt thou do? beg, when that is spent? Well, sir, get you in: I will not long be troubled with you : you shall have some part of your will : I pray you, leave me.
Orl. I will no further offend you than becomes me for my good.
Oli Get vou with him, you old dog.
Adam. Is old dog my reward? Most true, I have lost my
sciSNE I. AS YOU LIKE IT. 255
teeth in yoitr service. — God be with my old master ! he would not have spoke such a word.
[Exeunt ORLANDo'and Adam. on. Is it even so ? begin you to grow upon me ? I will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis !
Enter Dennis.
Den. Calls your worship ?
OIL Was not Charles, the duke's wrestler, here to speak with me ?
Den. So please you, he is here at the door, and impor- tunes access to you.
Oli. Call him in. [Ecii Dennis.] — 'Twill be a good way; and to-morrow the wrestling is.
E7iter Chakles.
Cha. Good morrow to your worship.
Oli Good Monsieur Charles ! — what's the new news at the new court ?
Cha. There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news ; that is, the old duke is banished by his younger brother the new duke ; and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, whose lands and revenues eni-ich the new duke ; therefore he gives them good leave to wander.
Oli. Can you tell if Eosalind, the duke's daughter, be banished with her father ?
Cha. O no ; for the duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her, — being ever from their cradles bred together,— that she would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter ; and never two ladies loved as they do.
Oli. Where will the old duke live ?
Cha. They say he is already in the forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him ; and there they live like the old ilobin Hood of England : they say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time care- lessly, as they did in the golden world.
Oli. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new duke ?
Cha. Marry, do I, sir ; and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in dis- guis'd against me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle
r
256 AS YOU LIKE IT. act i.
for my credit ; and he that escapes me without some broken limb shall acqiiit 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, oi:t of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal; that either you might stay him from his intend- ment, 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.
Oil. 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 purj30se herein, and have by under- hand means laboured to clissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles, it is tlie stubbornest yoiuig 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 linger. And thou wert best look to't ; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace k'mself on thee, he wall practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he hath ta'en thy life by some intlirect 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
Cha. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come to-morrow I'll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again I'll never wrestle for prize more : and so, God keep your worship ! [Exit.
OH. Farewell, good Charles. — Now will I stir this game- ster : 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 eiichautingly beloved ; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my owti people, who best know him, that I am altogether mis- prised : 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. [Hxit,
BCEjfE II. AS YOU LIKE IT. 257
SCENE IT. — A Lawn before the Duke's Palace.
Enter Rosalind and Celia. Cel. T pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry. Bos. 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 ine how to remember any extraordinary pleasure.
Cel. Herein I see thou lovest me not with the full weight that I love thee ; if my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy uncle, the duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine ; so would'st thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously temi>ered as mine is to thee. Eos. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to rejoice in yours.
Cel. You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to have ; and, truly, when he dies thou shalt be his heir: for what he hath taken away from thy father per- force, I will render thee again in aflFection: by mine honour, I will ; and when I break that oath, let me turn monster ; therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry. Ros. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports : let me see ; what think you of falling in love?
Cel. Marry, I pr'ythee, 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 may'st iu honour come oil again. Ros. What shall be our sport, then? Cel. Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.
Ros. I would we could do so; for her benefits are mightily misplaced : and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women.
Cel. 'Tis true : for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest ; and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly.
Ros. Nay, now thou goest from fortune's office to nature's: fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of nature.
Cel. No; when nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by fortune fall into tlie fire?— Though nature hath given us wit to flout at fortune, hath not fortune sent in tliis fool to cut off the argument? VOL. IL a
268 AS YOU LIKE IT. act i.
Enter Touchstone.
Ro8. Indeed, there is fortune too hard for nature, when fortune makes nature's natural the cutter off of nature's wit.
Cel. Peradventure this is not fortune's work neither, but nature's, who perceiveth our natural wits too duU to reason of such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whet- stone : for always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. — How now, wit? whither wander you?
Tottch. Mistress, you must come away to your father
Cel. Were you made the messenger?
Touch. No, by mine honour ; but I was bid to come for you.
Ros. Where learned you that oath, fool?
Touch. Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they were good pancakes, and swore by his honour tlie 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.
Cel. How prove you that, in the great heap of your knowledge?
Jios. Ay, marry, now nnmuzzle your wisdom.
Touch. Stand you both forth now : stroke your chins, acd B^vear by your beards that I am a knave
Cel. By our beards, if we had them, thou art.
Touch. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were- but if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn : no more was this knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any ; or if he had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancakes or that mustard.
Cel. Pr'jrthee, who is't that thou mean'st?
Touch. One that old Frederick, your father, loves.
Cel. My father's love is enough to honour him enough : speak no more of him : you'll be whipp'd for taxation one of these days.
Touch. The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.
Cel. By my troth, thou say'st 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.
Bos. With his mouth full of news.
Cel. Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their young.
Ros. Then shall we be news-crammed.
CeL All the better ; we shall be the more marketable.
SCENE II. AS YOU LIKE IT. 259
Enter Le Beau.
Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau. What's the news?
Le Beau. Fair princess, you have lost much good sport
Gel. Sport! of what colour?
Le Beau. What colour, madam? How shall I answer you?
Ros. As wit and fortune will. Touch. Or as the destinies decree.
Cel. Well said ; that was laid on with a troweL Touch. Nay, if I keep not my raidi,—
Ros. Thou losest thy old smell.
Le Beau. You amaze me, ladies : I would have told you of good wrestlmg, which you have lost the sight of.
Ros. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.
Le BeuH. _. vvill 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 comin^ to per- form it.
Cel. Well,— the beginning, that is dead and buried.
Le Beau. There comes an old man and his three sous,
Cel. I could match this beginning with an old tale.
Le Beau. Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence, with bills on their necks, —
Ros. Be it knoion unto nil 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 m him : so he served the second, and so the tliird. Yonder they lie; the poor old man, their father, making such pitiful dole over them that aU the beholders take his part with weejJing.
Ros. Alas !
Touch. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have lost ?
Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of
Touch. Thus men may grow wiser every day ! It is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies.
Cel. Or I, T promise thee. . f ?■*• P^^ ^^ theve any else longs to see this broken music m 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 dp))ointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it.
250
AS YOU LIKE IT.
Cel. Yonder, sure, they are coming: let ns now stay and see it.
Flourish. Enter Duke FREDEracK, Lords, Orlando, Charles, and Attendants.
Duhe F. Come on ; since the youth wiU not be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness.
Ros. Is yonder the man?
i/e 5eaw. Even he, madam. , , , ..,
Cel Alas, he is too young : yet ^^ looks successfully.
Duke F. How now, daughter, and cousm? are you crept hither to see the wresthng? .
Bos Ay, my liec^e : so please you give us leave.
DukeF. You wfll take little delight m it, I can teU you, thfre is fuch odds in the men In pity of the challenger s youth I would fain dissuade him, but he will not be Seated. Speak to him, ladies; see if you can move
Cel Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.
DukeF Do so ; I'll not be by. [Duke F. goes apaH
Le Beau. Monsieur the challenger, the princesses call
^"olTi attend them with all respect and duty. Bos. Young man, have you chaUenged Charles the
™?''no, fair princess; he is the general challenger : I come but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of
"^ cJrY^ung 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 vour judgment, the fear of your adventure would counsel lou to a^more equal enterprise. We pray YO'^' f"- J-;^ own sake, to embrace your own safety, and give over this
"^^S^o, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be misprised : we will make it our suit to the auke that the ■wrestUng might not go forward ^mir hard
OH. I beseech you, imnish me not with your hard +l,f>iialits • wherein I confess me much guilty, -to deny so faHnd extlleat ladies anythmg. But let your fair eyes and centle >vishes go with me to my trial : wherein if I be ?oilea, there is but^one shamed that was never grac ous^if killed but one dead that is wdlmg to be so: I ^1^;^ J/^J^J friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me : the world no injury, for i^ it I have nothmg; only m the world I
SCBNE II.
AS YOU LIKE IT. 261
fill up a place, wMch may be better supplied wlien I bavo made it empty.
Bos. The little strength that I bave, I would it were witb you.
Cel. And mine, to eke out bers.
Bos. Fare you well. Pray heaven, I be deceived in you 1
Cel. Your heart's desires be with you.
Cha. Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to lie with his mother earth ?
Orl. Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.
Duke F. You shall try but one fall.
Cha. No; I warrant your grace, you shall not entreat him to a second, that have so mightily- persuaded him from a first.
Orl. You mean to mock me after ; you should not havo mocked me before : but come your ways.
Bos. Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man !
Cel. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg. [Charles and Orlando wrenUe.
Bos. 0 excellent young man !
Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down. [Cuarlks is thrown. Shout.
Duke F. No more, no more.
Orl. Yes, I beseech your grace; I am not yet well breathed.
Duke F. How dost thou, Charles ?
Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord.
Duke F. Bear him away. [Charles is borne out.
What is thy name, young man ?
Orl. Orlando, my liege ; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois.
Duke F. I would thou hadst been son to some man else. The world esteem'd thy father honourable. But I did find him still mine enemy : Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deed 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 F., Train, and Le Beac;.
Cel. Were I my father, coz, would I do this?
Orl. 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.
Bos. My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul. And all the world was of my father's niiud:
202 AS YOU LIKE IT. act L
Had I before known this young man his son, I should have given him tears unto entreaties, Ere he should thus have ventur'd.
Gel. 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 deserv'd: If you do keep your promises in love But justly, as you have exceeded promise, Your mistress shall be happy.
Eos. 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 meaus. — • Shall we go, coz ?
Gel. Ay. — Fare you well, fair gentleman.
Orl. Can I not say, I thank you ? My better parts Are all thrown down; and that which here stands up Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.
Ros. He calls us back : my pride fell with my fortunes: I'll ask him what he would. — Did you call, sir ? — Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown More than your enemies.
Gel. Will you go, coz?
^06'. Have with you. — Fare you well.
{Exeunt PtOSALiNP and Celia.
Orl. What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue ? I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference. O poor Orlando ! thou art overthrown : 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 deservd High commendation, tnie 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.
Orl. 1 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 manneTs; But yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter : The other is daughter to the banish'd duke, Ajid here detaiu'd by her usurping uucle,
SCENE TT.
AS YOU LIKE IT. 263
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 oentle 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. OH. 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 tyi-ant brother : — But heavenly E.osalind ! • \ExiL
SCENE III.— ^ Boom in the Palace.
Enter Gelia and Rosalind.
Cel. Why, cousin; why, Rosalind; — Cupid have mercy! — Not a word ?
Ros. Not one to throw at a dog.
Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs, throw some of them at me ; come, lame me with reasons.
Ros. Then there were two cousins laid up ; when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any.
(7f?. But is all this for your father?
Ros. No, some of it is for my father's child. 0, how full of briers is this working-day world !
Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery ; if we walk not in the trodden paths our very petticoats wiU catch them.
Ros. I could shalie them off my coat : these burs are in my heart.
Cel. Hem them away.
Ros. I would try, if I could cry hem and have hiin-
Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.
Ros. 0, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.
Cel. 0, a good wish upon you ! you will try in time, m despite of a fall.— But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest : is it possible, on such a sudden,
2G4 AS YOU LIKE IT. act i.
you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Row- land's youngest son ?
Bos. The duke my father loved his father dearly.
Cel. Doth it therefore .ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.
Eos. Ko, 'faith, hate him not, for my sake.
Cel. Why should I not ? doth he not deserve well ?
Ros. Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I do. — Look, here comes the duke.
Cd. With his eyes full of anger.
Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords.
Duke F. Mistress, despatch you with your safest haste. And get- you fi'om our coiui;.
Jios. Me, uncle ?
Duke F. You, cousin:
Within those ten days if that thou he'st found So near our public court as twenty miles, Thou diest for it.
lios. 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 otfend your highness.
Duke F. 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.
Rus. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor ; Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.
Duke F. Thou art thy father's daughter; there's enough.
Ros. So was I when j^our highness took his dukedom ; So was 1 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 I Then, good my Uege, mistake me not so much To tliink my jjoverty is treacherous.
Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
Duke F. Ay, Ceha : we stay'd her for your sake, Else had she with her father rang'd along.
SCENE HI.
AS YOU LIKE IT. ^fi5
Cel. 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, Eose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together; And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, Still we went coiipled and inseparable.
Duke F. 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.
Cel Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege : I cannot live out of her company.
Duke F. You are a fooL — You, niece, provide yourself: If you outstay the time, upon mine honour, And in the greatness of my word, you die.
[Exeunt Duke F. and Loida,
Cel. 0 my poor Rosalind ! whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I am.
Ros. I have more cause.
Cel. Thou hast not, cousin ;
Pr'ythee, be cheerful : know'st thou not the duke Ilath banish'd me, his daughter ?
Ros. That he hath not.
Cel. No ! hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the love Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one : Shall we be sunder'd ? shaU 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 talve 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.
Ros. Why, whither shall we go?
Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.
Ros. Alas ! what danger will it be to us, Maids as we are, to travel forth so far? Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
Cd. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
266 AS YOU LIKE IT. ICT i.
And with a kind of umber smirch my face. The like do you ; so shall we pass along, And never stir assailants.
Hos. 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.
Cel. What shall I call thee when thou art a man?
i?os. 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?
Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state : No longer Celia, but Aliena.
Bos. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal Tlie clownish fool out of your father's court? Would he not be a comfort to ovir travel?
Cd. 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. [ExeunL
ACT 11.
SCENE L— The Forest of Arden.
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and other Lords, in the drem
of Foresters.
Duke S. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hatb 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 : ;) t the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind.
AS YOU LIKE IT. 267
Which when it bites and blows upon my body.
Even till I shiink 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 Ufe, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
I would not change it.
J mi. Happy is your grace. That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style.
Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dap])led fools, Being native burghers of this desert city. Should, in their own confines, with forked heads Have their round haunches gor'd.
I 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 hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt, Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord. The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans. That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears Cours'd one another down his imiocent 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.
Du/ce S. But what said Jaques?
Did he not moralize this spectacle?
1 Lord. 0, yes, into a thousand similies. First, for his weeping into the needless stream ; Poor deer, quoth he, thou maKst a testamnd As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much: then, being there aJona^ Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends ;
268 AS YOU LIKE IT. Acy n.
*Tis right, quotli he ; thus misery doth part The flux of company: anon, a careless herd, FuU of the pasture, jumps along by him, And never stays to greet him ; A y, 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 piercefch through The body of the country, city, court, Yea, and of this our life : swearing that we Are mere usurpers, tjrrants, and what's worse, To fright the animals, and to kill them up In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.
Duke S. And did you leave him in this contemplation?
2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting Upon the sobbing deer.
Duke S. Show me the place :
I love to cope him in these sullen fits, For then he's full of matter.
2 Lord. I'll bring you to him straight. [Eceunt.
SCENE II. — A Boom in the Palace.
Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Attendants. Duke F. Can it be possible that no man saw them? It cannot be : some villains of my court Are of consent and sufferance in this.
1 Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see her. The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
Saw her a-bed ; and in the morning early
They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.
2 Lord. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. Hesperia, 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 F. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither. If he be absent, bring his brother to me, I'll make him find him : do this suddenly ; And let not search and inquisition qiiail To bring again these foolish runaways. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
AS YOU LIKE IT. 269
SCENE III.— Before Oliver's House. Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting.
Orl. Who's there? ^ ., * ,
Adam. What ! my young master?— 0, my gentle mastei 1 0 my sweet master ! 0 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 hony prizer 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. 0, what a world is this, when what is comely Envenoms him that bears it ! Orl. Why, what's the matter? Adam. 0 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 he,
And you within it : if he fail of that.
He wiLl have other means to cut you off ;
I overheard him and his practices.
This IS no place ; this house is but a butchery:
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
Orl. Why, whither, Adam, would'st thou have me go
Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here.
Orl. What, would'st 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 live hundred crowna,
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father.
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse
270 AS YOU LIKE IT. act n.
When service should in my old limbs lie lame, And unregarded age in comers thrown ; Take that : and He that doth the ravens feed. Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, Be comfort to ray age ! Here is the gold ; All this I give you. Let me be your servant; Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty : For in my youth I never did a])i)ly 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.
Orl. 0 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 fasliion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion ; And having that, do choke their service up Even with the ha\dng : it is not so with thee. But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree, That cannot so much as a blossom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandly : But come thy ways, we'll go along together ; And ere we have thy youthful wages spent We'll light upon some settled low content.
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 wsek : Yet fortune cannot recompense me better Than to die well, and not my master's debtor. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.— The Forest o/Arden.
Enter Rosalind in boj/s c'othes, Celia dressed lihe a Shepherdess, and Touchstone.
Bos. 0 Jupiter ! how weary are my spirits ! Touch. I care not for my spirits if my legs were not weaiy.
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH SV DOWNEY
XARY ANDERSON A3 KOaALIND. ^^s You J. ike- It. .JctJl. Scetve- 11.
aCENE IV.
AS YOU LIKE IT^ 271
Bos. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, and to cry like a woman: but I must comtort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat: therefore, courage, good
Gel. I pray you, bear with me ; I can go no tartlier.
Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you : yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you ; for, I think, you have no money in your purse.
Jios. Well, this is the forest of Arden.
Touch. Ay, now am 1 in Arden : the more fool I ; when I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content. ^ , ,
Hos. Ay, be so, good Touchstone.— Look you, who comes here? a young man and an old in solemn talk.
Enter CoRiN and SiLVius.
Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you stiU.
Sil. 0 Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!
Cor. I partly guess ; for I have lov'd ere now.
Sil No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess; Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow: But if thy love were ever like to mine, — As sure I think did never man love so, — How many actions most ridiculous Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?
Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil. 0, thou did'st then ne'er love so heartily: If thou remember' st not the slightest folly That ever love did make thee run into, Thou hast not lov'd : Or if thou hast not sat as I do now. Wearying thy hearerin thy mistress' praise, Thou hast not lov'd : Or if thou hast not broke from company Abruptly, as my passion now makes me. Thou hast not lov'd: 0 Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!
[Eodt SiLViirs.
Bos. Alas, poor shepherd ! searching of thy wound, I have by hard adventure found mine own. . , j
Touch. And I mine. I remember when I was m love 1 broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that tor coming a-uight to Jane Smile: and I remember the kissing r.f her batlet, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chapped hands had milked : and I remember the woomg of a peascod
272 AS YOU LIKE IT. act ii.
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 nm into strange capers ; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.
i?os'. Thou speakest wiser than thou art 'ware of.
Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it.
Jios. Jove, Jove ! this shepherd's passion Is much upon my fashion.
Ihuch. And mine : but it grows something stale with me.
Gel. I pray you, one of you question yond man If he for gold will give us any food : I faint almost to death.
Touch. Holla, you clown !
Ros. Peace, fool ; he's not thy kinsman.
Cor. Who calls?
Touch. Your betters, sir.
Cor. Else are they very wretched.
Ros. Peace, I say. —
Good even to you, friend.
Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
Ros. I pr'ythee, 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 succour.
Cor. Fair sir, I pity her.
And wish, for her sake more than for mine own. My fortunes were more able to reheve 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 boimds 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.
Ros. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?
Cor. That young swain that you saw here but ere whiles That httle cares for buying anything.
Ros. 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 ua.
SCENE IV. AS YOU LIKE IT. 273
Cel. And we will mend thy wages I like this place, And willintrly could waste my time in it.
Cor. Assuredly the thing is to he sold : Go with me : if you like, u])on report, The soil, the ]>roht, and this kind of life, I will your very faithful feeder be, And buy it with your gold right suddenly, {Exeunt.
SCENE V, — Another part of the Forest
Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others.
SONG. jiini. Under the greenwood tree,
Wlio loves to lie with me, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hitlier, come hitlier, come liither; Here sliall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.
Jaq. More, more, I pr'ythee, more.
Ami. It will make you melancholy. Monsieur Jaques.
Jaq. I thank it. More, I pr'j-thee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I pr'ythee, more.
Avii. My voice is ragged; T know I cannot please you. _ Jaq. I do not desire you to please me ; I do desire y(ni to sing- Come, more; another stanza: call you 'em stanzas?
Ami. What you will, ^lonsieur Jaques.
Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing?
Ami More at your request than to please myself.
Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you: but that they call compliment is like the encoiiuter of two dog-apes ; and when a man thanks me heartily, metliiuks I have giveu him a penny, and he renders me the beggarly tliauKs. Come, sing ; and you that will not, hold your tongues.
Ami. Well, I'll end the song. — Sirs, cover the while: the duke will drink under this tree : — he hath been all this day to look f(jr you.
Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my comjiany : I think of as many matters Rs he ; but T give henveu thanks, and make no boast ol them. Come, warble, come.
VOU II. T
274 AS YOU LIKE IT. act ii.
SONG.
AVho doth ambition sliun, [Ail lorjether her*..
And loves to live 1' the sun.
Seeking the food he e.ats.
And pleas'd with what he gets. Come hitljer. come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy But winter and rough weather.
Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, that I m^Je yesterday in despite of my invention. A mi. And I'll sing it. Jaq. Thus it goes :
If it do come to pass
That anj' man turn ass.
Leaving his wealth and ease
A stubborn will to please, Ducdanie, dncdame, ducdame;
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he. An if he will come to Ami.
Ami. What's that fZ?icrZfflwe.?
Jaq. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. rU go sleep, if I can ; if I cannot, I'U rail against all the first-born of Egypt.
Aini. And I'll go seek the duke ; his banquet is preparecL
[Exeunt seucraUy.
SCENE Yl.— Another jyart of the Forest.
Enter Orlando and Adam.
Adam,. Dear master, I can go no farther: 0, I die for food ! Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master.
Orl. ^Vhy, how now, Adam ! no greater heart in thee? Live a little ; comfort a Httle ; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth forest yield anything savage, I will either be food for it or bring it for food to thee. ^ Thy conceit is nearer death tlian thy powers. For my sake be comfort- able : hold death awhile at the arm's end : I wiU hei-e bo 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 will be with thee quickly. — Yet thou liest in the bleali air : come, I will bear thee to some shelter ; and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner if there live anything in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam ! [ExeutU.
AS YOU LIKE IT. 275
SCENIl Yll.— Another part of the Forest. A Table itpt
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, and others.
DuJce S. I think he be transform'd into a beast ; For I can nowhere find him like a man.
1 Lord My lord, he is but even now gone hence Here was he merry, hearing of a song.
Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical. We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Go, seek him ; tell him I would speak with him.
1 Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach.
Enter Jaques.
Dulce S. Why, how now, monsieur ! what a life is this, That your poor friends must woo your company? What ! you look merrily.
Jaq. A fool, a fool ! — I met a fool i' the forest, A motley fool ; — a miserable world ! — 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 : Ho, 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: Til us we may see, quoth he, how the world wags: ' Tis but an hour ago since it was nine ; And after one hour more Hivill be eleven; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, A nd tlien, from hour to hour, we rot and rot ; A nd thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear The motley fool thus moral on the time, Wy lungs began to crow like clianticleer. That fools should be so deep contemplative; And I did laugh, sans intermission, An hour by his dial. — 0 noble fool ! A worthy fool ! — Motley's the only wear.
Duke S. What fool is this?
Jaq. 0 worthy fool ! — One that hath been a courtiflTi And saj's, 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 hatli strange places cramm'd
276 AS YOU LIKE IT.
With observation, the which he vents lu mangled forms. — 0 that I were a fool ! I am ambitious for a motley coat. Duke S. Thou shalt have one. Jaq. It is my only suit.
Provided that you weed your better judgments Of all opinion that grows raixk 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 foolislily, although he smart, Not to stem senseless of the bob ; if not^ The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd 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 fovd body of the infected world, If they will patiently receive my medicine.
Duke S. Fie on thee ! I can tell what thou wouldst do. Jan. What, for a counter, would I do but good '. Dake S. 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 license of free foot hast caught, Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world
Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride, That can therein tax any private party? Doth it not tiow as hugely as the sea, Till that the weary very means do ebb? What woman in the city do I name Wlieu that I say. The city -woman bears The cost of princes on unworthy shouhlers? Wlio can come in and say that I mean her, When such a one as she, such is her neighbour? Or what is he of basest function. That says his bravery is not on my cost, — Thinking that I mean him,— but therein suits His folly to the metal of my speech?
There then; how then? what then? Let me ^ee wherein My tongue hath wrong'd him : if it do him right, Then he hath wroug'd" himself; if he be free,
AS YOU LIKE IT. 277
"Wnhy then, my taxing like a wild goose flies, Unclaim'd of any man. — But who comes here?
Enter Orlando, with his sword draivn.
Orl. Forbear, and eat no more.
Jaq. Why, I have eat none yet.
Orl. Nor shalt not, till neccssitj' be serv'd.
Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of?
Duke S. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by tliy distress: Or else a rude desjiiser of good manners, That in civility thou scem'st so empty?
Orl. You touch'd my vein at first : the thorny point Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show Of smooth civility : yet am I inland bred, And know some nurture. But forbeai', I say ; He dies that touches any of this fruit Till I and my affairs are answered.
Jaq. An you will not be answered with reason, I must die.
Duke S. What would you have? Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.
Orl. I almost die for food, and let me have it.
Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.
Orl. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you: I thought that all things had been savage here ; And therefore put I on the countenance 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 oi time ; If ever you have look'd on better days. If ever been where bells have knoU'd to church. If ever sat at any good man's feast. If ever from your eyelids wip'd 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 S. True is it that we have seen lietter days, And have with holy bell been knoU'd to church. And sat at good men's feasts, and wip'd our eyes Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd : And therefore sit you down in gentleness, And take upon command what help we have. That to your wanting may be mimster'd.
Orl. Then but forbear your food a little whiley
278 AS YOU LIKE IT. act ii.
Wliiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn. And give it food. Tiiere is an old poor man, Who after me hath many a weary step Limp'd in pure love: till he be first suffic'd, — 0]ipress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger, — 1 will not touch a bit.
Duke S. Go find liim out,
And we will nothing waste till you return.
OrL 1 thank ye ; and be bless'd for your good comfort !
[Exit. Duhe S. Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy ; This wide and universal theatre Presents more woefid pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.
Jaq. All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players; Tiiey 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 niirse's arras ; 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 lilce the pard. Jealous in honour, siidden 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 liu'd. 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 sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, jjipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all. That ends this strange eventful histoiy, Is second childishness and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
He-enter Orlando, with Adam. Duke S. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden. And let him feed.
AS YOU LIKE IT. 279
Orl. I thank you most for him.
Adam. So had you iieeil : I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.
Duke S. Welcome ; fall to : I will not trouble you As yet, to question you about your lortunes. — Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.
Amiens sings.
SONG. L
Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkinil As man's infrratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breatli be rude Heigh-ho ! sins, heish-ho ! unto the green holly Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly j Tlien, heinh-lio, the holly! This life is most jolly.
K.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forirot : Thougli thou the waters warp, Tliy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not. Heigh-ho ! sing, heigh-ho ! &c.
Duke S. If that you were tlie good Sir Rowland's eon, — As you have wliisper'd laithluLy you were, And as mine eye doth his effigies witness Most truly limn'd and living m your face, — Be truly welcome hither: I am the duke That lov'd your father. The residue oi your fortune, . Go to my cave and tell me. ^Good old man. Thou art right welcome as thy master is ; Support him l)y the arm. — Give me your hand, And let me all your fortunes understand. {Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I.— A Boom in the Palace.
Enter Duke Fredericic, Oliver, Lords, and Attendanta
Duke F. 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
2S0 AS YOU LIKE IT.
Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it :
Find out tby 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 li\'iug in our territory.
Tliy lands, and all thmgs that thou dost call thine
Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands,
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth
Of what we think against thee.
OH. O that your highness knew my heart in this ! I never lov'd my brother in my life.
Bitfce F. More villain thou.— Well, push liim 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. [ExeunU
SCENE II.— The Forest o/Arden.
Enter Orlando, vnth a paper.
Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love;
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above.
Thy huntress' name, that my full life doth sway. O Rosalmd ! these trees shall be my books.
And in their barks my thoughts I'U chai'acter. That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witness'd everywhere. Run, nin, Orlando ; carve on every tree. The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. [Exit.
Enter CoRiN and Touchstone.
Cor. And how like you this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone?
Touch. Truty, 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 tields, it pleaseth me well ; but in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it tits my humour well ; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?
Cor. No more but that I know the more one sickens the worse at ease he is ; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is without thi-ee good Mends; that the
PHOTOGRAPH BY FALK-
MAURICE BARRYMORE AS ORLANDO
SCENE II. AS YOU LIKE IT. 281
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 y,n.t by nature nor art may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred.
Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?
Co7\ No, truly.
Touch. Then thou art damned.
Cor. Nay, I hope,
Touch. Truly, thou art damned ; like an iU -roasted egg, all on one side.
Cor. For not being at coiirt? Your reason.
Touch. \^'Tiy, if thou never wast at court thoii nevei sawest good manners; if thou never sawest good manners, then thy manners must be wicked ; and wickedness is sin, and sin is danmation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd.
Cor. Not a whit, Touchstone: those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the behavi- our of tlie country is most mockable at the court. Y^ou told me -you salute not at the court, but you kiss your liands ; that courtesy would be uncleanly if courtiers were shejiherds.
Touch. Instance, briefly ; come, instance.
Cor. Wliy, we are stiil handling our ewes; and their fells, you know, are greasy.
Touch. Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? and is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow: a mere instance, I say; come.
Cor. Besides, our hands are hard.
Touch. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again : a more sounder instance ; come.
Cor. And they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are perfumed with civet.
Touch. Most shallow man ! thou worms-meat, in respect of a good piece of flesh, indeed! — Learn of the wise, and perjiend: civet is of a baser birth than tar, — the veiy uu cleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.
Cor. You have too courtly a wit for me : I'll rest.
Touch. Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man ! God make incision in thee ! "thou art raw.
Cor. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that 1 eat, get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man's hajipmess; i;]ad of other men's good, content with my harm; and the
282 AS YOU LIKE IT. act iil
greatest of my jiride is, to see my ewes graze and my lambs Biick.
Touch. That is another simple sin in you ; to bring tho 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 mateli. If thou beest not damned for this, the devil himself Avill have no shepherds; I camiot see else how thou shouldst 'scape.
Cor. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's br jther.
Enter Rosalind, reading a paper.
JxOS. From the east to western Ind,
No jewel is like Rosalind. Her worth, beint; mounted on the wind, Through nil the world bears Rosaliud. All the pictures fairest lin'd Are but black to Rosalind. Let no face be kept in mind But the fair of Rosalind.
Touch. I'll rhyme you so eight years together,, dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted : It is the right butter-woman's rank to market.
Bos. Out, fool !
Touch. 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 lin'd,
So must slender Rosalind.
They that reap must sheaf and bind.
Then to cart witli 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 ia the very fiilse gallop of verses : why do you infect yourself with them?
Ti'o.s. Peace, you dull fool ! I found them on a tree.
Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.
Bos. I'll graff it vni\i you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit in the country: for you'll be rotten ere you be half ri^.e, and that's the right virtue of the medlar.
Touch. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge.
AS YOU LIKE TT. 283
Enter Celia, reading a paper.
Bos. Peace ! Here comes my sister, reading : stand aside 1 Cel. Ireads.] why shonkl thiis a desert be?
For it is mipeupled ? No : Tongues i'll haii.cr on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show : Some, how brief tlie life of man
Runs his errin'j; pilg:rimaae, 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 nuintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show. Therefore heaven nature charu'd
That one body should be fiU'd Witli all graces wide enlarg'd:
Nature presently distill'd Helen's cheek, but not her heart ;
Cleopatra's majesty ; Atalatita's better part ;
Sad Lucretja's modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devis'd. Of many faces, eyes, and lieaits.
To have f.!e touches dearest pri^'d. Heaven would that she these gifts should have. And I to live and die her slave.
liOS. 0 most gentle Jnpiter! — what tedious homily of love have you vi'earied your parishioners withal, and nectr cried, If ave patience, good people!
Cel. How now ! back, friends ; — shepherd, go off a little : — go with him, sirrah.
Touch. Come, shej)herd, let us make an honourable retreat ; though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. [Exeunt Corin and Touch.
Cel. Didst thou hear these verses ?
Iios. 0 yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them had in them more feet than tlie verses would 1,'ear.
Cel. That's no matter ; the feet might bear the verses.
Ros- Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not Vjear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.
Cel. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged and carved upon these trees ?
Bos. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came ; for look here what I found on a paLu
284 AS YOU LIKE IT. act hi.
tree: I was never so be-rhyrued since Pythacjoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.
Cel. Trow y^L who hath done this ?
Ros. Is it a ^Pi ?
Cel. And a ibain, tha+you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour ?
JRos. I pray thee, who ?
Gel. 0 lord, lord ! it is a hard matter for friends to meet ; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.
Ros. Nay, but who is it ?
Cel. Is it possible ?
Ros. Nay, I pr'ythee now, with most petitionary vehe- mence, tell me who it is.
Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonder- ful ! and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping !
Ros. Good my complexion ! dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition ? One incli of delay more is a .South-sea of discovery. I pr'ythee, tell me, who is ib? quickly, and speak a})ace. I would tliou couhlst 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 pr'ythee take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.
Cel. So you may put a man in your belly.
Ros. Is he of God's making ? What manner of man ? Is his head woi-th a hat or his chin worth a beard ?
Cel. Naj', he hath but a little beard.
^0.9. Why, God will send more if the man will be thank- ful : let me stay the growth of his beard if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.
Cel. It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler's heels and your heart both in an instant.
Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking : speak sad brow and true maid.
Cel. I'faith, coz, 'tis he.
Ros. Orlando?
Cel. Orlando.
Ros. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose ? — What did he when thou sawest him ? What said he '/ How looked he? Wlierem went he ? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.
BCENE Ti. AS YOU LIKE IT. 285
Cel. You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first : 'tis a word too great for any mouth of tliis age's size. To say ay and no to these parti-iulars is more tha,j^to answer in a catechism.
Bos. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man's ajiparel ? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?
i 'd. It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the pro- positions of a lover: — but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it wath good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropped acorn.
Eos. It may well be caUed Jove's tree, when it drops forth such fruit.
Cel. Give me audience, good madam.
Bos. Proceed.
CeL There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.
Ros. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well becomes the ground.
CeL Cry, holla ! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee ; it curvets unseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter.
Bos. 0, ominous ! he comes to kill my heart.
Cel. I would sing my song without a burden: thou bringest me out of tune.
Bos. Do you not know I am a woman ? when I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on.
CeL You brmg me out. — Soft! comes he not here?
Boa. 'Tis he : sliuli by, and note him.
[Celia and PvOSALIND retire.
Enter Orlando and Jaques.
Jaq. I thank you for your company ; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone. ■
Orl. And so had I ; but yet, for fashion's sake, I thank yoii too for your society.
Ja'i. God be wi' you : let's meet as little as we can.
Orl. I do desire v/e may be better strangers.
Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love- songs in their barks.
Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading tliem ill-favouredly.
Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name ?
Orl. Yes, just.
Jaq. I do not like her name.
OrL There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
Jaq. What stature is ahe of?
286 AS YOU LIKE IT.
Orl. Just as liigli as my heart.
Jaq. You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsuiiths' wives, and conned them out of rings ?
Orl. Not so ; but I auswer you ricjht painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.
Jaq. You have a nimble wit : I think it was made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down wdth me ? and we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery.
Orl. I will chide no breather in the world but myself agaiust whom I know most faults.
Jaq. The worst fault you have is to be in love.
Orl. 'Tis a fault I wdl not change for your best virtue. 1 am weary of you.
Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.
Orl. He is drowned iu the brook ; look but in, and you shall see him.
Jaq. There I shall see mine own figure.
Orl. Wliich I take to I le either a fool or a cipher.
Jaq. I'll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good Signior Love.
Orl. I am glad of your departure: adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy. [Exit Jaq — Cel. and Ros. coine forward.
Bos I %vill speak to him like a saucy lacquey, and under that habit play the knave with him. — Do you hear, forester ? •» Orl. Very well : what would you ?
Ros. I pray you, what is't o'clock ?
Orl. You should ask me what time o'day ; there's no clock in the forest.
Ros. Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of time as well as a clock.
Orl. And why not the swift foot of time ? had not that been as proper ?
Ros. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I will tell you who time ambles ■withal, who time trots withal, who time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
Orl. I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal ?
Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the couiiact 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 tlie length of seven years.
Orl. Who ambles time withal ?
AS YOU LIKE IT. %7
Fos. With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich maa tnat 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 wastefu 1 learning; the other knowing no biu'den of heavy tedious penury. These time ambles withal.
Orl. Wlio doth he gallop withal?
Bos. With a thief to the gallows; for though he gi> w Boftly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
Orl. Who stays it still withal ?
Jius. With lawyers in the vacation ; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how time moves.
0)-L Where dwell you, pretty youth ?
Bos. With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.
Oi-l. Are you native of this place ?
Hos. As the coney, that you see dwell where slie is kindled.
Orl. Your accent is something liner than you could pur- chase in so removed a dwelling.
Has. I have been told so of many: but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in Lis youth an inland man; one that knew coui-tship too well, for tliere 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 gene- rally taxed their whole sex withal.
Orl. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women ?
-ffo.s. There were none principal ; they were all like one another as halfjjence are ; every one fault seeming mon- strous till his fellow fault came to match it.
Orl. I pr'ythee, recount some of them.
Eos. 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 ujon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind : if I could meet that fancymonger I would gi\e him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon lum.
Orl. I am he that is so love-shaked: I pray you, tell me your remedy.
JRos. 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 yoii are not prisoner.
Orl. What were his marks?
288 AS YOU LIKE IT.
Bos. A lean cheek ; whicli you have not : a bhxe eye and Biinken ; which you heave 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 unljanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and ercrything 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. Oil. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love. Bos 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 Booth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired ?
Oii. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosa- lind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.
Jios. But are you so much in love as your rhjnnes speak ? Orl. Neither rliyme nor reason can express how much. J.'on. Love is merely a madness; aud, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do: and the reason why they are not so jnmisheil and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel. Orl. Did you ever cure any so ?
Ji'os. 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 wouhl I, being but a moouish youth, grieve, be etiemiuate, changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, ajiish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles ; for every passion something, and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour: would now like him, now loath him ; then entertain him, then forswear him ; now weep for him, then spit at him ; that I drave my suitor fioi.'- liis mad humour of love to a loving humour of madness ; wliich was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in't.
Orl. I would not be cured, youth.
Bos. I would cure you if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote and woo me.
SCENE II. AS YOU LIKE IT. 289
Orl. Now, by tlie faitli of my love, I wiU : tell me where it is.
Hos. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you: and, by the way, you shall tell me where in *he forest you live. Will you go?
O/i. Witk all my heart, good j'outh.
Jlos. Nay, you must call me Ilosalind. — Come, sister, will you go? [Extunt.
SCENE III.— Another part of the Forest.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey ; Jaques at a distance obse^-vinrj them.
Touch. Come apace, good Audrey ; I will fetch up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? am I the man yet? Doth my simple feature content you?
Aud. Your features ! Lord warrant us ! what features?
Toiich. I am here with thee aud thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.
Jaq. 0 knowledge ill-inhabited! worse than Jove in a thatch'd house. [Aside.
Touc/i. When a man's verses cannot be iinderstood, nor a man's good wit seconded with tire forward child under- standing, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. — Truly, I would th« gods had made thee poeticaL
Aud. I do not know what poetical is: is it honest ia deed and word? is it a true thing?
Touoh. No, truly: for the truest poetry is tho most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetry may be said, as lovers, tliey do feign.
Aud. Do you wish, theu, that the gods had made me poetical?
Touch. I do, truly, for thou swearest to me thou art honest ; now, if thou wert a poet I might have some hope thou didst feign.
A ud. Would you not have me honest?
Touch. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured; for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
Jaq. A material fool ! [Aside.
A ud. Well, I am not fair ; and therefore I pray the gods make me honest !
Touch. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut v/ere to put good meat into an unclean dish.
VOL. IL U
200 AS YOU LIKE IT.
Aud. [ am not a shit, though I thank the gods I am fonl.
Touch. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness! bluttishuess may come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee; aud to that end I have l^een 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.
Ja(j. I would fain see this meeting. [A side.
Aud. Well, the gods give its joy !
Touch. Amen. A man maj% 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? Coiirage! As horns are odious, they are ne- cessary. It is said, — Llauy a man knows no end of his goods : right ; many a man has good horns aud knows no end of tiiem. Well, that is the dowry of his wife ; 'tis none of his own getting. Horns? Ever to jtoor 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 T>are bi'ow of a bachelor: and by how much defence is better than no sldll, 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 yoii despatch F.s here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?
Sir on. Is there none here to give the woman?
Touch. I will not take her on gift of any man.
Sir OH. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.
Jaq. [discovering MmseJf.l Proceed, proceed; I'll give her.
Touch. Good even, good Master Whrtt-ye-calPt: how do you, sir? You ai-e very well met : God'ild you for your last company : I am very glad to see you : — even a toy in hand here, sir : — nay ; pray be covered.
Jaq. Will you be married, motley ?
Touch. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath liis deshes; and aa pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbliug.
Jaq. Ajid 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 : tins feUow mil but join v"u together as they join wainscot:
gCENK III. AS YOU LIKE IT. 291
then one of you will prove a shrunk panel, and like green tiuiber, warp, v/arp.
Touch. I am not in tlie 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 wUl be a good flxcixse for me hereafter to leave my wife. [^ side.
Jaq. Go thou v/ith me, and let me counsel thee.
Touch, Come, sweet Audrey; We must be married or we must live in bawdry. Farewell, good master Oliver ! — Not, —
O sweet Oliver, O lirave Oliver, Leave rue not behind thee; But,—
Wind away,— Begone 1 say, 1 will not to wedding with thee.
[Ere>mt Jaq., Touch., and Avd.
Sir on. 'Tis no matter ; ne'er a fantastical luiave of them
all shall flout me out of my calling. [Exit.
SCENE IV. —A nother part of the Forest. Before a Cottage.
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
Eos. Never talk to me ; I will weep.
Cel. Do, I pr'ythee ; but yet have the grace to consider that ter.rs do not become a man.
Has. But have I not cause to weep?
Cel. As good cause as one would desire ; therefore weep.
Bos. His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
Cel. Something browner than Judas's : marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.
Bos. I'faith, his hair is of a good colour.
Cel. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour.
Bos And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.
Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana : a nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is m them.
Jios. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and conies not?
Cel. Noy, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Bos. Do you think so?
CeL Yes; I think he is not a pickpurse nor a, horeo-
292 AS YOU LIKE IT. act in.
stealer ; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet or a worm-eaten nut.
JiOS. Not true in love?
Cel. Yes, when he is in ; but I think he is not in.
Bos. You have heard him swear downright he was.
Vel. Was is not is: besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; they are lioth the contirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the duke, your father.
Bos. I met the duke yesterday, and had nmch question with hun. He asked me of what parentage I was ; I told him, of as good as he ; so he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when there is such a man as Orlando?
CeL 0, that's a brave man ! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks tlieni bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover ; as a puny 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 giudes. — Who comes here ?
Enter CoRIN.
Cor. Mistress and master, j'ou have oft inquired After the shejjherd that complaiu'd of love, Who you saw sitting by me on the turf. Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress.
Cel. WeU, and what of him?
Car. 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.
Bos. 0, come, let us remove :
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. Bring us unto this sight, and you shall say I'll prove a busy actor in their play. [Exeunt,
SCENE Y.— Another jmrt of the Forest.
Enter SiL^aus and Phebe. Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me ; do not, Phebe : Say that you love me not ; but say not so In bitterness. The coimnon executioner. Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.
BCENE V.
AS YOU LIKE IT. 29-7
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck But first begs panlou. Will you sterner be Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Cokin, at a distance.
Phe. I would not be thy executioner : T fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye : 'Tis pretty, sure, aud very probable, Tliat eyes,— that are the frail'st and softest thini^s, ^\^]o shut their coward gates on atomies, — Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers ! Kow 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 dowu ; Or, if thou canst not, 0, for shame, for shame, lAe not, to say mine eyes are murderers. Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee: Scratch thee but with a ])in, and there remams Some scar of it ; lean but upon a rush, The cicatrice aud capable impressure Thy pahn some moment keeps ; but now mine eyes, Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not ; Kor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes That can do hurt.
SU. 0 dear Phcbe,
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.
pjie. But till that time
Come not thou near me ; and when that time comes Afllictme with thy mocks, pity me not; As till that time I shall not pity thee.
Jio8. [advancing.] 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 :—0d's my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes too !— No, faith, proud mistress, hope nut after it}
294 AS YOU LIKE IT. act m.
'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyel»alls, nor your cheek of cream, That can entame my spirits to your worship. — - You foolish shepherd, wherefoi-e do you follow her, Like foggy south, pufhng with wind and rain? Vou are a thousand times a proi)erer man Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you That make the world full of ill-favour'd childi-en : '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 yoiir ear, — • Sell when you can ; you are not for all niarkets : Cry the man mercy ; love him ; take his offer : Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. So take her to thee, shei)herd ; — fare you well.
P/ie. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together: I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
Bus. He's fallen in love with your foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as last as she answers thee with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. ■ — Why look you so upon me?
P/ie. For no ill will I bear you.
Jios. 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 abus'd in sight as he. Come to our flock. [Exeunt E,os., Cel., and Coit.
Phe. Dead shepherd ! now I find thy saw of might ; Who ever lov\l that lov'd not at first sight?
Sil. Sweet Phebe, —
Phe. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvias?
Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phe. Whj', I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be : If you do sorrow at my grief in love. By giving love, j'our sonow and my grief Were both extermin'd.
Phe. Thou liast my love: is not that neighbourly?
Sil. I would have you.
SCENE V. AS YOa LIKE IT. 295
Phe. WJiy, that were covetousness.
Silvius, the time was that 1 hated thee ; And yet it is not that I l)ear thee love : Bnt since that thou canst talk of love so well. Thy company, winch erst was irksome to me, I will enditre ; and I'll employ thee too : But do not look for further recompense Than thine own gladness tliat thou art emplo}''d.
SiL 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 re<aps : loose now and then A scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.
Phe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me ercwhile?
S'd. 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.
Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him; 'Tis but a peevish boy : — yet he talks well ; — But what care I for words ? yet words do well When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. 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 e_ye did heal it up. He is not vei-y 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 ; 'cwas just the difference Betwixt 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 : Ijut, for my part, I love him not, nor hate him not ; and yet Have more cause to hate him than to love him : For what had he to do to chide at me ? 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; ommittance is no quittance. I'll wi'ite to him a very taunting letter. And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius?
SiL Phebe, with all my heart.
296 AS YOU LIKE IT. act iti.
Phe. I'll write it straight ;
The matter's in my head and in my heart : I will be bitter with him, and passing short : Go with me, Silvius. [Exeunu
ACT IV. SCENE 1.— Forest oj Arden.
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaqxtes.
Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted Math thee.
Ros. They say you are a melancholy fellow.
Jaq. I am so ; I do love it better than laughing.
Ros. Those that are in extremity of either are abomin- able fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.
Jaq. Wliy, 'tis good to be sad and say notliing.
Ros. Why, then, 'tis good to be a jjost.
JiKl. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, wliich is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fautastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud ; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, wliich is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects : and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of ray travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous satlness.
Ros. A traveller ! By my fiiith, you have great reason to be sad: I fear you have sold your own lauds to see other men's ; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience.
Ros. And your experience makes j'ou sad : I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me Bad ; and to travel for it too.
Enter Orlando.
Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear Eosalind !
Jaq. Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse.
Ros. Farewell, monsieur traveller: look you Usp and wear strange suits; disable aU the benefits of your ov/n
AS YOU LIKE IT. 297
country; be out of love with your nativity, aud almost chide God for makmg you that countenance you are ; or T will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. [Exit Jaques.] Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been all this while? You a lover! — An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.
Orl. My fair Kosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
Bos. Break an hour's promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thoiisand parts, and break but a part of a thousandth part of a minute in tlie aflairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole.
Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Bos. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight : I had as lief be woo'd of a snail.
Orl. Of a snail !
Bos. Ay, of a snail ; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head ; a better jointure, I thiuk, than you ■ can make a woman : besides, he brings his destiny with him.
Orl. Wliat's that?
Bos. Why, horns ; which such as yoii are fain to be beholden to your wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents the slander of bis wife.
Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is vir-
Bos. And I am your Rosalind. [tiious.
Cel. It pleases him to call you so ; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.
Bos. Come, woo me, woo me ; for now T am in a holiday humour, and hke enough to consent. — What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind?
Orl. I would kiss before I spoke.
Bos. Nay, you v/ere better speak tirst ; 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 clean- liest shift is to kiss.
Orl. How if the kiss be denied?
Bos. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
Orl. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
Bos. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress j or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.
Orl. What, of my suit?
Bos. Not out of your apparel, and j'et out of your suit. Am not I your RosaUudY
298 AS YOU LIKE IT. act iv.
0/7. I take some joy to say you are, because 1 would be talking of her.
Jios. Well, in ber person, I say, I will not bave you.
Orl. Then, in mine ovm person, I die.
Bos. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any :nan died in his o'wn person, vklrlicH, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club ; yet he did what he could to che before ; and he is one of the patterns of love Leander, he v/ould have lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned niin, 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 chroniclers of that age found it was — Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies ; men have (Ucd from time to time, and worms have eaten them, liut not for love.
Orl. I would not have my right Eosalind of this mind ; for, I protest, her frown miglit kill me.
Ros. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on dis- jjosition ; and ask me what you will, I will grant it.
Orl. Then love me, Eosalind.
I}os. Yes, faith will I, Fridays and Saturdays, and alL
Orl. And wilt thou have me?
Ros. Ay, and twenty such.
Orl. "Wliat sayest thou ?
Ros. Are you not good?
Orl. I hope so.
Ros. Why, then, can one desire too much of a good thing? — Come, sister, you shall be the priest, and many us. — Give me your hand, Orlando : — What do you say sister?
Orl. Pray thee, marry us.
Cel. I cannot say the words.
Ros. You must beu:in, WiV pan, Orlando, —
Cel Go to: WiU you, Orhmdo, have to wife this
Rosalind?
Orl. I will.
Ros. Ay, but when?
Orl. Why, now ; as fast as she can marry us.
Ros. Then you must say, — / tak:i thee, Rosalind, for wife.
Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
Ros. I might ask \n\\ for your commission ; but, — I do take thee, Orlando, for my husl>aud : — there's a girl goes before the priest ; and, certainly, a woman's thought ninn before her actions.
SCENE I.
AS YOU LIKE IT. 299
Orl. So do all tliouglits ; they are wini:!;od.
JRos. Now tell me how long you would have her, after you have possessed her.
Ort. For ever and a day.
Eos. 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 chauges when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than \ Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen ; more clamorous than a parrot ag^iinst 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 hke a hyen, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.
Orl. But will my Rosalind do so?
Bos. By my life, she will do as I do.
0}'l. 0, but she is wise.
Bos. Or else she could not have the wit to do this : the wiser, the way warder: make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it vdll out at the casement ; shut that, and 'twill out at the keyhole ; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might Bay, — Wit, whither ivilt?
Bos. Nay, you niight keep that check for it, till you met your wife's wit going to your neighboiir's bed.
Orl. And what wit could wit have to excuse that ?
Bos. Marry, to say, — she came to seek yovi there. You ehall never take her without her answer, unless you take her Avithout her tongue. 0, that woman that cannot make her fault her husljand's occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool.
Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
Bos. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours !
Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner: by two o'clock I Avill be with thee again.
Bos. Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you would prove; my fi-iends told me as much, and [ thought no less : — that flattering tongue of yours w<in me : — 'tis but one cast away, and so, — come, death ! — Two o'clock is your hour ?
Orl. Ay, sweet Rosalind.
Bos. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oatlis that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise, or come one minute behmd vour hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-
300 AS YOU LIKE IT. act iv.
promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most un- worthy of her yon call Ilosalhid, that may be chosen out of the gross band of the uufaithiul: tlierefore beware my censure, and keep your promise.
Orl. With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind : so, adieu !
/i'o.s'. Well, time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try : adieu ! {Exit Orlaxdo.
Gel. You have simply misus'd 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.
Ros. 0 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.
Gel. Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.
Ron. No ; that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness ; that blind rascally boy, that aVtuses every one's eyes, be- cause 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'U go find a shadow, and sigh till he come.
Gel. And I'll sleep. {Exeunt.
SCENE 11.— Another jyart of the Forest. Enter Jaques and Lords, in the habit of Foresters. Jaq. "Which is he that killed the deer?
1 Lord. Sir, it was I.
Jaq. Let's present him to the duke, like a Roman con- queror ; 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?
2 Lord. Yes, sir.
Jaq. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.
SONG.
1. What shall he have that kill'd the deer?
2. His leather skin and bonis to wear.
1. Then sin'^ liim home : Take thou no scorn to wear the horn; ('''''« >■"' shall
It was a crest ere thou wast born. U^iL
1. Thy father's father wore it;
2. And tliy father bore it :
All. The luini, the linrii, tlie lusty horn,
1b not a tiling tu luu^ii to scoiii. [Exeunt,
SCENE III. AS YOU LIKE IT. 301
SCENE UL— Another part of the Forest. Enter Rosalind and Celta.
Fos. How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock? And here niiicb Oiiando !
Gel. I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, lie hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth — to sleeji. Look who comes here.
Unter Silvius.
Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth ; — My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this: [Giving a letter. I know not the contents ; but, as I guess By the stern brow and waspish action Which she did use as she was writing of it, It bears an angry tenor : pardon me, I am but as a guiltless messenger.
Bos. 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, an<l that she could not love me, Were man as rare as Phtt'nix. 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.
Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents : Phebe did write it.
Bos. Come, come, you are a fool.
And turn'd into the extremity of love. I saAV 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.
Sil. Sure, it is hers.
Bos Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cniel style ; A style for challengers : wlij', she defies me. Like Turk to Christian : woman's gentle brain Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention. Such Ethioj) words, blacker in their effect Than in their countenance. — Will you hear the letter?
Sil. So please you, for I never heard it yet , Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.
302 AS YOU LIKE IT. activ
Hos. She Pliebes me : mark how the tjTant writes.
[Beada. Art thou god to shepherd turn'd, That a maiden's heart hath buru'd?
Can a woman rail thiis ? SU. Call yoii this railing?
JiOS. Why, tli.v godliead laid apart,
Wan-'st tliou witli a woman's heart?
Did you ever hear such railing?
Whiles the eye of man did woo me, Tliat could do no ven^^eance to me.—
Meaning me a beast. —
If the scorn of yonr brljrht eyne Have power to raise siuh love in mine Alack, in me what stianije elfect Wonld they worl< in njild aspect? AVliiles you chid me I did love ; llciw then might yonr prayers move? He tliat hrings this love to thee Li I tie knows this love in me : And by him seal up thy mind ; Whetlier that tliy vout'h and kind Will tlie faith fnl'oifer take Of me, and all that l.can make; Or else by him my love deny, Aiid theii I'll study how to die.
SU. Call you this chiding?
Cel. Alas, poor shepherd !
Hos. Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity. — Wilt thou love such a woman? — What, to make thee an in- strument, and play false strains upon thee! Not to ))e endured ! — Well, go your way to her,— for I see love hatli 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 mora company. [Exit SiLViua
Enter Oliver.
OH. Good-morrow, fair ones : pray you, if you know Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?
Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom t 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.
OH. If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
SCENE III.
AS YOU LIKE IT. tm
Then should I know you by description ;
Such garments, and such years. The boy is fair.
Of female favour, and bestows Idmself
Like a ripe sister: the woman loiv.
And browner than her brother. Are not you
The owner of the house I did inquire for?
Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we ara (Jli. Orhmdo doth commend him to you both; And to that youth he calls his Rosalind He sends this bloody napkin: — are you he? J^os. I am: what must we understand by this? on. Some of my shame ; if you will know of me What man I am, and how, and why, and where This haudkercher was stain'd.
Cel. I pray you, tell it.
OIL When last the J^'oung Orlando parted from yon, He left a promise to return again Within an hoiir ; 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 Ijoughs were moss'd with age, And high top bald with dry antiquity, A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown v/ith hair, Lay sleeping on his back : about his neck A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself. Who, with her head, nimble in throats, 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, ^vith udders al* drawn dry. Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like 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.
Cel. 0, I have heard him speak of that same brother; And he did render him the most unnatural That liv'd 'mongst men.
Oli. And well he might so do.
For well I know he was unnatural.
Bos. But, to Orlando: — did he leave him there. Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?
Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so;
304 AS YOU LIKE IT. act iv.
But kindness, nobler ever than reventfe, And nature, stronger than his just occasion. Made him give battle to the lioness. Who quickl3r fell before hiin ; in wliich hurtling From miserable slumber I avvak'd.
Ctl. Are you his brother?
Hos. Was it you he rescued?
Ce2. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him?
OH. 'Twas 1 ; but 'tis not 1 : I do not shame To tell you vi^hat I was, since my conversion So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
Il(hs. But, for the bloody napkin? —
Oil By and by.
When from the first to last, betwixt us two. Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd. As, how I came into that desert place ; — In brief, he led me to the gentle duke, WTao 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 liere upon his arm The honess had torn some flesh away, W^hich all this while had bled ; and now he faulted. 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 1 am. To tell this story, that you might excuse His broken promise, and to give this napkin, Dy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd -youth That he in sport doth call his Rosaluid.
Cel. Why, how now, Ganymed* ! sweet Ganymede !
[Rosa LI ND faints.
OIL Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
Cel. There is more in it : — Cousm — Ganymede !
OIL Look, he recovers.
T<os. I would I were at home.
CeL We'U lead you thither :— I pray you, will you take him by the ai-m?
OIL Be of good cheer, youth : — you a man? — You lack a man's heart.
Kos. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sir, a body would think this was well counterfeited. I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited. — Heigh-ho! —
OIL This was not counterfeit ; there is too great testimony in yo^yv complexion that it was a passion of earnest
SCENE Til. AS YOU LIKE IT. 305
Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you.
OIL Well, then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to he a man.
Ros. So I do : but, i'faitli, I should have been a woman by right.
Cel. Come, you look paler and paler: pray you, draw homewards. — Good sir, go with us.
OIL That will I, for I must bear answer back How you excuse my brother, Eosalind
Ros. I shall devise something : but, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him. — Will you go? [Extuid.
ACT V.
SCENE I.— The Forest o/Arden.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey ; patience, gentle Audrey.
And. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman's saying.
Touch. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the lorest lays claim to you.
Aud. Ay, 1 know who 'tis : he hath no interest in me in the world : here comes the man you mean.
Touch. It is meat aud drink to me to see a clown : By my troth, we that have good wits have much to answer for j we Bhall be flouting ; we cannot hold.
Enter William.
Will. G"od even, Audrey.
Aud. God ye good even, William.
Will. And good even to you, sir.
Touch. Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, pr'ythee, be covered. How old are you, friend?
Will. Five-and-twenty, sir.
Touch. A ripe age. Is thy name William?
Wi I. William, sir.
Touch. A fair name. Wast born i' the forest liere?
Will. Ay, sii-, I thank God.
VOL. II. X
306 AS YOU LIKE IT. act v.
Touch. Tliank God ; — a good answer. Art rich ?
Will. Faith, sir, so-so.
Touch. So-so is good, very good, very excellent good ; — and j'et it is not ; it is but so-so. Art thou wise?
Will. Ay, sir, I have a i)retty wit.
Touch. Why, thou say'st 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 pliilosopher, when lie had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips when he ])ut it into his mouth ; meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do love this maid?
Will. I do, sir.
Touch. Give me your hand. Art thou learned?
Will. No, sir.
Touch. Then learn this of me : — to have is to have ; for it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being jioxired out of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty the other ; for all your writers do consent that i^Jse is he ; now, you are not ipse, for I am he.
Will. Which he, sir?
Touch. He, sir, that must marry this woman. There- fore, you clown, abandon, — w"hich is in the vulgar, leave, ■ — the society, — Avhich in the booi'ish 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 Avill o'er-run thee with policy ; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways ; therefore tremble, and depart.
Aud. Do, good William.
Will. God rest you merry, sir. [Exit.
Enter Corut. Cor. Our master and mistress seek you ; come away, awajr !
Touch. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey ; — I attend, T attend. [Exeunt
SCENE lL—A7iother part of the Forest
Enter Orlando and Oliver. Orl. Is't possible that, on so little acquaintance, you should hke her? that, but seeing, you should love her?
SCENE II. AS YOU LIKE IT. 307
and, loAang, woo? and, wooing, she should erant? and will you pers6ver to enjoy her?
on. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden consentmg ; but say -wdth nie, 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 Row- land's, win I estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd.
Or/. You have my consent. Let your wedding be to- morrow: thither will I invite the duke and all his con- tented followers. Go you and ^jrepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.
Enter Rosalind.
Jfos. God save you, brother.
OIL And you, fair sister. [E.rit.
Bos. 0, my dear Orlando, how it grieA eb me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf.
Orl. It is my arm.
Bos. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.
Oi-l. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.
Bos. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to Bwoon when he show'd me your handkercher.
Orl. Ay, and greater wonders than that.
Bos. 0. I know where you are: — nay, 'tis true: there was never anything so sudden but the fight of two rams and Caasar's thrasonical brag of — / cavie, saw, and over- came. : for j^our brother and my sister no sooner met, but they looked ; no sooner looked, but they loved ; no soo«ier 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 wiU climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage: they are in the very wrath of love, and they will together : clubs cannot jiart them.
Orl. They shall be married to-morrow ; and I will bid the duke to the nuptial. But O, how bitter a thing it is to look iuto happiness through another man's eyes ! L>v 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.
308 AS YOU LIKE IT.
Ros. Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?
OrL I can live no longer by thinking.
Hos. I ynll 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 know- ledge, 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 to-morrow, human as she is, and without any danger.
OrL Speakest thou in sober meanings?
Jios. By my life, I do ; which I tender dearly, though I say I am a magician. Therefore, put you in your best array, bid your friends ; for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to Rosalind, if you will. Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of hers.
Enter Silvius and Phebe.
Phe. Youth, you have done me much ungentlenes3. To show the letter that I writ to you.
Bos. I care not, if I have : it is my study To seem despiteful and uugentle to you : You are there foUow'd by a faithful shepherd; Look upon him, love him ; he worships you.
P/ie. Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to lovsk
Sil. It is to be all made of sighs and tears ; — And so am I for Phebe.
Phe. And I for Ganymede.
OrL And I for RosaUnd.
JRos. And I for no woman.
Sif. It is to be all made of faith and service; — And so am I for Phebe.
Phe. And I for Ganymede.
OrL And I for Rosalind.
Pos. And I for no woman.
SiL It is to be all made of fantasy, AJl made of passion, and all made of wishes.
BCENE 11. AS YOU LIKE IT. 309
All adoration, duty, and obedience, All humbleness, all patience, and impatience. All purity, all trial, all observance ; — And so am I for Phebe.
Phe. And so am I for Ganymede.
Orl. And so am I for Rosalind.
Bos. And so am I for no woman.
Phe. K tMs be so, why blame you me to love you?
[To Rosalind.
SU. K this be so, why blame you me to love you ?
[To Pfebe.
Orl. If this be so, why blame you me to love you ?
Rob. Why do you speak too, — Why blame you me to love you?
Orl. To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.
Ros. Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon. — I will help you [t) SiLvius] if I can: — I would love you [to Phebe] if I could. — To-morrow meet me all together. — I will marry you [to Phebe] if ever I marry woman, aud I'll be married to-morrow : — I will satisfy you [to Orlando] if ever I satis- fied man, and you shall be married to-morrow: — I will content you [to Silvius] if what pleases you contents you. and you shall be married to-morrow. — As you [to Orlando] love Rosalind, meet ; — as you [to Silvius] love Phebe, meet ; and as I love no woman, I'll meet. — So, fare you well; I have left you commands.
SU. I'll not fail, if I Uve.
Phe. Nor I.
Orl Nor L
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.— Another part of the Forest.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
Touch. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey ; to-morrow will we be married.
Aud. I do desire it with all my heart ; and I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. Here come two of the banished duke's pages.
Enter two Pages.
1 Page. Well met, honest gentleman.
Touch. By my troth, well met. Come sit, sit, and a sone.
2 Page. We are for you : sit i' the middle.
310 AS YOU LIKE IT. act v
1 Paqe. Sliall we clap into't roundly, without hawking, or spitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are the only pro- logues to a bad voice?
2 Pa(]e. I'faith, i' faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies on a horse.
SONG.
L
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho. and a hey nonino,
That o'er the trreen corn-flcld did pass
In the spring time, the only pretty rins time. When birds do sing, liey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet lovers love the spring.
II. Between the acres of the rye.
With a hey, and a ho, and a hev nonino. These pretty country folks would lie.
In the spring time, &c.
III. This carol they hefran that honr.
With a hey. and a ho, and a hey nonino. How that a lift was but a flower
In the spring time, &c.
IV.
And therefore t.ake the present time, Witli a hey, and a lio, and a hey noninc;
For love is crowned with the prime In the spring time, &c.
Tovcli. Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untimeable.
1 Page. You are deceived, sir; we kept time, we lost not our time.
Touch. By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. God be wi' you; and God inend your voices ! Come, Audi'ey. [Exeunt.
SCENE lY.— Another part of the Forest.
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, and Celia. Duke S. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy Can do all this that he hath promised?
Orl. I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not; As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.
Enter Rosalind, Silvius, and Phebe. Bos. Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg'd :
SCENE TV. AS YOU LIKE IT. 311
You say, if I bring in your Posalincl, [To the Duke.
Yo\i will bestow her on Orlando here?
Dide S. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.
Bos. And you say you will have her, when I bring her? [7'o Orlando.
07-1. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.
Jios. You say you'll marry me if I be willing ? [To Phebe.
Ploe. That will I, should I die the hour after.
Bos. But if you do refuse to marry me, you'U give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?
Plie. So is the bargain.
lias. You say that you'll have Phebe, if she will?
[To SiLVIUS.
Sil. Though to have her and death were both one thing.
Bos. I have promis'd to make all this matter even. Kcjp you your word, 0 duke, to give your daughter; — You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter ; — • Keep you 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.
[Ex<'unt EosALiND and Celia.
Duhe S. I do remember in this shepherd -boy Some lively touches of my daughter's favour.
Orl. My lord, the hrst 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.
Jaq. There is, sure, another Hood toward, and these couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a i^air of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called fools.
Enter Touchstone a?icZ Auduey.
Touch. Salutation and greeting to j^ou all !
Jaq. Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is the motley -minded gentleman that I have so often met in the forest : he hath been a courtier, he swears.
Touch. K 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 qiuu'rels, and like to have fouglit one.
312 AS YOU LIKE IT. ait v.
Jaq. And how was that ta'en tip ?
Touch. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause.
Jaq. How seventh cause ? Good my lord, like this fellow.
Duke S. I like him very v/ell.
Touch. God 'ild you, sir; I desire j'ou of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copula- tives, 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 jxx>r-house ; as your pearl in your foul oyster.
Duke S. By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.
Touch. According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases.
Jaq. But, for the seventh cause ; bow did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause ?
Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed; — bear your body more seeming, Audrey : — as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier's beard : he sent me word, if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it was : t)us is called the Betort courteous. If I sent him word aiMin, it was not well cut, he would send nie word he cut it to please himself: this is called the Quhy modest. If again, it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment: this is calletl the Reply churlish. If again, it was not well cut, he would answer, I spake not true : this is called the Reproof valiant. If again, it was not well cut, he would say, I lie : this is called the Countercheck quarrelsome : and so, to the Lie circumstantial, and the Lie direct.
Jaq. And how oft did yon say his beard was not well cut? Touch. I durst go no farther than the Lie circumstantial, nor he durst not give me the Lie direct; and so we measured swords and parted.
Jaq. Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie?
Touch. 0, sir, we quarrel in print by the book, as you have books for good manners : I will name you the degrees. The tirst, the Retort courteous; the second, the Quip modest ; the third, the Ileply cliurlish ; the foxirth, the Re- proof valiant ; the fifth, the Countercheck quarrelsome ; the sixth, the Lie Avith circumstance ; the seventh, the Lie direct. Ail 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 tliemselves, one of them tliought but of an If, ae
scEXK IV. AS YOU LIKE IT. .SI 3
Jf you said so, then I said so ; and they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your J/ is the only ijeace-maker: — much virtue in If.
Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord ? he's as good at anything, and yet a fool.
£>uf:e S. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.
Enter Hymen, leading Rosalind in woman's clothes; and Celia.
Still 3Iusic. Hym. Then is there mirth in heaven, Wljen earthly things made even
Atone togetlier. Good duke, receive thy daughter : Hymen from lieaven hrous'ht lier,
Y("a, brought her hither, That thou might st join lier hand witli liis Whose heart witliin her bosom is.
Ros. To you I give myself, for I am yours. [To Duke S. To you I give myself, for I am yours. [To Orlando.
Duke S. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter. Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my EosaUnd. Phe. If sight and shape be true, Why, then, my love, adieu !
Ros. I'll have no father, if you be not he : — [ To Duke S. I'll have no husband, if you be not lie: — [To Orlando. Nor e'er wed woman, if you be not she. [To Phebe.
Hym. 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 ci oss shall part :
[To Orlando and Eosalind. You and you are heart in heart :
[To Oliver and Celia. You to his love must accord, [To Phebe.
Or have a woman to your lord : — You and you are sure together,
[To Touchstone and Audrev. As the winter to foul weather. Whiles a wedlock -h3nnn we sing, Feed 5'ourselves -svith questioning. That reason wonder may diminish. How thus we met, and these things finish.
314 AS YOa LIKE if. act v.
so>rG.
Wedding is great Juno's crown : 0 blessed bond of board and bed!
'Tis Hymen peoples every town ; Hij;h wedlock, then, lie honoured;
Honour, high honour and renown,
To Hymen, god of every town !
Duke S. 0 my dear niece, welcome thou art to me f Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.
Phe. I will not eat my word, now thou art mine ; Thy faith my iaucy to thee doth combine. [To SiLVH^si
Enter Jaques de Bois.
Jaq. de B Let me have audience for a word or two ; I am the second son of old Sir Rowland, That bring these tidings to this fair assembly:^ Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day Men of great worth resorted to this forest. Addressed 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 reUgious man, After some question with him, was convei'ted 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 exil'd. This to be true I do engage my life.
Duke S. Welcome, young man:
Thou offer'st fairly to thy brother's wedding: To one, his lands withheld ; and to the other, A land itself at large, a iiotent 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 endur'd 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.
Jaq. Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly, The duke hath put on a religious life. And thrown mto neglect the pompous co'irt i
Jaq. de B. He hath.
SCENE IX.
AS YOU LIKE IT. 315
Jaq. To him wll I : out of these convertitea There is much matter to he heard and learn' d. — You [to Duke S.] to your former honour I beqiieath; Your patience and your virtue well deserves it : — You [to Orlando] to a love that your true faith doth
merit : — You [to Oliver] to your land, and love, and great allies : — You [to SiLVius] to a long and well-deserved bed : — And you [to Touchstone] to wi-augling; for thy loving
voyage Is but for two months victuall'd. — So to your pleasures; I am for other than for dancing measures.
Dtihe S. Stay, Jaques, stay.
Jaq. To see no pastime I : what you would have I'll stay to know at your abandcs'd cave. [Exit.
Duke IS. Proceca, proceetl : we will begin these rites. As we do trust they'll end, in true delights. [A dance.
EPILOGUE.
Ros. 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 l>ush, 'tis true that a good play needs no epilogue. Yet to good wine they do use good bushes ; and good jJays prove the lietter 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 vnW not become me: my way is to conjure j'ou; 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, 0 men, for the love you bear to women, — aa I perceive by your simpering, none of you hates them,— that between j'ou and the v/omen 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 oufe, as many aa have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind ofler, when t make curtsy, bid me farewell.
[Exeunt,
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
PEKSONS EEPEESENTED.
KiKG OF France.
Duke of Florencb.
Bertraai, Count of Bousillon.
Lafeu, an old Lord.
Parolles, a Follower of Bertram.
Several young French Lords, that serve with Bertram in
the Florentine War. Steward, \
Clowii, [ Servants to the Countess of Rousillox. A Page, ;
Countess of PvOUSIllon, Mother to Bertram. Helena, a Gentlewoman protected by the Countess. An old Widow of Florence. Diana, Daughter to the Widow.
ViOLENTA, ) 2ieigj^iours and Friends to the Widow. Mariana, )
Lords attending on the King ; Officers, Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine.
SCENE,— .^ar% in France, and partly in Tuscany.
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.
A.CT L
SCENE I. — RoTJSiLLON. A Room in the Countess's Palace.
Enter Bertkam, the Countess of Eousillon, Helena, a7id Lafeu, in mourning.
Count. In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.
Ber. And I, in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death anew : but I must attend his majesty's command, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in subjection.
Laf. You shall find of the king a hiisband, madam ;— you, sir, a father: he that so genei-ally 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.
Count. What hope is there of his majesty's amendment?
Laf. 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.
Count. This young gentlewoman had a father — 0, that had! how sad a passage 'tis !— whose skill was almost as great as his honesty ; had it stretched so far, would liavo made nature immortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would, for the king's sake, he were living ! I tliink it would be the death of the king's disease.
Laf. How called you the man you speak of, madam?
Count. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so, — Gerard de Narbon.
Laf. He was excellent, indeed, madam: the king very lately spoke of him admiringly and mouruingly: he was skillful enough to have lived still, if knowledge could be jet up against mortality.
Ber. What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of ?
320 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act i
Laf. A fistula, my lord.
Ber. I heard not of it before.
Laf. I would it were not notorious. — Was this gentle- woman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?
Count. His sole child, my lord ; and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hojies of her good that her edu- cation promises : her dispositions she inherits, which make fair gifts fairer ; for where an imclean 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 achieve ■» Ler goodness.
Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.
Oovnt. '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 to have.
Ilel. I do affect a sorrow indeed ; but I have it too.
Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead; excessive grief the enemy to the living.
Count. If the living be enemy to the grief, the exce.sa makes it soon mortal.
Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes.
Jjaf. How iiuderstand we that?
Count. 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 enemj'^ Bather in power than use ; and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key : be check'd for silence. But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more will, That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down, Fall on thy head ! Farewell. — My lord, 'Tis an unseason'd courtier ; good my lord. Advise him.
Laf. He cannot want the best
That shall attend his love.
Count. Heaven bless him ! — Farewell, Bertram. {Erit.
Ber. The best wishes that can be forged in your thoughts [to Helena] be servants to you! Be comfortable to my mother, j'our mistress, and make much of her.
Laf. Farewell, pretty lady : you must hold the credit of your father. {Exeunt Ber. and Laf.
BERTRAM AND THE Cuui4TESS [FARJvWE-LI.j Mis IVell th^ Bn^ WM. Aot/., Sren^. I.
SCENE I. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 321
Hel. 0, were that all ! — I tliink not on my father ; And these great tears grace his remembrance more Than those! shed for liim. What was he like? I have forgot him ; my imagination Carries no favour in't but Bertram's. I am undone : there is no li\dng, none, If Bertram be away. It were all one That I should love a bright particular star, And think to wed it, he is so above me : In his bright radiance and collateral light Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. The ambition in my love thus plagues itself: The hind that would be mated by the lion Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague. To see him every hour ; to sit and draw 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 idolatroiis fancy Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here? One that goes with him : I love him for his sako; And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward ; Yet these fix'd evils sit so lit in him That they take place when virtue's steely bones Look bleak i' the cold wind : withal, full oft we sof Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
Enter Parolles.
Par. Save you, fair queen!
Hel. And you, monarch !
Par. No.
Hel. And no.
Par. Are you meditating on virginity"?
Hel. A.y. You have some stain of soldier in yon : let me ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity; how may we barricado it against him?
Par. Keep him out.
Hd. But he assails ; and our virginity, though valiant in the defence, yet is weak: unfold to us some warlike resistance.
Par. There is none : man, sitting down before you, will andermine you, and blow you up.
Hel. Bless our ])oor virginity from underminers ard blowers-up ! — Is thei-e no military [>olicy how virgms uugiit blow uji men?
VOL. IL Y
322 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act i.
Pur. Virginity being blo'wn down, man will quicklier be blown np:' inarry, in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the common-wealth of nature to preserve vir- ginity. 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 it !
Hel. I will stand for't a little, though therefore I die a virgin.
Par. There's little ean 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 sanctitied Hmit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese ; consumes itself to tlie very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not ; you cannot choose but lose by't : out with't ! within ten years it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase ; and the principal itself not much the worse : away with it !
Hel. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?
Par. Let me see : marry, ill, to like him that ne'er it likes. 'Tis a commodity 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-jack 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 v/as formerly better ; ma^iy, yet 'tis a withered pear. Wdl you anything with it ?
Hel. Not my virginity yet. There shall 3'^our 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, If is jariing concord, and his discord dulcet, His faith, his sweet disaster ; with a world Of pretty, fond, adoptions clu-isteudoms,
SCENE I, ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 323
That blinking Cu]nd gossips. Now sliall lae — I know not what he shall : — God send him well ! — The court's a learning-place; — and he is one, —
Par. What one, i'foith?
Hel That T wish well.— 'Tis pity—
Par. What's pity?
Hel. That wishing well had not a body iu't Which might be feit ; tliat we, the poorer born. Whose baser stars do shut us u}) iu wishes, Might with effects of them follow our frieuds, Aud show what we aloue must think ; which never Eeturiis us thanks.
Enter a Page.
Page. Monsieur Pai'olles, my lord calls for you. [Exit.
Par. Little Helen, farewell : if I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court.
Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.
Par. Under Mars, I.
Hel. T especially think, under Mars.
Par. Why under Mars ?
Hel. The wars have so kej^t j'ou under that you must needs be born under Mars.
Par. When he was j^redominant.
Hel. When he was retrograde, I think, rather.
Par. Why think you so?
Hel. You go so much backward when you fight.
Par. That's for advantage.
Hel. So is running away, when fear proposes the safety: but the composition that your valour and fear makes in you is a vii'tue of a good wing, and I like the wear well.
Par. I am so full of businesses I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the which my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's counsel, and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee ; else thou diest in thine unthank- fulness, and thme ignorance makes thee away: farewell. Wlien 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. [Erlt.
Hel. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie. Which we ascribe to heaven : the fated sky Gives us free scope ; only doth backward ])nll Our slo IV designs when we ourselves are dulL
S24 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act i.
"WHiat power is it which mounts my love so high — Tliat makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye? The mightiest space in fortune nature brings To join like Hkes, 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 To show her merit that did miss her love? Tlie king's disease, — my project may deceive me, But mv Intents are tix'd, and will not leave me.
•^ [EriL
SCENE II. — Paris. A Room in the King's Palace.
Flourish of cornets. Ent^r the King of Fkance, with Letters; Lords and others attemUnfj.
King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears . Have fought with equal fortune, and coutiuue A Vjraving war.
1 Lord. So 'tis reported, sir.
Kinrj. Nay, 'tis most credible ; we here receive it A certainty, vouch'd fi-o:n 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.
1 Lord. His love and wisdom, Approv'd so to your majesty, may plead
For amplest credence.
King. He hath arm'd our answer.
And Florence is denied before he comes : Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see The Tuscan service, freely have they leave To stand on either part.
2 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, aiid Parolles.
1 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 compos'd tliee. Thy father's moral parts May' at thou inherit too ! Welcome to Pai-is.
BCENE Ti. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 325
Be.r. My thanks and duty are your majesty's.
King. I would I had that corporal soundness uow, 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 7ior bitterness Were in his pride or sharpness ; if they were, His equal had awak'd them ; and his honour, Clock to itself, knew the true minute Avhen Exception bid him speak, and at this time His tongue obey'd his hand : who were below him He us'd as creatures of another place ; And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks, Making them proud of his humility, In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man ^Might be a copy to tliese younger times ; Which, foUow'd well, would demonstrate them now But goers backward.
Ber. His good remembrance, sir,
Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb ; So in approof lives not liis epitaph As m your royal speech.
King. Would I were with him ! He would always ar-j',-— Methinks I hear him now ; his plausive words He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them. To grow there, and to bear, — L<;t me not live, — • Thus his good melancholy oft began, On the catastrophe and heel of pastime. When it was out, — Let me not live, quoth he, After mji Jlame lacks oil, to be the -wutf' Of younger spirits, ichose apprehensive senses All but Jieiv things disdain; whose judgments are Mere fathers of their garments ; whose conslaniix^ Expire before their fashions:- — This he wisli'd: I, after him, do after him ■wish too. Since I nor wax nor honey can brintr home, I quickly were dissolved from my liive, To give some labourers room.
326 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act i.
2 Lord. Yon are lov'd, sir:
Ihey 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 fam'd.
Ber. Some six months since, my lord.
King. If he were living I would try him yet ;— Ijend 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.
Ber. Thank your majesty.
[Exeunt. F'oicrish.
SCENE IIL — RousiLLO.'T. A Boom in the Countess's Palace.
Enter Countess, Steward, and CloAvn.
Count. I will now hear: what say you of this gentle- woman ?
Steio. Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my jiast endea- vours ; for then we wound our modesty, and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we pubUsh them. _ Count. What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah: the complaints I have heard of you I dci not at all believe ; 'tis my slowness that I do not ; for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.
Clo. 'Tis not unltnown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.
Count. Well, sir.
Clo. No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor; thouErh many of the rich are damned : but if I may have your ladyshiji's o;ood will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.
Count. Wilt thoii needs be a beggar?
Clo. I do be^ your good will in this case.
Count. In what case?
Clo. In Isbel's case and mine own. Service is no lieri- tage: and I think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue of my body ; for they say bairns are blessings.
Count. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.
Clo. My j)oor body, m.idam, requires it: I am driven on by the fleah ; and he must needs go that the devil drives.
SCENE III. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 327
Count. Is this all your worshi])'s reason?
do. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasoiis, sach r-s they are.
Count. May the world know them?
Clo. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as j'on and all flesh and blood are ; and, indeeil, I do marry that I may re])ent.
Count. Thy marriaa;e, sooner than thy -wickedness.
Clo. I am out of friends, madam; and I hope to have friends for my wife's sake.
Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.
Clo. Yoii are shallow, madam, in great friends : for the knaves come to do that for me which I am a-weary of. He that ears my laud sjiares my team, and gives me leave to inn the crop: if I l)e his cuckold, he's my drudge: he that comforts my wife is tlie cherisher of my flesh and blood ; he that cherishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and V)lood ; 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 pajiist, howsome'er their hearts are severed in i-eligion, their heads are both one; tliey may joU horns together lilie any deer i' the herd.
Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and calumnious knave ?
Clo. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way :
For T the tiaUad will repeat,
Which met! full true shall find; Your niarriaie comes by destiny,
Youi- ouckoo sings by kind.
Count. Get you gone, sir ; I'll talk with you more anon.
Stew. May it jilease you, maxlam, that ho bid Helen come to you ; of her I am to speak.
Couvt. Sirrali, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her ; Helen I mean.
Clo. [singing.] Was this fair face (he cause, quotJi she,
Why the (irecians sacked Troy? Fond (lone, done fond.
Was this Kin'2- Priam's joy? With that she si.ched as she stood, With that she sighed as she stood,
And gave tliis sentence then : — AmonfTnine liad if one he good, Amont: nine bad if one he eviod.
There's yet one good in ten
328 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act i.
Count. What, one gcod in ten? you corrupt tne song, sirrah.
Glo. One good woman in ten, madam, wiiich is a purify- ing o' the song : would God would serve the world so all the year ! we'd find no fault with the tithe-woman if I were the parson : one in ton, quoth a'! an we mighb have a good woman horn but for every blazing star, or at au earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out ere he pluck one.
Count. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you!
Clo. That man should be at woman's command, and yet no hurt done ! — Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt ; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart. — I am going, forsooth: the business is for Helen to come hither. [Exit.
Count. Well, now.
Steto. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.
Count. Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she linds : there is more owing her than is paid ; and more shall be paid her than she'll demand.
Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears ; she thought, 1 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 : Diana no queen of virgins, that would sutler her poor knight surprise, without rescue in the first assault, or ransom afterAvard. This she deli- vered in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e'er I heard virgin exclaim in : which 1 held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.
Count. You have discharged this honestly ; keep it to yourself: many likehhoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance that I could neither believe nor misdoulit. Pray you, leave me : stall this in your bosom ; and I thank you for your honest care : I will speak with you further anon. \_E:dt StewaixL
Even so it was with me when I was young :
If ever we ai'e nature's, these are ours ; this thorn
SCKNE III. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELi- 329
Doth to our rose of youtli rightly belong ;
Our blood to lis, this to our blood is born; It is the show and seal of nature's truth, Where love's strong i)assiou is impress'd in youth : By our remembrances of days foregone, Such were our faults ; — or then we thought them none.
Enier Helena. Her eye is sick on't ;— \ observe her now. Hcl. What is your pleasure, madam?
Coimt. You know, Helen,
I am a mother to you.
JTel. Mine honourable mistress.
Count. Nay, a mother :
Why not a mother ? Wlien 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 emwombed 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 1 am thy mother? A^liat's the matter, That this distemper'd messenger of wet, The many-colour'd iris, rounds thine eye? Why, — that you are my daughter?
Net. That I am not.
Count. I say, I am your mother.
Hel. Pardon, madam;
The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother : I am from humble, he from honour'd name ; No note upon my parents, his all noble ; My master, my dear lord he is ; and I His servant live, and will liis vassal die : He nmst not be my brother.
Count. Nor I your mother?
llel. 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 caie no more for than I do for heaven. So 1 were not his sister. Can't no othcj". But, I your daucliter, he must be my brother?
Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-m-law. God sliield, you mean it not ! (laughter and mother
330 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act i.
So strive upon your pulse. What ! pale again?
^ly fear hath catch'd you>' fondness : now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis gross
"i'ou love my son ; invention is asham'd,
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, one to the other ; and thine eyes
See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours,
That in their kind they speak it ; only sin
And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
That truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so?
If "!t be so, you have wound a goodly clue ;
If it be not, forswear't : howe'er, I charge thee,
As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,
To tell me truly.
Ilel. Good madam, pardon me !
Count. Do you love my sou ?
Hel. Your pardon, noble mistress !
Count. Love you my son?
Hel. Do not you love him, madam T
Count. 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.
Hel. Then I confess.
Here on my knee, before high heaven and you, That before you, and next unto high heaven, I love your son : —
Mj' friends were poor, but honest; so's my love: Be not off"ended ; for it hurts not him That he is lov'd of me : I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suit; Nor would I have him till I do deserve him ; Yet never know how that desert should he. 1 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, lieligious in mine error, T adore The sun, that looks upon his worshipper. But knows of him no more. Mj^ dearest madam. Let not j'our hate encounter with my love, For loving where you do; but, if youraelf. Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth.
SCENE 111. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 331
Did ever, in so tnie a frame of lilcing, Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian Was l)oth herself and love; 0, 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 !
Count. Had you not lately an intent, — speak truly,-- Togo to Paris?
lid. Madam, I had.
Count. Wlierefore ? tell true.
Hel. I will tell truth ; by grace itself I swear. You know my father left me some prescriptions Of rare and prov'd effects, sucli as his reading And manifest experience had collected For general sovereignty ; and that he will'd me In heedfullest reservation to bestow them, As notes whose faculties inclusive vvere More than they were in note: amongst the rest There is a remedy, approv'd, set down. To cure the desperate languishings whereof The king is render'd lost.
Count. This was your motive
For Paris, was it ? speak.
Hel. My lord your son made me to think of this ; Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king. Had from the conversation of my thoughts Haply been absent then.
Count. But tliink you, Helen,
If you should tender your supposed aid. He would receive it? He and his physicia.ns 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 leit off The danger to itself?
Hel. There's sometbing in't
More than myfather'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'd venture The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure By such a day and hour. Count. Dost tliou believe't?
Hel. Ay, madam, knowingly.
332 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act i.
Count. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave, and lov\>, Means, and attendants, and my loving greetings To those of mine in court : I'll stay at home, And pray God's blessings into thy attempt : Be gone to-morrow ; and be sure of this. What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. [ExeanL
ACT 11.
SCENE L — Paris. A Room in the King's Palace.
Flourish. Enter King, with young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war; Bertram, Parolles, and Attend- ants. King. Farewell, young lord ; these warlike principles
Do not throw from you : — and you, my lord, farewell : —
Share the advice betwixt you ; if both gain all,
The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis received,
And is enough for both.
1 Lord. It is our hope, sir, After well-enter'd soldiers, to return And tir.d 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 sous 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 questai»t shrink s, find what you seek, That fame may cry you loud : I say, farewcU.
2 Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty ! King. Those girls of Ital}^ take heed of them :
They say our French lack language to deny, If they demand : beware of being captives Before you serve.
Boih. Our hearts receive your warnings.
King. Farewell — Come hither to me.
{Hie King retires to a couch,
1 Lord. 0 my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us ! Par. 'Tis not his fault ; the spark
2 Lord. 0, 'tis brave wars!
BcasNE I. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 333
Par. Most admirable : I have seen those wars.
Ber. I am commanded here, and kcjit a coil with, Too young, and Uie next, year, and UJs too tarly.
Par. An thy mind stand to it, boy, steal away bravely.
Ber. I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock. Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry, Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn But one to dance with ! By heaven, I'll steal away.
1 Lord. There's honour in the theft.
Par. Commit it, count.
2 Lord. I am your accessary ; and so, farewell.
Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured body.
1 Lord. Farewell, captain.
2 Lord.. Sweet Monsieur Parolles !
Pur. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals. — You shall tiud 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 rei)orts for me.
2 Tjord. We shall, noble captain.
Par. Mars dote on you for his novices ! [Exeunt Lords. ] What will ye do?
Ber. Stay ; the king
Par. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords ; you have restrained yourself within the list of too cold an adieu : be more expressive to them ; for they wear them- selves in the cap of the time ; there do nuister true gait, eat, speak, and move under the intiuence of the most received star ; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell.
Ber. And I will do so.
Par. Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy Bword-men. [Exeunt Bertram and Parolles.
Enter Lafeu.
Laf. Pardon, my Lord [kneeUng], for me and for my tidings.
King. I'll fee thee to stand up.
Laf. Then here's a man stands that has bought his par- I would you had kneel'd, my lord, to ask me meixy; [dou. And that, at my bidding, you could so stand up.
King. I would I had ;" so I had broke thy i)ate, Ajid ask'd thee mercy for't.
J, of. Good faith, across;
334 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act tl
But, my good lord, 'tis thus : Will you be cured Of your intinTiity ?
King. No.
Lof. 0, will you eat
Ko grapes, my royal fox? yes, i)',it you will My uoble 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 lire and motion ; whose simple touch Is powerful to araise King Fii)m, nay. To give great Charlemain a pen in 'is hand And write to her a love-line.
King. What hfr is this?
Laf. Why, doctor she : m}' lord, tliere's one arriv'd. If you will see her, — now, by my faith and honour, If seriously I may convey my thoughts In this my hght deliverance, I have spoke With one that in her sex, her years, iirofession, Wisdom, and constancy hath amaz'd me more Than I dare blame my weakness: will you see her, — For that is her demand, — and know her business? That done, laiigh well at me.
King. Now, good Lafeu,
Bring in the admiration ; that we with thee May spend our wonder too, or take olf thine By wondering how thou took'st it.
La/. Nay, I'll fit you,
And not be all day neither. [Exit.
King. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.
Re-enter Lafeu with Helena,
Laf. Nay, come your ways.
King. This haste hath wings indeeiL
La/. Nay, come yowT 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 ?
Helen. Ay, my good lord. Gerard de Narbon waa My father ; in what he did profess well found.
King. I knew him.
Hel. The rather ^vill I spare my praises towards him. Knowing him is enough. Ou his bed of death
SCENE I. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WET/^ S35
Many receipts he gave me ; chiefly one, Which, as the dearest issue of his practice. And of his okl experience the only darling, He bade me store up as a triple eye. Safer tlmn 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, 1 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 inaidable estate, — I say we must not So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope, To jirostitute 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.
Htl. My duty, then, shall jiay 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 again.
King. I cannot give thee less, to be call'd grateful. Thou thougiit'st to help me ; and such thanks I give As one near death to those that wish him live : Eut what at full I know, thou know'st no part; I knowing all my peril, thou no art.
Hel. What I can do can do no hiirt 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 W'lieTC hope is coldest, and despair most fits.
King. I must not hear thee: fai^e thee well, kind maidj Thy pains, not used, mxist by thyself be paid : Froflcrs, not took, reap thanks for their reward.
//' I. Inspired merit so by breath is barred: It is not so with Him that all things knows,
.336 ALL'S VJELL THAT EXDS WELL. act n.
As 'tis with ITS tliat square our guess hy shows :
But most it is presumption in us when
The help of heaven we count the act of mea.
Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent :
Of heaveii, not me, make an experiment.
I am not an im])Ostor, that prochxim
Myself against the level of mine aim ;
But know 1 tliink, and thiuk I know most sure,
My ai-t is not past power nor you past cure.
King. Art thou so contident? Within what space Hop'sb thou my cure?
Hel. The greatest grace lending grace.
Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring ; Ere twice in murk and occitlental 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 tiy. Health shall live free, and sickness freely die.
King. Upon thy certainty and contideuce, What dar'st thou venture?
Hel. Tax of impudence, —
A strumpet's boldness, a divulged shame, — Traduc'd by odious ballads ; my maiden's name Sear'd otherwise ; ne worse of worst extended, With vilest torture let my life be ended.
King. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak ; His powerfixl sound v/ithin 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 hfe in thee hath estimate ; Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all That happmess in prime can happy call ; Thou this to hazard needs must intimate Skill intinite, or monstrous desperate. Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try: That ministers tliine own death if I die.
Hel. If I break time, or Hinch in property Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die ; And well deserv'd. iS'ot helping, death's my fee; But, if I help, what do you promise me?
King. Make thy demand.
Uel. But will yoii make it even?
Kmg. Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of heaven.
SCENE I. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 337
Hel. Then shalt tliou 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, ]\3y low and humlile name to ])ropagate With any branch or image of thy state : But such a cue, tliy vassal, whom I know Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.
King. Here is my hand ; the jireniiscs observ'd. Thy will by my perfoi-mauce shall be serv'd; So make the choice of thy own time, for I, Thy resolv'd patient, on thee still rely. More should I question thee, and more I must, — I'hough more to know could not be more to trust, — From wlience thou cam'st, how tended on,— But rest LTnquestion'd welcome and undoubted blest. — Give me some help here, ho ! — If thou proceed As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.
\_Fiouri(sli. Exeunt,
SCENE IL — RoDSiLLON. A Room in the Countess's Palace.
Enter Countess and Clown.
Count. Come on, sir ; I shall now put you to the height of your breeding.
Clo. I will show myself highly fed and lowly taught: I know my business is but to the court.
Count. To the court ! why, what place make you special, when you put off that with such contempt? But to the court !
Clo. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he may easily put it off at court : he that cannot make a leg, put oil's cap, kiss his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and, indeed, such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court: but, for me, I have an answer will serve all men.
Count. Marry, that'd a bountiful answer that fits all questious.
Clo. It is like a barber's chair, that fits all buttocks, — the pin-buttock, the quatch-ljuttock, the brawn-buttock, or any buttock.
Count. Will your answer serve fit to all questions?
Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your French crown for your taffeta punk, as Tib's rush
VOL. II. /'
338 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS AVELL. act ir.
for Tom's forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove-Tiiesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding qnean to a wrangling knave, as the mm's ]ip to the friar's mouth ; nay, as the pudding to his skin.
Count. Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all questions?
Clo. From below your duke to beneath your constable, it will fit any question.
Count. It must be an answer of most monstrous size that must fit all demands.
Clo. But a tritle 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.
Count. To be young again, if we could : I will be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by j'our answer. I pray you, sir, are you a courtier?
Clo. 0 Lord, sir ! — There's a simple putting off; — more, more, a hundred of them.
Count. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you.
Clo. 0 Lord, sir ! — Thick, thick ; spare not me.
Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat.
Clo. 0 Lord, sir ! — Nay, put me to't, I warrant you.
Count. You were lately whipped, sir, as I think.
Clo. 0 Lord, sir I^spare not me.
Count. Do you cry, 0 Lord, sir! at your whipping, and epare not me? Indeed, your 0 Lord, sir/ is very sequent to your whipping : you would answer very well to a whip- ping, if you were but bound to't.
Clo. I ne'er had worse luck in my life in my — O Lord, sir! I see things may serve long, but not serve ever.
Count. I play the noble housewife with the time, to entertain it so merrily \vith a fool.
Clo. 0 Lord, sir ! — Why, there't serves well again.
Count. An end, sir, to your business. Give Helen this, And urge her to a present answer back : Conmiend me to my kinsmen and my son : This is not much.
Clo. Not much commendation to them.
Count. Not much employment for you : you understand me?
Clo. Most fruitfully : 1 am there before my legs.
Count. Haste you again. \^xeuat severally.
I
SCENE in. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELT^ 330
SCENE IIL— Paris. A Boom in the King's Palace.
Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles.
Laf. They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons to make modem and familiar things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that wc make trifles of terrors, ensconcing oui-selves into seeming know- ledge when we should submit ourselves to an unknowai ieur.
Far. Why, 'tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath shot out in our latter times.
Ber. And so 'tis.
La/. To be relinquish'd of the artists, —
Par. So I say ; both of Galen and Paracelsus.
La/. Of all the learned and authentic fellows, —
Par. Right; so 1 say.
La/. That gave him out incurable, —
Par. Why, there 'tis ; so say I too.
Laf. Not to be helped, —
Par. Right ; as 'twere a man assured of a, — ■
Laf. Uncertain life and sure death.
Par. Just ; you say well : so would I have said.
La/. 1 may truly say, it is a novelty to the world.
Par. It is indeed: if you will have it in showuig, you shall read it in, — What do you call thei'e? —
La/. A sliowing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor.
Par. That's it I would have said ; the very same.
Lnf. Why, your dolphin is not lustier : 'fore me, I speak in respect, —
Par. Nay, 'tis strange, 'tis very strange ; that is the brief and the tedious of it ; and he is of a most faciuorous spirit that will not acknowledge it to be the, —
La/. Very hand of heaven.
Par. Ay ; so I say.
La/. In a most weak, —
Par. And deliile minister, great power, great transcend- ence : which sliould, indeed, give us a further use to be made thau alone the recovery of the king, as to be, —
Laf. Generally thankful.
Par. I would have said it ; yousayweU. Here comes the king.
Enter King, Helena, and Attendants. La/. Lustic, as the Dutchman says: I'll like a maid tho better, whilst I have a tooth in my head: mIiv, he's able to le..d her a coranto.
340 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act it.
Par. Mort du Vinair/re! is not this Helen?
Laf. 'Fore God, I think so.
King. Go, call before me all the lords in court. —
[Exit an Attenda.nt. 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 Tlie contirmation of my promis'd gift, Which but attends thy naming.
Enter several Lords. Fair maid, send forth thine eye : this youthful parcel Of uoble 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.
Ilel. To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress Fall, when love ]ilease ! — marry, to each, Ijut one !
Laf. I'd give bay Gurtal, and his furniture. My mouth no more were broken than these boys', And writ as little beard.
Ki/ig. Peruse them well :
Not one of those but had a noble father.
flel. Gentlemen, Heaven hath, through me, restor'd the king to health.
A II. We uuderstand it, and thank heaven for you.
Flel. 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 shoiddst 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.
Hel. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I tly, And to imperial Love, that god most high. Do my sighs stream. — Sir, will you hear my suit?
1 Lord. And grant it.
]lid. Thanks, sir ; all the rest is mute.
Laf. I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ac€ for my life.
Hel. The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes, Before I speak, too threateningly replies : Love make your fortunes twenty times above Uer that so wishes, and her humble lovo i
SCENE ni. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 341
2 Lord. No better, if you please.
Uel. My wish receive,
Which e;reafc Love grant ! and so T take my leave.
Laf. Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine rd have them whipped ; or I would send them to the Turk to make eunuchs of.
Hel. [to third Lord.] Be not afraid that I your hand should take ; I'll never do you wrong for your own sake : Blessing upon your vows ! and in your bed Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed !
Laf. These boys are boys of ice ; they'll none have her: sure, they are bastards to the English ; the French ne'er got 'em.
Hel. You are too young, too happy, and too good To make yourself a son out of my blood.
4 Lord. Fair one, I think not so.
Jjdf. There's one grape yet, — I am sure thj^ father drunk wine. — But if thou be'st not an ass, I am a youth of four- teen; I have known thee already.
Hel. [to BEPa-RAM.] [ dare not say 1 take you ; but I give Me and my service, ever whilst I live. Into your guiding power. — This is the man.
Kinij. Why, then, young Bertram, take her ; she's thy wife.
Bi:r. My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness, In siich a business give me leave to use The help of mine own eyes.
Kinf). Know'st thou not, Bertram,
What she has done for me?
Ber. Yes, my good lord ;
But never hope to know why I should marry her.
King. Thou know'st she has rais'd me from my sickly bed.
Ber. But follows it, my lord, to bring me down Must answer for your raising? I know her well ; She had her breeding at my father's charge : A poor physician's daughter my wife ! — Disdain Eather corrupt me ever !
King. 'Tis oidy title thou disdain'st in her, the which I can build up. Strange is it that our liloods, 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 dislik'st, A poor physician's daughter, — thou dislik'st Of virtue for the name : but do not so : From lowest place when vii'tuous things proceed.
342 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act u.
The place is dionified by the doer's deed : Wliere great arlditions swell 's, aud virtue none, It is a droDsied honour: good alone Is good without a name ; vilcness is so : Tlio property by what it is should go, Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair; In these to nature she's innnediate heir ; And these breed honour: that is honour's scorn Which challenges itself as honour's bom. And is not like the sire: honours thrive, When rather from our acts we them derive Than our fore-goers : 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. B<r. I cannot love her, nor will strive' to do't. King. Thou wrong'st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to
choose. Hel. That you are well restor'd, my lord, I am glad : Let the rest go.
Kimj. My honour's at the stake; which to defeat, I must produce my [wwer. 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. Check 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 1
Ber- Pardon, my gi-acious lord ; for I submit My fancy to your eyes : when 1 consider What great creation, aud what dole of honour Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which late
SCENE III. ALL'S WELL THAT EKDS WELL. 343
Was in my noisier thoughts most base, is now The praised of the king; who, so ennobled. Is as 'twere born so
Kinrj. 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.
Ber. I take her hand.
King. Good fortune and the favour of the king Smile upon this contract ; whose ceremony Sl'.all seem expedient on the now-bom brief. And be perform'd to-night : the solenm feast Shall more attend upon the coming space. Expecting absent friends. As thou lov'st her, Thy love's to me religious ; else, does err.
[Exeunt King, Ber., Hel., Lords, and Attendants.
Laf. Do you hear, monsieur? a word with you.
Par. Your pleasure, sir?
Laf. Your lord and master did well to make his recanta-
Par. Recantation ! — My lord ! my master ! [tion.
Laf. Ay ; is it not a language I speak ?
Par. A most harsh one, aud not to be understood without bloody succeeding. My master !
Laf. Are you companion to the Count Eousillon ?
Par. To any count ; to all counts ; to what is man.
Laf. To what is count's man : count's master is of another style.
Par. You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old.
Laf I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age cannot bring thee.
Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do.
Laf. I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to he a pretty wise fellow ; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel ; it might pass : yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a burden. I have now found thee ; when I loss thee again I care not : yet art thou good for nothing but talving up ; and that thou'rt scarce worth.
Par. Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee,^
Laf. Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou hasten thy trial ; which if — Lord have mercy on thee for a hen ! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee well : thy casement I need not open, fori look through thee. Give ine thy hand.
Par. My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.
344 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act ri.
Laf. Ay, with all my heart ; and thou art worthy of it.
Par. I have not, my loi\l, deserved it.
haf. Yes, good faich, every dram of it: and I will not bate thee a scruple.
Par. Well, I shall be wiser.
Ldf. E'en as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack o' the contrary. If ever thou be'st bound in thy scarf and l>eaten, thou shalt hnd what it is to V)e proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather ray knowledge, that I may say, in the default, he is a man I know.
Par. My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.
Laf. I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor doing eternal : for doing I am past; as I will by thee, ia what motion age will give me leave. \Exil.
Par. Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off me; scui-vy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! — Well, I must be patient ; there is no fettering of authority. I'll beat him, by ray life, if I can meet him with any convenience, an lie were double and double a lord. I'll have no mf)re pity of his age than I would have of — I'll beat liini, an if I could but meet him again.
Re-enter Lafett.
Laf. Sirrah, yoiir lord and master's married ; theie'a iiew^s for you ; yon have a new mistress.
Par. I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make Rome reservation of your wrongs : he is my good lord : whom 1 serve above is my master.
Laf. Who? God?
Par. Ay, sir.
h(f. The devil it is that's thy master Why dost thou garter up thy arms o' this fashion? dost make hose of tby sleeves? do other servants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger I'd beat thee : methink'st thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee. I think thou wast created for men to breathe themselves upon tliee.
Pur. This is hard and imdeserved measure, my lord.
Laf. Go to, sir ; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a ]iomegranate ; you are a vagal>ond, and no true traveller: you are more saucy with lords and honour- able pei'sonages than the heraldry of your bu-th and virtue gives you commission. You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave. I leave ytrti. \blx%l.
SCENE TIT. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 245
Par. Good, very good; it is so then. — Good, very good; let it be concealed awhile.
Enter Bertram.
Ber. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever !
Par. What is the matter, sweet heart?
Bf-r. Although before the solemn priest I have sworn, I will not bed her.
Par. What, what, sweet heart?
Bf.r. 0 my ParoUes, they have married me ! — I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.
Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits The tread of a man's foot : — to the wars !
Ber. There's letters from my mother ; what the import is I know not yet.
Far. Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy, to the wars ! He wears his honour in a box tmseen That hugs his kicksy-wicksy here at home, Spending his manly marrow in her arms, Which should sustain the bound and high curvet Of Mars's Mery .steed. To other regions ! France is a stable ; we, that dwell in't, jades; Therefore, to the war !
Ber. It shall be so : I'll send her to my house. Acquaint my mother vnth my hate to her. And wherefore I am fled ; write to the king That which 1 durst not speak : his present gift Shall furnish me to those Italian lields Where noble fellows strike : war is no strife To the dark house and the detested wife.
Par. WiU this capricliio hold in thee, art sure?
Ber. Go with me to my chamljer and advise me. I'll send her straight away : to-morrow I'll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.
Par. Wliy, these balls bound; there's noise in it. 'Tia A young man married is a man that's marr'd : [hard ;
Therefore away, and leave her bravely ; go : The king has done you wrong : but, hush ! 'tis so. [Exeunt.
SCENE TV. — The same. Another Room in the same.
Enter Helena and Clown. Ifel. My mother greets me kindly : is she well ? Clo. JShe is not well; but yet she has her liealth: shea
346 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act ii.
very merry ; but yet she is not well : but thanks be given, she's very well, aud wants notliing i' the world ; but yet slie is not well.
Hel. If she be very well, what does she ail, that she's not very well?
Clo. Truly, she's very well indeed, but for two things.
Hel. What two things?
Clo. One, that she's not in heaven, whither God send her quickly ! the other, that she's in earth, from whence God send her quickly !
Enter Pakolles.
Par. Bless you, my fortunate lady !
Hel. I hope, sir, I have your good-v/ill to have mine own good fortunes.
Par. You had my prayers to lead them on ; and to keep them on, have them still. 0, my knave, — how does my old lady?
Clo. So that you had her wrinkles and I her money, I would she did as you say.
Par. Why, I say nothing.
Clo. Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man's tongue shakes out' his master's undoing : to say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to have nothing, is to Ix! a great part of your title ; which is within a very little of nothing.
Par. Away ! thou'rt a knave.
Clo. You should have said, sir, before a knave thou art a knave; that is, before me thou art a knave: this had been truth, sir.
Par. Go to, thou art a witty fool ; I have found thee.
Clo. Did you find me in yourself, sir? or were you taught to find me? The search, sir, was profitable; and much fool may you find in you, even to the world's pleasure and the increase of laughter.
Par. A good knave, i'faith, and well fed. — IMadam, my lord will go aM'^ay to-night : A very serious business calls on him. The great prerogative and right of love, Wliicli, as your diie, time claims, he does acknowledge; But puts it off to a compell'd restraint ; Wliose want and whose delay is strew'd ■with sweets; Wliich they distil now in the curbed time. To make the coming hour o'erflow with joy, And pleasure drown the biim.
UeL - What's his will else ?
SCENE IV. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 347
Par. That you will take your instant leave o' the kiug, And make this haste as your own good proceecliug, Strengtheu'd with what apology you think May make it probable need.
Hel, What more commands he?
Par. That, having this obtain' d, you presently Attend his fui'thor pleasure.
Hel. In everything I wait upon his will.
Par. I shall report it so.
JleL 1 pray you. — Come, sirrah.
{Exeunt.
SCENE V. — Another Room in the same.
E7iter Lafeu and Bertkam.
Laf. But I hope your lordship tliinks not him a soldier.
Ber. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof.
Laf. You have it from his own dehverance.
Ber. And by other warranted testimony.
Laf. Then my dial goes not true : I took this lark for a bunting.
Ber. I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in knov/- ledge, and accordingly valiant.
Laf. I have, then, sinned against his experience and transgressed against his valour ; and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent. Here he comes : I pray you, make us friends ; I will pursue the amity.
Enter Paeolles.
Par. Tliese things shall be done, sir. [To Bertram.
Laf. Pray you, sir, who's his tailor?
Par. Sir!
Laf. 0, I know him well, I, sir; he, sir, 's a good work- man, a very good tailor.
Ber. Is she gone to the king? {Aside to Parollks',
Par. She is.
Ber. Will she away to-night?
Par. As you'll have her.
Ber. 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.
Laf. A good traveller is something at the latter end of a dinner; but one that lies three-thirds and uses a kuowa
348 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act ii.
triitl) to pass a thousand nothings with, should be once heard and thrice beaten. — God save you, captain.
Btr. Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur?
Par. I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord's displeasure.
Laf. You have made shift to run into't, boots and spurs and all, like him that lea])ed into the custard ; and out of it you'll run again, rather than suffer question ior your residence.
Ber. It may be you have mistaken him, my lord.
Laf. And shall do so ever, though I took him at 'a 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 ha.ve kept of them tame, and know their natures. — Fare- well, monsieur: I have spoken better of you than you have or will deserve at my hand ; but we must do good against evil. [Exit.
Par. An idle lord, I swear.
Ber. I think so.
Par. Why, do you not know him?
Ber. Yes, I do know him well ; and common speech Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes uij' clog.
Enter Helena.
Ile.l. I have, sir, as I was commanded from you, Spoke with the king, and have procured his leave For present jiarting ; only, he desires Some private speech with you.
Ber. 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 oifice On my particular. Pre])ar'd I was not For such a business ; therefore am I found So much unsettled : this drives me to entreat you That presently you take your way for home. And rather muse than ask v/hy 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 Utter, Twill be two days ere I shall see you ; 30 I leave you to your wisdom.
BCENF V. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 349
]I(>1. Sir, I Ccan nothinir say
But that I am your most obedient servant.
Ber. Come, come, no more of that.
}Iel And ever shall
With true observance seek to eke oiit that AVherein toward me my homely stars have fail'd To equal my great fortune.
Ber. Let that go :
My haste is very great. Farewell; hie home.
Hel. Pray, sir, your pardon.
Ber. Well, what would you say?
Hel. I am not worthy of the wealth I owe ; Kor dare I say 'tis mine, and yet it is ; But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal Wiiat law does vouch mine own.
ijV/-. What would you have?
Ilel. Something ; and scarce so much : — nothing, indeed.- - I would not tell j^ou what I would, my lord: — faith, yes; — Strangers and foes do sunder and not kiss.
Btr. I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.
Jfel. I shall not break your bidding, good my lord.
Ber. Where are my other men, monsieur? — Farewell,
[Exit Helena. Go thou toward home, where I will never come Wliilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum : — Away, and for our flight.
Par, Bravely, coragio! [Exeunt
ACT III.
SCENE I. — Florence. A Room in the Duke's Palace.
Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, attended; two French Lords, and Soldiers.
Vulce. 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.
1 Lord. Holy seems the quarrel
Upon your grace's part ; black and fearful On the opposer.
Duke Therefore we marvel much our cousin France
350 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act iti.
Would, iu so just a business, shut bis bosoax Against our borrowing prayers.
1 Lord. Goofl my lord, 1 he rer^sons 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 thiak of it, since I have found Myself in-my incertain grounds to fail As often as I guess'd.
Duke. Be it his pleasure.
2 Lord. But I am sure the yotuiger of our nature. That surfeit on their ease, will day by day Come here for physic.
Dtd-e. Welcome shall they be;
And all the honours that can tiy from us Shall on them settle. You know your places well; Wlien better fall, for your avails they fell : To-morrow to the field. [Flourlnh. Exeitnt.
SCENE 11. — RousiLLON. A Room in the Countess's Palace.
Enter Countess and Clown.
Count. It hath happened all as I would have had it, save that he comes not along with her.
Clo. By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very melancholy man.
Count. By what observance, I pray you?
Clo. Why, he will look lapon his boot and sing ; mend the rulf and sing ; ask questions and sing ; pick his teeth ajid sing. I know a man that had this trick of melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.
Count. Let me see what he ^vrites, and when he means to come. [Opening a letter.
Clo. I have no mind to Isbel, since T was at court : our old ling and our Isbels o' the country are nothmg like your old ling and your Isbels o' the court: the brains of my Cu])id's knocked out; and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.
Count. What have we here?
Clo. E'en that you have there. [Exit.
Count, [reads.] / have sent you a daughter-in-law : she hath recovered the king and undone me. I have inedded her, not bedded her; and sworn to make the not eternaL
SCENE 11. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 351
You shall hear I am run away : knoio it before the report come. If there be breadth enough in the loorld I will hold a long distance. My duty to you.
Your unfortunate son,
Bebteam- This is not well, rash and nnbridled boy, To fly the favours of so good a king ; To pluck his indignation on thy head By tlie inis]irizing of a maid too virtuoua For the contempt of empire.
Re-enter Clown,
Clo. 0 madam, j'onder is heavy news within, between two soldiers and my young lady.
Count. What is the matter?
Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort ; your son will not be killed so soon as I thought he would.
Count. Why should he be killed?
Clo. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does : the danger is in standing to't ; that's the loss of men, though it be the getting of children. Here they come will tell you more : for my part, I only hear your son was run away.
Enter Helena and two Gentlemen.
1 Gent. Save you, good madam.
Hel. JNIadam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.
2 Gent. Do not say so.
Count. Think upon patience. — Pray you, gentlemen, — I have felt so many quii'ks 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?
2 Gejit. Madam, he's gone to serve the duke of Florence : We met him thitherward ; for thence we came, And, after some despatch in hand at coui't. Thither we bend again.
Jlel. Look on his letter, madam ; here's my passport. [Reads.] When thou canst get the ring upon my fnger,
which never shall come off, and show vie a child begotten oj
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.
Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen ?
1 Gent. Ay, madam ;
And, for the contents' sake, are sorry for our jtains.
S52 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act ni.
Co-iint. T pr'ythee, lady, have a better clieer; If thou enqrossest 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?
2 Gent. Ay, madam.
Count. And to be a soldier?
2 Gent. Such is his noble purpose : and, believe't, Tlie duke will lay upon him all the honour That good convenience claims.
Count. Return you thither?
1 Gent. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.
Hel. [reads.] Till I have no wife, I have nothing in inaiux. 'Tis bitter.
Count. Find you that there?
He'. Ay, madam.
1 Gent. 'Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply, Which his heart was not consenting to.
Count. Nothing in France until he have no wife ! There's nothing here that is too good for him But only she ; and she deserves a lord That twenty such rude boys might tend upon, _ And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?
1 Gent. A servant only, and a gentleman Which I have sometime known.
Count. ParoUes, wast not?
1 Gent. Ay, my good lady, he.
Count. A very tainted fellow, and fuU of wickeduesa My son corrupts a well-derived nature With his inducement.
1 Gent. Indeed, good lady. The fellow has a deal of tliat too mucli, Which holds him much to have.
Count. You are welcome, gentlemen. I will entreat you, wlien 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.
2 Gent. We serve you, madam, [n that and all your worthiest affairs.
(]ount. Not so, but as we change our courtesies. Will you draw near !
[Exeunt Count, and Gentlemeiv
Hd. Till I have no unfe, I have nothing in France. Nothing in France until he has no wife ! riou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France;
SCENE II. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 353
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
Q'hat drive thee from the sportive court, where then
Wast shot at with fair e^'es, to be the mark
Of smoky muskets? 0 you leaden messengers,
That ride upon the violent s^ieed of tire.
Fly with false aim : move the still-peering air.
That sings -with piercing; do not touch my lord!
Wlioever shoots at him, I set him there;
WlKjever 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 shaip constraint of hunger ; better 'twere
That all the miseries which nature owes
Were mine at once. No ; come thou home, RousilloB,
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 offie'd all : I will be gone,
That pitiful rumour may report my tiight,
To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!
For with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away.
[Exit.
SCENE IIL— Florence. Before the Duke's Palace.
Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florenue, Bertram, Parolles, Lords, Officers, Soldiera, and others.
Duke. The general of our horse thou art ; and we, Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence Upon thy promising fortune.
Ber. Sir, it is
A charge too heavy for my strength ; but yet We'll strive to bear it, for your worthy sake. To the extreme edge of hazard.
Duke. Then go thou fortli ;
And fortune play upon thy prosj)6rous helm, As thy auspicious mistress !
Ber. This very day,
Great Mars, J put myself into thy tile ; vou II. 2 A
354 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act hi.
Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove
A lover of thy drum, hater of love. [Exeunt
SCENE IV. — E.OUSILLON. A Room in tite Countess's Palace.
Enter Countess and Steward.
Count. Alas ! and would you take the letter of her? Might you not know she would do as she has done, By sending me a letter? Piead it again.
Stew, [reads.] / am St. Jaques' pilgrim, thither r/oiie:
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 fervour sanctify: His taken labours bid him me forgive;
I, his despiteful Juno, sent him for Ih From courtly friends, with camping foes to live.
Where death and danger dog the heels of worth: He is too good and fair for Death and me; Whom I myself embrace, to set 1dm free.
Count. Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words I- Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much As letting her pass so ; had I spoke with her, I could have weU diverted her intents, Which thus she hath prevented.
Stew. Pardon me, madam:
If I had given you this at over-night, She might have been o'erta'en ; and yet she writes, Pursuit would be but vain.
Count. What angel shall
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 grie^ Though lit,tle he do feel it, set down shaqily. Despatch the must convenient messenger : — When, haply, he shall hear that she is gone He will return ; and hope I may that she,
SCENE IV. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 355
TIearinc so ranch, will speed her foot again,
Leil hither by pure love : which of them both
Is dearest to me I have no skilJ 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 Y.— Without the Walls of Florunc^
Enter an old Widow of Flornnce, Diana, Violenta, Mariana, and other Citizens.
Wid. Nay, come ; for if they do approach the city we shall lose all the sight.
Dia. They say the French count has done most honour- able service.
Wid. It is reported that he has taken their gi-eatest commander ; and that with his own baud he slew the duke's brother. [A tucket afar off.] We have lost our labour ; they are gone a contrary way : hark ! you may know by their trumpets.
Mar. Come, let's return again, and suffice ourselves with the report of it. Well^ Diana, take heed of this French earl : the honour of a maid is her name ; and no legacy is so rich as honesty.
Wid. I have told my neighbour how you have been solicited by a gentleman his companion.
Mar. I know that knave; hang him! one ParoUes: a filthy officer he is in those suggestions for the young earl. — Beware of them, Diana ; their promises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and aU 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 tlie wreck of maidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade succes- sion, but that they are limed with the twigs that threaten them. I hope I need not to advise you further ; but I hojje j^our own grace will keep you where you are, though there were no further danger known but the modesty which is so lost.
Dia. You shall not need to fear me. Wid. I hope so. — Look, here comes a pilgrim: 1 know she will lie at my house: thither they send one another; I'll (question her. —
Enter Helena in the dress of a pilgrim, God save you, pilgrim ! Whither are you bound?
353 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act iil
Hel. To Saint Jaqnes-le-Granrl. Where do the palmers lodge, 1 do beseech you?
Will. At the Saint Francis here, beside the port.
Hel. Is this the way?
Wid. Ay, marry, is it.— Hark you ! They come this way.
[A march ajar of. If you will tarry, holy pilgrim, Biit till the troops come by,
I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd; The rather for I think I know your hostess As ample as myself.
Hel. Is it yourself?
Wld. If you shall please so, pilgrim. Hel. I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure. Wid. You came, I think, from France? Hel. I flicl so.
Viid. Here you shall see a countryman of yours That has done worthy service.
Hel. His name, I pray you.
D'la. The Count Rousillon : know you such a one? Hel. But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him:
II is face I know not.
Dia. Whatsoe'er he is,
He's bravely taken here. He stole from France, As 'tis reported, for the kmg had married him Against his Uking: thmk you it is so?
Hel. Ay, surely, mere the truth ; I know his lady.
Dia. There is a gentleman that serves the count Reports but coarsely of her.
}i(>l. What's his name?
Dia. Monsieur Parolles.
Hel. 0, 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 1 have not heard examin'd.
Dia. Alas, poor lady !
'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife Of a detesting lord.
Wid. Ay, right ; good creature, wheresoe'er she is Her heart weighs sadly : this young maid might do her A shrewd turn if she pleas'd.
//e^. How do you mean?
May be, the amorous count solicits her In the unlawful purpose.
SCENE V. Ai.L'3 WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 357
Wid. He does, indeed ;
And brokes with all that can in such a suit Corrupt the tender honour of a maid ; But shft is arm'd for him, aud keeps her guard In hones^est defence. Mar. The gods forbid else !
Wid. So, now they come > -
Enter, with a drum and colours, a party of the Florentine ariny, Bertram, and Parolles. That is Antonio, the duke's eldest son; That, Escalus.
Hel. Which is the Frenchman ?
Dia. He ;
That with the plume : 'tis a most gallant fellow. I would he lov'd his wife : if he were honester He were much goodlier : — is't not a handsome gentleman';
Hi'l. I like him well.
Dtfi. 'Tis pity he is not honest? yond's that same luiave That leads him to these places : were I his lady I'd poison that vile rascal.
Hel. _ WTiich is he?
Dia. That jack-an-apes with scarfs. Why is he melancholy?
Jlel. Perchance he's hurt i' the battle.
Par. Lose our drum ! well.
Mar. He's shrewdly vexed at something: look, he has spied us.
Wid. Marry, hang you !
Mar. And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier !
[Exeunt Ber., Par , Officers, and Soldiers.
Wid. The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bi'iiig you Wliere you shall host : of enjoin'd penitents There's four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound, Already at my house.
Hel. I humbly thank you:
Please it this matron and this gentle maid To eat with us to-night ; the charge and thanking Shall be for -.ue : and, to requite you further, I will bestow some precepts on this virgin. Worthy the aott.
Both. "vV e'll take yuur oifer kindly. [E^ceunt,
358 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, aw m.
SCENE Yl.— Camp before Florence.
Enter Bertram, and the two Frencli Lords.
1 Lord. Nay, good my lord, put him to't ; let him have his way.
2 Lord. If your lordship find him not a hilding, hold me no more in your respect.
1 Lord. On my life, my lord, a bubble.
Ber. Do you think I am so far deceived in him ?
1 Lord. Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct know- ledge, without any malice, but to speak of him as my kinsman, he's a most notable coward, an inlinite and entlless liar, an hourly promise -breaker, the owner of no one good quality worthy your lordship's entertainment.
2 Lord. It were tit you knew him ; lest, reposing too far in his virtue, which he hath not, he miglit, at some great and trusty business, in a main danger, fail you.
Btr, 1 would I knew in what particular action to try him.
2 Lord. None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which you hear him so contidently undertake to do.
1 Lord. I, -with a troop of Florentines, will suddenly Bur[)rise him: such I will have, whom I am sure he knows not from the enemy: we will bind and hoodwink him so tliat he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into tlie leaguer of the adversaries when we bring him to our owm tents. Be but your lordship present at his examination : if he do not, for the promise of his Ufe, and in the highest compulsion of base fear, offer to betray you, and deliver all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, never trust my judgment in anything.
2 Lord. 0, for the love of laughter, let him fetch off his drum ; he says he has a stratagem for't : when your lord- ship sees the bottom of his success in't, and to what metal this counterfeit lump of ore \vill be melted, if you give him not John Drum's entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed. Here he comes.
1 Lord. 0, for the love of laughter, hinder not the humour of his design : let him fetch off his drum in any hand.
Enter Parolles.
Ber. How now, monsieur? this dnim sticks sorely in your disposition.
BCENE VI. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 359
2 Lord. A pox on't ; let it go ; 'tis but a drum.
Par. But a drum ! Is't but a drum? A drum so lost! — There was excellent command! to charge in -with, our horse upon our own wings, and to rend our own soldiers.
2 Lord. That was not to be blamed in the command ot the service; it was a disaster of M^ar that Cffisar himself could not have prevented, if he had been there to command.
Ber. Well, we caimot greatly condemn our success : some dishonour we had in the loss of that drum ; but it is not to be recovered.
Par. It might have been recovered.
Ber. It might, but it is not now.
Par. It is to be recovered : but that the merit of ser\'ice is seldom attributed to the true and exact performer, I would have that drum or another, or hicjacet.
Ber. Why, if yoii have a stomach to't, monsieur, if you think your mystery in stratagem can bring this instrument of honour again into his native quarter, l:>e magnanimous in the enterprise, and go on ; I will grace the attempt for a worthy exploit ; if you speed well in it, the duke shall both speak of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatness, even to the utmost syllable of your worthiness.
Par. By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it.
Ber. But you must not now slumber in it.
Par. I'll about it this evening : and I will presently pen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my certainty, put myself into my mortal preparation, and, by midnight, look to hear further from me.
Ber. May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it?
Par. I know not what the success will be, my lord, but the attempt I vow.
Ber. I know thou art valiant ; and, to the possibility of thy soldiership, will subscribe for thee. Farewell.
Par. I love not many words. [Exit,
1 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?
2 Lord. You do not know him, my lord, as we do: certain it is that he vnll 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.
Ber. Wliy, do you think he will make no deed at all of this, that so seriously he docs address himself unto?
360 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act iu.
1 Lord. None in the world ; but return with an inven- tion, and clap upon you two or three probable lies : but we have almost embossed him, — you shall see his fall to-uight: for indeed he is not for your lordship's respect.
2 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.
1 Lord. I must go look my twigs ; lie shall be caught. Ber. Your brother, he shall go along with me.
1 Lord. As't please your lordship : I'll leave you. [Exit. Ber. Now will I lead you to the house, and show you
The lass I spoke of.
2 Lord. But you say she's honest.
Ber. That's all the fault : I spoke \At\\ her but once. And found her wondrous cold ; but I sent to her, By this same coxcomb that we have i' the wiud, 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?
2 Lord. With all my heart, my lord. [Exeunt.
SCENE VIL— Florence. A Room in the Widow's House.
Enter Helena and Widow.
Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not she, I know not how I shall assure you furtlier. But I shall lose the grounds I work upon
Wid. Though my estR,te be fallen, I was well bom. Nothing acquainted with these businesses; And would not put my reputation now In any staining act.
Hel. Nor would I wish you.
First give me trust, the count he is my husband, And what to yotir sworn counsel I have spoken Is so from word to word ; and then you cannot, By the good aid that I of you shall borrow, Err in bestowing it.
Wid. I should believe you ;
For you have show'd me that which well approvep You're great in fortune.
Hel. Take this purse of gold,
A nd let me buy your friendly help thus far, U hich I will over-pay, and pay again.
SCENE VII. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 361
When I have found it. The count he wooes your daughter.
Lays down liis wanton siege before her beauty,
Eesolv'd to carry her: let her, in fine, consent,
As we'll direct her how 'tis best to bear it,
Now his important blood will naught 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,
Hovve'er repented after.
Wid. Now I see
The bottom of your purpose.
Ilel. 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 crowna To what is past already.
Wid. I have yielded :
Instruct my daughter how she s!i?Jl persgver, That time and i)iace, with this deceit so lawful, May prove coherent Every night he comes With musics of all sorts, and songs comjjos'd To her unworthiness : it nothing steads us To chide him from our eaves ; for he persists. As if his life lay on't.
Hel. "^Vby, 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.
Enf.er first French Lord, with five or six Soldiers in amhush.
1 Lord. He can come no other way but by this hedge.
corner. When you sally upon him, speak what tcriible
3G2 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act iv.
language yoii will; thovigh you understand it not jour- eelves, no matter ; for we must not seem to understand him, unless some one among us, whom we must produce for aa interpreter.
1 Sold. Good captain, let me be the interpreter.
1 Lord. Art not acquainted with him? knows he not thy voice?
1 Sold. No, sir, I warrant yon.
1 Lord. But what linsey-woolsey hast thou to speak to us again?
1 Sold. Even such as you speak to me.
1 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 s])eak one to another; so we seem to know, is to know straight our ])ur- pose: chough's language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you, interpreter, you must seem verj^ politic. But couch, ho ! here he comes ; to beguile two hours in a sleep, and then to return and swear tlie lies he forges.
Enter Parolles.
Par. Ten o'clock : within these three hours 'twill be time enough to go home. What shall I say I have done? It m\ist 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 tongiie.
1 Lord. This is the first truth that e'er thine own tongtie was guilty of. [Aside.
Par. What the devil should move me to undertake the recovery of this drum ; being not ignorant of the impossi- bility, 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 ^vith 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.
J Lord,. Is it possible he shoiild know what he is, and be that he is? [Aside.
Par. I would the cutting of ray garments would serve the turn, or the beaking of my S])anish sword.
1 Lord. We cannot afl'ord you ao. [A side.
SCENE I. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 3C3
Par. Or the baring of my beard ; and to say it was ia stratagem.
1 Lord. 'Twoiild not do. _ [Aside.
Par. Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripped.
1 Lord. Hardly serve. [A side.
Pa?'. Though I swore I leaped from the window of the citadel, —
1 Lord. How deep? [Aside.
Par. Thirty fathom.
1 Lord. Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed. [Aside.
Par. I would I had any drum of the enemy's ; I would swear I recovered it.
1 Lord. You shall hear one anon. [Aside.
Par. A drum now of the enemy's ! [A larum within.
1 Lord. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.
A II. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villiamla par corho, cargo.
Par. O ! ransom, rausom : — Do not hide mine eyes.
[They seize and blind/old him.
1 Sold. Boskos thromvldo boskos.
Par. I know you are the Musko's 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 will discover that which shall undo The Florentine.
2 Sold. Boskos vauvado:
I understand thee, and cau speak thy tongiie :
Kerelybonto : Sir,
Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards Are at thy bosom.
Par. Oh !
1 Sold. 0, pray, pray, pray.
JUanka revania dulche.
1 Lord. Oscorbi dulchos volivorco.
1 S(jld. 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.
Par. ' 0, 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.
1 Sold. But wilt thou faitlifuUy?
Par. If I do not, damn me.
364 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act iv.
1 Sold. Acordo linta. •
Come on ; thou art granted space.
[Exit, with Parolles guarded,
1 Lord. Go, tell the Count Rousillon and my brother We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him niuiiled Till we do hear from them.
2 Sold. Captain, I will.
1 Lord. He will betray us all unto ourselves ; — Inform 'em that.
2 Sold. So I will, sir.
1 Lord. Till then I'll keep him dark, and safely lock'd.
[Exeunt,
SCENE II. — Florence. A Room in tlie Widow's House.
Enter Bertram and Diana.
Ber. They told me that your name was FontibelL
Dia. No, my good lord, Diana.
Ber. Titled goddess ;
And worth it, with addition ! But, fair soul, In your fine frame hath love no quality ? If the quick fire of youth light not your mind, You are no maiden, but a monument ; When you are dead, you should be such a one As you are now, for you are cold and stern ; And now you should be as your mother was When your sweet self was got.
Dia. She then was honest.
Ber. So should you be.
Dia. No:
My mother did but duty ; such, my lord, As you owe to your wife.
Ber. No more of that !
I pr'ythee, do not strive against my vows : I was compell'd to her ; but I love thee By love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever Do thee all rights of service.
Dia. Ay, so you serve us
Till we serve you : but when you have our roses, You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves, A nd mock us Avith our bareness.
Ber. How have I sworn ?
Dia. 'Tis not the many oaths that make the trutl
SCENE II. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 365
But the plain single vow that is vow'd true.
What is not holy, that we swear not by,
But take the Highest to witness : then, pray you. tell me,
If I should swear by Jove's great attributes
I lov'd you dearly, would you believe my oaths,
When I did love you ill? this has no liolduig,
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.
Ber. 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.
Dia. I see that men make hopes, in such a case, That we'll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.
Ber. I'll lend it thee, my dear, but have no power To give it from me.
Dia. Will you not, my lord?
Ber. It is an honour 'longing to our house. Bequeathed down from many ancestors ; Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world
In nae to lose. Dia. Mine honour's such a ring :
Jsiy 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.
Ber. Here, take my ring :
My house, mine honour, yea, my life be thine,
And I'll be bid by thee.
Dia. When midnight comes knock at my chamber- window ;
I'll order take my mother shall not hear.
Now will I charge you in the band of truth.
When you have conquer'd my yet maiden -bed,
Eemain 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 linger, in the night, I'll put
Aiiother ring; that what in time proceeds
366 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act rv.
May token to the future oxir jmst deeds. Adieu till then ; then fail not. You have won A wife of me, though there my hope be done.
Ber. A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.
[ExlU
Dia. For which live long to thank both heaven and me I You may so in the end. — — My mother told me just how he would woo, As if she sat in his heart ; slie says all men Have the like oaths : he liad sworn to marry me When his wife's dead ; therefore I'll lie with him When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid, M arry that wall, I'll live and die a maid : Only, in this disguise, I think't no sin To cozen him that would unjustly win. [Exit.
SCENE III.— The Florentine Camp.
Enter the two French Lords, and two or three Soldiers.
1 Lord. You have not given him his mother's letter?
2 Lord. I have delivered it an hour since : there is some- thing in't that stings his nature ; for, on the reading it, he changed almost into another man.
1 Lord. He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off so good a wife and so sweet a lady.
2 Lord. Especially he hath incurred the everlasting dis- pleasure of the king, who had even tuned his bounty to sing liap]nness to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly Avith you.
1 Lord. When you have spoken it, 'tis dead, and I am the grave of it.
2 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 thinlcs himself made in the unchaste composition.
1 Lord. Now, God delay our rebellion: as we are our- Belves, what things are we !
2 Lord. Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal theniseh'cs, till they attain to their abhorred ends ; so he that in this action couirives against his own nobility, in his proper stream o'erilows himself.
1 Lord. Is it not meant damnable in us to be trumpeters
SCENE III. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. SC7
of our nnlav/fnl intents? We shall not then have his
company to-night ? [hour.
•2 Lord. Not till after midnight ; for he is dieted to his
1 Lord. That a^jproaches apace : I would gladly have him see his company anatomized, that he might take a mea- sure of his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit.
2 Lord. We will not meddle with him till he come ; for his i)resence must he the whip of the other.
1 Lord. In the meantime, what hear you of these wars?
2 Lord. I hear there is an overture of peace.
1 Lord. Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.
2 Lord. What will Count Rousillon do then? will he travel higher, or return again into France ?
1 Lord. I perceive, by this demand, you are not altogether of his council.
2 Lord. Let it be forbid, sir; so should I be a great deal of his act.
1 Lord. Sir, his wife, some two months since, fled from his house: her pretence is a pilgrimage to St. Jaques-le- Grand ; which holy undertaking, with most austere sancti- mony, slie accomplished; and, there residing, the tender- ness of her nature became a prey to her grief; in Hne, matle a groan of her last breath ; and now she sings in heaven.
^2 Lord. How is this justilied?
1 Lord. The stronger part of it by her own letters, which make her story true even to the point of her death : her death itself, which could not be her office to say is come, was faithfully confirmed by the rector of the place.
2 Lord. Hath the count all this intelligence?
1 Lord. Ay, and the particular contirniations, point from point, to the full arming of the verity.
2 Lord. I am heartily sorry that he'll be glad of this.
1 Lord. How mightily, sometimes, we make us comfoi-ts of our losses !
2 Lord. And how mightUy, some other times, we drown our gain in tears ! The great dignity that his valour liath herelicquired for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample.
1 Lord. The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would be proud if our faults whi]iped them not; and our crimes would despair il' ti.ey were not cherished by our \irtues. —
Erilcr a Servant. How now ? whcre's yoar master?
308 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act iv,
Serv. He met the duke in the street, sir; of whom he liath taken a solemn leave : his lordship wdll next morniDL; for France. The duke hath oQ'ered him letters of commeufLn- tions to the king.
2 Lord. They shall be no more than needful there, il they were more than they can commend.
1 Lord. They cannot be too sweet for the Ling's tartuesa. Here's his lordship now.
Enter Bertram. How now, my lord, is't not after miduight?
Ber. I have to-night despatched sixteen businesses, a mouth's length a-piece, by an abstract of success: I have conge'd with the duke, done my adieu with his nearest ; buried a wife, mourned for her ; writ to my lady-mother 1 am returning ; entertained my convoy ; and, between these main parcels of despatch, effected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, Init that I have not ended yet.
2 Lord. If the business be of any difficulty, and this morning your departure hence, it requiies haste of your lordship.
Ber. I mean, the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue "betweeu the fool and the soldier? Come, bring forth this coun- terfeit model: has deceived me Uke a double-meaning prophesier.
2 Lord. Bring him forth. [Exeunt Soldiers.] Has sat in the stocks all night, poor gallant knave.
Ber. No matter ; his heels have deserved it, in usurpuig his spurs so long. How does he carry himself?
1 Lord. I have told your lordship already ; the stocks carry hi_m. But to answer you as you would be under- stood ; h*e weejis like a wench that had shed her milk : he hath confessed himself to Morgan, whom he supposes to be a friar, from the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i' the stocks: and what think you he hath confessed?
Ber. Nothingof me, has he?
2 Lord. His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his face : if your lordship be in't, as, I beheve you aie, you must have the patience to hear it.
Re-enter Soldiers, with Parolles. Ber. A plague upon him! muffled! he can say nothmg of me ; hush, hush !
1 Lord. Hoodman comes ! Forto tartarongn.
SCENE TIT, ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 369
1 Sold. He calls for the tortures : what will you say with- out 'em?
Par. I will confess what I know without constraint ; if ye pinch me like a pasty 1 can say no more.
1 Sold. Bosko ckiniurco.
1 Lord. Boblih'mdo chirurmurco.
1 Sold. You are a merciful general : — Our general bids you answer to what I shall ask you out of a note.
Par. And truly, as I hope to live.
1 Sold. Firat demand of hhn lioio many horse the duke is strong. What say yoii to that?
Par. Five or six thousand ; but very weak and unser- viceable : the trooi)s are all scattered, and the commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation and credit, and as 1 hope to live.
1 Sold. Shall I set down your answer so?
Par. Do; I'll take the sacrament on't, how and which way you will.
Ber. All's one to him. What a past-saving slave is this !
1 Lord. You are deceived, my lord; this is Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist (that was his own phrase), that had the wliole theoric of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the chape of his dagger.
2 Lord. 1 will never trust a man again for keeping his sword clean; nor believe he can have everything iu him by wearing his ajiparel neatly.
1 Sold. Well, that's set down.
Par. Five or six thousand horse, I said, — I will say true, — or thereabouts, set down, — for I'll sjieak truth.
1 Lord. He's very near the truth in this.
Btr. But I con him no thanks for't in the nature he delivers it.
Par. Poor rogaies, I pray you say.
1 Sold. Well, that's set down.
Par. I humbly thank you, sir: a truth's a tnith, the rogues are marvellous poor.
1 Sold. Demand of him of what strength they are afoot. What say you to that ?
Par. By my troth, sir, if I were to live this present liour I will tell true. Let me see: Spurio a hundred aud City, Sebastian so many, Corambus so many, Jacques so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, two hundred fifty each : mine own company, Chitopher, Vau- mond, Bentii, two hundred fifty eacli : so that the muster- tile, rotten and sound, u})on my life, amounts not to fiitcen thousand poll; half of the which dare not shake the VOL. II. 2 B
S70 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act it.
snow from off their cassocks lest they shake themselves to pieces.
J3er. What shaU be done to him?
1 Lord. Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my condition, and what credit I have with the dnke.
1 Sold. Well, that's set down. You shall demand of him whether one Captain Dumain he »' the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is with the duke, what his valour, honestif, a7id expertness in wars; or whether he thinks it were not possible, loith well-weighing sums of gold, to corrupt him to a revolt. What say you to this? what do you know of it?
Par. I beseech you, let me answer to the particular of the inter'gatories : demand them singly.
1 Sold. Do you know this Captain Dumain ?
Par. I know him : he was a botcher's 'prentice in Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the shrieve's fool with child ; a dumb innocent that eould not say him nay. [1 Lord lifts up his hand in anger.
Ber. Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.
1 Sold. Well, is this captain in the Duke of Florence's camp?
Par. Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy.
1 Lord. Nay, look not so upon me; we shall hear of your lordship anon.
1 Sold. Wliat is his reputation with the duke?
Par. The duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of mine ; and writ to me this other day to turn laim out o' the band : I think I have his letter in my pocket.
1 Sold. Marry, we'll search.
Par. In good sadness, I do not know ; either it is there or it is upon a file, with the duke's other letters, in my tent.
1 Sold. Here 'tis ; here's a paper. Shall I read it to you?
Par. I do not know if it be it or no.
Ber, Our interpi-eter does it well.
1 Lord. Excellently.
1 Sold, [reads.] Dian, the Count's a fool, and full of gold, —
Par. That is- not the duke's letter, sir ; that is an adver- tisement to a proper maid in Florence, one Diana, to talca 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.
1 Sold. Nay, I'll read it first, by your favour.
Par. My meaning in't, I protest, was very honest in
SCENE III. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 371
tlie behalf of the maid ; for I knew the yoxmg count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a whale to virginity, and devours u]» all the fry it finds. Ber, Damnable ! both sides rogue !
1 Sold. \i-eads.'\ when he swears oaths, bid him drop
golil, and tiike it: After he scores, he never pays the score: Half won is niatcli weli made ; match, and well malie it;
He ne'er pays after-debts, take it before ; And say a scihlier, Dian, told thee tliis, Men are to mell witli, lioys are not to kiss; Fur count of this, the count's a fool, I know it, Who pa.vs before, but not when lie does owe it. Thine, as lie vow'd to tliee in tliiue ear,
PAr.oLLEa
Ber. He shall be whipped through the army with this rhyme in his forehead.
2 Lord. This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold linguist, and the armipotent soldier.
Ber. I could endure anything before but a cat, and now he's a cat to me.
1 Sold. I perceive, sir, by our general's looks we shall be fain to hang you.
Far. My life, sir, in any case : not that T am afraid to die, but that, my offences being many, I would repent out the remainder of nature : let me live, sir, in a dungeon, i' the stocks, or anywhere, so I may live.
1 Sold. We'll see what may be done, so you confess freely ; therefore, once more to this Captain Dumaiu : you have answered to his reputation with the duke, and to his valour : what is his honesty?
Far. He wUl steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister ; for raj)e3 and ravishments he parallels Nessus. He professes not keeping of oaths ; in breaking them he is stronger than Hercules. He will He, sir, with such volubility that you would think truth were a fool: drunkeimess is his best vii-tue, for he will be swine-drunk ; and in his sleep he dfiea little harm, save to his bed-clothes about him ; but they know his conditions and lay him in straw. I have but little more to say, sir, of his honesty ; he has everything that an honest man should not have ; what an honest man should have he has nothing.
1 Lord. I begin to love him for this.
Ber. For tl.is description of thine honesty. A pox uj^on him for me ; he is more and more a cat.
] iS'(>W. What say you to his expertness in war?
Par. Faith, sir, has led the drum before the English
372 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act iv.
tracredians, — to belie liim I •wiM not, — and more of his soldiershi]) I know not, except in that country he had the honour to be the officer at a jtLace there called Mile-eud. to instruct for the doubling of liles : I would do the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certain.
1 Lord. He hath out-vilianied villany so far that the rarity reileems him.
Ber. A pox on him ! he's a cat still.
1 Sold. His qualities being at this poor price, I need not to ask you if gold will corrupt him to revolt.
Par. Sir, for a quart d^ecu, he will sell the fee-sim])le of his salvation, the inheritance of it ; and cut the entail from all remainders, and a perpetual succession for it perpetually.
1 Hold. What's his brother, the other Captain Uumiun?
2 Lord. Why does he ask him of me? 1 Sold. What's he?
Par. E'en a crow of 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 cov/ard, yet his brother is rejiuteil one of the best that is: in a retreat he outruns any lackey ; marry, in coming on he has the cramp.
1 Sold. If your life be saved, will you undertake to betray the Florentine?
Par. Ay, and the captain of his horse. Count Piousillon.
1 Sold. I'll whisper with the general, and know his pleasure.
Par. 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 v/here I was taken? \_As'idi'..
1 Sold. There is no remedy, sir, but you must die : the general says, you that have so traitorously discovered the secrets of your army, and made such pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can serve the world for no honest use; therefore you must die. Come, headsman, off with his head.
Par. 0 Lord ! sir, let me live, or let me see my death.
1 Sold, That shall you, and take your leave of all your friends. \Unmuffling Jiitn. So look about you : know you any here?
Ber. Good morrow, noble captain.
2 Lord. God bless you. Captain Parolles.
1 Lord. God save you, noble captain.
2 Lord. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafeu? i am for France.
SCENE iiT. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 373
1 Lord. Good captain, will you give me a copy of the Bonnet you -mit to Diana in behalf of the Count Rousillon? an I were not a very coward I'd comp.el it of you ; but fare you well. [Exeunt Bertram, Lords, &c.
1 Sold. You are undone, captain : all but your scarf; that Las a knot on't yet.
Par. Who cannot be crushed with a plot ?
1 Sold. If you could find out a country where but women were that had received so nmch shame, you might begin an impudent nation. Fare you well, sir ; I am for France too : we shall speak of you there. [Exit.
Par. Yet am I thankful : if my heart were great, 'Twould burst at this. Captain I'll be no more ; But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft 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 Tliat every braggart shall be found an ass. East, SAvord ! cool, blushes ! and, ParoUes, live Safest in shame ! being fool'd, by foolery thrive ! There's place and means for every man alive, I'll after them. [Exit.
SCENE IV.— Florence. A Room in the Widow's House.
Enter Helena, Widow, ayid Diana.
Hel. That you may well perceive I have not wrong'd you. One of the greatest in the Christian world Shall be my surety; 'fore whose throne 'tis needful, Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel : Time was I did him a desired olfice. Dear almost as his life ; which gratitude Through flinty Tartar's bosom would peep forth, And answer, thanks : 1 duly am informed His grace is at Marseilles; to which place We have convi nient 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.
Wid. Gentle madam.
You never had a servant to whose trust Your business was more welcome.
UeL Nor you, mistress,
374 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, act iv.
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, 0 strange men I 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.
Dia. Let death and honesty
Go with your impositions, I am yours Upon your will to suffer.
11 el. Yet, I pray you :
B;it 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 waggon is prepar'd, and time revives us: All's well that ends well : still the hue's the crown : Whate'er the course, the end is the renown. {Exeunt.
SCENE V. — RousiLLON. A Room in the Countess's Palace.
Enter Countess, Lafeu, and Clown,
Laf. No, no, no, your son was misled with a snipt- taffeta fellow there, whose ^^llanous saffron would have made all the unbaked and doughy youth of a nation in his colour: your daixghter-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.
Count. I would I had not known him ! it was the death of the most virtuous gentlewoman that ever nature had praise for creating : if she had partaken of my flesh, and cost me the dearest groans of a mother, I could not have owed her a more rooted love.
Laf, 'Twas a good lady, 'twas a good lady : we may pick a tliousand salads ere we light on such another herb.
Clo. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet marjoram of the salai.1, or rather, the herb of grace.
Lf'f. They are not salad-herbs, you knave; they are nose-
BCENK V. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. .S75
Clo. I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir ; I have not much Blcill in grass.
Laf. Whether dost thou profess thyself, — a knave or a fooi ?
Clo. A fool, sir, at a woman's service, and a knave at a man's.
Laf. Your distinction?
Clo. I would cozen the man of his wife, and do his service.
Laf. So yoTi were a knave at his service, indeed.
Clo. And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to do her service.
Laf. I will subscribe for thee ; thou art both knave and fool.
Clo. At your service.
Laf. No, no, no.
Clo. Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve as great a prince as you are.
Laf. Who's that? a Frenchman?
Clo. Faith, sir, 'a has an English name ; but his phisnomy is more hotter in France than there.
Laf. What prince is that?
Clo. The black prince, sir; alias, the prince of darkness; alias, the devil.
Laf. Hold thee, there's my purse : I give thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talkest of; serve him still.
Clo. I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire; and the master I speak of ever keeps a good tire. But, sure, he is the prince of the world; let his nobility remain in his court. I am for the house vnth. 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 tiow'ry way that leads to tlie broad gate and the great lire.
Laf Go thy ways, I begin to be a-weary 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.
Clo. If I put any tricks upon 'em, sir, they shall l)e jades* tricks ; which are their own right by the law of nature.
[Exit.
Laf. A shrewd knave, and an unhappy.
Count. So he is. My lord that's gone made himself
mach sport out of him: by his authority he remains here,
wliich he thinks is a patent for his sauciness ; and, indeed,
he has no pace, but runs where he wilL
376 ALL'S WELL TIlAi ENDS WELL, act iv.
Laf. I like liim well ; 'tis not amiss. And I was ahoiit 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 higlmess hath promised me to do it : and, to stop up the displeasure he hath conceived agaiust your son, there is no fitter matter. How does your ladyship like it?
Count. With very much content, my lord; and I wish it happily effected.
Laf. His highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able body as when he numbered thirty; he will be here to-morrow, or I am deceived by him that in such intelli- gence hath seldom failed.
Count. It rejoices me that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I have letters that my son will be here to-night: I shall beseech your lordship to remain with me till they meet together.
Laf. Madam, I was thinking v/ith what manners I might safely be admitted.
Count. Y(ju need but ]>lead your honourable privilege.
Laf. Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but, I thank my God, it holds yet.
Re-enter Clown.
Clo. 0 madam, yonder's my lord your son with a patch of velvet on's face ; whether there be a scar under it or no, tlie 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.
Laf. A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honour ; so belike is that.
Clo. But it is your carbonadoed face.
Laf. Let us go see your son, I pray yow ; T long to talk with the young noble soldier.
Clo. Faith, tliere's a dozen of 'em, with delicate fiiie hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head and nod &t every man. [ExeutU.
SCENE I. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 377
ACT V.
SCENE I.— Marseilles. A S/.rect.
Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, with two Attendants. Ifel. 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 att'airs, Be bold you do so grow in my requital As nothing can umoot 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.
Gent. And you.
Jfel. Sir, I have seen you in the court of France.
Gent. I have been sometimes there.
Ilel. I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen From the report that goes upon your goodness ; And therefore, goaded with most shar}) occasions, Which lay nice manners by, I put you to The use of your own virtues, for the which I shall continue thankful.
Gent. "WTiat's your wiU?
Hel. That it will please you To give this poor petition to the king ; And aid me with that store of power you have To come into his presence.
Gent. The king's not here.
lid. Not here, sir?
Gent. Not indeed:
He hence remov'd last night, and with more haste Than is his use.
Wid. Lord, how we lose our pains !
Hel. All's well that ends well yet. Though time seem so adverse and means unfit. — I do beseech you, whither is he gone?
Gent. Marry, as I take it, to ILousillon ; Whither I am going.
Ilel. I do beseech you, sir,
Since you are like to see the king before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand ; Whi<Ji 1 presume shall render you no blame,
378 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act v.
But rather make you thank your pains for it : I will come after you, with what good speed Our means wiU make us means.
G<'nt. This I'll do for you.
Hel. And you shall find yourself to be well thank'd, Whate'er falls more. — We must to horse again ; — Go, go, provide. {EjxunL
SCENE IL— RoTTSTLLON. Tlie inner Court of the Countess's Palace.
Enter Clown and Parolles.
Par. Good Monsieur Lavatch, give my Lord Lafeu this letter: I have ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have held familiarity with fi-esher clothes ; but 1 am now, sir, muddied in fortune's mood, and smell some- what strong of her strong dis})leasure.
(Uo. 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. Pr'ythee, allow the wind.
Par. Nay, you need nob to stop your uose, sir; I spake but by a metaphor.
(Jlo. Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose ; or against any man's metaphor. Pr'ythee, get thee further.
Par. Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.
Glo. Foh, })r'ythee, stand away: a paper from fortune's close-stool to give to a nobleman ! Look, here he comes liimseLt
Enter Lafeu.
Fere is a pur 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 smiles of comfort, and leave him to your lordship. [Exit.
Par. My lord, I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratched.
Laf. And what would you have me to do? 'tis too late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you played the knave with fortune, tliat she sliould scratch you, who of herself is a good lady, and would not have knaves thrive long
SCENE II. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WET J. 379
under her? There's a, quart d" ecu ior you: let the justices make you and fortune friends ; I am for other biisiness.
Par. I beseech your honour to hear me one single word.
La/. You beg a single penny more: come, you shall ha't : save your word.
Par. My name, my good lord, is Parolles.
Laf. You beg more than one word tben. — Cox' my pas- sion ! give me your hand : — how does your drum?
Par. 0 my good lord, you were the tirst that found me.
Laf. Was I, in sooth ? and I was the first that lost thee.
Par. It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for you did bring me out.
Laf. Out upon thee, knave! dost. thou piit upon meat 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, incjuire further after me; I had talk of you last night; thdughyou are a fool and a knave, you shall eat: go to: follow.
Par. I praise God for you. [Exeunt.
SCENE 111.— The same. A Boom in the Countess's Palace.
Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, d-c.
King. We lost a jewel of her ; and our esteem Was made much poorer by it : but your sou. As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know Her estimation home.
Count. 'Tis past, my liege;
And I beseech your majesty to make it Natui-al rebellion, done i' the blaze of youth. When oil aud fire, too strong for reason's force, 0'erl)ears 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.
Laf. 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
3S0 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act v.
Of richest eyes ; whose words all ears took captive ; Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn' d to serve Humbly call'd mistress.
Kim). Praising what is lost
Makes the remembrance dear. — Well, call him hither ; — We are reconcil'd, and the tii'st view shall kill All repetition : — let him not ask our pardon ; The nature of his great oti'ence is dead, And deeper than ohli^don do we bury The incensing relics of it : let him approach, A stranger, no offender ; and inform him, So 'tis our will he should.
Gent. ■ I shall, my liege. [Exit.
King. 'What says he to your daughter? have you spoke?
Lof. All that he is hath reference to your highness.
King. Then shall we have a match, I have letters sent mo That set him high in fame.
Enter Bertram.
Laf. 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.
Ber. My high-repented blames,
Dear sovereign, pardon to me.
Kiiig. 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 ?
Ber. Admiringly, my liege : at first I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart Durst make too bold a herald of my tongaie : Where the impression of mine eye infixing, Contem})t his scornful perspective did lend me, Wliich warpVl the line of every other favour ; Scorned 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 prais'd, and whom myself^ Since I have lost, have lov'd, was in mine eye The duat that did offend it.
SCENE Til. ALL'S WELL THAT E^T)S WELL. mi
K'lnrj. Well excus'd :
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 sotu' offence, Crying,"Tliat's good that's gone. Our rash faults Make tri\i'al price of serious things we have, Not knowing them uutil we know their grave: Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust. Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust : Our own love v/aking cries to see wliat's done. While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon. Be this sweet Helen's knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin : The main consents are had ; and here we'll stay To see our widower's second marriage-day.
Count. Which better than the first, 0 dear heaven, bless I Or, ere they meet, in me, 0 nature, cesse !
Laf. Come on, my son, in whom my house's name Must be digested, give a favour from you, To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter. That she may quickly come.—
[Bertram gives a ring to La feu. Bj"" 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 leave at court, 1 saw upon her linger.
Btr. Her's it was not.
King. Now, pray you, let me see it ; for mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd to it. — This ring was mine, and when I gave it Helen I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood Necessitated to help, that by this token I would relieve her. Had you that craft to 'reave her Of what should stead her most ?
Ber. My gracious sovereign,
Howe'er it pleases you to take it so. The ring was never hers.
Count. Son, on my life.
I have seen her wear it ; and she reckon'd it At her life's rate.
Laf. I'm sure I saw her wear it.
Ber. You are deceiv'd, 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
382 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act v.
Of her that threw it : noble she was, and thought I stood engag'd: l)iit when I had subscrib'd To mine own fortune, and inform'd her fully I could not answer in that course of honour As she had made the overture, she ceas'd, In heavy satisfaction, and would never Receive the ring again.
King. Plutus himself,
That knows tlie tinct aiid multijjlying 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 fi-om her : she call'd the saints to surety Tliat she would never put it from her finger Unless she gave it to yourself in bed, — Where you have never come, — or sent it us Upon her great disaster.
Ber. She never saw it.
Kinrf. Thou speak'st it falsely, as I love mine honour; And mak'st conjectural fears to come into me Which 1 would fain shut out. If it should prove That thou art so inhuman, — 'twill not prove so ;— And yet I know not : — thou did'st 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 vaialy fear'd too little. — Away with him ! — We'll sift this matter further.
Ber. If you shall prove
Tliis 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 thinldnga.
Enter a Gentleman. Gent. Gracious sovereign.
Whether I have been to blame or no, I know not : Here's a petition from a Florentine, Wlio hath, for four or five removes, come shone To tender it herself. I undertook it, Vanquish'd thereto by the fair grace and speeck
BCENE III. ALL'S V/ELL THAT ENDS WELL. 383
Of the poor siippliant, -who by this, I know, Is here attending : her business looks in her With an importing visage ; and she told me, In a sv/eet verbal brief, it did concern Your highness %vith herself.
Kinrj. [reads.] Upon his many protestations to marrxj 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 jmld to him. He stole from Florence, taking no leave, and I folloiu him to his country for justice: grant it 7ne, 0 king; in you it hesl lies; othei-wise a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone. Diana. Capulet.
Laf. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll for this : I'U none of him.
King. The heaven's have thought well on thee, Laleu, To bring forth this discovery. — Seek these suitors: — Go speedily, and bring again the count.
[Exeunt Gentleman and some Attendants. I am afeard the life of Helen, lady. Was foully snatch' d.
Count Now, justice on the doers !
Enter Bertram, guarded. King. I wonder, sir, since wives are monsters to you. And that you fly them as you swear them lordship, Yet you desire to marry. — What woman's that ?
Re-enter Gentleman, with Widow and Diana.
Dia. I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine, Derived from the ancient Capulet ; My suit, as I do understand, you know, And therefore know how far I may be pitied.
Wid. I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour Both suffer uudcr this complaint we bring. And both shall cease, without your remedy.
King. Come hither, count ; do you know these women ?
Ber. My lord, 1 neither can nor will deny But that I know them : do they charge me further?
Dia. Wliy do you look so strange upon your wife.
Ber. She's none of mine, my lord.
Dia. If yoii 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
384 ALL'S WELL TKAT ENDS WELL. act v.
Tliat she which marries you must marry me, Either both or none.
Laf. \to Bertram.] Your reputation comes too short for my (laughter ; you are no liusband for her.
Btr. My lord, this is a fond and desperate creature Whom sometimes 1 have laugh'd with : let your highness Lay a more nolile thought upon mine honour Thau 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 !
Dia. Good my lord,
Ask him upon his oath, if he does think He had not my virginity.
Kimj. What say'st thou to her?
Ber. She's impudent, my lord ;
And was a common gamester to the camp.
Dla. He does me wrong, my lord ; if I were so He might have bought me at a common i)rice : Do not believe him. 0, 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 1 be one.
Count. He blushes, and 'tis it : Of six preceding ancestors, that gem, Conierr'd by testament to the sequent i.«sue, Hath it been ow'd and worn. This is his wife ; That ring's a thousand proofs.
King. Methought you said
You saw one here in coiirt could witness it.
Dla. I did, my lord, but loath am to produce So bad an instrument ; his name's Parolles. Laf. I saw the man to-day, if man he be. King. Find him, and bring him hither.
\Exit an Attendant. Ber. What of him"'
He's quoted for a most perfidious slave, With all the spots 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 anything ?
King. She hath that ring of yours.
Ber. I think she has: certain it is I lik'd her, And boarded her i' the wanton way of youth : She knew her distance, and did angle for me.
SCENE III. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 385
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.
Dia. I miist be patient ;
You that have tiirn'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, 1 will return it home, And give me mine again,
Ber. I have it not.
King. What ring was youis, I pray you ?
Dia. Sir, much like
The same upon your finger.
King. Know you this ring? this ring was his of late.
Dia. And this was it I gave him, being a-bed.
King. The story, then, goes false you thi'ew it him Out of a casement.
Dia. I have spoke the truth.
Ber. My lord, I do confess the ring was hers.
King. You boggle shrewdly; every feather starts yon. — •
Re-enter Attendant, with Parolles. Ib this the man you speak of?
Dia. 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 aud by this woman here what know you ?
Par. So please your majesty, my master hath been an honourable gentleman j tricks he hath had in him, which gentlemen have.
King. Come, come, to the purpose: did he love this woman?
Par. Faith, sir, he did love her ; but how ?
King. How, I ]iray you ?
Par. He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a woman.
King. How is that ?
Par. He loved her, sir, and loved her not.
King. As tliou art a knave and no knave. — What an equivocal companion is this !
Par. I ana a poor man, and at your majesty's command.
Laf. He's a good drum, my lord, but a naughty orator. VOL. II. '2 c
386 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act v.
Dia. Do you know lie promised me marriage ?
Par. Faith, I know more than I'll speak.
King. But wilt thou not speak all thou know'st ?
Par. Yes, so please your majesty; I did go between them, as I said; but more than that, he loved her, — for, indeed, he was mad for her, and talked of Satan, and of limbo, and of furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time that I knew of their going to bed ; and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and tilings which would dei'ive 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 Hue in thy evidence ; therefore stand aside. — This ring, you say, was yours?
Dia. Ay, my good lord.
King. Where did you buy it? or who gave it you?
Dia. It was not given me, nor I did not buy it.
King. Who lent it you ?
Dia. It was not lent me neither.
King. Where did you find it, then ?
Dia. I found it not.
King. If it were yours by none of aU these ways, How could you give it him?
Dia. I never gave it him.
La/. 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.
Dia. It might be yours or hers, for aught I know.
King. Take her away, I do not like her now ; To prison with her : and away with him. — Unless thou tell'st me where thou hadst this ring, Thou diest within this hour.
Dia. I'll never tell you.
King. Take her away.
Dia. I'll put in bail, my liege.
King. I think thee now some common customer.
Dia. By Jove, if ever I knew man, 'twas you.
King. Wlierefore hast thou accus'd him all this whUe?
J)ia. Because he's guilty, and he is not guilty : He laiows 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.
[Pointing to Lafed.
King. She does abuse our ears ; to prison with her.
SCENE in. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 387
Dia. 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 abus'd me, as he knows himself, Though yet he never harm'd me, here I quit him : He Itnows himself my bed he hath defil'd ; And at that time he got his wife with child. Dead though she be, she feels her young one Idck ; So there's ray riddle — One that's dead is quick ; And now behold the meaning.
Re-enter Widow with Helena.
King. Is there no exorciat
Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes? Is't real that I see?
Hel. No, my good lord ;
'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see — The name, and not the thing.
Ber. Both, both ; 0, pardon !
ITel. 0, my good lord, when I was like this maid I found you wondrous kind. There is your ruig ; And, look you, here's your letter. This it says, When from myfinr/er you can get this ring. And are by me with child, etc. — This is done: Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?
Ber. If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly, I'll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.
Hel. If it appear not plain, and jirove untrue, Deadly divorce step between me and you ! — 0, my dear mother, do I see you living?
Laf. Mine eyes smell onions ; I shall weep anon : — Good Tom Drum [to Parolles], lend me a handkercher: BO, I thank thee ; wait on me home, I'll make sport witli thee : let thy courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones.
King. Let us from point to pomt this story know, To make the even truth in pleasure tlow : — If thou be'st yet a fresh uncropped flower, [To Dia.va.
Choose thou thy husband, and I'll pay thy dower ; For I can guess that, by thy honest aid, _ Thou kept'st a wife herself, thyself a maid.— Of that and all the progress, more and less. Resolvedly more leisure shall express : All yet seems well ; and if it end so meet. The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. [Flourisli.
388 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. act v.
The king's a beggar, now the play is done : AH is well-ended if this suit be won, Tliat you express content ; which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day : Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts ; Yovir gentle bands lend us, and take our hearts. [Exeunt
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.
PEESONS KEPEESENTED.
A Lord. ^
CnRisTOPHER Sly, a druvken Thrher. I ^«^«o"* Hostess, Page, Players, Huntsmen, and \ "*' "^
Servants. J ^'"^"c<io»-
Baptista, a rich Gentlem.an of Padua. '^''iNCENTlo, an old Gentleman of Pisa.
LUCENTIO, Son to ViNCENTIO, Mi lovt with BlANCA.
Petruciiio, a Gentlevian of Verona, a Suitor to Kath-
ARINA.
Gremio,
TT„„„,^v, „„ t Suitors to BiANCA. Hortensio, )
Tranio, ) ..
BlONDELLO, 1 '^'^'"'^""^ ^'^ LUCENTIO.
Grumio, 1
r^„ „ J Servants to Petruchio.
Curtis, )
Pedant, an old fellow set up to personate Vincentio.
Katharina, the Shrew, \
BiANCA i ^""fl'"^^* ^ Baptista-
Widow.
Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio.
SCENE, — Sometimes in Padua, and. sometirres in Petruchio's House in the Country,
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.
INDUCTION.
SCENE I. — Before an Alehouse on a Heath.
Enter Hostess and Sly.
Sly. I'll pheeze you, in faith.
Host. A pair of stocks, you rogue !
Sly. Y'are a baggage : the Slys are no roffues ; look i.i the chronicles; we came in with Richard Conqueroi-. Therefore, paucas paliabris; let the world slide : sessa !
Host. You will not pay for the glasses you have burst ?
Sly. No, not a denier. Go by, Saint Jeronimy, — go to tliy cold bed and warm thee.
Host. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the third- borough. [MiXtL
Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him by law: I'll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and kindly. [Lies down on the ground and falls asleep.
Horns winded. Enter a liord from hunting, with Huntsmen and Servants.
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-comer, in the coldest fault ? I would not lovse the dog for twenty pound
1 Hun. Why, Belman is as good aa he, my lord ; He cried upon it at the merest loss. And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent: Triist me, I take him for the better dog.
Lord. Thou art a fool : if Echo were as fleet, 1 would esteem him worth a dozen such. But sup them well, and look unto them aU.; To-morrow I intend to hunt again.
J Hua. I win, my lord.
892 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW, iitofction.
Lord. ^Vhat's here? one. dead, or drunk? See, doth ha breathe?
2 Hun. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm'd with ale, This were a l>ed but cold to sleep so soundly.
Lord. O monstrous beast ! how like a swine he lies ! Grun death, how foul and loathsome is thine image ! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. WTiat think you, if he were convey'd to bed, Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers, A most dehcious banquet by his bed, And brave attendants near him when he wakes, — Would not the beggar then forget himself?
1 Hun. Beheve me, lord, I think he cannot choose.
2 Hun. It would seem strange unto him when he wab'd. Lord. Even as a flattering dream or wortliless fancy.
Then take him up, and manage weU the jest: —
Carry him gently to my faii-est chamber,
And hang it round with all my wanton pictures :
liabn his loul head in warm distilled waters,
And bum sweet wood to make the lodging sweet :
Procure me music ready when he wakes,
To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound ;
And if lie chance to speak, be ready straight.
And, with a low submissive reverence.
Say, — What is it your honour will command?
Let one attend lum vsdth 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,
A nd that his lady mourns at his disease :
Persuade him that he hath been lunatic ;
And, when he says he is, say that he dreamu.
For he is nothing but a mighty lord.
This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs :
It vfiil be pastime passing excellent,
If it be husbanded with modesty.
I Hun. jMy lord, I warrant you, we'll play onr pari, As he shall thinli, by our true diligence, He is no less than what we sa}'^ 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.
SCENE t. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 393
Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds : —
[Exit Servaufi Belike, some noble gentleman, that means. Travelling some journey, to repose him here.
Re-enter Servant.
How now ! who is it ?
;^erv. An it please your honour,
Players that offer service to your lordship.
Lord. Bid them come near.
Enter Players.
Now, fellows, you are welcome,
1 Play. We thank your honour.
Lord. Do you intend to stay with me to-night?
2 Play. 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 aptlj'^ fitted and naturally perform' d.
1 Play. I think 'twas Soto that your honour meana.
Lord. 'Tis very true : thou didst it excellent. — Well, you are come to me in happy time ; The rather for I have some sport in hand. Wherein your cunning can assist me much. There is a lord will hear you play to-night : But I am doubtful of your modesties ; Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour, — For yet his honour never heard a play, — You break into some merry [lassion. And so offend him ; for I tell you, sirs, If you should smile, he grows impatient.
1 Play. Fear not, mylord ; we can contain ourselves, Were he tlie 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.
[Exeunt Servant and Players. Birrah, go you to Barthol'mew my page, [ To a Servant, 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 observ'd in noble WUea
394 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW, induction.
Unto their lords, by them accomplished :
8iich 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 esteemed 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,
A n onion will do well for such a sliift ;
"Which in a napkin being close conveyed.
Shall in despite enforce a watery eye.
See this despatch'd with all the haste thou canst :
Anon I'll give thee more instructions. [Exit Servant
I know the boy will well usurp the grace,
Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman :
I long to hear him call the drunkard husband ;
And now 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. [ExeunL
SCENE n. — A Bedchamber in the Lord's Hoiise.
Sly is discovered in a rich nightgown, voith Attendants; some with apparel, others with basin, ewer, and other appurtenances. Enter Lord, dressed like a Servant. Shj. For God's sake, a pot of small ale.
1 Serv. Will't please your lordsliip drink a cup of sack ?
2 Serv. Will't please your honour taste of these conserves ?
3 Serv. Wliat raiment will your honour wear to-day ? Slji. I am (Jhristophero Sly; call not me honour nor
lordsliip : I ne'er drank sack in my life ; and if you give nie any conserves, give me conserves of beef: ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear; for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet, — nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.
Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your houcur !
SCENE 11. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 395
0, that a mighty man, of such descent, Of such possessions, and so high esteem. Should be infused with so foul a spirit !
Sh/. What, would you make me mad? Am not I Chria- toi»her Sly, old Sly's son of Burton-heath; by birth a
1>edler, by education a card-maker, by transmutation a )ear-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 Christen- dom. \Vhat ! I am not bestraught : here's —
1 Serv. 0, this it is that makes your lady mourn !
2 Serv. 0, this it is that makes your servants droop ! Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your
house. As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. 0 noble lord, betlunk 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.
WQt thou have music ? hark ! Apollo plays, [Mivnc
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 ^vilt 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.
1 Serv. Say thou wilt course ; thy greyhounds are as swift As breathed stags ; ay, fleeter than the roe.
2 Serv. Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch tliee
straight Adonis painted by a running brook. And Cytherea aU in sedges hid. Which seem to move aud wanton with her breath. Even as the waving sedges play with wind.
Lurd. We'U show thee lo as she was a maid. And how she was beguded and surpris'd. As lively painted as the deed was done.
3 Sei-v. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood, Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeda ;
396 THE TAMING OP THE SHREW, inductioic.
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.
1 Serv. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee, Like envious floods, o'er-run her lovely face,
She was the fairest creature in the world; And yet she is inferior to none.
Sly. Am I a lord? and have T 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 ; j^
Ajid once again, a pot o' the smallest ale.
2 Serv. Will't please your mightiness to wash yonr
hands ? [Servants pre8e7it a ewer, basin, and napkin. O, how we joy to see your wit restor'd ! O, that once more you knew but what you are ! iliese fifteen years you have been in a dream ; Or, when you wak'd, so wak'd as if you slept.
Sly. These fifteen years ! by my fay, a goodly nap. But did I never speak of all that time?
1 Serv. 0 yes, my lord ; but very idle words : For though you lay here ia 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 i)resent her at the leet. Because she brought stone jugs and no seal'd quarts: Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Racket.
Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house.
3 Serv. Why, sir, you know no house, nor no such maid j Nor no such men as you have reckou'd up, —
As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece, And Peter Turf, and Henry Pii)ii)emell ; 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.
Sip. 1 thank thee : thou shalt not lose by it.
Enter tlie Page as a lady, with Attendanti Pa^e. How fares my noble lord I
8CSNK iL THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 397
Sly. Marry, I fare well ; for here is cheer enough. Where is my ^vife ?
Page. Here, noble lord : what is thy will ^vith hpv ?
Sly. Are you my wife, and will not call mc 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. 1 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 fifteeu year or more.
Page. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me, Beiug all this time abandoned 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 pliysicians have expressly charg'd, In peril to incur your former malady, That I should yet absent me from your bed : I ho])e this reason stands for my excuse.
Sly. Ay, it stands so, that I may hardly tarry so long. But 1 would be loath to fall into my dreams again : I will therefore tarry, in despite of the iiesh and the blood.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Your honour's players, hearing 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.
S'y. Marry, I will ; let them play it. Is not a commonty a Christmas gambol or a tumbhag-trick?
Page. No, my good lord ; it is more pleasing stufL
Sly. Wliat, household stufi'?
Page. It is a kind of history.
Sly. Well, we'll see't. Come, madam wife, sit by my aide, and let the world slip : we shall ne'er be youuger.
IT/iey ail down.
398 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Acrr t
ACT I.
SCENE I.— Padua. A public Placa. Enter Lucentio and Tranio.
Luc. Tranio, since, for the great desire I had To see fair Padua, nursery of arts, I am arriv'd for fruitful Lombardy, The pleasant garden of great Italy ; And, by my father's love aud leave, am arm'd With his good-will and thy good company, My trusty servant, well approv'd in all ; Here let us breathe, and haply institute A course of learning and ingenious studies. Pisa, renowned for grave citizens. Gave me my being, and my father first, A merchant of great traffic through the world, Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii. Vincentio's son, brought up in Florence, It shaU become, to serve all hopes conceiv'd. 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 achiev'd. 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.
Tra. Mi perdonate, gentle master mine, I am in aU 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 disciplme, Ijct's be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray ; Or so devote to Aristotle's ethics As Ovid be an outcast quite altjur'd: Balk logic with acquaintance that you have. And practise rhetoric in your common talk j Music and poesy use to quicken you ; The mathematics and the metaphj'sics. Fall to them as you find your stomach serves yju ,
SCENE I. THE TAMING OF THE SnPvEW. .399
No profit grows where is no pleasure ta'en : In brief, sir, study wliat you most aflect.
Luc. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise. If Bifindello now were come ashore We could at once put us in readiness, And take a lodging tit to entertain Such friends as time in Padua shall beget. But stay awhile: what comi>any is this?
Tra. Master, some show, to welcome us to town.
Enter Baptista, Katharina, Bianca, Gremio, and HoRTENSio. LucENTio and Tranio stand aside.
Bap. Gentlemen, importune me no further, For how I firmly am resolv'd you know; That is, not to 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.
Gre. To cart her rather: she's too rough for me.— • There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife?
Kath. [to Bap. ] I pray you, sir, is it your will To make a stale of me amongst these mates?
Hor. Mates, maid! how mean you that? no mates for you, Unless you were of gentler, milder mould.
Kath. V 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 nodtlle with a three-legg'd stool, And paint your face, and use you hke a fool.
Hor. From all such devils, good Lord, deliver us !
Ore. And me too, good Lord !
Tra. Hush, master! here is some good ]iastime toward; That wench is stark mad, or wonderful froward.
Luc. But in the other's silence do I see Maid's mild behaviour and sobriety. Peace, Tranio !
Tra. Well said, master; mum ! and gaze your fill.
Bap. Gentlemen, that I may soon make good What I have said, — BiaDca, get you in: And let it not displease thee, good Bianca; For I will love thee ne'er the less, my girl
Katli.. A pretty peat ! it is best Put finger in the eye, — an she knew why.
Bian. Sister, content vou in my discontent. —
400 THE TAMING OF THE SHRE^. acti.
Sir, to yotir pleasure humbly I subscribe :
My books and instruments shall be niy company,
On them to look, and practise by myself.
Luc. Hark, Tranio! thou mayst hear Minerva speak.
\Asi>le,
Hor. Signior Eaptista, will you be so strange? Sorry am I that our good-will effects Bianca's grief.
Gre. Why will you mew her up,
Signior Baptista, for this tiend of hell, And make her bear the penance of her tongue ?
Bap. Gentlemen, content ye ; I am resolv'd : — Go ill, 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 childi-en in good bringing-up : And so, farewell. Katharina, you may stay; For I have more to commune with Bianca. \^Exit.
Kath. Why, and I trust I may go too, may T not t Wliat! shall I be appointed hours; as though, belike, I knew not what to take and what to leave? Ha ! [Exit.
Gre. You may go to the devil's dam : your gifts are so good here is none will hold you. Their love is not so great, Hortensio, but we maj' blow our nails together, and fast it fairly out ; our cake's dough on both sides. Farewell : — yet, for the love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I cau by any means light on a fit man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her father.
Hor. So will I, Signior Gi'emio : 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 hajipy rivals in Bianca's love — to labour and effect one thing specially.
Gre. What's that, T pray?
Hor. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister.
Gre. A husband ! a deviL
Hor. I say, a husband.
Gre. I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, thou^ti her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell?
SCENE I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 401
Hor. Tush, Gremio, tliougli it pass your patience and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there he good fellows iu the world, an a man could Hght on them, would take her with all faults and money enough.
Gre. I cannot tell ; but I had as lief take her dowry with this condition, — to be whipped at the high-cross eveiy morning.
Ifor. Faith, as yoii say, there's small choice in rotten apples. But, come; since this bar in law makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly maintained, till, bj' helping Baptista's eldest daughter to a husband, we set his youngest fiee for a husband, and then have to't afresh. — Sweet Bianca!— Hapi)y man be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, Signior Gremio?
Gre. I am agreed : and would I had given him the best horse iu Padua to begin his wooing, that would thoroughly woo her, wed her, and bed her, and rid the house of her ! Come on. {Exeunt Gre. and Hor,
Tra. [advancing.'] I pray, sir, tell me, — is it possible That love should of a sudden take such hold?
Luc. 0 Trauio, till I found it to be true, I never thought it possible or Ukely ; But see ! while idly I stood looking on I fouud the effect of love in idleness : And now in plainness do confess to thee, — That ai't 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, Trauio, for I know thou canst; Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt.
Tra.. Master, it is no time to chide you now ; Affection is not rated from the heart : If love have touch'd you, nought remains but so, — lie f lime te capttnn quam queas minimo.
Luc. Gramercies, lad ; go forward ; this contents : The rest wdll comfort, for thy counsel's sound.
7Va. Master, you look'd so longly on the maid. Perhaps you mark'd not what's the pith of all.
Luc. O yes, I saw sweet beauty iu 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.
Tra. Saw you no more? mark'd you not how her sistei Began to scold, and raise up such a storm. That mortal ears might hardly endure the din? VOL. TI. 2 D
402 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act l
Luc. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move, And with her breath she did ])erfume the air : Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her.
Tra. Nay, then, 'tis time to stir him from his trance. I pray, awake, sir. If you love the maid, Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thua it
stands : — Her elder 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 anuoy'd with suitors.
Luc. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father's he ! But art thou not advis'd he took some care To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?
Tra. Ay, marry, am I, sir; and now 'tis plotted-
Luc. I have it, Tranio.
Ti-a. Master, for my hand,
Both x)ur inventions meet and jump in one.
Luc. Tell me thine first.
Tra. You wiU be schoolmaster,
And undertake the teaching of the maid : That's your device.
Luc. It is : may it be done ?
Tra. Not possible ; for who shall bear your part, And be in Padua here Vincentio's son ; Keep house, and i)ly his book ; welcome his friends j Visit his countrjonen, and banquet them?
Luc. Basta; content thee; for I have it full We have not yet been seen in any house ; Nor can we be distinguished 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.
Tra. So had you need. [They exchange habiU.
In brief, then, sir, sith it your pleasure is. And I am tied to be obedient, — For so your father charg'd me at our parting; Be serviceable to my son, quoth he, Although, I think, 'twas in another sense, —
6CKNE I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 403
I am content to be Lucentio, Because so well I love Lucentio.
Luc. Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves; And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid Whose sudden sight hath thrall'd my wounded eye, — " Here comes the rogue.
Enter Biondello.
Sirrah, where have you been?
Bion. Where have I been? Nay, how now ! where are you? Master, has my fellow Tranio stolen your clothts? Or you stolen his? or both? pray, what's the news?
Luc. Sirrah, come hither ; 'tis no time to jest, And therefore frame your manners to the time. Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life, Puts my apparel and my countenance on. 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, 1 charge you, as becomes. While I make way from hence to save my life : You understand me?
B'lon. I, sir ! ne'er a whit.
Lac. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth ; Tranio is chang'd into Lucentio.
Bion. The better for him ; would I were so too !
Tra. So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after, — That Lucentio indeed had Baptista's yoiingest 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 i)laces else, your master Lucentio.
Luc. Tranio, let's go : — One thing more rests, that thyself execute, — To make one among these wooers. If thou ask me why, — Suffice th, my reasons are both good and weighty. {^Extunt,
[1 Serv. My lord, you nod ; you do not mind the play.
Sly. Yes, by Saint Anne, do I. A good matter, surely; comes thei-e any more of it?
Page. My lord, 'tis but begun.
Sly. 'Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady ; would 'twere done !]
404 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act i.
SCENE II. — The same. Before Hortensio's House.
Enter Petruchio and Grumio.
Pet. Verona, for awhile I take my leave, To see my friends in Padua ; but, of all, My best beloved and approved friend, Hortensio ; and, I trow, this is his house : — Here, sirrah Grumio ; knock, I say.
G7-IL Knock, sir! whom should I knock? is there any man has rebused your worship?
Pet. Villain, I say, knock me liere soundl)^
Grii. Knock you here, sir ! why, sir, what am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir?
Pet. Villaiji, I say, knock me at this gate, Aud rap me well, or I'll knock your knave's pate.
Gru. My master is grown quarrelsome: I should knock you lirst, ^nd then I know after who comes by the worst.
Pet. Will it not be? Faith, sirrah, an you'll not knock I'll wring it : I'll try how you can sol, fa, and sing it.
[He wrinqs Grumio hy the ears.
Gru. Help, masters, help ! my master is mad.
Pet. Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain !
Enter Hortensio.
ITor. How now ! what's the matter? — Mjr old friend Grumio ! and my good friend Petruchio ! — How do you all at Verona?
Pet. Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray ? Con tutto il core bene trovato, may I say.
Hor. Alia nostra casa bene venuto, molto honorato Slgnor m'ln Petrucliio. Kise, Gnimio, rise ; we will compound this quarrel.
Gru. Nay, 'tis no matter, sir, what he 'leges in Latin. — If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave his service, ^look you, sir, — he bid me knock him, and rap him soundly, sir : well, was it fit for a servant to use his master so; being, perhaps, — ^for ought I see, — two and thii-ty, — a pi]) out?
Whom would to God I had well knock'd at first, Then had not Grumio come by the worst.
Pet. A senseless villain ! — Good Hortensio, I bade the rascal knock upon your gate, Aiid could not get him for my heart to do it.
&CENE IT. THE TAMING OP THE SHREW. 405
Gru. Knock at the gate ! — 0 heavens ! Spake you not these Avords plain,— ^S'/rra/i, hiock me here. Bap me here, knock me loell, and knock ma soundly? And come you now with — knocking at the gate?
Pet. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you.
If or. Petruchio, patience ; lamGruniio'spledgei Why, this' a heavy chance 'twixt him and you, Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio. And tell me now, sweet friend, what ha])py gale Blows you to Padua here from old Vei-ona?
Pet. Such wind as scatters young men through the world. To seek their fortunes further than at home, Where small experience grows. But, in a few, Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me : — Antonio, my father, is deceas'd ; And I have thrust mj'self 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.
Ilor. Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee, And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour'd wife ? Thou'dst thank me but a little for my counsel: And yet I'll promise thee she shall be rich. And very rich :— but thou'rt too much my friend, And I'll not wish thee to her.
Pet. Siguier Hortensio, 'twixt such friends as we Few words suffice ; and, therefore, if thou know One rich enoiigh 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' Xantippe, or a worse, She moves me not, or not removes, at least. Affection's edge in me — were she as rousjh As are the swelling Adriatic seas : I come to wive it wealthily in Padua ; If wealthily, then happily in Padua.
Gru. Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is : why, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an aijlct-baby ; or an old trot with ne'er a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases as two and tifty horses : why, nothing comes amiss, so money ronios -wnthaL
Hor. Petruchio, since we have stepp'd thui= far in, I will continue that I broach'd in jest. I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife Witli wealth enough, and young ami l'cautei>ub /
406 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW, act i.
Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman ;
Her only fault, — and that is faults enough, —
Is — that she is intolerably 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.
Pet. Hortensio, peace ! thou know'st not gold's effect :— > Tell me her father's name, and 'tis enough ; For I will board her though she chide as loud As thunder, when the clouds in autiimn craclc
Hor. Her father is Baptista Minola, An affable and courteous gentleman : Her name is Katharina Minola, Kenowu'd in Padua for her scolding tongue.
Pet. I know her father, though I know not her; And he knew my deceased father Avell : I will not sleep, Hortensix), till I see her ; And therefore let me be thus bold with you, To give you over at this first encounter, Unless you Avill accompany nie thither.
Gru. I praj' you, sir, let hira go while the humour lasts. O' my word, an she knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding would do Httle good upon him. She may, perhaps, call him half a score knaves, or so : why, tliat'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 litt!c, he will throw a figure in her face, and so disfigure her with it that she shall have no more ej'es to see withal than a cat. You know him not, sir.
Hor. Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee ; For in Baptista's keep mj' treasure is : He hath the jewel of my life in hold. His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca ; And her withholds from me, and other more. Suitors to her and rivals in my love : Sujjposing it a thing impossible, — For those defects I have before rehears' d, — That ever Katharina will be woo'd ; Therefore this order hath Baptista ta'en, That none shall have access unto Bianca Till Katharine the curst have got a husband.
Gru. Katharine the curst ! A title for a maid, of all titles the worst.
Hor. Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace; And offer me disguis'd in sober robes To old Baptista as a schoolmaster
SCENE IT. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 407
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.
Gru. [aside.'\ Here's no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how the young folks lay their heads together !
Enter Gkkmio ; with him Lucentio disguised, with books under his arm. Master, master, look about you : who goes there, ha?
Hor. Peace, Grumio ! 'tis the rival of my love. Petnichio, stand by awhile.
Grw. A proper stri]>ling, and an amorous ! [ They retire.
Ore. 0, 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 pajiers too, And let me have them very well pierfum'd; For she is sweeter than ]>erfume itself. To whom they go to. What will you reafl to her?
Luc. Wliate'er I read to her I'll plead for you As for my patron, — stand you so assur'd, — As firmly as yourself were still in place : Yea, and pei-haps with more successful words Q?han you, unless you were a scholar, sir.
Ore. O this learning ! what a thing it is !
Gru. 0 this woodcock ! what an ass it is !
Pet. Peace, sirrah !
Hor. Grumio, mum ! — [Coming forward.^ God save you, Siguior Gremio !
Gre. And you're well met, Signior Hortensio. Trow you whither I am going? — To Baptista Miacla. I promis'd to inquire carefully About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca : And, by good fortune, I have lighted well On this young man ; for learning and behaviour Fit for her turn ; well read in poetry And other books, — good ones, I warrant you.
Hor. 'Tis well : and I have met a gentleman Hath promis'd me to help me to another, A Hue musician to instruct our mistress; So shall I no whit be behiud in duty To fair Bianca, so belov'd of me.
40S THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act i.
Gre. Belov'd of me, — and that my deeds shall prove.
Gru. And that liis bags shall prove. \A.mde,
Hor. Gremio, 'tis now no time to vent our love : Listen to me, and if you speak me fair I'll tell you news indifferent good for either. Here is a gentleman, whom by chance I met, Upon agreement from us to his liking. Will midertake to woo curst Katharine; Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please.
Gre. So said, so done, is well : — Hortensio, have you told liim all her faults?
Pet. I know she is an irksome brawling scold; If that l^e all, masters, I hear no harm.
Gre. No, ■ say' st mc so, friend ? What countryman?
Pet. Born in Verona, old Antonio's son : My father dead, my fortune lives for me; Arid I do hope good days and long to see.
Gr-e. O, sir, such a life, with such a v/ife, were strauge: But if you have a stomach, to't o' God's name; You shall have me assisting you in all. But will you woo this wild -cat ?
Pet. Will I live?
Gru. Will he woo her? ay, or I'll hang her.
Pet. Why came I hither but to that intent ? Think you a little din can daunt mine ears? Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard tlie sea, jnitf 'd up with winds, Bage like an angi-y boar chafed with sweat? Have [ not heard great ordnance in the Held, And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies? Have 1 not in a pitched battle heard Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and tnnnpets* clang? And do you tell me of a woman's tongue ; Tiiat gives not half so great a blow to hear As will a chestnut in a f;inner's tire? Tush ! tush ! fear boys with bugs.
Oru. For he fears noue.
Gre. Hortensio, hark : This gentleman is hajjpily arriv'd, My mind presumes, for his own good and ours.
Hor. I jironus'd we would be contributors, And (jtar his charge of wooing, whatsoe'er.
Gre. And so we will — -]>rovided that he win her,
Gru I would 1 were as sure of a good dinner.
flrENE n. THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. 409
Enter Tranio bravely apparelled, and Biondello.
Tra. Gentlemen, God save you ! If I may be bold. Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way To the house of Siguier Baptista Minola?
Bion. He that has the two fair daughters : — is't {aside to Tranio] he you mean?
Tra. Even he, Biondello.
Gre. Hark you, sir; j'ou mean not her to, —
Tra. Perhaps, him and her, sir; what have you to do?
Pet. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray.
Tra. I love no chiders, sir ; — Biondello, let's away-
Luc. Well begun, Tranio. . [Aside.
Hot. Sir, a word ere you go ; — Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no?
Tra. An if I be, sir, is it any offence ?
Gre. No ; if without more words you will get you hence.
Tra. Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free For me as for you?
Gre. But so is not she.
Tra. For what reason, I beseech you?
Gre. For this reason, if yoii'll know, — That she's the choice love of Signior (In luio.
J fur. That she's the chosen of Siguior Hortensio.
Tra. Softly, my masters ! if you be geutlemea 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, 81ie may more suitors have, aud 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.
Gre. What ! this gentleman will oiit-talk lis all.
Luc. Sir, give him head ; I know he'll prove a jada
Pet. Hortensio, to what end are all these words? Hor. Sir, let me be so bold as ask you. Did you yet ever see Baptista's daughter?
Tra. No, sir ; but hear I do that he hath two ; The one as famous for a scolding tongue As is the other for beauteous modesty.
Pet. Sir, sir, the hrst's for me ; let her go by.
Gre. Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules; And let it be more than Alcides' twelve.
Pet. Sir, understand you this of me, in sooth s
410 THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. act t.
The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for,
Her father kee})s from all access of suitors,
An J will not promise her to any man
Until the elder sister first be wed:
Q'Jie younger then is free, and not before.
Tra. 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, an'l 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.
Hor. Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive ; And since you do profess to be a suitor. You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman, To whom we all rest generally beholding.
Tra. Sir, I shall not be slack : in sign whereof, Please ye we may contrive this afternoon. And quaff carouses to our mistress' health; And do as adversaries do in la%y, — Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.
Ch-u. Bion. 0 excellent motion ! Fellows, let's be gone.
Hor. The motion's good indeed, and be it so; — Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto. [Exeunt,
ACT II.
SCENE L — The same. A Room in Baptist a's House.
Enter Katharina and Bianca.
Bian. Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself To mak'- 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.
Kuth. Of all thy suitors, hei-e I charge thee, tell \Vliom thou If v'st best: see thou dissemble not.
Bian. Believe me, sister, of all the men alive, 1 never yet beheld that special face Which I could fancy more than any other.
KatL Minion, thou liest ; is't not Hortensio'i
ecEN'E I. THE TAMING OF THE SIIEEW. 411
Bian. If you affect him, sister, here I swear I'll plead for you myself, but you shall have him.
Katk. 0 then, belike, you fancy riches more ; You will have Gremio to keep you fair.
Bian. Is it for him you do envy me so? Kay, then you jest; and now I well perceive You have but jested with me all this while : I pr'ythee, sister Kate, untie my hands.
Kath. If that be jest, then all the rest was so.
[Slrikes her.
Enter Baptista.
Bap. Why, how now, dame! whence grows this inso- lence?— Bianca, stand aside ; — poor girl ! she weeps : — Go ply tliy needle ; meddle not with her. — For sliame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit, ■V^^ly dost thou wrong her that did ne'er wrong thee ? When did she cross thee with a bitter word?
Kath. Her sdeuce flouts me, and I'll be reveng"d.
[Fries q/;e?- Bianca.
Bap. What, in my sight?— Bianca, get thee in.
[E;i:it Bianca,
Kath. What, will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see She is your treasure, she must have a husband j 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 Katharina.
Bap. Was ever gentleman thus griev'd as i? But who comes here?
Enter Gremio, with Lucentio in the habit of a w.mn man,
Petruchio, with HoRTENSio as a musician; and Tra^sio,
witli, BioNDEi.LO beariny a lute and bocks.
Gre. Good-morrov/, neighbour Baptista.
Bap. Good-morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save you, gentlemen !
Pet. And you, good sir! .Pray, have you not a daughtei Call'd Katharina, fair and virtuous?
Bap. I have a daughter, sir, call'd Katharina.
Gre. You are too blunt : go to it orderly.
Pet. 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,
412 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act ii.
Her wondrous qiialitief? and mild behaviour,—
Am bold to show myself a forward guest
Within your house, to make mine eye the witness
Of that I'eport 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 ii^orant : Accept of him, or else you do me wrong ; His name is Licio, born in Mantua.
Bap. You're welcome, sir ; and he for your good sake ; But for my daughter Katharine, — this I know, She is not for your turn, the more my grief.
Pet. I see you do not mean to part with her; Or else you like not of my comjiany.
Bap. Mistake me not, I speak bvit as T find. Whence are you, sir? what may I call your name?
Pet. Petruchio is my name ; Antonio's son, A man well known throughout all Italy.
Bap. I know him well : you are we]<()nie for his sake.
Gre. Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray. Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too : Baccare ! you are marvellous forward.
Pet. 0, pardon me, Signior Gremio ; I would fain be doing.
Gre. I doubt it not, sir ; but you will curse your wooing. — Neighbour, this is a gift veiy gratefxil, I am sure of it. To express the like kindness myself, that have been more kindly beholding to you than any, I freely give unto you this young scholar {presenting Lucentto], that hath been long studying at Rheims ; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other langvaages, as the other in music and mathematics : his name is Cambio; pray, accept his ser^^ce.
Bap. A thousand thanlcs, Siguior Gremio: welcome, good Cambio. — But, gentle sir [to Tranio], methinks you walk like a stranger. May I be so bold to know the cause of your coming ?
Ti-a. Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine o^vn; That, being a stranger in this city here, Do make myself a suitor to your daughter. Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous. Nor is your linn resolve unknown to me, In the preferment of the eldest sister. This liberty is all that I request, —
SCENE I. THE TAMING OF THE SIir.EW. 413
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 s
If you accept them, then their worth is great.
Bap. Lucentio is your name? of whence, I pray?
Tra. Of Pisa, sir ; son to Vincentio
Bap. A mighty man of Pisa : by report 1 know him well : you are very welcome, sir. — Take you [to Hon.] the lute, and you [to Luc] the eet
of books ; Vou shall go see your pupils presently. Holla, within !
Enter a Servant.
Sirrah, lead these gentlemen To my daiighters ; and tell them both. These are their tutors ; bid them use them well.
[Exit Serv., with HoR., Luc, and BiON We will go walk a little iu the orchard. And then to dinner. You are i)assing welcome, And so I i)ray you all to think yourselves.
Pet. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste, And every day I cannot come to woo. Yoix knew my father well ; and in him, me, Left solely heir to all his lands and goods, Which I have better'd rather than decreas'd: Then teU me, — if I get your daughter's love, What dowry shall 1 have with her to wife?
Bap. After my death, the one half of my lands ; And, in possession, twenty thousand crowns.
Pet. And for that dowry I'll assure her of Her widowhood, — be it that she survive me, — In all my lands and leases whatsoever: Let specialties be therefore drawn between us, That covenants may be kept on either hand.
Bap Ay, when the special thing is well obtain'd, That is, her love ; for that is all in all
Pet. Why, that is nothing ; for I tell you, father, I am as peremptory as she proud-minded ; And Miiliere 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:
4 1 \ THE TAMING OP THE SHUEW. act ii.
So I to her, and so she yields to me ; For I am rough, and woo not like a babe.
Bap. Well mayst thou woo, aud happy be thy sj^eed f But be thou arm'd for some uuhappy words.
Pet. Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for winds, That shake not though they blow perpetually.
Re-enter Hortensio, iintli his head broken.
Bap. How now, my friend ! why dost thou look so pale?
Ilor. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.
Bap. What, will my daughter ])rove a good musician?
Hor. I think she'll sooner prove a soldier : Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.
Bap. Wliy, then thou canst not break her to the lute?
Jior. Why, no ; for she hath broke the lute to me. I did but tell her she mistook her fi-ets. And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering, Wlien, vidth a most impatient devilish spirit. Frets, call you these? quoth she; Fit 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 awhile, As on a pillory, looking through the lute, While she did call me rascal fiddler And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms, As she had studied to misuse me so.
Pet. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench ; I love her ten times more than e'er I did : 0, how I long to have some chat with her !
Bap. Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited: Proceed in pi-actice with my younger daughter : She's apt to learn, and thankful for good turns. — Siguior Petruchio, will you go with us. Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you?
Pet. I pray you do : 1 will attend her here,
[Exeunt Bap., Gre., Tra., and Hon. A nd woo her with some S]nrit 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'U say she looks as clear As morning roses newly washed with dew : Say slie be mute, and will not speak a word; Then I'll commend her volubiUty, Aiid say she uttereth piercing eloquence : If she do bid me pack, I'll give her thanks. As though she l)id uie stay by her a week:
SCENE I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW, 415
If she deny to wed, I'll crave the day
When I shall ask the banns, and when he married. — •
But here she conies ; and now, Petruchio, speak.
Enter Katharina. Good-morrow, Kate ; for that's your name, I liear.
Kath. Well have you heard, but somethmg hard of hearing : They call me Katharine that do talk of me.
Pet. You lie, in faith ; for you are call'd plain Kate, And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst ; But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, Kate of Kate-Hall, my super-dainty Kate, For dainties are all cated ; and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation ; — Hearing thy mildness prais'd in every town, Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty soimded, — Yet not so deej-'ly as to thee belongs, — Myself am mov'd to woo thee for my wife.
Kath. Mov'd! in good time: let him that mov'd you hither Eemove you hence : I knew you at the first You were a movable.
Pet. Why, what's a movable?
Kath. A joint-stool.
Pet. Thou hast hit it : come, sit on me
Kath. Asses are made to bear, and so are you.
Pet. Women are made to bear, and so are you.
Kath. No such jade as bear you, if me you mean.
Pet. Alas, good Kate, I will not burden tliee ! For, knowing thee to be but young and light, —
Kath. Too light for such a swain as you to catch ; And yet as heavy as my weight should be.
Pet. Should be ! should buzz.
Kath. Well ta'en, and like a buzzar<l.
Pet. 0 slow-wing'd turtle ! shall a buzzard take thee ?
Kath. Ay, for a turtle, — as he takes a buzzard.
Pet. Come, come, you wasp ; i' faith, you are too angry.
Kath. If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
Pet. My remedy is then, to pluck it out.
Kath. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.
Pet. Who knows not where a wasj) doth wear his sting? In his t.iiL
Kath. In his tongue.
Pet. Wliose tongue?
Kath. Yours, if you talk of tails ; and so farewell.
416 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act it.
Pet. What, with my tongue in your tail ? nay, come again, Good Kate ; I am a gentleman.
Kath. That I'll try. [Striking him.
Pet. I swear I'll cuff you, if you strike again.
Kath. So may you lose your anns : If you strike me, you are no gentleman ; And if no gentleman, why then no arms.
Pet. A herald, Kate? 0, put me in thy books!
Kath. What is your crest ? a coxcomb ?
Pet. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.
Kath. No cock of mine ; you crow too like a craven.
Pet Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.
Kath. It is my fashion, when I see a crab.
Pet. Why, here's no crab ; and therefore look not sour.
Kalh. There is, there is.
Pet. Then show it me.
Kath. Had I a glass I woidd.
Pet. What, you mean my face ?
Kath. Well aim'd of such a yonng ona
Pet. Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.
Kaih. Yet you are wither'd.
Pet. 'Tis with cares.
Kath. I care not
Pet. Nay, hear you, Kate : in sooth, you 'scape not so.
Kath. I chafe you, if I tarry; let me go.
Pet. No, not a whit : I tind you passing gentle. Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen, And now I find report a very bar ; For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous ; But slow in speech, yet sweet as sj>ring-time liowera : Tliou 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 mddness entertain'st thy wooers, '\^'ith gentle conference, soft and atfable. Why does the world re])ort that Kate doth limp? 0 slanderous world ! Kate, like the hazel-twig, Is straight and slender; and as brown in hue As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the keruels. 0, let me see thee walk : thou dost not halt.
Kath. Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st command.
Pet. Did ever Dian so become a grove As Kate this chamber with her princely gait ? O, be thou Dian, and let her be Kate ; And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful 1
SCENE I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 417
Kath. Where did you study all this goodly speech?
Pet. It is extempore, from my mother-wit.
Kath. A witty mother ! witless else her son.
Pet. Am I not wise?
Kath. Yes ; keep you warm.
Pet Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharine, in thy bed : And thei-efore, setting all this chat aside, Tlius in plain terms : — Your father hath consented That you shall be my wife ; your dowry 'greed on ; And, will you, nill 3'ou, I will marry you. I>Iow, 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, — Tliou 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 Kato Conformable, as other household Kates. Here comes your father ; never make denial ; I must and will have Katharine to my wife.
Re-enter Baptist A^ Gremio, and Tranio.
Bap. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter ?
Pet. How but well, sir? how but well? It were impossible I should speed amiss.
Bap. Why, how now, daughter Katharine ! in your dumps ?
Kath. Call you me daughter? now, I promise you You have show'd a tender fatherly regard To wish me wed to one half lunatic ; A mad -cap ruffian and a swearing Jack, That thinks with oaths to face the matter out
Pet. Father, 'tis thus: — yourself and all the world. That talked of her, hath 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 wiU prove a second Grissel, And Roman Lucrece for her chastity : And to conclude, we have 'greed so well together, That upon Sunday is the wediling-day.
Kath. I'll see thee hang'd on Sunday first.
Chf. Hark, Petruchio; she says she'U see thee hang'd first.
Tra. Is this your speeding? nay, then, good-night our
part t VOU II. 2 E
418 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act ii.
Pet. Be patient, gentlemen ; I choose her for myself j If she and I be pleas'd, what's that to you ? 'Tis bargain'd 'twixt us twain, being alone, That she shall still be curst in company. I tell you, 'tis incredible to believe How much she loves me : 0, the kindest Kate ! — She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss She vied so fast, jirotesting 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 ^vill unto Venice, To buy apparel 'gainst the wedding-day. — Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests ; I -will be sure my Katharine shall be fi'ne.
Bap. I know not what to say : but give me your hands ; God send you joy, Petruchio ! 'tis a match.
Gre. Tra. Amen, say we ; we will be witnesses.
Pet. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu ; I will to Venice ; Sunday comes apace : — We will liave rings, and things, and tine array ; And, kiss me, Kate, we will be married o' Sunday.
[Exeunt Pet. and Kath., several'y,
Gre. Was ever match clapp'd up so suddenly ?
Bap. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant's part. And venture madly on a desperate mart.
Tra. 'Twas a commodity lay fretting by you; •T-will bring you gain, or perish on the seas.
Bap. The gain I seek is quiet in the match.
Gre. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch. But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter ; — Now is the day we long have looked for ; 1 am your neighbour, and was suitor first.
Tra. And I am one that love Eianca more Than words can witness or your thoughts can guess.
Gre. Younghng ! thou canst not love so dear as I.
Tra. Graybeai-d ! thy love doth freeze.
Gi'e. But thine doth fry.
Skipper, stand back ; 'tis age that nourishetli.
Tra. But youth in ladies^ eyes that Uourislieth.
Bap. Content you, gentlemen; I'Jl compound this strife : 'Tis deeds must win the prize ; and he, of both, That can assure my daughter greatest dower Shall have Bianca's love. — Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her ?
fiCENE T. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 419
Ore. First, as you Icnow, 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 cotfers I have stuff'd my crowns ; In cypress chests my arras counterpoints, Costly apparel, tents, and canopies, Fine linen, Turkey cushions hoss'd with pearl, Valance of Venice gold in needle-work. Pewter and brass, and all thuigs that belong To house or housekeepuig: then, at my farm, I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail, Six score 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.
Tra. That only came well in. — Sir, list to me: I am my father's heir and only son : If I may have your daughter to my wife, I'U leave her houses three or four as good. Within rich Pisa's 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 ?
Gre. Two thousand ducats bj'- 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 chok'd you with an argosy?
Tra. Gremio, 'tis known my father hath no less Than three great aigosies ; besides two galliasses. And twelve tight galleys : these I will assure her. And twice as much, whate'er thou offer'st next.
Gre. Nay, I have ofter'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.
Tra. Why, then the maid is mine from all the world^ By your firm promise : Gremio is out-vied.
Bap. I must confess your offer is the best ; And, let your father make her the assurance, She is your own ; else, -^ow. must pardon me : If you should die before htm, where's her dower ?
Trn.. That's but a cavil; he is ohl, I young.
Grt. And may not young men die as well as old?
420 THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. act il
Bap. Well, gentlemen, I am thus resolvVl : — On Sunday next you know My daughter Katharine is to be married: Kow, on the Sunday following shall Bianca Be bride to you, if you make this assurance ; If not, to Signior Gremio : And so I take my leave, and thank you both.
Gre. Adieu, good neighbour. — [Exit Baptist a<
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 ! Au old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy. [Exit,
Tra. 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 sup]>os'd Lucentio Must get a father, call'd — suppos'd 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. A Room in Baptista's House.
Enter Lucentio, Hortensio, and Bianca.
Luc. Fiddler, forbear ; you grow too forward, sir : Have you so soon forgot the entei'taiument Her sister Kathei-ine welcom'd you withal?
Hor. 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.
Luc. Preposterous ass ! that never read so far To know the cause why music was ordain'd ! Was it not to refresh the mind of man After his studies or his usual pain? Tlien give me leave to read jihilosophy, And while I pause serve in your harmony.
J [or. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.
Bian. Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong.
BCENE I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 421
To strive for that which resteth in my choice : I am no l>reeching scholar in the schools : I'll not he 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 tun'd.
Uor, You'll leave his lecture when I am in tune ?
[7'o BiANCA. HoKTKNSio rehires.
Luc. That will be never : — tune your instrument.
Bian. Where left we last?
Luc. Here, madam: —
IIccc ibat Simois; hie est Sigeia tellus; Hie stcterat Prlaini reyia celsa senis.
Bian. Construe them.
Luc. Hac ibat, as I told you before, — Simois, T am Lucentio, — hie est, son unto Vincentio of Pisa, — S'xjeia tellus, disguised thus to get yoixr love ; — Hie steterat, and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing, — Priami, is my man Tranio, — regia, bearing my port, — ce!sa senis, that we might beguile the old pantaloon
Hor. [eovmtff forward.] Madam, my instniment's in tune.
Bian. Let's hear. — [Horten^io j'lays.
0 fie ! the treble jars.
Luc. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.
Bian. Now let me see if I can construe it: — TIac ibat Simois, I know you not, — hie est Sigeia tellus, I trust you not; — Hie steterat Priavii, take heed he hear us not, — regia, presume not, — eelsa senis, despair not.
Hor. Madam, 'tis now in tune.
Luc. All but the base.
Hor. The base is right ; 'tis the base knave that jars. How fiery and forward our pedant is ! Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love : Pedascule, I'll watch you better yet. [Aside.
Bian. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.
Luc. Mistrust it not ; for, sure, ^acides Was Ajax, — call'd so from his grandfather.
Bian. I miist believe my master ; else, I promise you,
1 should be arguing still upon that doubt : But let it rest. — Now, Licio, to you: — Cood masters, take it not unkindly, pray. That I have been thus pleasant with you both.
Hor. You may go walk [to Lucentio], and gi ve me leave awhile ; My lessons make no music in three parts.
422 THE TAMING OP THE SHREW. act hi.
Luc. Are you so formal, sir? well, I must wait, Anrl watcli withal ; for, but I be deceiv'd, Our fine musician groweth amorous. [Asiilt,
Hor. Madam, before you touch the instrument, To learn the order of mj' tiugeriiig, I must begin with rudiments of art ; To teach you gamut in a briefer sort, ^lore pleasant, pithy, and effectual, Tliau hath been taught by any of my trade : And there it is in writing, fairly drawn.
Bian. Why, I am past my gamut long ago.
J lor. Yet read tlie gamut of Hortensio.
Bian. [rearis.] Gamut / am, the g^-ound of all accord, A re, to plead Jlortensio's passion;
B mi, Bianco, take him for thy lord, C fa ut, tliat loves with all affection.
D sol re, one cliff, two notes have I ; E la mi, show pity, or I die. Call you this ^amut ? tut, I like it not : Old fashions please me best ; I am not so nice, To change true rules for odd inventions.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. Mistress, your father prays you leave your books, And help to dress your sister's chamber up : You know to-morrow is the wedding-day.
Bian. Farewell, sweet masters, both ; I must be gone!
[Exeunt Bianca and Servant.
Luc. Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay. [Exit.
Hor. But I have cause to pry into this pedant; Methinks he looks as though he were in love : — Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble, To cast thy wand' ring eyes on every stale, Seize thee that list : if once I find thee ranging, Hortensio will be quit with thee bj' changing. [Exit.
SCEKE II. — The same. Before Baptist a's House.
Enter B.^jptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katiiarina, Bianca, LucENTio, and Attendants. Bap. Siguier Lucentio [to Tranio], this is the 'pointed day That Katharine and Petruchio should be married. And yet we hear not of OTir son-in-law : What will be said ? what mockery will it be,
scBNfl ir. THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. 423
To want the bridegroom when the priest attemla To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage? What says Lucentio to this shame of ours?
Katli. No shame but mine : I must, forsooth, be forc'd To give my hand, oppos'd against my heaii, Unto a mad-brain iiidesby, full of spleen ; Who woo'd in haste, and means to wed at leisure. I told you, I, he was a fi-antic fool, Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour: And, to be noted for a merry man. He'll woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage. Make friends, invite them, and proclaim the banns ; Yet never means to wed where he hath woo'd. Now must the world point at poor Katharine, And say, Lo, there is mad Fetruchio^s wife, IJ' it wuuld •please him corae and marry her I
Tra. Patience, good Katharine, and Baptista too. Uj^oii 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.
Kath. Would Katharine had never seen him though !
[Exit, weeiiing, followed by Bianca a7id others.
Bap. 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.
Bion. Master, master ! old uews, and such news as you never heai-d of !
Bap. Is it new and old too? how may that be?
Bioii. Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio's coming?
Bap. Is he come?
Bion. Why, no, sir.
Baj). What then?
Bion. He is coming.
BajJ. When will he be here ?
Bion. When he stands where I am, and sees you there.
Tra. But, say, what to thine old news ?
Bion. Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and an old jerkin ; a pair of old breeches thrice turned ; a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced ; an old rusty sword ta'en out of the town armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless ; with two broken points : his horse hipped with an old mothy saddle, and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessed with the glanders, and like
424 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act in.
to mose in tlie chine ; troubleei with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of wind-galls, sj>ecl with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn -with the bots, swayed in the back, and shoulder-shotten ; ne'er legged before, and with a half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep's leather, which, being restrained to keep him from stumbUng, hath l)een often burst, and now repaired with knots ; one girth six times pieced, and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name, fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread.
J'ap. Who comes with him ?
Bion. 0, 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 hst ; an old hat, and The humour of forty fancies pricked in't for a feather : a monster, a very monster in apparel ; and not like a Christian footboy or a gentleman's lackey.
Tra. 'Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion ; Yet oftentimes he goes but mean apparell'd.
Bap. I am glad he is come, howsoe'er he comea
Bion. Why, sir, he conies not.
Bap. Didst thou not say he comes?
Bion. Who? that Petruchio came?
Bap. Ay, that Petruchio came.
Bioiu No, sir; I say his horse comes with liim on his back.
Bap. Why, that's all one.
Bion. 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.
Pet. Come, where be these gallants? who's at home?
Bap. You are welcome, sir.
Pet. And yet I come not welL
Bap. And yet you halt not.
Tra. Not so well apparell'd
As I wish you were.
Pet. Were it better, I should n:sh 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,
SCENE 11. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 425
As if they saw some wondrous monument, Some comet or unusual prodigy ?
Bap. Wlij-, sir, you kuow this is your wcrtding-day : First were we sad, fearing you would not come ; Now sadder, that you come so unjirovided. Fie, doff this habit, shame to your estate, An eye-sore to our solemn festival !
Tra. And tell us, what occasion of import Hath all so long detain'd j'^ou from your wife, And sent you hither so unlike j'ourself ?
Pet. 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.
Tra. See not 5foiir bride in these unreverent robes: Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine.
Pet. Not I, believe me : tlius I'll visit her.
Bap. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.
Pet. Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha' done with words ; To me she's married, not Tinto my clothes: Could I repair what she wiU 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 PETRUcnio and Gkttmio.
Tra. He hath some meaning in his mad attire : We wiU persuade him, be it possible, To put on better ere he go to church.
Bap. I'll after him, and see the event of this.
[Exeunt Bap., Grem , nreof BiON.
Tra. But, sir, to her love concerneth us to add Her father's liking : which to bring to pass, As I before imparted to your worship, I am to get a man, — whate'er he be. It skills not much ; we'll fit him to our turn, — And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa ; And make assurance, here in Padua, Of greater sums than I have promised. So shall you quietly enjoy your hojie, And marry sweet Biauca with conseut.
426 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act iiu
Liic. Were it not that my fellow-schoolmaster Doth watch Bianca's stejis 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.
Tra. That by degrees we mean to look into, And watch our vantage in this business : We'll over-reach the graybeard, 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?
Gre. As willingly as e'er I came from school.
Tra. And is the bride and bridegroom coming home?
Gre. A bridegroom, say you? 'tis a groom indeed, A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall tind.
Tra. Curster than she? why, 'tis impossible.
G7-e. Why he's a devil, a devil, a vei-y fiend
Tra. Why, she's a devil, a devil, the de\ars dam.
Gre. Tut, she's a lamb, a dove, a fool to him 1 I'll tell you, Sir Lucentio : when the priest Should ask, if Katharine should be his wife. Ay, hy (jogs-wouns, quoth he ; and swore so loud That, all amaz'd, the pi-iest 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 doAvn fell priest and book, and book and priest : How take them up, quoth he, if any list.
Tra. What said the wench, when he arose again?
Gre. 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 : quafl'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. I, seeing this, came thence for very shame;
BCENB II. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 427
And after ine, I know, the rout is coining.
Such a mad marriage never was before :
Hark, hark ! 1 hear the minstrels play. [Music,
Enter Petruchio, Kathartna, Bianga, Baptista, HoRTENSio, Grumio, and Train.
Pet. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains: I know you tliink to dine -vvith me to-day. And have prepar'd great store of wedding cheer ; But so it is, my haste doth call me hence. And therefore here I mean to take my leave.
Bap. Is't possible you will away to-night?
Pet. I must away to-day, before night come : Make it no wonder ; if you knew my business, You would entreat me lather go than stay. And, honest comyjany, I thank you all. That have behehl 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.
Tra. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner.
Pet. It may not be.
Gre. Let me entreat you.
Pet. It cannot be.
Kath. Let me entreat you.
Pet. I am content.
Kath. Are yo\i content to stay?
Pet. I am content you shall entreat me stay ; But yet not stay, entreat me how j'ou can.
Kath. Now, if you love me, stay.
Pet. Grumio, my horse.
Gru. Ay, sir, they be ready: the oats have eaten the horses.
Kath. Nay, then, Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day ; No, nor to-morrow, nor till I please myself. The door is open, sir; there Hes 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 sui-ly groom, That take it on you at the first so roundly.
Pet. 0 Kate, content thee ; pr'ythee, be not angry.
Kath. I will be angry ; what hast thou to do ? — Father, be quiet : he shall stay my leisure.
Gre. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work.
Kath. Gentlemen, forwaid to the bridal dinners
428 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act in.
I see a woman may be made a fool If she had not a spirit to resist.
Pel. 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 anything ; 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 shaU not touch thee, Kate ; I'U buckler thee against a million.
[Exeunt Pet., Kath., and Grp.
Bap. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones.
Gre. Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing.
Tra. Of all mad matches, never was the like !
Luc. Mistress, what's your opinion of your sister?
Bian. That, being mad herself, she's madly mated.
Gre. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated.
Bap. Neighbours and friends, though bride and bride- groom wants. For to supply the places at the table. You know their wants no junkets at the feast. — Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom's place ; And let Bianca take her sister's room.
Tra. ShaU sweet Bianca practise how to bride it?
Bap. She shall, Lucentio —Come, gentlemen, let's go.
[Kxeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. — A Hall in Petruchio's Country ffmisc
Enter Grumio. Gru. Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters, f«nd all foul ways! Was ever man so beaten? was ever
SCENE I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 429
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 tire to thaw me: — but I, with blowing the lire, shall warm myself; for, considering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold. — Holla, "ho ! Curtis !
Enter Curtis.
Curt. Who is that calls so coldly?
Gru. A piece of ice : if thou doubt it, thou mayst slide fi-om my shoulder to my heel with no greater a run but my head and my neck. A tire, good Ctirtis.
Curt. Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio?
Gru. 0, ay, Curtis, ay: and therefore tire, lire; cast on no water.
Curt. Is she so hot a shrew as she's reported ?
Gru. She was, good Curtis, before this frost; but, thou knowest, winter tames man, woman, and beast ; for it hath tamed my old master, and my new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis.
Curt. Away, you three-inch fool ! I am no beast.
Gi-u. Am I but three inches ? why, thy horn is a foot ; and so long am I, at the least. But wilt thou make a liie, or shall I complain on thee to our mistress, whose hand,— she being now at hand, — thou shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot office ?
Curt. I pr'ythee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world?
Gru. A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; and, therefore, tire: do thy duty, and have thy duty; for my master and mistress are almost frozen to death.
'Curt. There's fire ready; and, therefore, good Grumio, the news?
Gru. Why, Jack hoy! ho, hoy! and as much news as thou wilt.
Curt. Come, you are so full of cony-catching ! —
G^ni. Why, therefore, tire ; for 1 have caught extreme cold. Where's the cook? is supper ready, the house ti'im- med, rushes strewed, cobwebs swejit ; 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, aud everythmg in order?
Curt. All ready; and, therefore, I pray thee, news?
430 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act tv.
Gru. First, know, my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out.
Curt. How?
Gru. Out of their saddles into the dirt; and theroLj hangs a tale.
Curt. Let's ha't, good Grumio.
Gru. Lend thine ear.
Curt. Here.
Gru. There. \8trikmg Mm.
Curt. This is to feel a tale, not to hear a tale.
Gru. And therefore 'tis called a sensible tale : and thia 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: —
Ctirt. Both of one horse?
Gru. What's that to thee?
Curt. Why, a horse.
G'ni. Tell thou the tale: — but hadst thou not crossed me, thou shouldst have lieard how her horse fell, and she under her horse ; thou shouldst have heard, iu 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 sv/ore ; how she prayed — that never pray'd before ; how I cried; how the horses ran away; how her bridle was burst; how 1 lost my crujiper; with many things of worthy memory ; which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return unexperienced to thy grave.
Curt. By this reckoning, he is more shrew than she.
Gim. Ay ; and that thou and the proudest of you all shall find when he comes home. But what talk I of this? — CaU 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 pre- sume to touch a hair of my master's horse-tail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready?
Curt. They are.
Gra. Call them forth.
Curt. Do you hear, ho? you must meet my master, to countenance my mistress.
Gru. Why, she hath a face of her o^vn.
Curt. Who knows not that?
Gru. Thou, it seems, that callest for company to count- enance hei".
Curt. I caU them forth to credit her.
SCENE I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 431
Oru. Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them.
Enter several Servants.
NatTi. Welcome home, Grumio 1
PIdl. How now, Grrnnio I
Jos. What, Grumio !
Nich. Fellow Grumio !
NatK How now, old lad?
Gru. Welcome, you ; — how now, you ; — what, yen ; — fellow, you ; — and thus much for greeting. Now, my Bjjruce companions, is all ready, and all things neat?
Nath. All things is ready. How near is our master?
Gru. E'en at hand, alighted by this ; — and therefore be not, — Cock's passion, silence ! — I hear my master.
Enter Petruchio and Katharina.
Pet. Where be these knaves? What, no man at door To hold my strrrip nor to take my horse ! Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip? —
A II Serv. Here, here, sir ; here, sir.
Pet. Here, sir ! here, sir ! here, sir ! here, sir ! — You logger-headed and uupolish'd grooms ! What, no attendance? no regard? no duty? — Where is the foohsh knave I sent befoi-e ?
G^-u. Here, sir ; as foolish as I was before.
Pet, You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horpe drudge ! Did I not bid thee meet me in the park. And bring along these rascal knaves with thee?
Gru. Nathaniel's coat, sir, was not fully made. And Gabriel's pumps were all unpinli'd 'i the heel; There was no link to colour Peter's hat. And Walter's dagger was not come from sheatliing : There were none tine but Adam, Kalph, and Gregory ; The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly ; Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.
Pet. Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in. —
[Exeunt some of the Servants,
Where is the life that late I led— [Sliirjs.
Where are those Sit down, Kate, and welcome.
Soud, soud, soud, soud !
Pe-enter Servants with shipper. Wliy, when, T say? — Nay, good sweet l^ate, be merry. Oil with my boots, you rogues! you villains, wheiiJ
432 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act iv.
It was the friar of orders gray ; L*' "*!/«•
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 : —
[ErAt Servant. One, Kate, that you must kis.?, and be acquainted with. — Where are my slippers? — Shall I have some water?
[A bason is presented to hiin. Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome lieartily. —
[Servant lets the ewer fall. You whoreson villain ! vail you let it fall? [Strikes him,
Kath. Patience, I jiray you ; 'twas a fault unwilling.
Pet. A whoreson, beetle -headed, flap-ear'd luiave! Come, Kate, sit down ; I know you have a stomach. Will you give thanks, sweet Kate j or else shall 1?— What's this? mutton?
1 Serv. Ay.
Pet. Who brought it?
1 Serv. I.
Pet. '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? There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all :
[ Throws the meat, d-c. , about the sfage. You heedless joltheads and unmanner'd slaves ! What, do you grumble? I'll be with you straight.
Kath. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet ; The meat was well, if you were so contented.
Pet. I tell thee, Kate, 'twas burnt and dried away; And I expressly am forbid to touch it, For it engenders choler, planteth anger ; And better 'twere that both of us did fast, — 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 Pet., Katji., and CuBt.
Nath. Peter, didst ever see the like ?
Peter. He kills her in her own humour.
"E . ORUTZNER . PINX.
SSZiLfc,
KATHARINA AND PETRUCHIO.
BCENE I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 483
He-enter Curtis.
Gru. Where is he ?
Cu7-t. In her chamber, Making a sermon of coutinency 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. Fet. Thus have I pohticly 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-gorg'd. For then she never looks upon her lure. Another way I have to man my haggard. To make her corac, 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 waj' 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'U 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 Baptist a's House.
Enter Tranxo and Hortensio. Tra. Is't possible, friend Licio, that Bianca Doth fancy any other but Lucentio ? I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand.
Ilor. Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said. Stand by, and mirk the manner of his teaching.
[They starul aside, VOL. II. 2 F
434 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act nr.
Enter BiANCA and Lctcentio.
Luc. Now, mistress, profit you in what you read?
Bian. What, master, read you? first resolve me that.
Luc. I read that I profess, the Art to Love.
Bian. And may you i)rove, sir, master of your art !
Luc. While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my lieart.
[They retire,
Hor. Quick proceeders, marry ! Now, tell me, I pray, You that durst swear that your Mistress Bianca Lov'd none in the v/orld so well as Lucentio.
Tra. 0 despiteful love ! unconstant womai Jiind ! — I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful.
Hor. 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 cuUion : Know, sir, that I am call'd Hortensio.
Tra. Signior Hortensio, I have often heard Of your entire affection to Bianca ; And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness, I will with you, — if you be so contented, — Forswear Bianca and her love for ever.
Hor. See, how they kiss and court !— Signior Lticentio, Here is my hand, aud here I firmly vow Never to woo her more ; but do forswear her, As one unworthy all the former favours That I have fondly flatter'd her withal.
Tra. And here I take the like unfeigned oath, Never to marry with her though she would entreat: Fie on her ! see, how beastly she doth court him !
Hor. Would all the world but he had quite forsworn! For me, that I may surely keep mine oath, I will be married to a wealthy mdow Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov'd me As I have lov'd this proud disdainful haggard : And so farewell, Signior Lucentio. — Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks. Shall win my love : and so I take my leave. In resolution as I swore before.
[Ejcit HoR. Luc. and Bian. advance.
Tra. Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace As 'longeth to a lover's blessed case ! Nay, I have ta'en you nai)ping, gentle love ; AuJ have forsworn you with Hortensio.
SCENE IT. THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. 435
Bian. Tranio, you jest ; but have you both forswora me?
Tra. Mistress, we have.
Luc. Then we are rid of Licio.
7'/-a. I'faith, he'll have a lusty widow now, That shall be woo'd and wedded in a day.
Bian. God give him joy !
Tra. Ay, and he'll tame her.
Bian. He says so, Tranio.
Tra. Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school.
Bian. The taming-suhool ! what, is thei-e such a place?
Tra. 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.
Bion. O master, master, T have watch'd so long That I'm dog-weary ; but at last I spied An ancient angel coming down the hill, Win serve the turn.
Tra. Wliat is he, Biondello?
Bion. Master, a mercatante, or a pedant, I know not what ; but formal in apparel, In gait and coiintenance surely like a father.
Luc. And what of him, Tranio?
Tra. If he be credulous, and trust my tale, I'll make him glad to seem Vinceutio, And give assurance to Baptista Miuola, As if he were the right Vincentio. Take in your love, and then let me alone.
{Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca.
Enter a Pedant.
Ped. God save you, sir !
Tra. And you, sir ! yon are welcoma
Travel yoii far on, or are you at the furthest ?
Ped. Sir, at the furthest for a week or two : But then up further, and as far as Rome ; And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life.
Tra. What counti-yman, I pray?
Ped. Of Mantua.
Tra. Of Mantua, sir? — marry, God forbid ! And come to Padua, careless of your life ?
Ped. My life, sir! how, I pray? for that goes hard.
Tra. 'Tis death for any one in Mantua To come to Padua. Know you not the cause? Your s^ij)S are stay'd at Venice ; and the duke, —
436 THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. act iv.
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 al)out.
Ped. Alas, sir, it is worse for me than so ! For I have bills for money by exchange From Florence, and must here deliver them.
Tra. Well, sir, to do you courtesy, This will I do, and this I will advise you : First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa?
Ped. Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been : Pisa, renowned for grave citizens.
Tra. Among them know you one Vincentio?
Ped. T know him not, but I have heard of him : A. merchant of incomparable wealth.
Tra. He is my father, sir ; and, sooth to say, In countenance somewhat doth resemble j'ou.
Blon. As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one.
Tra. To save your life in this extremity, riiis favour will I do you for his sake ; And think it not the worst of all your fortunes That you are like to Sir Vincentio. His name and credit sb.all you undertake. And in my house you shall be friendly lodg'd : — 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.
Ped. 0, sir, I do ; and will repute you ever The patron of my life and liberty.
Tra. Then go with me, to make the matter good. This, by the way, 1 let you understand ; — • My fatlier is here look'd for every day. To pass assurance of a dower in marriage 'Twixt me and one Baptista's daiighter here : In all these circumstances I'll instruct you : Go with me, sir, to clothe you as becomes you. [Exeunt
SCENE IIL — A Room in Petrttchio's House.
tSnter Kathaeina and Grumio. Gru. No, no, forsooth ; I dare not, for my life. Kath. Tlie more my wrong, the more his spite appears j Wliat, did he marry me to famish me ?
BOENEiii. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 437
Beggars, that come unto my father's door,
Upon entreaty have a present alms ;
If not, elsewhere they meet with charity:
But I, — who never knew how to entreat,
Nor never needed that I should entreat, —
Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep ;
With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed :
And that which spites me more than all these wants.
He does it under name of perfect love ;
As who should say, if I should sleep or eat,
'Twere deadly sickness or else present death- —
I pr'ythee go, and get me some repast ;
I care not what, so it be wholesome food-
Gni. What say you to a neat's foot?
Kath. 'Tis passhig good ; I pr'ythee let me have it.
Gru. I fear it is too choleric a meat : How say you to a fat tripe, finely broil'd?
Kath. i like it well: good Grumio, fetch it me.
Gi-u. I cannot tell ; I fear 'tis choleric. What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?
Kath. A dish that I do love to feed upon.
Gru. Ay, but the mustard, is too hot a little.
Kath. Why, then the beef, and let the mustard rest.
Gru. Nay, then I -wall not ; you shall have the mustard. Or else you get no beef of Grumio.
Kath. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt.
Gru. Why, then the mustard without the beef.
Kath. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,
\_Beats him. That feed'st me vrith 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 with a dish of meat; and Hortensio.
Pet. How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort?
Hor. Mistress, what cheer?
Kath. Faith, as cold as can be.
Pet. Pluck up thy spirits, look cheerfully upon me. Here, love ; thou see'st how diligent I am To dxess thy meat myself, and bring it thee :
[Sets the dish on a table. I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. What ! not a word? Nay, then thou lov'st it not; And all my pains is sorted to no proof. — Here, take away this dish.
43S THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act iv.
Kath. I pray you, let it stand.
Pet. The poorest service is re])aid with thniiks; And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.
Kath. I thank you, sir.
Uor. Siguier Petruchio, fie ! you are to blame ! Come, Mistress Kate, I'll bear you company.
Pet. Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lov'st me. — \Ashi&, Much good do it unto thy gentle heart ! Kate, eat ai)ace : — and now, my honey -love, Will we return unto thy fathei-'s house, And revel it as bravely as the best, With silken coats, and caps, and golden rings. With ruffs, and cuffs, and farthingales, and things ; With scarfs, and fans, and double change of braveiy, With and)er bracelets, beads, and all tliis knavery. AVTiat, hast thou din'd? 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?
ITab. Here is the cap your v.'orship dii I besptak.
Pet. Why, this was moulded on a porringer ; A velvet dish ; — fie, fie ! 'tis lewd and tilthy ; Why, 'tis a cockle or a walnut-shell, A knack, a toy, a trick, a babj^'s cap : Away with it ! come, let me have a l)igger.
Kath. I'll have no bigger ; this doth lit the time, And gentlewomen wear such caps as these.
Pet. When you are gentle, j'ou shall have one too. And not till then.
II or. That will not be in haste. [A shle,
Kath. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak ; And speak I -R-ilL I am no child, no babe: Your betters have endnr'd me say my mind ; And if you camaot, 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.
Pet. Why, thou say'sb true ; it is a paltry cap, A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie : I love thee weU, in that thou lik'st it uoi^
SCKNE III. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 439
Kath. Love me or love me not, I like the cap ; And it I will have, or I will have none.
Ph. Thy gown? why, ay; — Come, tailor, let us see't.
0 mercy, God ! what masquing stufi' is here? Wliat's this? a sleeve? 'tis like a demi-caunon: What, up and down, carv'd like an ajiple-tart? Hero's snip, and nip, and cut, and slish, aud slash, Like to a censer in a barber's shop : —
Why, what, o' de\'irs name, tailor, call'st thou this ?
IJor. I see she's like to have neither cap nor gown. [Aside.
Tal. You bid me make ic orderly and well. According to the fashion and the time.
Pet. Marry, and did ; but if you be remember' d,
1 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 : heuce ! make your best of it.
Kath. I never saw a better-fashion'd gown, More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable : Belike you mean to make a puppet of me.
PH. Why, true ; he means to make a pxippet of thee.
Tai. She says your worship means to make a pupped of her.
Pet. O monstrous arrogance ! Thou liest, thou thread. Thou thimble.
Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail, Thou Ilea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou ! — Brav'd in mine ov/n house with a skein of thread? Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou i-emuaut ; Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard. As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv'st! I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr'd her gown.
Tai. Your worship is deceived ; the gown is made Just as my master had direction : Grumio gave order how it should be done.
Gru. I gave him no order ; I gave him the stuff.
Tai. But how did you desire it should be made?
Gru. Marry, sir, with needle and thread.
Tai. But did you not request to have it cut?
Gru. Thou hast faced many things.
Tai. 1 have.
Gru. Face not me : thou hast braved many men ; brave not me; I will neither be faced nor braved. I say unto thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown ; but I did not bid him cut it to pieces : erqo, thou liest.
Tai. Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify.
440 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act iv.
Pet. Eeadit.
Gru. The note lies in his throat, if he say I said so.
Ten. Iviprimis, a loose-hodied gown:
Gru. Master, if ever I said loose-bodied go-ivn, sew me in the skirts of it, and beat me to death with a bottom of bro%vn thread : I said a gown.
FH. Proceed.
Tai. With a small compassed cape:
Gru. I confess the cape.
Tai. With a trunk sleeve:
Gru. I confess two sleeves.
Tai. The sleeves curiously cut.
Pet. Ay, there's the villany.
Gru. Error i' the bill, sir; error i' the bill. I com- manded the sleeves should be cut out, and sewed up again ; and that I'll prove upon thee, though thy little linger be armed in a thimble.
Tai. This is true that I say: an I had thee in place where, thou shouldst know it.
Gru. I am for thee straight : take thou the bill, give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me.
JJor. God-a-mercy, Grumio ! then he shall have no odds.
Pet. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me.
Crru. You are i' the right, sir ; 'tis for my mistress.
Pet. Go, take it up unto thy master's use.
Gru. Villain, not for thy life! Take up my mistress' gown for thy master's use !
Pet. AVhy, sir, what's your conceit in that?
Gru. 0, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for: Take up my mistress' gown to his master's use ! O fie, fie, fie !
Pet. Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid. — [Aside. Go take it hence ; be gone, and say no more.
Hor. Tailor, I'll pay thee for thy gown to-morrow Take no unkindness of his hasty words : Away, I say ! commend me to thy master.
[Exeunt Tailor and Haberdasher
Pet. 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 thi-ough the darkest clouds, So honour peereth in the meanest habit. What, is the jay more precious than the lark. Because his feathers are more beautiful ? Or is the adder better than the eel.
'o,st«a5->J«?'iV!i-?i--
ADA RE HAN AS KATHAPJi:.-
The Tam.in<j oT Oie- Shrmr, .-Jet /J' Scene /// .
SCENE m. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 441
Because his painted skin contents the ej^e?
0 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.— Co, call my men, and let us straight to him; And bring our horses unto Long-lane end ; There will we mount, and thither walk on foot. — Let's see ; I think 'tis now some seven o'clock, And well we may come there by dinner-time.
Kath. I dare assure you, sir, 'tis almost two; And 'twill be supper -time ere you come there.
Pet. It shall be seven ere I go to horse : Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do, You are still crossing it. — Sirs, let 't alone:
1 vnW not go to-day ; and ere I do. It shall be what o'clock I say it is.
Hor. Why, so, this gallant will command the sun.
\^Exeunt
SCENE rV. — Padua. Before Baptist a's House. Enter Tranio, and the Pedant dressed like Vincentto.
Tra. Sir, tins is the house : please it you that I call?
Ped. Ay, what else? and, but I be deceived, Siguier Baptista may remember me, Near twenty years ago, in Genoa, where We were lodgers at the Pegasus.
Tra. 'Tis well ; and hold your own, in any case, With such austerity as 'longeth to a father.
Ped. I warrant j'ou. But, sir, here comes your boy ; 'Twere good he were school' d.
Enter Biondello.
Tra. Fear yoii not him. — Sirrah Biondello, Now do your duty throughly, I advise you : Imagine 'twere the right Viucentio.
Bion. Tut ! fear not me.
Tra. But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?
Bion. I told him that your father was at Venice ; And that you look'd for him this daj'^ in Padua.
7'rrt. Thou'rt a tall fellow : hold thee that to drink. Here comes Baptista : — set your couiitenauce, sii\ —
442 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act iv.
Enter Baptista and Lucentio.
Signior Baptista, you are happily met. —
Sir [to tlte Pedant], tliis is the geutleman I told you of;
I pray you, stand good father to me now,
Give me Bianca for my patrimony.
Fed. Soft, son !— Sir, by j'our 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, — fertile good report I hear of you; And for the love he beareth to your dauLjhter, And she to liim, — -to stay him not too long, I am content, in a good father's care, To have him matchVl ; and, — if you please to like No worse than I, — upon some ag;reement, Me shall you find ready and willing With one consent to have her so bestow'd; For curioiis I caunot be with you, Signior Bnptista, of whom I hear so well.
Bap. Sir, pardon me in what I have to say : Your plainness and your shortness please me welL Ilight true it is, your son Lucentio here Doth love my daiighter, 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 daugliter a sufficient dower, The match is made, and all is done: Your son shall have my daugliter with consent.
Tra. 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 ?^
Bap. Not in my house, Lucentio ; for, you know, Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants: Besides, old Gremio is heark'ning still ; And, haply, we might be interrupted.
Tra. Then at my lodging, an it like you : There doth my father lie; and there, this night, We'D pass the business privately and well : Send for your daughter by 3'our 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 pittaaoe.
Bap. It likes me well. — Cambio, hie you home.
SCENE IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 443
A nd bid Bianca make her ready straight ; And, if you will, tell what hatli happened, — Luceutiu's father is arriv'd in Padua, And how she's like to be Lucentio's mfe.
Luc. I pray the gods she may, with all my heart.
7'?-a. Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone. Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way? Welcome ! one mess is like to be your cheer : Come, sir ; we'll better it in Pisa.
Ba]). I follow you. [^Exeunt Tra., Ped., and Bap.
Bion. Cambio.
Luc. What saj^est thou, Biondello?
Bion. You saw my master wink and laugh upon you?
Luc. Biondello, what of that?
Bion. Faith, nothing; but has left me here behind, to expound the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens.
Luc. I pray thee, moralize them.
Bion. Then thus. Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a deceitful son.
Luc. And what of him?
Bion. His daughter is to be brought by you to the su2:)per.
Luc. And then? —
Bion. The old priest at Saint Luke's church is at your command at all hours.
Luc. And what of all this?
Bio7i. I cannot toll; expect they are busied about a counterfeit assurance. Take you assurance of her, cum privilegio ad imprlinendum 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, B^t bid Bianca farewell for ever and. a day. [Going.
Luc. Hear'st thou, Biondello?
Bion. I cannot tarry : I knew a wench married in an after- noon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit ; and so maj' you, sir : and so adieu, sir. My master hath a])pointed me to go to Saint Luke's, to bid the priest i>e re^Kly to come against you come with your appendix. [Exit,
Luc. 1 may, and will, if she be so contented: She will be pleas'd; then wherefore should I doubt? Hap what hap may, I'll roundly go about her; It shall go hard if Cambio go without her. [Exit,
444 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act iv.
SCENE v.— ^ puhUc Road.
Enter Petruchio, Katharina, and Hortensio.
Pet. Come on, o' God's name; once more toward our father's. Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon !
Kath. The moon ! the sun : it is not moonlight now.
Pet. I say it is the moon that shines so bright.
Kath. I know it is the sun that sliines so bright.
Pet. Now, by my mother's son, and that's myself It shall be moon, or star, or what I list. Or ere I journey to your father's house. — Go one, and fetch our horses back again. — Evermore cross'd and cross'd ; notlnng but cross'd !
Hor. Say as he says, or we shall never go.
Kath. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, And be it moon, or sun, or what you please: And if you please to call it a rush-candle, Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.
Pet. I say it is the moon.
Kath. I know it is the moon.
Pet Nay, then you lie : it is the blessed sun.
Kath. Then, God be bless' d, it is the blessed sun : But sun it is not, when yoxi say it is not ; And the moon changes even as your miud. What you -ndll have it nam'd, even that it is ; And so, it shall be so for Katherine.
Hor. Petruchio, go thy ways ; the field is won.
Pet. Well, forward, forward ! thus the bowl should nin. And not unluckily against the bias. — But, soft ! company is coming here.
Enter Vincentio, in a travelling dress. Good -morrow, gentle mistress : where away ? —
[ To Vincentio Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too. Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman? Such war of white and red within her cheeks ! Wbat stars do spangle heaven with siich 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.
Hor. 'A will make the man mad, to make a woman of him.
Kath. Young budding virgin, fail- and fresh and sweet,
BCENE V. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 445
Whither away ; or where is thy abode ? Happy the parents of so fair a chikl ; Happier the man whom favourable stars Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow !
Pet. Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not mad: This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither'd; And not a maiden, as thou say'st he is.
Kath. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes, That have been so bedazzled with the sun. That everything I look on scjemeth green : Now I perceive thou art a reverend father ; Pardon, I pray tliee, for my mad mistaking.
Pet. Do, good old grandsire ; and withal make known Which way thou travell'st : if along with us. We shall be joyful of thy company.
Vin. Fair sir, and you my merry mistress. That with your strange eucomiter much amaz'd 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.
Pet. What is his name ?
Vin. Lucentio, gentle sir.
Pet. Happily met ; the happier for thy son. And now by law, as weU as reverend age, I may entitle thee my loving father : The sister to my wife, this geutlewouian, Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not. Nor be not griev'd : she is of good esteem, Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth ; Beside, so qualified as may beseem The spouse of any noble gentleman. Let me embrace with old Vincentio : And wander we to see thy honest son, Who will of thy arrival be full joyous.
Vin. But is this true ? or is it else j^our pleasure. Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest Upon the company you overtake?
Hor. I do assure thee, father, so it is.
Pet. Come, go along, and see the tiiith hereof; For our iirst merriment hath made thee jealous.
{Exeunt Pet., Katil, and Vin
Hor. Well, Petruchio, tliis hath put me in heart. Have to my widow ; and if she be froward. Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward- [Exit,
446 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act v.
ACT V.
SCENE I. — Padua. Before Lucentio's House.
Enter on one side Biondello, Lttcentio, and Bianca ;
Gremio walking on the other side. Bion. Softly and s-waftly, sir ; for the priest is ready. Luc. I tly, Biondello : but they may chance to ueeil thee at home, therefore leave us.
Bion. Nay, faith, I'll see the church o' your back ; and then come back to my master as soon as I can.
{Exeunt Luc, Bi-\n., ««</ Bion. Gre. I marvel Cambio comes not all this wliile.
Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Vincentio, Grumio, and Attendants.
Pet. Sir, here's the door; this is Lucentio's house: My father's bears more toward the market-place ; Tliither must I, and here I leave you, sir.
Vin. 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.
Gre. They're busy within ; you were best knock louder.
Enter Pedant above, at a window.
Ped. What's he that knocks as he would beat down the gate?
Vin. Is Signior Lucentio within, sir?
Ped. He's within, sir, but not to be spoken withal.
Vin. Wliat if a man bring him a hundred pound or two, to make merry withal?
Ped. Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall need none so long as I hve.
Pet. Nay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua — Do you hear, sir?— to leave frivolous circum- stances,— I pray you, tell Signior Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa, and is here at the door to speak with him.
Ped. Thou liest : his father is come from Pisa, and here looking out at the window.
Vin. Art thou his father?
Ped. Ay, sir ; so his mother says, if I may believe her.
Pet. V/hy, how now, gentleman! [fn Vincentto] why this is Hat Icnaverj', to take upuu you anotlier man's name.
ecKNB I. THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. 447
Ped. Lay hands on the villain: I believe 'a means to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance.
Re-enter Biondello.
Bion. I have seen them in the church together : God send 'em good shipping ! — But who is here ? mine old master, Vincentio ! now we are undone, and brought to nothing.
Vin. Come hither, crack-hemp. [Seeing Biondello.
Bion. I hope I may choose, sir,
Vi)u Come hither, you rogue. What ! have you forgot me?
Bion. Forgot you ! no, sir : I could not forget you, for 1 never saw you before in all my life.
Vin. What, you notorious villain, didst thou never see thy master's father, Vincentio?
Bion. ^V^lat, my old, worshipful old master? yes, many, sii' : see where he looks out of the window.
Vin. Is't so, indeed? [^ratt Biondello.
Bion. Help, help, help ! here's a madman will murder me.
[Exit.
Ped. Help, son! help, Signior Baptista!
[Exit from the window.
Pet. Pr'ythee, Kate, let's stand aside, and see the end of this controversy. [ They retire.
Re-enter Pedant helow; and Baptista, Tranio, and Servants.
Tra. Sir, what are you, that offer to beat my servant?
Vin. What am I, sir ! nay, what are yoit, sir? — 0 im- mortal gods ! 0 fine villain ! A silken doublet ! a velvet hose ! a scarlet cloak ! and a copatain hat ! — 0, I am un- done ! I am undone ! while I play the good husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at the university.
Tra. How now! what's the matter?
Bap. What, is the man lunatic?
Tra. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your babit, but your words show you a matbnan. Why, sir, what concerns it yoii if I wear pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able to maintain it.
Vin. Thy father ! 0 villam ! he is a sail-maker in Bergamo.
Bap. You mistake, sir; you mistake, sir. Pray, what do you thinli is his name?
Via. 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.
448 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act v.
Fed. Away, away, mad ass ! his name is Lucentio ; and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio.
Vbi. Lucentio ! 0, he hath murdered his master ! — I^ay hold on him, I charge you, in tlie duke's name. — 0, my son, my son ! — tell me, thou villain, where is my sou, Lucentio ?
Tra. Call forth an officer.
Enter one with an Officer. Carry this mad knave to the gaol. — Father Baptists, T charge you see that lie be forthcoming. Viii. Carry me to the gaol !
Gre. Stay, officer ; he shall not go to prison.
Bap. Talk not, Siguior Gremio; 1 say he shall go to prison.
Gre. Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be coney- catchetl in this business: I dare swear tlus is the rjgiit Vincentio.
Ped. Swear, if thou darest.
Gre. Nay, I dare not swear it.
Tra. Then thou wert best say that T am not Lucentio.
Gre. Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio.
Bap. Away with the dotard ! to the gaol with liim !
Vin. Thus strangers may be haled and abus'd. — O monstrous villain !
Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio a^id Bianca.
Bion. 0, we are spoiled ! and yonder he is : deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone.
Luc. Pardon, sweet father. [Kneeling.
Vin. Lives my sweet son?
[Bion., Tka., and Ped. run out.
Bian. Pardon, dear father. [Kneeling.
Bap. How hast thou offended? —
Wliere is Lucentio?
Luc. Here's Lucentio,
Right son to the right Vincentio ; That hath by marriage made thy daughter mine. While counterfeit supposes blear'd thine eyne.
Gre. Here's packing, with a -witness, to deceive us all J
Vin. Where is that damned villain, Tranio. That fac'd and brav'd me in this matter so?
Bap. Why, tell me, is uot this my Canibio?
Bian. Cambio is chang'd into Lucentio.
Lac. Love wrouifht these miracles. Bianca's love
BCBNE I, THE TAMING OF THE 'SHREW. 449
Made me exchange niy state witli Tranio, While he did bear my countenance in the town ; And ha])pily I have arrived at the Last Unto the wished for haven of my bliss. What Tranio did, my.self enforc'd him to ; Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.
Vin. I'll sht the villain's nose, that would have sent me to the gaol.
Bap. But do you hear, sir? [to Lucentio] Have you married ray daughter without asking my good-wll.
Viti. Fear not, Baptista ; we will content you, go to : But I will in, to be revenged for this villany ! [E.rit.
Baj}. And I, to sound the depth of this knavery. [Exit.
Luc. Look not pale, Bianca; thy fiither will not frown.
[Exeunt Luc. and Bian.
Gre. My cake is dough : but I'll in among the rest ; Out of hope of all but my share of the feast. [Exit.
Petruchio and Katharina advance. Kath. Husband, let's follow, to see the end of this ado. Pet. First kiss me, Kate, and we will. Kath. What, in the midst of the street? Pet. What, art thou asliamed of me ? Kath. No, sir ; God forbid ; but ashamed to kiss. Pet. Why, then, let's home again. — Come, sirrah, let's
away. Kath. Nay, I vdll give thee a kiss; now, pray thee,
love, stay. Pet. Is not this well? — Come, my sweet Kate; Better once than never, for never too laie. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. — A Room in Lucentio's House.
A Banquet set out. Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Oremto, </ie Pedant, Lucentio, Bianca, Petruchio, Katharina, HoRTENHio, and Widow. Tranio, Biondello, Grumio, and others, attending.
Luc. At last, though long, our jarring notes agree: And time it is, when raging war is done. To smile at 'scapes and perils overblown. — My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome, Wliile I with self-same kindness welcome thine. — Brother Peti-uchio, — sister Katharina,— And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widoAV, — Feast witli the best, and welcome to my house: VOL. 11. 2 Q
450 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act v.
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. [ Tliey sit at table.
Pet. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat !
Bap. Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio.
Pet. Padua affords nothing but what is kind.
Hor. For both our sakes I woiild that word were true.
Pet. Now, for luy life, Hortensio fears his widow. Wid. Then never trust me if I be afeard.
Pet. You are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense: I mean Hortensio is afeard of you.
Wid. He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.
Pet. Roundly replied.
Kath. Mistress, how mean you that?
Wid. Thus I conceive by him.
Pet. Conceives by me ! — How likes Hortensio that?
Hor. My widow says, thus she conceives her tale.
Pet. Very well mended. — Kiss him for that, good widoTV.
Kath. He that is siddy thinks the world turns round:— I pray you, tell me what you meant by that.
Wid. Your hus'nand, being troubled with a shrew, Measures my husband's sorrow by his woe : And now you know my meaning.
Kath. A very mean meaning.
Wid. Right, I mean you.
Kath. And I am mean, indeed, respecting you.
Pet. To her, Kate !
Hor. To her, widow !
Pet. A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down.
Hor. That's my office.
Pet. Spoke like an officer : — ha' to thee, lad.
[Drinks to HoKTENSia
Bap. How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks?
Gre. Believe me, sir, they butt together well.
Blan. Head and butt ! an hasty-witted body Would say your head and butt were head and horn.
Vin. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken'd yoii.
Bian. Ay, but not frighted me ; therefore I'll sleep again.
Pet. Nay, that you shall not : since you havp Segun, Have at you for a bitter jest or two.
Bi^n. Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush, And then pursue me as you draw your bow. — You are welcome aU. [Exeunt Bian., Kath., and Wid.
Pet. She hath prevented me. — Here. Signior Tranio. This bird you aim'd at, though you hit her not; 'i'herefore a health to all that shot ?nd uiiss'd.
SCENE II. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 451
Tra. 0, sir, Lucentio slipp'd me like his grey-houud, Wliich runs himself, and catches for his master.
Pet. A oood swift simile, but something currish.
Tra. 'Tis well, sir, that yon hunted for yourself; 'Tis thought your deer does hold j'ou at a l)ay.
Bap. 0 ho, Petruchio, Tranio hits you now.
Luc. I thauk thee for that gird, good Tranio.
Hor. Confess, confess, hath he not hit you here?
Pet. 'A has a little gall'd me, I confess; And, as the jest did glance away from me, 'Tis ten to one it maim'd you two outright.
Baj). Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all.
Pet. Well, I say no : and therefore, for assurance, Let's each one send unto his wife ; And he whose wife is most obedient To come at first when he doth send for her, Shall win the wager which we wdl propose.
Hor. Content. What is the wager?
Luc. Twenty crowns.
Pel. Twenty crowns ! I'll venture so much on my hawk or hound, But twenty times so much upon my wife.
Luc. A hundied then.
Ifor, Content.
P,'t. A match ! 'tis done.
Hor. Who shall begin?
Luc. That will I.— Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me,
Blon. I go. [Exit.
Bap. Son, I will be your half, Bianca comes.
Luc. rU have no halves ; I'U bear it all myself.
Be-enter Biondkllo. How now! what news?
Blon. Sir, my mistress sends you word
That she is busy, and she cannot come.
Pet. How ! she is busy, and she cannot come ! Is that an answer?
Gre. Ay, and a kind one too :
Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse.
Pet. 1 ho})e better.
Hor. Sii-rah Biondello, go and entreat my wife To come to me forthwith. [Exit BjoxDELLa
Pet. O, ho ! entreat lier I
Nay, then she must needs come.
452 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. act v.
Hor. I am afraid, sir,
Do what you can, yours will not be entreated-
Re-enter Biondello.
Now, wliere's ray wife?
Bion. She says you have some goodly jest in hand. She will not come ; she bids you come to her.
Pet. Worse and worse ; she will not come ! 0 vile, Intolerable, not to be endur'd ! — Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress; Say I command her come to me. [Exit Grumiu
}Ior. I know her answer.
Pet. What?
Jlor. She will not come.
Pet. The fouler fortune mine, and there an end.
Bap. Now, by my holidame, here comes Katharina !
Enter Katharina.
Kath. What is your will, sir, that you send for me?
Pet. Where is your sister, and Hortensio's wife?
Kath. They sit couferriug by the parlour fire.
Pet. 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,
Luc. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder.
Hor. And so it is : I wonder what it bodes.
Pet. Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life, An awful rule, and right supremacy ; And, to be short, what not, that's sweet and happy.
Bap. Now fair befall thee, good Petrucliio ! The wager thou hast won ; and I wall add Unto their losses twentj' thousand crowns ; Another dowry to another daughter. For she is chang'd, as she had never been.
Pet. Nay, I will win my wager better yet; And show more sign of hor obedience, Her uew-built virtue and obedience. See where she comes, and brings your froward wives As jirisoners to her womanly persuasion. —
Re-enter Katharina, with Bianca and Widow.
Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not : Otf with that bauble, throw it underfoot.
[Katu. jjuUs off her cap and throws it down
SCEWE II. THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. 453
Wid. Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh, Till I be brought to such a silly pass !
Bian. Fie! what a foolish duty call you this?
Luc. I would your duty were as foolish too: The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, Hath cost me an hixndred crowns since supper-time.
Bian. The more fool you, for laying on my duty.
Pet. Katharine, I charge thee, tell these head-strong women What duty they do owe their lords and husbands.
Wid. Come, come, you're mocking : we will have no telling.
Pet. Come ou, T say; and first begin with her.
Wid. She shall not.
Pet. I say she shall ; — and first begin with her.
Kath. Fie, fie! unknit that threat' ning 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 mov'd is hke 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 fro ward, peevish, sullen, sour. And not obedient to his honest will. What is she but a fold contending rebel, And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? — I am asham'd that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace ; Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway. 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,
454 THE TAMING OF THE SHUEW. apt v.
But that onr soft conditions and our hearts
Should well agree with our external parts?
Come, come, you fro ward 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 fiowii :
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.
Tlien vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,
And place your hands below your husband's foot:
la token of which duty, if he please.
My hand is ready, may it do him ease.
Pet. Why, there's a wench ! — Com.e on, and kiss me, Kate.
Luc. Well, go thy ways, old lad; for thou shalt ha'fc.
Vin. 'Tis a good hearing when children are toward.
Luc. But a harsh hearing when women are froward-
Pet. Come, Kate, we'll to bed. — We three are married, but you two are sped. 'Twas I won the wager, though you hit the white ;
[To LUCENTIO. And, being a winner, God give you good-night !
[Exe.unt Pet. and Kath.
Hcyr. Now go thy ways ; thou hast tam'd a curst shrew.
Liu:. 'Tis a wonder, by jour leave, she will be tam'd so.
[Exeunt,
THE WINTER'S TALE.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
Leontes, King ofSiciliti,
Mamillius, his Son,
Camillo, "j
Antigonus,
Cleomenes, I Sicilian Lorda.
Dion, j
Other Sicilian Lorda
Sicilian Gentlemen.
Officers of a Court 0/ Judicature,
PoLiXENES, King of Bohemia.
Florizel, his Son.
Archidamus, a Bohemian Lord.
A Mariner.
Gaoler.
An Old Shepherd, reputed Father o/Perdita.
Clown, his Son.
Servant to the Old Shepherd.
AuTOLYCus, a Rogue.
Time, as Chorus.
Heemione, Queen to Leontes.
Peedita, Daughter to Leontes and Hermionr
Paulina, Wife to Antigonus.
Emilia, a Lady, ) ^^^.^i ^;,, q^^^.^,,
Ot/ier Ladies, )
^ ' > Shepherdesses. Dorcas, )
Lords, Ladies, and Attendants ; Satyrs for a Dance; Shepherds, Shepherdesses, Guards, &c.
SCENE, — Sometimes in Sicilia ; sometimes in Bohemia.
THE WINTER'S TALR
ACT L
SCENE I. — SiciLiA. An Antechamber in Leontes' Palace.
Enter Camillo and Archidamtts.
Arch. If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia, on the like occasion whereon my services are now on foot, you shall see, as I have said, great diti'ereuce betwixt our feohemia and your Sicilia,
Cam. I think this coming summer the King of Sicilia means to pay Bohemia the visitation which he justly owes him.
Arch. Wlierein our entertainment shall shame us we will be justiiied in our loves; for, indeed, —
Cain. Beseech you, —
Arch. Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my know- ledge: we cannot with such magnificeuce — in so rare — I know not what to say. — We will give you sleepy drinks, that your senses, unintelligent of our insufficieuce, may, though they cannot praise us, as little accuse us.
Cam. You pay a great deal too dear for what's given freely.
A rch. Believe me, I speak as my understanding instructs me, and as mine honesty puts it to utterance.
CaTn. Sicilia cannot show himself overkind 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 attor- neyed, 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 tauls of o]>posed winds. The heavens continue their loves .'
Arch. I think there is not in the world either malice oi
45S THF. WINTER'S TALE. act i.
matter to alter it. You have an unspeakable comfort of your young Prince Mamillius: it is a gentleman of the greatest promise tliat ever came into my note.
Cam. I very well agree with you in the hopes of him. It is a gallant child ; one that, indeed, physics the subject, makes old hearts fresh : they that went on crutches ere he was born desire j'^et their h'fe to see him a man.
Arch. Would they else be content to die?
Cam. Yes; if there were no other excuse why they should desire to live.
A rch. If the king had no son they would desire to live on crutches till he had one. [Exeunt,
SCENE II. — The same. A Room of State in the Palace.
Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Hermione, Mamillius, Camillo, and Attendants.
Pol. Nine changes of the watery star have been The shepherd's note since we have left our throne Without a burden : time as long again Would be fill'd uj), 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 more That go before it,
Leon. Stay your thanks awhile,
And pay them when you part.
Pol. Sir, that's to-morrow.
I am question'd by my fears, of what may chance Or breed upon our absence ; that may blow No sneaping ^vinds at home, to make us say, TIlIs is put forth too truly. Besides, I have stay'd To tire your royalty.
Leon. We are tougher, brother,
Than you can put us to 't.
Pol. No longer stay.
Leon. One seven-night longer.
Pol. Very sooth, to-morrow.
Leon. We'll part the time between 's then : and in that I'll no gainsaying.
Pol. Press me not, beseech you, so.
There is no tongue that moves, none, none i' the world So soon as yours, could wiu me : so it should now, Were thex-e necessity in your request, although
SCENE II. THE WINTER'S TALE. 459
'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.
Leon. Tongue-tied, our queen? Speak you.
Her. I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until You had drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, sir, Charge him too coldly. Tell him, you are sure All in Bohemia's well: tliis satisfaction The by-gone day proclaimed : say this to him, He's beat from his best ward.
Leon. Well said, Hermione.
Her. To tell he longs to see his son, were strong : But let him say so then, and let him go ; But let him swear so, and he shall not stay. We'll thwack him hence with distaff's. — Yet of your royal presence [to Polixenes] I'll adventure The borrow of a week. Wlicn at Bohemia You take my loi'd, 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 of the clock behind What lady she her lord. — You'll stay?
Pol. No, madanu
Her. Nay, but you will ?
Pol. I may not, verily.
Her. Verily ! You put me off with limber vows ; but I, Though you would seek to unsphere the stars with oatha. Should yet say. Sir, no ffoing. Verily, You shall not go ; a lady's verily is As potent as a lord's. VVill 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 yoiir thanks. How say youT My prisoner or my guest ? by your dread verily. One of them you shall be.
Pol. Your guest, then, madam:
'I'o be your prisoner should import offending ; Which is for me less easy to commit Than you to punish.
/fer. Not your gaoler, then,
But your kind hostess. Oome, I'll question yt)Q Of uiy lord's tricks and yours when you were boys; You were pretty lordliuys then.
460 THE WINTER'S TALE. act i.
PoL 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.
Her. Was not my lord the verier wag o' the two?
Pol. We were as twinn'd lambs fcliat did frisk i' the sun And bleat the one at the other. What we chang'd Was innocence for innocence ; we knew not The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream'd That any did. Had we pursu'd that life, And our weak spirits ne'er been higher rear'd With stronger blood, we should have answer'd heaven Boldly, Not quilty; the imposition clear'd Hereditary ours.
Her. By this we gather
You have tripp'd since.
Pol. ^ 0 my most sacred lady.
Temptations have since then been born to 's ! for In those unfledg'd days was my wife a girl ; Your precious self had then not cross'd the eyes Of my young play-fellow.
Htr. 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.
Leon. Is he won yet?
Her. He'U stay, my lord.
Leon. At my request he would not.
Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok'st To better purpose.
Her. Never ?
Leon. Never but once.
Her. What! have I twice said well? when was't before ? I pr'ythee, tell me: cram 's with praise, and make's As fat as tame things : one good deed dying tonguelesa Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages : you may ride 's With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere With spur we heat. an acre. But to the goal: — My last good deed was to entreat his stay; What was my first? it has an elder sister, Or I mistake you : 0, would her name were Grace !
SCENE IT. THE WINTER'S TALE. 461
But once before I spoke to tlie purpose : when ? Kay, let me have 't; I long.
Leon. Why, that was when
Three crabbed months had sour'd themselves to death, Ere I could make thee open thy white hand. And clap thyself my love ; then didst thou utter J am yours for ever.
Her. It is 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.
[Givinr/ her hand to Poltxenesi.
Leon. Too hot, too hot ! [Aside,
To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods. 1 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 palins and pinching lingers. As now they are ; and making practisd smiles, As in a looking-glass ; and then to sigh, as 'twere The mort o' the deer; 0, that is entertainment My bosom likes not, nor my brows, — Manidlius, Art thou my boy ?
Mam. Ay, my good lord.
Leon. r fecks?
Why, that's my bawcock. What! hast smutch'd thy
nose? — They say it's 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 cali'd neat. — Still virginaUing
[Observing Pol. and Her. Upon his palm? — How now, you wanton caK ! Art thou my calf?
Mam. Yes, if you will, my lord.
Leon. Thou want'st a rough pash, and the shoots that 1 have. To be fidl 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'erdyed blacks, as wind, as waters, — false As dice are to be wish'd by one that fixes No bourn 'tAvixt his and mine ; yet were it true To say this boy were like me. — Come, sir page,
4C2 THE WINTER'S TALE. act i.
Look on me with your welkin-eye : sweet villain !
Most dear'st ! my collop ! — Can thy dam ? — may't be i
Affection ! thy intention stabs the centre :
Thou dost make possible things not so held,
Conimunicat'st with dreams ; — ^how can this be ?^
With what's unreal thou co-active art,
And fellow'st nothing : then 'tis very credent
Thou mayst co-join with something ; and thou dost, —
And that beyond commission ; and I find it, —
And that to the infection of my bi'ains
And liardening of my brows.
Pol, What means Sicilia ?
JJer. He something seems unsettled.
Pol. How ! my lord I
What cheer ! how is't with you, best brother?
Jler. You look
As if you held a brow of much distraction : Are you mov'd, my lord ?
Leon. No, in good earnest. —
How sometimes nature will betray its foUy, Its tendei-ness, 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 unbreeched. In my green velvet coat ; my dagger muzzled. Lest it should bite its master, and so prove. As ornaments oft do, too dangerous. How hke, methought, I then was to this kernel, This quash, this gentleman. — Mine honest friend. Will you take eggs for money?
Ham. No, my lord, I'll fight. [brothor,
Leon. You wiU? why, happy man he's dole I — Aiy Are you so fond of yoiir yoimg prince as we Do seem to be of ours?
Pol. If at home, sir,
He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter: Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy; My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all : He makes a July's day short as December ; And with his varying childness cures in me Thoughts that would thick my blood.
Leon. So stands this squire
Oftic il with me. We two will walk, my lord. And leave you to your graver steps. — Hernnone, How thou lov'st us show in our brother's welcome; L&t what is dear in Sicily be cheap:
SCENE II. THE WINTER'S TALE. 463
Next to thyself and my young rover, he's Apparent to my heart.
Her. If you would seek us,
We are your's i' the garden : shall 's attend you there ?
Leon. To your own bents dispose you : you'll be found. Be you bejieath the sky. {Aside.] 1 am angluig now, Though you perceive me not how I give line. Go to, go to ! [Observing PoL. and Her.
How she holds up the neb, the bill to him ! And arms her with the boldness Of a wife To her allowing husband ! Gone already !
[Exeunt Pol., Her., arid Attendants. Inch-thick, knee-deep, o'er head and ears a fork'd one ! — Go, play, boy, play :— thy mother plays, and 1 Play too ; but so disgrac'd a part, whose issue Will hiss me to my grave : contempt and clamour WiU be my knell. — Go, play, boy, play. — There have been, Or I am much deceiv'd, cuckolds ere now ; And many a man there is, even at this present. Now while I speak this, holds his wife by the arm. That little thinks slie has been sluic'd in 's absence, And his pond tish'd by his next neighbour, by Sir Smile, his neighbour : nay, there's comfort in't, Whiles other men have gates, and tliose gates opeu'il. 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 [)lanet, 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 a thousand of us Have the disease, and feel 't not. — How now, boy !
Mam. I am like you, they say.
Leon. Why, that's some comfort.—
What I Camillo there ?
Cam. Ay, my good lord.
Leon. Go play, Mamillius ; thou'rt an honest man. —
[Exit Mamillius. Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer.
Cam. You had much ado to make his anchor hold : When you cast out, it still came home.
Leon. Didst note it?
Cam.. He would not stay at your petitions ; made His business more material
i64 THE WINTER'S TALE. act i.
Leon. Didst perceive it? —
They're here with me already ; whispering, rounding, Sicilia is a so-forth: 'tis far gone When I shall gust it last. — How came 't, Camillo, That he did stay?
Cam. At the good queen's entreaty.
Leon. At the queen's be't: good should be jjertineutj But so it is, it is not. Was this taken By any understanding pate but thine ? For thy conceit is soalcing, 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.
Cam. Business, my lord ! I think most imderstand Bohemia stays here longer.
Leoiu Ha !
Cain. Stays here longer.
Leon. Ay, but why?
Cam. To satisfy your highness, and the entreaties Of our most gracious mistress.
Leon. Satisfy
The entreaties of your mistress ! — satisfy ! — Let that suffice. I have trusted tliee, Camillo, With all the nearest things to my heart, as well My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou Hast cleans'd my bosom ; I from thee de])arted Thy penitent reform'd : but we have been Deceiv'd in thy integrity, deceiv'd In that which seems so.
Cam. Be it forbid, ray lord !
Leon. To bide upon 't, — thou art not honest; or, If thou inclin'st that way, thou art a coward, Which boxes honesty bekiud, restraining From course requir'd ; or else thou must be coimted A servant grafted in my serious trust. And therein negligent ; or else a fool. That seest a game play'd home, the rich stake drawr^ And tak'st it all for jest.
Cam, My gracious lord,
I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful ; In every one of these no man is free. But that his negligence, his folly, fear, Amongst the iu Unite doings of the world. Sometime puts for-th : in your afi'airs, my lord, Lf ever I were wilful-negligent.
8.'1!;ne II. THE WINTER'S TALE. 465
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, Whereof the execution did cry out Against the non -performance, 'twas a fear Which oft alfects 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, 'Tie none of mine.
Leon. Have you not seen, Camillo, —
But that's past doubt : j'ou have, or your eye-glass Is thicker than a cuckold's horn,— or heard,— For, to a vision so apj)arent, rumour Cannot be mute, — or thought, — for cogitation Resides not in that man that does not think it, — My wife is slippery? If thou wilt confess, — Or else be impudently negative. To have nor eyes nor ears nor thought, — then say My wify 's a hobbyhorse ; deserves a name As rank as any llax-wench that puts to Before her troth-plight : say 't, and justify 't.
Cam. I would not be a stander-by to hear My sovereign misti-ess 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.
Leon. Is whispering nothing?
Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses? Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career Of laughter with a sigh? — a note infallible Of breaking honesty; — horsiug foot on foot? Slculking iu corners? wishing clocks more swift? Hours, minutes? noon, midnight? and all eyes Blind with the jjin 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.
Ca m. Good my lord, be cur'd
Of this diseas'd opinion, and betimes ; For 'tis most dangerous.
VOL. II. 2 II
466 THE W[NTER'S TALE. act i.
Leon. Say it be, 'tis true.
Cam. No, no, my lord !
Leon. It is ; you lie, you lie :
I say, tliou 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 e\'il, Inclining to them both. — Were my wife's liver Infected as her life, she would not live The running of one glass.
Cam. Who does infect her?
Leon. Why, he that wears her like her medal, hanging About his neck, Bohemia : who — if I Had servants true about me, that bare eyes To see alike mine honour as their profits, Their own particular thrifts, — they would do tliat Wliich should undo more doing: ay, and tliou. His cupbearer, — whom I from meaner form Have bc;nch'd and rear'd to worship ; who mayst see Plainly, as heaven sees earth, and earth sees heaven. How I am galled, — mightst bespice a cup, To give mine enemy a lasting wink ; Which draught to me were cordial.
Gam. Sir, my lord,
I could do this ; and that with no rash potion. But with a ling'ring dram, that should not work Malicioiisly like poison : but I cannot Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress, So sovereignly being honourable. I have lov^d thee, —
Leon. Make that thy question, and
rot! Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled. To apj)oint 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 prmce my son,— \VTio I do think is mine, and love as mine, — Without ripe moving to 't? — Would I do this? Could man so blench?
Cam. I must believe you, sir :
I do ; and ■will fetch off Bohemia for 't ; Provided that, when he 's remov'd, your highness Will take again your queen as yours at first. Even for your sou's sake; and thereby for sealia.i
SCENE II. THE WINTERS TALK 467
The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms Known and allied to yours.
Leon. Thou dost advise nje
Even so as I mine own course have set down : I'll i,i%e no blemish to her honour, none.
Cam. My lord, Go then ; and with a countenance as clear As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia And with your queen : I am his cupbearer. If from me he have wholesome beverage Account me not your servant.
Leon. Tliis is all :
Do 't and thou hast the one-half of my heart ; Do't not, thou splitt'st thine own.
Cam. I'll do't, mylr-M.
Leon. I will seem friendly, as thou hast advis'd me. {Exit,
Cam. 0 miserable lady !^But, for me, What case stand I in? I must be the jioisoner 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'd 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 I Hei'e comes Bohemia.
Enter Polixenes.
Pol. This is strange ! methiuka
My favour here begins to warp. Not speak ?^ Good-day, Camillo.
Cam. Hail, most royal sir !
Pol. What is the news i' the court?
Cam,. None lare, my lord.
Pol. The king hath on him such a countenance As he had lost some province, and a region Lov'd as he love's himself: even now I met him With customaiy 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 changes thus his manners.
468 THE WINTER'S TAT,E. act l
Cam. I dare not know, my lord.
Pol. How ! dare not ! do not. Do you know, and dare not Be intelligent to me? 'Tis thereabouts ; For, to yourself, what you do know, you must, And cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo, Your chang'd complexions are to me a mirror. Which shows me mine chang'd too; for I must be A party in this alteration, finding Myself thus alter'd with 't.
Cam. There is a sickness
WTiich puts some of us in distemper ; but I cannot name the disease ; and it is caught Of you that yet are well.
PoL How ! caught of me !
Make me not sighted like the basilisk : T have look'd on thousands, who have sped the better By my regard, but kill'd none so. Camillo, — As you are certainly a gentleman ; thereto Clerk-like, experienc'd, which no less adorns 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.
(7a/7i. I may not answer.
Pol. A sickness caught of me, and yet I well ! I must be answer' d. — Dost thou hear, Camillo? I conjure thee, by all the parts of man. 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.
Cam. Sir, I will tell you ;
Since I am charg'd in honour, and by him That I think honourable: therefore mark my counsel. Which must be even as swiftly follow'd as 1 mean to utter it, or both yourself and me Cry lost, and so good-night !
Pol. On, good Camillo.
Cam. I am appointed him to murder you.
Pol. By whom, Camillo?
Cavi. By the king.
Pul. For what?
Cam. He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears,
SCENE n. THE WINTER'S TALR 469
As he had seen 't or been an instrument
To vice 3'ou to 't, that you have touch'd his queen
Forbiddenly.
Pol. 0, tlien my best blood turn
To an infected jelly, and my name Be yok'd with his that did betray the best ! Turn then mj' freshest reputation to A savour that may strike the dullest nostril Where I arrive, and my ap])roach be shuun'd, Nay, hated too, worse than the gi'eat'st infection That e'er was heard or read !
Cam. 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 pil'd upon his faith, and will continue The standing of his body.
Pol. How should this grow?
Cam. I know not : but I am sure 'tis safer to Avoid what's grown than question how 'tis boru. 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 1 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.
Pol. T 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. Mj' 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 mau Avhich ever Prufess'd to Mm, why, his revenges must
^70 THE WINTER'S TALE. act i.
In that be made more bitter. Fear o'ershades me : CJood expetlition be my friend, and comfort Tlie gracious queen, part of his tlieme, but nothing Of his ill-ta'en suspicion ! Come, Camillo ; I will respect thee as a father, if Th >u bear'st my life off hence : let us avoid. (^am. It is in mine authority to command The keys of all the posterns : please your hignneas To take the urgent hour : come, sir, away. [Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I. — SiciLiA. A Room in the Valacp.,
Enter Hermione, Mamillius, and Ladiesu Her. Take the boy to you : he so troubles me,
Tis past enduring.
1 Lady. Come, my gracious lord,
Shall I be your playfellow ?
Main. No, I'll none of you.
1 Lady. Why, my sweet lord?
Mam. You'll kiss me hard, and speak to me as it I were a baby still. — I love you better.
2 Lady. And why so, my lord ?
Mam,. 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 Ln a semicircle, Or a half-moon made with a pen.
2 Lady. Who taught you this?
Mam. I leam'd it out of women's faces. — Pray now. What colour are your eyebrows !
1 Lady. Blue, my lord.
Mam. Nay, that's a mock : I have seen a lady s nose That has been, blue, but not her eyebrows.
1 Lady. Hark ye; The queen your mother rotinds apace : we sliall Present our services to a hne new pi'ince
One of these days ; and then you'd wanton with us. If we woula tiave you.
2 Lady. She is spread of late Into a goodly bulk : good time encounter her I
acKKE I. THE WINTEH'S TALE. 471
Her. What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come, sir, now 1 am for you again : pray you, sit by us, And tell 's a tale.
JIam. Merry or sad shall 't be?
JJer. As merry as you will.
A/ am. A sad tale 's best for winter:
1 have one of sprites and goblins.
Her. Let 's have that, good sir.
Come on, sit down : — come on, and do your best To fright me with your sprites : you're powerful at it.
Mam. There was a man, —
Her. Nay, come, sit down ; then on.
Mam. Dwelt by a churchyard :— I wUl tell it softly ; Yond crickets shall not hear it.
Her. Come on, then.
And give 't me in mine ear.
Enter Leonter, Antigonus, Lords, and Guards.
Leon. Was he met there? his train? Camillo with him?
I Lord. Behind tlie tuft of pines I met them ; never Saw I men scour so on their way : I ey'd them Even to their ships.
Leon. How bless'd am I
In my just censure, in my true opinion ! — Alack, for lesser knowledge ! — how accurs'd. In being so blest ! — There may be in the cup A spider steep' d, and one may drinlc, depart, And yet i)artake 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 :— 1 have drunk, and seen the spider. Camillo was his help in this, hie 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 ?
1 Lord. By his great authority ;
■\^^^ich often hath no less prevail' d than so, On your command.
Leo7i. T know 't too welL —
Give me the boy : — 1 am glad you did not aurse hvmi
472 THE WINTEE'S TALE. act it.
Tliouf^h he does bear some signs of me, yet you
Have too much blood in him.
Her. What is this? sport?
Leon. Bear the boy hence ; he shall not come about her;
Away with him ! — and let her sport herself
[Exit Mamillius, witJisome of the Guards.
With that she 's big with ; — for 'tis Pohxeues
Has made thee swell thus. Her. But I'd say he had not.
And I'll be sworn you Avould believe my saying,
Howe'er you learn the nay ward.
Leon. You, my lords,
Look on her, mark her well ; be but about
To say, site is a rjoodli/ lady, and
The justice of your hearts will thereto add,
^ Tis pity she 's not honest, honourable:
Praise her but for this her vvdthout-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 '*• honest : but be 't known,
P'rom him that has most cause to grieve it should be,
She 's an adultress !
Her. Should a villain say so,
The most replenish'd villain in the world. He were as much more villain : you, my lord, 1)0 but mistake.
Jjeon. . Yon have mistook, my lady,
Polixenes for Leontes : 0 thou thing, Which I'll not call a creature of thy place, Lest barbarism, making me th.e precedent, Should a like language use to all degrees. And mannerly distinguishment leave out BetwLxt the prince and beggar ! — I have said. She 's an adultress ; I have said with whom : More, she 's a traitor ; and Camillo is A federary with her ; and one that kn(?w3 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 vulnrars give boldest titles; ay, and privy To this their late escape. Her. Ko, by my life,
SCENE I. THE WINTER'S TALE. 473
Privy to none of tliis. How will this grieve you, When you shall come to clearer luiowledge, that You thus have puLlish'd me ! Gentle, my lord, You scarce can right me throughly then, to say You did mistake.
Leon. 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.
Her. There's some ill planet reigns :
I must be patient till the heavens look With an as^Jtct more favourable. — Good my lords, I am not prone to weepiug, as our sex Commonly are ; the want of which vain dew Perchance shall dry yoiir pities ; but I have That honourable grief lodg'd here, which burns AVorse 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 !
Leon. Shall I be heard?
[To the Guards.
Tier. 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 deserv'd 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 1 trust I shall — My women, come; you have leave.
Leon. Go, do our bidding ; hence !
[Exeunt Queen and Ladies, with Guavdi,
1 Lord. Beseech your highness, call the queen again.
A nt. Be certain what you do sir, lest your justice Prove violence : in the which three great ones sutler. Yourself, your queen, your son.
1 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 1 'the eyes of heaven and to you ; I mean, hi this wliich you accuse her.
Ant. If it prove
8he "s otherwise, I'll keep my stables where
474 THE WINTER'S TALE. act il
I lodge my wife ; I'll go in couples with her ; Than when I feel and see her no further trust her j For every inch of woman in the world, Ay, every dram of woman's flesh, is false, If she be.
Leon. Hold your peaces.
\ Lord. Good my lord, —
Ant. It is for you we speak, not for ourselves: You are abus'd, and Vjy 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 daiighters ; 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 ail : 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.
Leon. Cease ; no more.
You smell this business with a sense as cold As is a dead man's nose : but I do see 't and feel 't, As you feel doing thus ; and see withal The instruments that feeh
Ant. If it be so.
We need no grave to bury honesty ; There 's not a grain of it the face to sweeten Of the whole dungy eai-th.
Leon. What ! lack I credit ?
1 Lord. I had rather you did lack than I, mj'- lord. Upon this gi'ound : and more it would content me To have her honour true than your suspicion ; Be blam'd for 't how you might.
Leon. Why, what need we
Commune with you of this, but rather follow Our forceful instigation? Our prerogative Calls not your counsels ; but our natural goodness Im])arts this : which, if you, — or stupified, Or seeming so in skill, — cannot or will not lielish 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.
Ant. And I vrish, my liege,
Ynu had only in your silent judgment tried it, Without more overture.
Leon, How could that be?
THE WINTER'S TALE. 475
Either thou art most ignorant by age,
Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo's flight,
Added to their familiarity, —
Which was as i,'ross as ever touch'd conjectnr«,
That lack'd sight only, naught for approbation,
But only seeing, all other circumstances
Made up to the deed, — doth push ou this proceedirgr.
Yet, for a greater coufirmation, —
For, in an act of this importance, 'twere
^!o?t piteous to be wild, — I have despatcli'd in post
T<) sacred Delphos, to Apollo's teni}ile,
Cleomeues and Dion, whom you know
Of stuff'd sufiiciency : now, from the oracle
They will bring all ; whose spiritual counsel had.
Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well?
1 Lord. Well done, my lord.
Leon. Though I am satisfied, and need no more Than what I know, yet shall the oracle (Jive 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 jiersou she should be conhn'd; Lest that the treachery of the tvo tied hence Be left her to perfoim. Come, follow us ; We are to speak in public ; for this business Will raise us all.
Ant. [aside.] To laughter, as I take it, If the good truth were'known. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.— The same. The outer Room, of a Prison.
Enter Paulina and Attendants. Paul. The keeper of the prison, — call to him ; Let him have knowledge who I am. [Exit an Attendant
Good lady ! No court in Europe is too good for thee ; What dost thou, then, in prison?
Re-enter Attendant, with the Keeper.
Now, good sir,
You know me, do you not ?
Keep For a worthy lady,
And one who much I honour.
Paul Pray you, then,
Conduct me to the queen.
476 THE WINTER'S TALE. ACT ir.
Keep. I may not, madam: to tlie contrary I have express commandmeut.
Paul. Here 's ado,
To lock up honesty and honour from The access of gentle visitors ! — Is 't lawful, Pray you, to see her women? any of them? Emilia?
Keep. So please 5'ou, madam, to put Apart these your attendants, I shall bring Emilia forth.
Paul. T pray now, call her. —
Withdraw yourselves. [Exeunt Attendants.
Keep. And, madam,
I must be present at your conference.
Paul. Well, be 't so, pr'ythee. [Exit Keeper
Here 's such ado to make no stain a stain, As passes colouring.
Re-enter Keeper, with Emilia.. Dear gentlewoman, how fares our gracious lady?
Emil As well as one so great and so forlorn May hold together: on her frights and griefs, — Which never tender lady hath borne greater, — She is, something before her time, deUver'd.
Paul. A boy?
Emil. A daughter ; and a goodly babe,
Lusty, and like to live : the queen receives Much comfort in 't ; says, My poor prisoner, J am innocent as you.
Paul. I dare be sworn : —
'These dangerous unsafe lunes i' the king, beshrew them I He must be told on 't, and he shall : tlie office Becomes a woman best : I'll take 't upon me : If I prove honey-moixth'd, let my tongue blister ; And never to my reddook'd anger be The trumpet any more. — Pray yoii, 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.
Emil. Most worthy mad.am.
Your honour and your goodness is so evident, That your free undertaking cannot misa
THE WINTER'S TALE. 477
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 j^our 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.
Paul. Tell her, Emilia,
I'll use that tongiie I have : if wit How from it, As boldness from my bosom, let it not be doubted I shall do good.
Emil. Now be you bless'd for it !
I'll to the qiieen : please you come something nearer.
Keep. Madam, if 't ])lease the queen to send the babe, I know not what I shall incur to pass it, Having no warrant.
Paul. You need not fear it, sir : The child was prisoner to the womb, and is. By law and process of great nature, thence Freed and enfranchis'd ; not a party to The anger of the king, nor guilty of. If any be, the trespass of the queen.
Keep. I do believe it.
Paul. Do not you fear : iipon mine honour, I Will stand 'twixt you and danger. [Exeunt.
SCENE \ll. — The same. A Boom in the Palace.
Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords, and othei- Attendants.
Leon. Nor night nor day no rest : it is but weakness To bear the matter thus, — mere weakness. If The cause were not in being, — part o' the cause, ^>he the adultress ; lor the harlot king ] s 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 m.e again. — Who's there?
\ Alien [advancijig.] My lord?
Leon. How does the boy?
1 A tlen. He took good rest to-night ;
Tis hop'd his sickness is discharg'd.
Leon. To see his nobleness ! Conceiving the dishonour of his mother. He straight declin'd, droop' d, took it deeply.
478 THE WINTER'S TALE. act tl
Fasten'd and lix'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 1 Attendant.] — Fie, lie! uo thought
The very thought of my revenges that way [of him ;
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 ray son-ow:
They should not laugh if I could reach them; nor
Shall she, within my power.
Enter Paulina, with a child.
1 Lord. You must not enter. Paid. Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to me:
Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas. Than the queen's lift-? a gracious innocent soul, More free than he is jealous.
A nt. Tliat 's enough.
2 A ttend. Madam, he hath not slept to-night ; commauiled None should come at him.
Paul. 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 woixls as med'cinal as true. Honest as either, to purge him of that humour Thit presses him from sleep.
Lkwi. What noise there, ho?
Paul. No noise, my lord ; but needful conference About some gossips for your highness.
Leon. How ! —
Away with that audacious lady ! — Antigonus, I charg'd thee that she should not come about me: 1 knew she would.
AnL T told her so. my lord,
On your displeasure's peril, and on mine, She should not visit you.
Leon. What, canst not rule her?
Paul. From all dishonesty, he can : in this,— Unless he take the course that you have done. Commit me for committing honour, — trust it, He shall not rule me.
Ant. La you now, you hear 1
SCENE III. THE WINTER'S TALE. 479
"When she will take the rein, I let her run j
But she'll not stumble.
Paul. Good my liege, I come.
And, I beseech you, hear me, who professes Myself your loyal servant, your physician, Your most obedient counsellor ; yet that dares Less appear so, in comforting your evils, Than such as most seem yours : — I say, I come From your good queen.
Leon. Goodqiieen!
Paul. Good queen, my lord, good queen: I say, good And would by combat make her good, so were I [queen ; A man, the worst about you.
Leon. Force her hence !
Paul. Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes First hand me: on mine own accord I'll off; But first I'll do my errand. — The good queen. For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter ; Here 'tis ; commeuds it to your blessing
[Layincf down the child.
Leon. Out !
A mankind -witch ! Hence with her, out o' door: A most intelligencing bawd !
Paul. 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.
Leon. Traitors !
WiU you not push her out? Give her the bastard : — Thou dotard [to Ant.], thou art wom.in-tir'd, unroostal Ey thy dame Partlet here :— take up the bastard ; Take 't up, I say ; give 't to thy croue.
Paul. For ever
Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou Tak'st up the princess, by that forced baseness Which he has put upon 't !
Leon. He dreads his wife.
Paul. So I would you did ; then 'twere past all <loubfc, You'd call your children yours.
Leon. A nest of traitors !
A nt. I am none, by this good light.
Paul. Nor I ; nor any,
But one, that's here; and that's himself: for he The sacred honour of himself, his queen's, His ho]>eful sou's, his babe's, betrays to slander,
480 THE WINTER'S TALE. act r
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.
Leon. A callat
Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband. And now baits me ! — Tliis brat is none of mine; It is the issue of Polixeues : Hence with it ! and, together with the dam, Commit them to the fire.
Paul. It is yours !
And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge, So like you, 'tis the worse. — Beliold, my lords, Although the print be little, the whole matter And copy of the father, — eye, nose, lip. The trick of his frown, his forehead; nay, the valley, The pretty dimples of his chin aud cheek ; his smil The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger : — And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made 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 !
Leon. A gross hag !
And, lose], thou art worthy to be haug'd, That wilt not stay her tongue
A nt. Hang all the husbands
That cannot do that feat, yoii'll leave yourself Hardly one subject.
Leon. Once more, take her hence.
Paul. A most unworthy and unnatural lord Can do no more.
Leon. I'll have thee burn'd.
Paul. 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-hing'd fancy, — something savours Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you, Yea, scandalous to the world.
Leon. 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 <*ue. Away with her 1
SCENE III. THE WINTER'S TALE. 481
Paul. I pray you, do not pnsh me ; I'll be gone. — Look to your babe, my lord ; 'tis yours : Jove send her A better guiding spirit ! — What needs these hands? Yoii, that are thus so tender o'er his folhes, Will never do him good, not one of you. So, so : — farewell ; we are gone. \^Ex\L
Leon. Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this. — My child? away with 't ! — even thou, that hast A heai't so tender o'er it, take it hence, And see it instantly corisum'd with fire ; Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up straight : Within this hour bring me word 'tis done, — And by good testimony, — or I'll seize tliy 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 sett'st on thy wife.
A nt. I did not, sir :
These lords, my noble fellows, if they please, Can clear me in 't.
1 Lord. We can : — my royal liege,
He is not guilty of her coming hither.
Leon. You are liars all.
1 Lord. Beseech your highness, give us better credit : We have always truly seiVd you ; and beseech 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 j)urpose, Which, being so horrible, so bloody, must Lead on to some foul issue : we all kneel.
Leon. I am a feather for each wind that blows : — Shall I live on, to see this bastard kneel And call me father? better burn it now. Than curse it then. But, be it ; let it live : — It shall not neither. — You, sir, come you hither: [To Ant. You that have been so tenderly officious With Lady ^Margery, your midvsafe, there. To save this bastard's life, — for 'tis a bastard. So sure as thy beard's gray, — what will you adventure To save this brat's life?
Ant. Anything, 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 : — anything possible. VOL. II. 2 I
482 THE WINTER'S TALE. act n.
Leon. It shall be possible. Swear by this sword Thou wilt perform my bidding.
Ant. I will, my lord.
Leon. Mark, and perform it, — seest thou? for the fail Of any point in 't shall not only be Death to thyself, but to thy lewd-tongu'd wife, Whom for this time Ave pardon. We enjoin thee, As thou art liegeman 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 uj).
Ant. I swear to do this, though a present death Had been more merciful. — Come on, poor babe : Some powerfid spii^it instruct the kites and ravens To be thy nurses ! Wolves and bears, they say, Casting their savageness aside, have doue 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, coudemn'd to loss ! [Exit with the child,
Leon. No, I'll not rear
Another's issue.
2 A ttend. Please your highness, posts.
From those you sent to the oracle, are come An hour since : Cleomenes and Dion, Being well aiTiv'd from Delphos, are both landed. Hasting to the court.
1 Loi'd. So please you, sir, their speed
Hath been beyond account.
Leon. Twenty-three days
They have been absent: 'tis good speed; foretells The great Apollo suddenly will have The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords ; Sunmion a session, that we may arraign Our most disloj^al lady ; for, as she hath Been publicly accus'd, so shall she have A just and open trial. While she lives, My heart will be a burden to me. Leave mej Aiid think upon my bidding. {Extiint,
SCENE I, THE WINTER'S TALE. 483
ACT III. SCENE I. — SrciLiA. A Street in some Town.
Enter Cleomenes and Dion.
Clco. The climate 's delicate ; the air most sweel j Fertile the isle ; the temple much surpassing The common praise it bears.
Dion. I shall report,
For most it caught me, the celestial habits, — Methiiiks I so should term them, — and the revereaoe Of the grave wearers. 0, the sacrilice ! How ceremonious, soleuui, and unearthly It was i' the offering !
Ci('o. But, of all, the biirst
And the ear-deafening voice o' the oracle. Kin to Jove's thimder, so surpris'd my sense That I was nothing.
Dion. If the event o' the journey
Prove as successful to the queen, — 0, be 't so ! — As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy, The time is worth the use on 't.
Cleo. Great Apollo
Turn all to the best ! These proclamations. So forcing faults upon Hermioue, T little like.
Dion. The ^aolent 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. — (io, — fresli horses; — And gracious be the issue ! [Exeunt.
SCENE II.— The same. A Court ofJustirj;.
Leontes, Lords, and Officers appear, properly seated.
Leon. This sessions, — to our great grief, we pronounce, — Even pushes 'gainst our heart ; — the party tried, The daughter of a king, our wife ; and one Of us too much belov'd. Let us be clear'd Of being tyrannous, since we so openly Proceed injustice; which shall have due course.
484 THE WINTER'S TALE. act in.
Even to the guilt or the purgation. — Produce the prisoner.
OJfi. It is his liighness' pleasure that the queen Appear in person here in court. —
Crier, Silence !
Hkrmione is brought in guarded; Paulina and Ladies attending.
Leon. Eead the indictment.
Offi. [rends.] Heniiione, queen to the worthy Leontes, Mng of Sicilia, th m art here accused and arraigned of high treason, in comvutting adulter!/ with Polixenes, king of Bohemia ; and conspiring with Caruillo to take awaif the life of our sovereign lord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence whereof being by circumstances ]iartly 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 hy nig/U.
Her. Since what I am to say must be but that Which contradicts my accixsation, 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 receiv'd. But thus, — if powers divine Behold our human actions, ^as they do, — I doubt not, then, but iniioceuce shall make False accusation blush, and tyranny Tremble at patieuce. — 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 unha])py: which is more Than history can pattern, though devis'd And play'd to take spectators ; for, behold me, — A fellow of the royal bed, which owe A moiety of the throue, a great king's daughter, Tlie mother to a ho])efi'.l prince, — here standing To pnite 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 fi'om me to mine. And only that I stand for. I appeal To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes C^ame to your court, how I was in your grafts. How merited to be so ; since he came, With what encounter so uncurrent I Have strain'd, to appear thus : if oue jot beyond
STENE n. THE WINTER'S TALE. 485
Tlie bound of honour, or in act or will That way incliiung, harden'd be the hearts Of all that hear me, and my uear'st of kin Cry, Fie, upon my grave !
Leon. I ne'er heard yet
That any of these bolder vices wanted Less impudence to gainsay what they did Than to perform it tirst.
Her. That's true enough ;
Though 'tis a saying, sir, not due to me. Leon. You will not own it.
Her. More than mistress of
Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not At all acknowledge. For Polixenes, — With whom I am accus'd, — I do confess T lov'd him, as in honour he requir'd ; With such a kind of love as might become A lady like nie ; with a love even such. So and no other, as yourself conmianded : Wliich not to have done, I thinlc had been in me Both disobedience and ingratitude
To you and toward your friend ; whose love had siioke, 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 L are ignorant.
Leon. You knew of his departure, as you know What you have underta'en to do in 's absence.
Her. Sir, You speak a language that I understand not : My life stands in the level of your dreams, Which I'll lay down.
Leon. Your actions are my dreams ;
You had a bastard by Polixenes,
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, Ko 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.
i^er. Sir, spaie your threate:
4SB THE WINTER'S TALE. act iil
The bug which you would fright me with, 1 seek.
To me can life be no commodity :
The crown and comfort of my life, your favour,
1 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.
8tarr'd most unluckily, is from my breast, —
The innocent milk in its most iunocent mouth, —
Ilal'd out to murder : myself on every post
Proclaim'd 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, befoi-e
1 have got strength of limit. Now, my liege.
Tell me what l)lessiags I have here alive,
Tliat 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 rigour, and not law. — Your honours all,
1 do refer me to the oracle :
Apollo be my judge !
1 Lord. This your request
Is altogether just : therefore, bring forth, And in Apollo's name, his oracle : [Exeunt certain OflBcers.
Her. The Emperor of Russia was my father j O that he wtre 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 !
Be-enter Officers, with Cleomenes and Dion.
Offi. You here shall swear upon this sword of justice, That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have Been both at Deljihos, and from thence have brought This seal'd-up oracle, by the hand deliver'd f )f great Apollo's ])riest ; and that, since then, ^'ou have not dar'd to break the holy seal, Nor read the secrets in 't.
Cleo. and Dion. All this we swear.
Leon. Break up the seals and read.
Ojfi. [rcnds.'\ Hermione is chaste; Polixenes blameless; Camillort true subject ; Laontes a jealous tyrant; his imutcunt
SCENE IT. THE WINTER'S TAT.E. 487
hnhe truly hrgoftcn; and the king shall live wi/hout an Ken, if that winch is lost he not found.
Lords. Now blessed be the great Apollo !
Her. Praised !
Lfon. Hast thou read truth?
O^. Ay, my lord; even so
As it is here set down.
Leon. There is no truth at all i' the oracle : The sessions shall proceed : this is mere falsehood I
Enter a Servant, hastily.
Serv. My lord the king, the king !
Leon. Wliat is the busines-s?
Serv. 0 sir, I shall be hated to report it : The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear Of the queen's speed, is gone.
Leon. How! gone?
Serv. Is dead.
Leon. Apollo's angry ; and the heavens themselves Do strike at my injustice. [Hekmionk /«*«<«.] How now there !
Paul. This news is mortal to the queen : — Look down, And see what death is doing.
Leon. Take her here :
Her heart is but o'ercharg'd ; she will recover. — I have too much believ'd mine own suspicion : — Beseech you, tenderly apply to her Some remedies for life. — Apollo, pardon
[Exetint Paul, and Ladies, with Her.] 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 miuister, to poison My friend Polixenes : wliich had been done. But that the good mind of Camillo tardied My swift command, though I witli death and with Reward did threaten and encourage him. Not doing it and being done : he, most humane, And fill'd with honour, to my kingly guest Unclasp'd my practice ; quit his fortunes here. Which you knew great ; and to the certain hazard Of all incertainties himself commended, No richer than his honour : — How he gliatere
488 THE WINTER'S TALE. act hi.
Tborougli my rust ! and how his piety Does my deeds make the blacker !
Re-enter Paulina.
Paul. Woe the while I
O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it. Break too !
1 Lord. What fit is this, good lady?
Paul. What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? What wheels? racks? lires? what Haying? boding In leads or oils? what old or newer torture Must I receive, whose every word deserves To taste of thj' most worst ? Thy tyi-anny Together working with thy jealousies, — • Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle For girls of nine, — 0, think what they have done, And then run mad indeed, — stark mad ! for all Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it. That tliou betray' dst Polixenes, 'twas nothing; That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant. And damnable ingratoful ; 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 sweetest, dearest creature 's dead ; and vengeance Not dropp'd down yet. [for't
1 Lord. The higher powers forbid !
Paul. 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, 0 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.
SCENE II. THE WINTER'S TALE. 489
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter In storm perpetual, could not move the goda To look that way thou wert.
Leon. Go on, go on :
Thou canst not speak too much ; I have deserv'd All tongues to talk their bitterest !
1 Lord. Say no more ;
Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault I' the boldaiess of your speech.
Paul. 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 helft 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.
Leon. Thou didst speak but well.
When most the truth ; which I receive much better Than to be pitied of thee. Pr'ythee, 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 To these sorrows. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. — Bohemia- A desert Country near the Sea.
Enter Antigonus with the Child, and a Mariner.
Ant. Thou art perfect, then, our ship hath touch'd upon The deserts of Bohemia?
3far. Ay, my lord ; and fear We liave landed in ill time : the skies look grimly, And threaten present blusters. In my couscieuco.
490 THE WINTER'S TALE. Arr iic
The heavens with that we have in hand are angry. And frown upon 's.
Ant. Their sacred Malls be done ! — Go, get aboard; Ix)ok to thy bark : I'll not be long before I call upon thee.
Ma7: Make your best haste ; and go not Too far i' the land : 'tis like to be loud weather; Besides, this place is famous for the creatures Of prey that keep upon 't.
Ant. Go thou away:
I'll follow instantly.
Mar. I am glad at heart To be so rid o' the business. [Exit,
Ant. Come, poor babe : —
I have heard (but not believ'd), the spirits of the deaJ 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 till'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 sf)eech, her eyes Became two spouts : tlie fury spent, anon Did this break from her : Good Antigonus, Since Jate, against (hi/ hetter dbipositiun, liatli made thy person for the thrower -out Of mil poor babe, according to thine oath, — Places remote enough are in Bohemia, There weep, and leave it crijing ; and, for the babe Is counted lost for ever, Perdita, / pfytliee, call 't. For this ungentle business. Put on thee by m.y lord, thou ne'er shall 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 j Yet, for this once, yea superstitiously, I will be squar'd by this. I do believe Ilermione hath suffer'd death ; and that i\ polio would, this being indeed the issue Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid, Either for life or death, upon the earth Of its riglit father. Blossom, speed thee well !
[Laying down the chikli
SCENE III. THE WINTER'S TALE. 491
There lie ; and there thy character : there these ;
[Laying down a bundle. Which may if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty, And still reS't thine. — The storm begins: — poor wretch. That for thy mother's fault, art thus expos'd To loss and what may follow ! — Weep I cannot, But ray heart bleeds : and most accurs'd am 1 To be by oath enjoiu'd to thig. — Farewell ! The day frowns more and more : — thou 'rt like to have A lullaby too rough: — I never saw Tlie heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour ! — Well may I get aboard ! — This is the chace : I am gone for -ever ! [Jixit, jmrsued by a bear.
Enter an old Shepherd.
BJiep. I would there were no age between ten 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, stealiug, 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 wiU sooner find than the master: if any where I have them, 'tis by tne sea-sid«, bixjwsing of ivy. — Good luck, an 't be thy will! what have we here? [Takinr/ uj) the child. \ Mercy on 's, a bairn ; a very pretty bairn ! A boy or a child, I wonder? A pretty one; a vei-y pi'etty 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 : tliey were wariuer that got this than the poor thing is here. I'll take it up for pity : yet I'll tarry till my sou comes ; he hollaed but even now. — Whoa, ho hoa !
Clo. [wifhin.] Hilloa, loa!
Shep. What, art so near? Ifthou'lt see a thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither.
Enter Clown. What ailest thou, man?
Clo. I have seen two such sights, liy 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.
She]^. Wby, boy, how is it?
Clo. I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rases, how it takes up the shore ! but that 's not to the point. 0, the most piteous cry of the poor soalal Bome-
492 THE WINTER'S TALE. act in.
times 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'd thrust a cork in 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, anil 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.
Shep. Name of mercy ! when was this, boy ?
Clo. Now, now; I have not winked since I saw these sights : the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman ; he 's at it now.
Shep. Would I had been by to have helped the old man !
Clo. I would you ha<i been by the sliip-side, to have helped her : there your charity would h^ve lacked footing.
[A -vde.
Shep. Heavy matters ! heavy matters ! but look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself : thou mettest with thin is dying, I with things new-born. Here 's a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire's child ! look thee here! take up, take up, boy; open 't. So, let's see: — it was told me I should be rich by the fairies : this is some changeling: — ^open 't. — -What 's within, boy?
Clo. You're a made old man ; if the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you're well to live. Gold ! all gold !
Shep. This is fairy-gold, boy, and 'twill prove so: up with it, keep it close : home, home, the next way ! We are lucky, boy; and to be so stiU, requires nothing but secrecy — Let my sheep go : — come, good boy, the next way home.
Clo. Go you the next way with your findings. I'll go see if the bear be gone from the gentleman, and how much he hath eaten : they are never curst but when they are hungry : if there be any of him left, I'll bury it.
S'lep. 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.
Clo. Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i' the ground.
S/iep. 'Tia a lucky day, boy; and we'U do good deeds on 't. lExeuntt
THE WINTER'S TALE. 493
ACT IV.
Enter Time, as Chorus. Time. I, — tliat please some, try all ; both joy aud terrof Of good and bad ; that make and unfold error, — Now take upon me, in the name of Time, To use my wings. Impute it not a crime 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 mentiou'd a son o' the king's, which Florizel I now name to you ; and with speed so pace To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace Equal with wondering: what of her ensues, I list not prophesy ; but let Time's news Be laiown 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 j'oii have spent time worse ere now; If never, yet that Time himself doth say He wishes earnestly you never may. [Exit.
SCENE I. — Bohemia. A Room in the Palace of
POLIXENES.
Evter PoLiXENES and Camillo. Pol. I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more im]iortunate: 'Hs a sickness denying thee anything; a death to yiiuit tliia.
494 THE WINTER'S TALE. act iv.
Cam. It is fifteen years since I saw my country; though I have for the most part been aired abroad, I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent king, my master, hath sent for me ; to whose feeling sorrows I might be some allay, or I o'er ween to think so,— which is another spur to my departure.
Pol. As thou lovest me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy services by leaving me now ; the need I have of thee, thine own goodness hath made ; better not to have had thee than thus to want thee ; thou, having made me businesses which none without thee can sufficiently manage, must either stay to execute t'lem thyself, or take away with thee the very services tliou 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 theiein the heaping friendships. Of that fatal country Sicilia, pr'ythee, speak no more ; whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance of that penitent, as thou call'st 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.
Gam. 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 Lath appeared.
Pol. I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some care ; so far, that I have eyes under my service which look upon his removedness ; from whom I have this intelligence, — that he is seldom from the house of a most homely sliei)- herd ; a man, they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbours, is grown into ay un- speakable estate.
Cam. I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a daughter of most rare note : the report of her is extended more than can be thought to begin from such a cottaue.
Pol. That's likewise part of my intelligence : but I fear the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou shalt accom- pany us to the place ; where we will, not appearing what we are, have some question with the shepherd ; from whose Bimplicity I think it not uneasy to get the cause of my sou's resort thither. Pr'ythee, be my present iiai'tuer in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of Siciiia.
THE WINTER'S TALE. 405
Cam. I willingly obey your command.
Pol. My best Oamillo ! — We must disguise ourselves.
{Exeunt,
SCENE 11.— The same. A Road near the Shep- herd's Cottage.
Enter Autolycus, Singing.
When datfoJils besrin to peer, —
With, hey ! the doxy over the dale,— Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year :
Tor the red blood waues iu the winter s pala The white sheet bleacliini; on tlie lu'dt;e.—
With, liey ! tlie sweet binls, 0, liow they sing,— Doth set niy pufrging tootli on edge ;
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. The lark, that tirra-lirra chants, —
With, hey ! with, hey ! the thrush and the jay,— Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
While we lie tumbling iu the iiay.
1 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 niglit ; And when I wander here and there,
1 then do most go right. If tinkers may have leave to live.
And bear the sow-skin builget. Then my account I well may give,
Aud iu the stocks avouch it.
My traffic is sheets ; wben 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 1 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, 1 sleep out the thought of it. — A prize ! a prize !
Eyiter Clown.
Clo. Let me see : — every 'leven wether tods ; every tod yields pound and odd shilling ; fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to?
Aut. If the springe hold, the cock's mine. [Aside.
Clo. I cannot do^'t without counters.— Let me see ; what ,^m I to buy for our sheei)-shearing feast? Three jmund <;/' sugar; Jive pound of currants; rice — what will this sister
496 THE WINTER'S TALE. act iv.
of mine do with rice? But my fatlier hath made her mis- tress of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made me four-and -twenty nosegays for the shearers, — three-mnn song-men all, and very good ones; but they are most of them means and bases; but one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have saffron., to colour the warden jiies ; 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.
A ut. 0 that ever I was born ! [Grovelling on the ground.
Clo. I' the name of me, —
Aut. 0, help me, help me ! pluck but off these rags; and then, death, death !
Clo. Alack, poor soul ! thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these off.
Aut. O, sir, the loathsomeness of them offends me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and miEions.
Clo. Alas, poor man ! a million of beating may come to a great matter.
Aut. I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and api)arel ta'eu from me, and these detestable things put U2)on me.
Clo. What, by a horseman or a footman?
Aut. A footman, sweet sir, a footman.
Clo. Indeed, he should be a footman, by the garments he 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. [Helping him up.
Aut. 0, good sir, tenderly, 0!
Clo. Alas, poor soul !
A ut. 0, good sir, softly, good sir : I fear, sir, my shoulder blade is out.
Clo. How now ! canst stand?
Aut. Softly, dear sir [Picks his pocket] I good sir, softly j you ha' done me a chai-itable office.
Clo. Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.
A ut. No, good sweet sir ; no, I beseech you, sir : I have a kinsman not past three quarters of a mile hence, unto v.'liom I was going ; I shall there have money or anythmg I want: offer me no money, I pray you; that kills my heart.
Clo. What manner of fellow was he that robbed you ?
Aut. A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with trc 11 -my -dames: I knew him once a servant of the prince:
BPKNE Ti, THE WINTER'S TALE. 497
I caunot tell, good sir, for whicli of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court.
Clo. His vices, yoii 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.
A ut. 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 tinlcer's wife within a mile where my land and livhig lies ; and, having flown over many knavish i)ro- fessions, he settled only in rogue : some call hira Autolycus.
Clo. Out upon him ! prig, for my life, prig : he haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings.
Aut. Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that's the rogue that put me into this apparel.
Clo. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia ; if you had but looked big and spit at him, he'd have run.
Aut. I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter: I am false of heart that way ; and that he knew, I warrant him.
Clo. How do you now?
Aut. Sweet sir, much better than I was; I can stand and walk : I will even take my leave of you, and pace softly towards my kinsman's.
Clo. Shall I bring thee on the way !
Aut. No, good -faced sir; no, sweet sir.
Clo. Then fare thee well : I must go buy spices for ol^r sheep-shearing.
Aut. Prosper you, sweet sir! [&i< 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 shee]i, let me be en- rolled, and my name put in the book of virtue ! [Sinfjs.
Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily heiit the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all tlie day. Your sad tiies in a mile-a.
[Exit.
SCENE III. — The same. A Shephenrs Cottar/e.
Enter Florizel a7id Perdita.
Efo. These your unusual vreeds to each part of you Do give a life : no she])hcrdess, but Flora Peering in April's front. This 3'our sheep-shearing Is as a meeting of the petty gods. And you the queen on 't.
VOL. II. 2 K
498 THE WINTER'S TALE. act iv.
Per. Sir, my gracious lord,
To chide at your extremes it not becomes me,- - O, pardon that I name them ! — your high self, The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscur'd With a swaiu's wearing ; and me, j>oor lowly maiii. 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 attir'd ; swoon, I think, To show myself a glass.
Flo. I bless the time
When my good falcon made her flight across Thy father's ground.
Per. Now Jove afford you cause !
To me the difference forges dread : j'our greatness Hath not been us'd to fear. Even now I tremble To thinli your father, by some accident, Should pass this way, as you did. 0, 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?
Flo. 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 flre-rob'd god. Golden Ajiollo, 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 Hun not before mine honour, nor my lusts "Burn hotter than my faith.
Per. 0, but, sir,
Your resolution cannot hold, when 'tis Oppos'd, as it must be, by the power of the king: One of these two must be necessities.
Which then will speak, that you must change this purpose, Or I my life.
Flo. Thou dearest Perdita,
With these forc'd thoughts, I pr'ythee, darken not The mirth o' the feast :^ or I'll be thine, my fair. Or not my father's ; for 1 cannot be Mine own, nor anything to any, if I be not thine : to this I am most constant.
FLORIZEL AND PERDITA.
(SCENE in. THE WINTER'S TALE. 499
Though destiny say no. Be merry, gentle :
Strangle such thoughts as these with anything
That you behold the while. Your guests are coming s
Lift up your countenance as it were the day
Of celebration of that nuptial which
We two have sworn shall come.
Per. 0 lady Fortune,
Stand you auspicious !
Flo. See. your guests apjiroach :
Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, And let's be red with mirth.
Enter Shei)herd, with Polixenes and Camillo disfjuised; Clown, MoPSA, Dorcas, tuith others.
Shep. Fie, daughter ! when my old wife liv'd, upon This day she was'both pantler, butler, cook ; Both dame and servant ; welcom'd all ; serv'd all ; Would sing her song and dance her turn ; now here At upper end o' the table, now i' the middle ; On his shoulder, and his ; her face o' hre With labour ; and the thing she took to quench it, She would to each one sij). You are retir'd. As if you were a feasted one, and not The hostess of the meeting : pray you, bid These unknown friends to us welcome ; for it is A way to make us better friends, moie known. (Jome, quench your blushes, and present yourself That which you are, mistress of the feast : come on, And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing. As your good flock shall prosper.
Per. Sir, welcome ! [ To Pol.
It is my father's will I should take on me The hostess-ship o' the day : — You're welcome, sir !
[7'o Camillo. Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. — Pieverend 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 !
Pol. Shepherdess —
A fair one are j^ou ! — well you tit our ages VVitli flowers of winter.
P(-i; Sir, the year growing ancient, —
Not yet on summer's death, nor on the Inrth Of trembling winter, — the fahest flowers o' the season AitJ our carnations, and streak'd giUy^'ors,
500 THE WINTER'S TALK act iv.
Whicii some call nature's bastards : of that kind Our rustic garden 's barren; and I care not To set slips of them.
Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden.
Do you neglect them ?
Per. For I have heard it said
There is an art which, in their piedness, shaies With great creating nature.
Pol. Say there be ;
Yet nature is made better by no mean, But nature makes that mean; so, o'er 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.
Per. So it is.
Pol. Then make your garden rich in gilly vors, And do not call them bastai'ds.
Per. 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, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun. And with him rises wee])ing; these are flowers Of middle summer, aud I think they are given To men of middle age. Ye 're very welcome !
Gam. I should leave grazing, were I of yoiu' flock, And only live by gazing.
Per. Out, alas !
You'd be so lean that blasts of January Would blow you through and through. — Now, my faireak
friend, 1 would I had some flowers o' the spring that might l'>ecome your time of day ; — and yours, and yours, That wear upon your virgin branches yet Your maidenheads growing. — 0 Proserpina, For the flowei's now, that, frighted, thou lett'st fall From Dis's waggon ! — daifodils. That come before the swallow dares, and take Th'? wiuds of March with beauty ; violets dim. But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyea
BTENE III. THE WINTER'S TALE. 601
Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses, That die unmarried ere they can behoW Bright Phcebus in his strenii;h,— a malady Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips, ixud The crowii-imperial ; lilies of all kinds, The tlower-de-luce 1 eiuj; one! — 0, these I lack, To make you garlauus of; and, my sweet friend, To strew liim o'er and o'er 1
Fio. What, Hke a corse ?
Per. No ; like a bank for love to lie and play on ; Not like a corse ; or if, — not to be buried. But ([uick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers ; Methinks I plaj' as I have seen them do In Whitsnu pastorals: sure, this robe of mine Does change my disposition.
Flo. What you do
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, I'd have you do it ever ; when you ^'ing, I'd have you buy and sell so ; so give alms ; Pray so ; and, for the ordering your ati'airs, 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 deeds, That all your acts are queens.
Per. 0 Doric! es.
Your praises are too large: but that yonr youth. And the true blood which peeps fairly througli it, Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd, With wisdom I might fear, my Derides, You woo'd me the false waj'.
Flo. 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.
Per. I'll swear for 'em.
Pol. 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.
Cam. He tells lier something That makes her blood look oiit : good sooth, she ia The queen of curds and cream.
B0-? THE WINTER'S TALE. act ir.
C-o Come on, strike up.
Dor. Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, gai-lic, To mend her kissing with.
Mop. Now, in good time !
Clo. Not a word, a word ; we stand upon our mannors. — ^ Come, strike up, [Mu.sic
Here a dance 0/ Shepherds and Shepherdesses.
Pol. Pray, good shepherd, what Fair swain is this which dances with your daughter?
Shep. They call him Doricles ; and boasts himself To have a worthy feeding : but I have it Upon his own report, and I believe it ; He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter : I think so too ; for never gaz'd the moon Upon the water as he'll stand, and read, As 'twere, my daughter's eyes : and, to be plain, I think there is not half a kiss to choose Who loves another best.
Pol. She dances featly.
Shep. So she does anything ; though I report it That should be silent : if young Doricles Do light ujion her, she shall bring him that Which he not dreams of.
Enter a Servant.
Serv. 0 master, if you did but hear the pedler at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pijie : 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.
Clo. He could never come better: he shall come in: I love a ballad but even too well; if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and Bung lamentably.
Serv. He hath songs for man or woman of all sizes ; no milliner can so fit his customers with gloves : he has the prettiest love-songs for maids; so without bawdry, which is strange ; with such delicate burdens of d'ddos and fadinfis, jump her and thump her; and where some stretch-mouth'd rascal would, as it were, mean mischief, and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to answer, Wiioop, do me no harvi, good man; puts him off, shghts him, with Whoop, do me no harm, rjood man.
Pol. This is a brave fellow.
80ENE III. TPIE WINTER'S TALE. 503
Clo. Believe me, fhoii talkest of an admirable-conceited fellow. Has he any uiibraided wares?
Serv. He hath ribands of all the colours i' the rainbow ; points more than all the lawyers in Bohemia cau learnedly handle, though they come to him by the gross; inkles, caddisses, cambrics, laMais : 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 aboiit the square on 't.
Clo. Pr'ythee, bring him in; and let him approach singing.
Per. Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in his tunes. [i^-^'f- Servant.
Clo. You have of these pedlers that have more m 'em than you'd think, sister.
Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to think.
Enter Autolycus, singing.
Xawn as white as driven snow ,
Cyprus )>Iack as e'er was crow ;
Gloves as sweet as daniaslc-roses ;
Masks for faces and for noses ;
BiiRle-bracelet, necklace amber,
Perfume for a lady's chamber ;
Golden quoifs and stomachers,
For my lads to pive their dears ;
Pins and poking-eticks of steel,
What maids lack from head to heel:
Come buy of nie, come : come buy, come buy;
Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry :
Coine, buy.
Clo. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take no money of me ; but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain ribands and gloves.
Mop. I was promised them against the feast ; but they come not too late now.
Dor. He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars.
Mop. He hath paid you all he promised you : may be Le has paid you more, — which will shame you to give hhn again.
Clo. Is there no manners left amon" 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.
504 THE WINTER'S TALE. act iv.
Mop. I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry lace, and a pair of sweet gloves
Clo. Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way, and lost all my money?
A ut. And, indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad ; there- fore it behoves men to be wary.
Clo. Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing here.
Aut. I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of charge.
Clo. What hast here? ballads?
Mop. Pray now, buy some : I love a ballad in print a- life ; for then we are sure they are true.
Aut. Here 's one to a very doletal tune. How a usurer's wife was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a burden, and how she longed to eat aiders' heads and toads carbonadoed.
AIop. Is it true, think you?
Aut. Very true; and but a month old.
Dor. Bless me from marrying a usurer !
Aut. Here 's the midwife's n ime to 't, one Mistress Taleporter, and live or six honest wives that were present. Why should I carry lies abroad?
Mop. Pray you now, buy it.
Clo. Come on, lay it by ; and let 's first see more ballads ; we'll buy the other things anon.
Aut. Here's another ballad, Of a fish that appeared upon the coast on Wechiesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad against tlie hard hearts of maids : it was thought she \vas a woman, and was turned into a cold fish for she would not exchange fiesh with one that loved her. The baliaJ. is very pitiful, and as true.
Dor. Is it true too, think you?
Aut. Five justices' hands at it; and witnesses more than my pack will hold.
Clo. Lay it by too : another.
Aut. This is a merry ballad; but a very pretty one.
Mop. Let 's have some merry ones.
Aut. Why, this is a passing merry one, and goes to the tune of Two maids wooing a man: there 's scarce a maid westward but she slugs it : 'tis in request, I can tell you.
Mop. We can both sing it : if thou'lt bear a part tliou shalt hear ; 'tis in three parts.
Do7\ We had the tune on 't a month ago.
Aut. 1 can bear my part; you must know 'tis my occu« yauou: have at it with you.
STENE irr. THE WINTER'S TALE. 505
SONG. A. Get you hence, for I must go : Where, it llts not you to know.
D. Whithcir, M. C), whitlier? D. Whither? M. It heciiiiies tliy oath full well, Thou to uie thy secrets tell : D. Me too, let uie go thither.
M. Or thou co'.st to the prange or mill : i>. if to eitlier. thou ilost ill.
A. Neither D. What, neither? A. Neither. I). Thou hiist sworn my love to Ije; M. Thoii hast sworn it move to nie :
Tiien, whither go'st?— say, whither?
Clo. We'll have this song out anon by ourselves; my father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we'll not trouble them. — Come, bring away thy pack after nie. — Wenches, I'll buy for you both : — Pedler, let's have the first choice. — Follow me, girls.
AuL And you shall pay well for 'em. {^Aside.
Will you buy any tape,
Or lace for your cape, Jly ilainty duck, my liear-a?
Any silk, any thread,
Any toys for your head, Of the new'.st and fin'st, fin'st wear-a?
Come to the jiedler;
Money's a meddler, That diitli utter all men's ware-a.
[Jilxeunt Clown, Aut., Dor., and Mop.
Re-enter Servant.
Serv. Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made them- selves 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.
Shep. Away ! we'll none on 't : here has been too much homely foolery already. — I know, sir, we weary you.
Pol. You weary those that refresh us : pray, let 's see these four threes of herdsmen.
iSenJ. 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 squire.
JShep. Leave your prating: since these good men are pleased, let them come in ; but quickly now.
Hej-v, Why, they stay at door, sii-. [i?xi4
606 THE WINTER'S TALE. act rv.
Enter Twelve Rustics, liahUed like Satyrs. Thejj dance, and then exeunt.
Pol. 0 father, you'll know more of that hereafter. — Is it not too far gone ? — 'Tis time to part them. — He's simple and tells much. [Aside.l — 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 pedler'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.
-^Vo. Old sir, I know
She prizes not such trities as these are : The gifts she looks from me are pack'd and lock'd Up in my heart ; wliich I have given already, But not deliver'd. — 0, hear me breathe my life Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem. Hath sometime lov'd, — I take thy hand ! this hand, As soft as dove's down, and as white as it. Or Ethiopian's tooth, or tlie fann'd snow that's bolted By the northern blasts twice o'er.
Pol. What follows this ?— How prettily the young swain seems to wash The hand was fair before ! — I have put you out : But to your protestation ; let me hear Wliat you profess.
J^^lo. Do, and be witness to 't.
Pol. Ajad this my neighbour, too ? Pf^- And he, and more
Than he,and men, — the earth, the heavens, and all:— That, — were I crown'd the most imjierial monarch, Thereof most worthy ; v^ere I the fairest youth That ever made eye swerve ; liad 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.
Pol. Fairly offer'd-
Cam. This shows a sound afiectiou.
SCENE m. THE WINTEH'S TALE. 507
Shep. But, my daughter.
Say you the like to him ?
Per. I cannot speak
So well, nothing so well ; no, nor mean better : By the pattei'n of mine own thoughts I cut out The purity of his.
Sliep. Take hands, a bargain ! —
And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to 't: I give my daughter to him, and will make Her poi'tiou equal his.
Flo. 0, that must be
T' the virtue of your daugliter : one being dead, I shall have more than you can dream of yet; Enough then for j'our wonder : but come on, Contract us 'fore these witnesses.
Shep. Come, your hand ; — ■
And, daughter, yours.
Pol. Soft, swain, awhile, beseecli yuu;
Have you a father ?
Flo. T have ; but what of him ?
Pol. Knows he of this ?
F 0. He neither does nor shall.
Pol. 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 growu incajiable 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 ?
Flo. " No, good sir ;
He has his health, and ampler strength indeed Than most have of his age.
Pol. By my white beard.
You offer him, if this be so, a wrong Something until ial : 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.
Flo. I yield all this ;
But, for some other reasons, my grave sir. Which 'tis not tit you know, I not acquaint My father of this business.
Pol. Let him know t.
503 THE WINTER'S TALE. act iv.
Flo. He sliall not.
Pol. Pr'ytliee, let him.
Flo. No, he must not.
Shep. Let him, my son : he shall not need to grieve At kiiowiug of thy choice.
Flo. Come, come, he must noi. —
Mark our contract.
Pol. 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'sb a sheep-hook ! — Thou old traitor, I am sorry tliat, by hanging thee, I can but Shorten thy life one week. — And thou, fresh piece Of excellent witchcraft, who, offeree, must know The royal fool thou cop'st with, —
Shep. 0, my heart !
PoL I'll have thy beauty scratch'd with briers, and made More homely than thy state. — For thee, fond boy, — If I may ever know thou dost but sigh 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
Per. Even here undone !
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 alike. — Will't please you, sir, be gone? [To Flo. 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.
Cam. Why, how now, father !
Speak ere thou diest.
SCENE iir. THE V7TNTER'S TALE. 509
Slfp. I cannot speak, nor think,
Kor dare to know that which I know.— 0, sir,
[To Flouizel. Yon have undone a man of fonrscore-three, That thought to till 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 laj'' me Where no priest shovels in dust. — 0 cursed wretch,
[To PEHPrTA. That knew'st this was the prince, and wouldst adventure To mingle faith with him! — Undone! undone! If I might die within this hour, 1 have liv'd To die when I desire. [Exii.
Flo. Why look j'ou so upon me 1
T 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.
Cam. Gracious, my lord.
You know your fathei''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, 1 fear : Then, till the fury of his highness settle, Come not before him.
Flo. I not purpose it.
I think Camillo ?
Cam. Even he, my lord.
Per. How often have I told you 'twould be thus I How often said my dignity would last Eat till 'twere known !
Flo. It cannot fail but by
The violation of my faith ; and then Let nature crush the sides o' the earth together, And mar the seeds within ! — Lift up thy looks. — From my succession wijte me, father ; I Am heir to my affection.
Cam. Be advis'd.
Flo. I am, — and by my fancy : if my reason Will thereto be oherlient, I have reason ; If not, my senses, better pleas'd with madness, \)o bid it welcome.
Cam. This is des]ierate, sir.
Flo. So call it: but it does fullil my vow; I uecds mu&t think it honesty. Cauiillu,
510 THE WINTER'S TALE.
Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may
Be thereat glean'd ; for all the sun sees or
'J he close earth wombs, or the profound seas hide
In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath
To this my fair belov'd : therefore, I pray you,
As you have ever been my father's honour'd friend,
"VVhen lie 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 prepar'd
For this design. What course I mean to hold
Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor
Concern me the reporting.
Cam. 0, my lord,
I would your spirit were easier for advice, Or stronger for your need.
-^''^0. Hark, Perdita. — [Takes her aside.
I'll hear you by and by. [To Casullo.
Ca7n. He 's irremovable,
Resolv'd for flight. Now were I happy if His going I could frame to serve my turn ; Save him from danger, do him love and honour ; Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia, And that unhappy king, my master, whom I so much thirst to see.
^^o. Now, good Camillo,
I am so fraught with curious business that I leave out ceremony. [Going,
Cam. Sir, I think
You have heard of my poor services, i' the love That I have borne your father ?
Flo. Very nobly
Have you deserv'd : it is my father's music To speak your deeds ; not little of his care To have them recompens'd as thought on.
Cam. Well, my lord.
If you may please to think I love the king. And, through him, what is nearest to him, which is Your gracious self, embrace but my tlirectiou, — If your more ponderous and settled project May suller alteration, — on mine honour rU point you where you shall have such receiving
THE WINTER'S TALE. 511
As shall become your higliness ; where you may Erjoy 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 l*.est endeavouis in your absence,— Your discontenting father strive to qualify, And bring him up to liking.
Flo. How, Camillo,
May this, almost a miracle, be done ? That I may call thee something more than man, And, after that, trust to thee.
Cam. Have you thought on
A place whereto you'll go ?
Flo. Not any yet : But as the unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do; so we ])rofess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and tlies Of every wind that blows.
Cam. Then list to me :
This follows, — if you will not change your purpose. But undergo this flight, ^ — make for Sicilia; 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 T 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.
Flo. Worthy Camillo,
What colour for my visitati( n shall I Hold up before him ?
Cam. Sent by the king your father
To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir, The manner of your bearing towards him, v» ith What you, as from your father, shall ileliver, Things kno\vn betwixt us three, I'll ^vl■ite you down; The which shall point you forth at every sitting, Wliat you must say; that he shall not jierceive But that you have your father's bosom there. And speak his very i»«art.
Flo. 1 am bound to youi
There is some sap m thia.
512 THE WINTER'S TALE. act iv.
Cam. A course more proroising
Than a wild dedication of yourselves To unpatb 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.
Per. One of these is true :
I think affliction may subdue the cheek, But not take in the mind.
Cam. Yea, say you so ?
There shall not, at your father's house, these seveti
years. Be born another such.
Flo. My good Camillo,
She is as forward of her breeding as She is i' the rear 'our bu-th.
Cam,. I cannot say 'tis pity
She lacks instructions ; for she seems a mistress To most that teach.
Per. Your pardon, sir, for this :
I'll blush you thanks.
Flo. My prettiest Perdita! — But, 0, the thorns we stand upon ! — Camillo, — Preserver of uiy father, now of me ; The medicine of our house ! — how sliall we do ? We are not furnish'd lilie Bohemia's sou; Nor shall appear in Sicilia.
Cam. _ My lord.
Fear none of this : I think you know my fortunea Do all lie there : it shall be so my care I'o have you royally appointed as if I'he scene j'^ou play were mine. For instance, sir, That you may know you shall not want, — one word.
[They talk aside.
Re-enter Autolycus. Aut. Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his Bworn brother, a very simple gentleman ! I have sold all my trumpery; not a counterfeit stone, not a riband, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, alioe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack from fasting;
BCExVE in. THE WINTER'S TALE. 513
—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 hia pettitoes till he had both tune and words ; which so drew the rest of the herd to me, that all their other senses stuck in ears : you might have pinched a placket, — it was senseless ; 'twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse ; I would have filed keys off that hung in chains : no hearing, no feehng, but my sir's song, and admiring the nothing of it. Ho 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 whoobub 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.
[Gam., Flo., and Feu. come forward.
Cam. Nay, but my letters, by this means being there So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt.
Flo. Aud tliose that you'll i)rocme from king Leojites, —
Cam. Shall satisfy your father.
Per. Happy be you !
All that you speak shows fair.
Cam. Who have we here? —
[Seeing Autolycus. We'll make an instrument of this; omit Nothing may give us aid.
Aid. If they have overheard me now, — why, hanging.
[Anlde.
Cam. How now, good fellow! why shakest thou so? Fear not, man ; here 's no hai-ni intended to thee.
A ut. I am a poor fellow, sir.
Cam. Why, be so still ; here 's nobody will steal that from thee : yet, for the outside of thy poverty, we must make an exchange; therefore, disease thee instantly, — thou must thiuk 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. [Guh/kj money.
A ut. 1 am a poor fellow, sir : — I know ye well enough.
[A .siile.
Cam. Nay, pr'ythee, despatch: the gentleman is half- flayed already,
Aut. Are you in earnest, sir? — I smell the triok on 't. —
{A side,
Flo. Despatch, I pr'ythee. VOL. 11- 2 L
514 THE WINTEE'S TALE. act tv.
Aut. Indeed, I have had earnest; but I cannot with conscience take it.
Cam. Unbuckle, unbuckle. —
[Flo. and Atttol. exchaiuje garments. Fortunate mistress, — let my prophecy- Come home to you ! — you must retire yourself luto some covert ; take your sweetheai-fs 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 j^ou may, — For I do fear eyes over, — to shipboard Get imdescried.
Per. I see the play so lies
That I must bear a part.
Cam. No remedy. —
Have you done there?
Flo. Should I now meet my father,
He would not call me son.
Cam. Nay, you shall have no hat. — [Giving it to Pjbb. Come, lady, come. — Farewell, my friend. Aut. Adieu, sir.
Flo. 0 Perdita, what have we twain forgot? Pray you, a word. [They converse apart.
Cam. What I do next, shall be to tell the king [Aside, Of this escape, and whither they are bound ; Wherein, my hope is, I shall so prevail 'J'o force him after : in whose company I shall review Siciha ; for whose sight 1 have a woman's longing.
Flo. Fortune speed us ! —
Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side. Cam. The swifter speed the better.
[Exexmt Flor. , Per. , and Gam. Aut. I understand the business, — 1 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 tliat the unjust man doth thrive. What an exchange had this been with- out boot? what a boot is here with this exchange? Sure, the gods do this year connive at us, and we may do anything extempore. The prince himself is about a piece of iniquity, — stealing away from his father with his clog at his heels : if I thought it were a piece of honesty to ac- quaint the king withal, I would not do't: I hold it the more knavery to conceal it; and therein am 1 constant to my profession-
BCENE III. THE WINTER'S TALE. 515
Re-enter Clown and Shepherd.
Aside, aside ;— hei-e is more matter for a hot brain : every lane's end, every shop, church, session, hanging, yields a careful man work.
C'l'o. 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 tiesli and blood.
Shep. Nay, but hear me.
Clo. Nay, but hear me.
Shep. Go to then.
Clo. She being none of your flesh and blood, yonr flesh and Vdood has not offended the king; aud so your flesh and l)lood is not to be punished by him. Show those things you found about her; those secret things,— all but what she has with her: tliis being done, let the law go •whistle ; T v/arrant you.
Shep. I will tell the king all, every word,— yea, and Ins 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 knig's brother-in-law.
Glo. Indeed, brother-in-law was the furthest oft you could have been to him ; and then your bluod had been the dearer by I know how much an ounce.
Aut. Very 'wdsely, pupides! {Adde.
Shep. Weil, let us to the king: there is that in this fardel will make him scratch his beard !
Aut. I know not what impedunent this complaint may be to the flight of my master. [Adde.
Clo. Pray heartily he be at 'palace.
Avt. Though I am not naturally honest, I am so some- times by chance. Let me i)ocket up my jiedler's excrement. [Adde, and takes off his false 6eart/.]— How now, rustics! whither are you bound?
Shep. To the palace, an it like your worship.
A lit. 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 anytliing that is litting to be known? discover.
Clo. We are but plain fellows, sir.
A ut. A lie ; you are rough and hairy. Let me have no lying; it becomes none but tradesmen, and they often give lis sohliers the lie: but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel ; therefore they do not give us the he. Clo. Your worship had like to have given us one, it you hail not talien yourseU' with the manner.
SIR THE WINTER'S TALE.
Shep. Are you a courtier, an 't like you, sir?
Aut. Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. See'st thou uot the air of the court in these eufoldings? hath not my gait in it the measure of the court? receives not thy nose court-odour from me? reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt? Thinkest thou, for that I insinuate, or toze from thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier? I am courtier cap-a-pfe ; and one that will either ])ush on or pluck back thy business there : whereupon I command thee to open thy affair.
Shep. My business, sir, is to the king.
Aut. What advocate hast thou to him?
Shep. I know not, an 't like you.
Clo. Advocate 's the court-word for a pheasant : say you have none.
SItep. None, sir ; I have no pheasant, cock nor hen.
A ut. How bless'd are we that are not sim[)le men ! Yet nature might have made me as these are, Therefore I will not disdain.
Clo. This cannot be but a great courtier.
Shep. His garments are rich, but he wears them not handsomely.
Clo. He seems to be the more noble in being fantastical : a great man, I'll warrant ; I know by the picking ou 's teeth.
A ut. The fardel there? what 's i' the fardel? Wherefore that box ?
Shep. Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box, which none nrast know but the king ; and which he shall know within this hour, if I may come to the speech of him.
A ut. Age, thou hast lost thy labour.
Shep. Why, sir?
Aut. The liing is not at the palace; he is gone aboard a now ship to purge melancholy and air himself: 'for, if thou beest cajiable of tilings serious, thou must know the king is full of grief.
Shep. So 'tis said, sir, — about his son, that should have married a shepherd's daughter.
Aut. If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him fly: the curses he shall have, the tortures he shall feel, wiU break tlie back of man, the heart of moustei-.
Clo. Think you so, sir?
Aut. Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy and vengeance bitter ; but those that are germane to him, though removed fifty times, shall all come under the hang- Dinn : which, though it be great pity,- yet it is necessary. Ail old sheep-whistling rogue, a ram-teuder, to offer to have
THE WTNTEE'S TALE. 517
his daughter come into grace! Some say he shall be stoned ; "but that death is too soft for him, say 1. Draw our throne into a sheep-cote !— all deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy.
Clo. Has the old man e'er a son, sir, do you hear, an 't Lke you, sir?
Aut. He has a son, — who shall be flayed alive; then 'nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasp's uest ; then stand till he be three quarters and a dram dead ; then recovered again with aqua-vitfe, or some other hot infusion ; then, raw as he is, and in the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set against a brick-wall, the sun look- ing with a southward eye upon him, — where be 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 ofi'ences being so capital? Tell me,— for you seem to be honest plain men, — what have you to the king: being something gently considered, I'll bring you where he is aboard, tender your persons to his presence, whisper hhn in your behalfs ; and if it be in man besides the king to effect your suits, here is man shall do it.
Clo. He seems to be of great authority : close with him, give him gold ; and though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold : show the inside of your purse to the outside of his hand, and no more ado. llemember, — stoned, and flayed aUve.
Sliejx An't please you, sir, to undertake the business for us, here is that gold I have : I'll make it as much more, and leave this young man in pawn till I bring it you.
Aut. After I have done what I promised?
Shep. Ay, sir.
Aut. Well, give me the moiety. — Are you a party ni this business? • -r ,
Clo. In some sort, sir: but though my case be a pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it.
Aut. O, that's the case of the shepherd's son. Hang him, he'U be made an example !
Clo. Comfort, good comfort ! We must to the king, and show our strange sights : he must know 'tis none of your daughter nor my sister; we are gone else. Sir, I will give you as much as this old man does, when the business is performed ; and remain, as he says, your pawn till it be brought you.
Aut. I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea-side ; go on the right-hand : I will but look upon the hedge, and follow you.
51 S THE WINTER'S TALE. act iv,
Glo. We are blessed in this man, as I may say, even blessed.
Shep. Let 's before, as lie bids us : he was pro\-ided to do us good. [Exeunt Shepherd and Clown.
Aut. If I had a mind to be honest, I see Fortune would not suffer me : she drops booties in my mouth. I am courted now with a double occasion, — gold, and a means to do the prince my master good ; wliich who knows how that may turn back to my advaucement? I will bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him: if he think it tit 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 tliem : there may be matter in it. [Exit,
ACT V. SCENE I. — SiciLiA. A Room in the Palace o/LEOXTEg.
Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina, and others,
Cleo. Sir, you have done enough, and have perform'd A saint-like son'ow : 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, forgire yourself.
Leon. 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.
Paul. 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 kdl'd Would be unparaUel'd.
Leon. I think so. — Kill'd !
She I kill'd ! I did so: but thou strik'at me Sorely, to say I did : it is as bitter
SCENE I. THE WINTER'S TALE. 519
Upon thy tongue as in my tkouglit : now, good now, Say so but seldom.
Cleo. Not at all, good lady ;
You might have spoken a thousand things that would Have done the time more benefit, and grac'd Yom- kindness better.
Patd. 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 hoHer 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?
Paul. There is none worthy,
Eespecting her that 's gone. Besides, the gods Will have fulfill'd their secret purposes : For has not the diviue Apollo said, Is 't not the tenor of his oracle, That king Leontes shall not have an heir Till his lost child be found? wliich that it shall. Is all as monstrous to our hiiman 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 AviUs. — Care not for issue ;
\To Leohtes. The crown will find an heir : great Alexander Left his to the worthiest ; so his successor Was Idee to be the best.
Leon. Good Paulina, —
Who hast the memory of Hermione, I know, in honour, — 0, that ever I Had squar'd me to thy counsel ! — then, even now, I might have look'd upon my queen's full eyes ; Have taken treasure from her lips, —
Paul. And left them
More ric'u for what they yielded.
Leon. Thou speak'st truth.
No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse.
520 THE WINTER'S TALE. aci
And better us'd, would make her sainted spiH*^^ Agaiia possess her coipse; and, on this stage. — Where we offend her now, — appear, soul-vexed. And begin, Why to me?
Paul. Had she such power,
She had just cause.
Leon. She had ; and would incense me
To murder her I married.
Paul. . I should so.
Were I the ghost that walk'd, I'd bid you mark Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in 't You chose her : then I'd shriek, that even j'^our ears Should rift to hear me ; and the words that follow'd Should be, Eememher mine!
Leon. Stars, stars.
And all eyes else dead coals !— fear thou no wife ; I'll have no wife, Paulina.
Paul. Will you swear
Never to marry but by my fi'ee leave?
Leon. Never, Paulina ; so be bless'd my spirit?
Paul. Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath,
Cleo. You tempt him over-much.
Paul. Unless another,
As like Hermione as is her picture, Affront his eye.
Cleo. Good madam, —
Paul. I have done.
Yet, if my lord will marry, — if you will, sir. 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.
Leon. My true Paulina,
We shall not marry till thou bidd'st us.
Paid. That
Shall be, when your first queen's again in breath: Never till then.
Enter a Gentleman.
GeJit. One that gives out himself Prince Florizcl, Son of Polixenes, with his princess, — she The fairest I have yet beheld. — desires access To j'our high presence.
Leon. What with him? he comes not
Like to his father's greatness : his approach,
SCENE I. THE WINTER'S TALE. 621
So out of circumstance and sudden, tells U3 'Tis not a visitatinu fram'd, but forc'd By need and accident. What train?
Gent. But few,
And those but mean.
Leon. His princess, say you, with him?
Gent. Ay ; the most peerless piece of earth, I thiuk. That e'er the sun shone bright on.
Paid. 0 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 vjos not to he equaWd; — thus your verse Flow'd with her beauty once ; 'tis shrewdly ebb'd. To say you have seen a better.
Gent. Pardon, madam:
The one I have almost forgot ; — your pardon ;— The other, when she has obtain'd your eye, 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 foUow.
Paul. How ! not women?
Gent. Women will love her, that she is a woman More worth than any man ; men, that she is The rarest of all women.
Leon. Go, Cleomenes;
Yourself, assisted vrith your honour'd friends. Bring them to our embracement. — Still, 'tis strange
[Exeunt Cleg., Lords, and Gent» He thus should steal upon us.
Paul. Had our prince, —
Jewel of children, — seen this hour, he had pair'd Well vnth this lord : there was not full a month Between their births.
Leon. Pr'ythee, 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 Unfuruish me of reason. — They are come. —
Re-enter Cleomenes, with Flokizel, Peicoita, and Attendants. Your mother was most true to wedlock, prmc« ;
522 THE WINTER'S TALE. act v.
For slie did priut your royal father off, ConceivinsT yon : were I but tweuty-one, Your father's image is so hit iii 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 I And your fair princess, — goddess ! — 0, 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 Ouce more to look, on him.
Plo. By his command
Have I here touch'd Sicilia, and from him Give you all greetings that a king, at fi-iend, Can send his brother : and but inlirraity, — Which waits upon worn times, — hath something seiz'd His msli'il ability, he had himself The lands and waters 'twixt your throne and his Measur'd, to look upon you, whom he loves,^ He bade me say so,— more than all the sceptres, And those that bear them, living.
Leon. 0 my brother, —
Good gentleman ! — the wrongs I have doue thee stir Afresh within me ; and these thy ollices. So rarely kind, are as hiterpreters Of my behind-hand slackness [—Welcome hither, As is the sj'riug to the earth. And hath he too Expos'd this pai-agon 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 ?
Flo. Good, my lord.
She came from Libya.
Leon. Wliere the warlike Smalus,
That noble honour'd lord, is fear'd and lov'd?
Flo. Most royal sir, from thence; from him whose daughter His tears proclaim'd his parting -with her : thence,— 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 dismisa'd; Who for Bohemia bend, to si^mfy
THE WINTER'S TALE. 623
Not only my success in Libya, sir, But my arrival, ami my wife's, in safety Here, where we are.
Leon. The blessed gods
Purge all infection from our air whilst yon 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 bless' d,— As he from heaven merits it, — with you. Worthy his goodness. What might I have been, Might I a son and daughter now have look'd on, Such goodly tilings 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 j^ou, great sir, Bohemia greets you from himself by me ; Desires you to attach his son, who has, — His dignity and duty both cast oil, — Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with A shepherd's daughter.
Leon. Where 's Bohemia? speak.
Lord. Here in yonr city ; I now came from him: I speak amazedly ; and it becomes My marvel and my message. To your conrt Whiles he was hasfniug, — 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 prmce.
Flo. Camillo has betray'd me ;
Whose honour, and whose honesty, till now, Endur'd all weathers.
Lord. Lay 't so to his charge ;
He's with the king your father.
Ijeon. Who? Camillo?
Lord. Camillo, sir; I spake with him ; wlio now Has these poor men in question. Never saw 1 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.
Per. 0 my poor father ! —
624 THE WINTER'S TALE. act v.
The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have Our contract celebrated.
Leon. You are married?
Flo. We are not, sir, nor are we like to be ; The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first : — The odds for high and low 's alike.
Leon. My lord.
Is this the daughter of a king?
Flo. She is,
Wlien once she is my wife.
Leon. That once, I see, by your good father's speed. Will come on very slowly. I am sorry, Most sorr}', you have broken from his liking, Where 3'ou were tied in duty ; and as sorry Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty, That you might well enjoy lier.
Flo. Dear, look up:
Though Fortuue, visible an enemy, Shoiild chase us, with my father, power no jot Hath she to change our loves. — Beseech you, sir, Kemember since you ow'd 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.
Leon Would he do so, I'd beg your precious mistress. Which he counts but a trifle.
Paul. Sir, my liege,
i^our eye hath too much youth in 't : not a month 'Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes Than what you look on now.
Leon. I thought of her
Even in these looks I made. — But your petition
[To Flokizeu Is yet unanswer'd. I will to your father : Your honour not o'erthrown by your desires, I am friend to tliem 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.— The same. Before the Palace.
Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman. Aut. Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation? 1 Gevt. I was by at the opening of the fardel, hea»-d the old shepherd deliver the mamier how he found it: where ■
SCENE II. THE WINTER'S TALE. 525
upon, after a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber ; only this, methought I heard the shepherd say he found the child.
Aut. I would most gladly know the issue of it.
1 Gent. I make a broken delivery of the business ; but the changes I perceived in the king and Camillo were very notes of admiration : they seemed almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their eyes; there was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture ; they looked as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed: a notable passion of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing, could not say if the importance were joy or sor- row ;— but in the extremity of the one, it must needs be. Here comes a gentleman that hapi)ily knows more.
Enter a Gentleman,
The news, Eogero?
2 Gent. Nothing but bonfires : the oracle is fidfilled ; the king's daughter is found: such a deal of wonder is broken out within tliis hour that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it. Here comes the Lady Paulina's steward: he can deliver you more.
Enter a third Gentleman.
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 sus- picion. Has the king found his heir?
3 Gent. Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by cir- cumstance : that which you hear you'll swear you see, there i." such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen Her- mione ; her jewel about the neck of it ; the letters of Antigonus, found with it, which they know to be hia character; the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother ; the aA'ection of nobleness, which nature shows above her breeiliug ; and many other evidences, — ])roclaim her with all certainty to be the king's daughter. Did you Bee the meeting of the two kiugs?
2 Gent. No.
3 Gent. Then have you lost a sight which was to be seen, cannot be si>oken of. Tliere might you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in such manner that it seemed Borrow wept to take leave of them ; for tlieir joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holdinij up of hands, "N^'ith countenance of such distraction that tkey were t-o be
526 THE WINTER'S TALE. act v.
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, 0, thy mother, thy •mother! then asks Bohemia forgiveness; then embraces hia son-in-law; then again worries he his daughter v/ith chj:)- jiingher; now he thanks the old sheijherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings' reigns. 1 never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it, and undoes description to do it.
2 Gent. What, pray you, became of Autigonus, that carried hence the child?
3 Oent. 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 shep- herd's son; who has not only his innocence, — which seems nnich, — to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his, that Paulina laiows.
1 Gent. What became of his bark and his followers?
.3 Gent. Wrecked the same instant of their master's death, and m the view of the shepherd : so that all the instru- ments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But, 0, 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 tlie 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.
1 Gent. The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes; for by such was it acted.
8 Gent. One of the prettiest touches of all, and that ■whicli angled for mine eyes, — caught the water, tiiough not the tish, — was when, at the relation of the queen's death, with the manner how she came to it, — bravely confessed .and lamented by the king, — how attentiveness wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an ala»! 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 it, the woe had been universal.
1 Gent. Are they returned to the court?
3 Gent. No : the princess hearing of her mother's statue, ■which is in the keeping of Paulina,— a piece many years in doing, and now newly performed by that rare Italian mas- ter, Julio [loniano, who, lia<l lie himself eternity, and could |>ut breath into his work, would beguile nature of her cua-
SCENE 11. THE WINTER'S TALE. 527
torn, so perfectly he is her ape: he so near to Ilennioiie hath done Heriuiorie, that they say one wouki speak to her, and stand in hope of answer: — tliither with all greedi- ness of affection are thej^ gone ; and there they intend to Bup.
2 GpuL 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?
1 Gent. Who would be thence that has the benefit of access? every wiuk of an eye some new grace will be born : our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let 's along. [Exeunt Gentlemen.
Aut. Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the prince ; told him I heard them talk of a fardel, and I know not what ; but he at that time over-fond of the shepherd's daughter, — so he then tooli. her to be, — who began to be much sea-sick and himself little better, extremity of weather continuing, this mystery re. mained undiscovered. But 'tis ail one to me ; for had I been the finder-out of this secret, it would not have relished among my other discredits. Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already appearing in the blos- soms of their fortune.
Enter Shepherd and Clown.
Shep. Come, boy ; I am past more children, but thy sons and dauglaters will be all gentlemen born.
('In. You ai'e 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 tliese robes are not gentlemen born. Give me the lie, do; and try whether I am not now a gentleman born.
A lit. I know j'ou are now, sir, a gentleman born.
C 0. Ay, and have been so any time these four hours.
Shep. And so have I, boy !
Clo. So you have : — but I was a gentleman bom 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 tlie prin- cess, my sister, called my father father; and so we wept: and there was the first geutleujau-like teai's that ever we shed.
tihfp. We may live, sou, to shed many more.
523 THE WINTER'S TALE. act v.
Clo. Ay; or else 'twere hard luck, being in so prepos- terous estate as we are.
Atit. 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 priuce my master.
Sliep. Pr'ythee, son, do ; for we must be gentle, now we are gentlemen.
Clo. Thou wilt amend thy life?
Aut. Ay, an it like your good worship.
Clo. Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia.
Shc.p. You may say it, but not swear it.
Clo. Not swear it, now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklius say it, I'll swear it.
Skep. How if it be false, son ?
Clo. If it be ne'er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend. — And I'll swear to the prince, thou art a tail fellow of thy hands, and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art no tall feUow of thy hands, and that thou wilt be drunk: but I'll swear it; and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands.
Aut. I will prove so, sir, to my power.
Clo. Ay, by any means, prove a taU 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. [Exeuut.
SCENE III. — The same. A Room in Paulina's House.
Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, Cajiillo, Paulina, Lords, and Attendants.
Leon. 0 grave and good Paulina, the great comfort That I have had of thee !
Paul. What, sovereign sir,
I did not well, I meant well. All my services You have paid home : but that you liave vouchsaf 'd. With your crown'd brother, and these your contTacted Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit, It is a surplus of your grace which never My Ufe may last to answer.
Leon. O Paulina,
We honour j^ou with trouble: — but we came T'l see the statue of our queen : your gallery ll*v e we pass'd thi'ough, not without much content
PROW A PHOTOGRAPH^YVAN DER WEYDE.
MARY ANDERSON AS HERMIONE.
SCENE III. THE WINTEK'S TALE. 529
In many singularities ; but we saw not That which my daugiiter came to look upon, The statue of her mother.
Paul. As she liv'd peerless,
So her dead likeness, I do well believe, Excels whatever yet you look'd upon, 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 undraws a curtain, and discovers HekmioMB standing as a statue. I like your silence, — it the more shows off Your wonder : but yet speak ;— first, you, my liege. Comes it not something near?
Leo7i. 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.
Pol. O, not by much.
Paul. So much the more our carver's excellence ; Which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes her As she liv'd now.
Leon. As now she might have done,
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 herl I am asham'd: 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 conjur'd to remembrance; and From thy admiring daughter took the spirits. Standing like stone with thee !
Per. ' And give me leave;
And do not say 'tis superstition, that I kneel, and then implore her blessing. — Lady, Dear queen, that ended when I but began. Give me that hand of yours to kiss.
Paul. O, patience 1
The statue is but newly fix'd, the colour's Not dry.
Cam. My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on. Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, So many summers dry : scarce any joy
VOL. II. 2 M
630 THE WINTER'S TALE. act v.
Did ever so long live; no sorrow But kill'd itself much sooner.
-^^^; 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.*
i^c-ul. Indeed, my lord,
If I had thought the sight of my poor image Would thus liave wrought you,— for the stone is mine,- I'd not have show'd it.
Leon. Do not draw the curtain.
i'aui. No longer shall you gaze on 't; lest your fancy May think anon it moves.
Leon. Let be, let be.—
Would I were dead, but that, methiiiks, already— ■ What was he that did make it?— See, my lord, Would you not deem it breath'd? and that those veins Did verily bear blood ?
Pol. Masterly done:
The very life seems warm upon her lip.
Leon. The fixture of her eye has motion in 't, As we are mock'd with art.
Paid. I'll draw the curtain :
My lord's almost so far transported that He'll think anon it lives.
Leon. O sweet Paulina,
Make me to think so twenty years together ! No settled senses of the world can match The pleasure of that madness. Let 't alone.
Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr'd you : but I could afflict you further.
Leon. Do, Paulina ;
For this affliction has a taste as sweet As any cordial comforl— Still, methinks, There is an air comes from tier: what fine chisel Could ever yet cut breath ? Let no man mock me, For I will kiss her !
Paul. 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? Leon. No, not these twenty years. Per. So long could I
Stand by, a looker-on.
Paul. Either forbear.
Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you For more amazement. If you can behold it, I'll make the statue move indeed, descend
SCENE III. THE WINTER'S TALE. 531
And take you by the hand : but then you'll think, — Which I protest against, — I am assisted By wicked powers.
Leon. What you can make her do,
I am content to look on : what to speak, I am content to hear ; for 'tis as easy To make her speak as move.
Paul, It is requir'd
You do awake your faith. Then all stand still j Or those that think it is unlawful business I am about, let them depart.
Leon. Proceed :
No foot shall stir. -
Paul. ilusic, awake her : strike!^ [Mv^sie.
'Tis time ; descend ; be stone no more ; approach ; Sirike 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 amies down from the pedestal. 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 theu You kill her double. Nay, present your hand: When she was young you woo'd her ; now in age Is she become the suitor.
Leon. O, she 's warm ! [Embracing her.
If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.
Pol. She embraces him.
Cam. She hangs about his neck: If she pertain to life, let her speak too.
Pol. Ay, and make 't manifest where she has liv'd, Or iiow stol'u from the dead.
Paul. 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. — -Tiiru, good lady Our Perdita is fouud. [Presenting Per., loho kneels to ITe::.
Her. You gods, look down.
And from your sacred vials pour your graces Upon my daughter's head ! — Tell me, mine own, Where hast thou been preserv'd? where liv'd? how found Thy father's court? for thou shalt hear that I, — Knowing by Paulina that the oracle Gave ij<)])e thou wast in being, — have preserv'd Myself to see the issue.
532 THE WINTER'S TALE. act v.
Paul. There 's time enoujjh for that ;
Lest they desire, upon this push, to trouble Your joys with like rehUion. — 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.
Leon. 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 your son-in-law, And son unto the king, whom heavens directing, Is troth-plight to your daughter. — Good Paulina, Lead us from hence ; where we may leisurely Each one demand, and answer to his part Perform'd in this wide gap of time, since first We were dissever'd : hastily lead away ! {Exeunt.
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2752
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1896
V.2
Shakespeare, William
Complete works Dr. Johnj ed.
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