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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


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C.    KNIGHT'S 
LIBRARY    EDITION 

OF 

SHAKSPERE. 


VOL.  IV.— COMEDIES— HISTORIES. 


5  S8 

Vol.  IV. 


•  3  i 


London :  Printed  by  William  Clowu  and  Som,  Stamfoxd  Street. 


COMEDIES,  HISTORIES,  TRAGEDIES 
AND  POEMS 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEHE. 


EDITED  BY 


CHARLES    KNIGHT. 


"  It  is  a  thing  scarcely  believable  how  much,  and  how  boldly,  as  well  the 
common  writers  that  from  time  to  time  have  copied  out  his  works,  as  also 
certain  that  have  thought  themselves  liable  to  control  and  emend  all  men's 
doings,  have  taken  upon  them  in  this  author ;  who  ought  with  all  reverence 
to  have  been  handled  of  them,  and  with  all  fear  to  have  been  preserved  from 
altering,  depraving,  or  corrupting." 

Udall't  Preface  to  Erasmu^s  Apophthegms  (applied  there  to  Plutarch), 


THE    SECOND    EDITION. 


VOLUME    IV. 


LONDON: 
CHARLES   KNIGHT   AND   CO.,   LUDGATE   STREET. 

HDCCCXLII. 


117037 


-2_    /   O   ^ 


A  WINTER'S    TALE. 


Vol.  IV. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Sicilian  lords. 


Leontes,  King  of  Sicilia. 

Mamillius,  his  son. 

Camillo, 

Antigonus, 

Cleomenes, 

Dion, 

Another  Sicilian  lord. 

Rogero,  a  Sicilian  gentleman. 

An  Attendant  on  the  young  Prince  Mamillius. 

Officers  of  a  Court  of  Judicature. 

PoLiXENES,  King  of  Bohemia. 

Florizel,  his  son. 

Archidamus,  a  Bohemian  lord. 

A  Mariner. 

Gaoler. 

An  old  Shepherd,  reputed  father  of  Perdita. 

Clown,  his  son. 

Servant  to  the  old  Shepherd. 

AuTOLYCus,  a  rogue. 

Time,  as  Chorus. 


Hermione,  Queen  to  Leontes. 

Perdita,  daughter  to  Leontes  a7id  Hermione. 

Paulina,  wife  to  Antigonus. 

Emilia,  a  lady, 

Two  other  ladies, 

MOPSA,  1      J.       I      J 

>  shepherdesses. 


,.'     }  attending  the  Queen, 
■les,  j  ^ 


Dorcas, 

Lords,   Ladies,    and  Attendants ;    Satyrs  for    a   Dance ; 
Shepherds,  Shepherdesses,  Guards,  8^c. 


SCENE, — sometimes  in  Sicilia,  sometimes  in  Bohemia. 


[Julio  Romano.] 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


STATE  OF  THE  TEXT,  AND  CHRONOLOGY,  OF  A  WINTER'S  TALE. 

We  have  no  edition  of  the  '  Winter's  Tale  '  prior  to  that  of  the  folio 
of  1623 ;  nor  was  it  entered  upon  the  registers  of  the  Stationers' 
Company  previous  to  the  entry  by  the  proprietors  of  the  folio.  The 
original  text,  which  is  divided  into  acts  and  scenes,  is  remarkably 
correct ;  and  although  the  involved  construction  which  is  peculiar 
to  Shakspere's  later  writings,  and  the  freedom  of  versification  which 
contrasts  with  the  regularity  of  his  earlier  works,  have  occasionally 
tempted  the  commentators  to  try  their  hands  at  emendation,  the  or- 
dinary text  is  upon  the  whole  pretty  accurate.  We  have  endeavoured, 
as  in  all  other  instances,  completely  to  restore  the  original  text, 
wherever  possible. 

Chalmers  has  assigned  the  'Winter's  Tale'  to  1601.     The  play 
contains  this  passage : — 

"  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  villainy  itself  forswear 't." 

B  2 


^  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

"  These  lines,"  says  Chalmers,  "  were  called  forth  by  the  occasion 
of  the  conspiracy  of  Essex."  "  No,"  says  Mai  one,  "  these  lines 
could  never  have  been  intended  for  the  ear  of  her  who  had  deprived 
the  Queen  of  Scots  of  her  life.  To  the  son  of  Mary  they  could  not 
but  have  been  agreeable."  Upon  this  ground  he  assigned  the 
comedy  to  1604.  There  is  a  third  critic,  of  much  higher  acuteness 
than  the  greater  number  of  those  who  have  given  us  speculations  on 
the  chronology  of  Shakspere's  plays,— we  mean  Horace  Walpole, 
whose  conjecture  is  so  ingenious  and  amusing  that  we  copy  it  with- 
out abridgment : — 

"  The 'Winter's  Tale'  maybe  ranked  among  the  historic  plays  of  Shakspere, 
though  not  one  of  his  numerous  critics  and  commentators  have  discovered  the  drift 
of  it.  It  was  certainly  intended  (in  compliment  to  Queen  Elizabeth)  as  an  indirect 
apology  for  her  mother,  Anne  Boleyn.  The  address  of  the  poet  appears  nowhere  to 
more  advantage.  The  subject  was  too  delicate  to  be  exhibited  on  the  stage  without 
a  veil ;  and  it  was  too  recent,  and  touched  the  queen  too  nearly,  for  the  bard  to 
have  ventured  so  home  an  allusion  on  any  other  ground  than  compliment.  The 
unreasonable  jealousy  of  Leontes,  and  his  violent  conduct  in  consequence,  form  a 
true  portrait  of  Henry  VIII.,  who  generally  made  the  law  the  engine  of  his  bois- 
terous passions.  Not  only  the  general  plan  of  the  story  is  most  applicable,  but 
several  passages  are  so  marked  that  they  touch  the  real  history  nearer  than  the  fable. 
Hermione,  on  her  trial,  says, 

'  For  honour, 

'T  is  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine, 

And  only  that  I  stand  for.' 

"  This  seems  to  be  taken  from  the  very  letter  of  Aime  Boleyn  to  the  king  before  her 
execution,  where  she  pleads  for  the  infant  princess  his  daughter.  Mamillius,  the 
young  prince,  an  unnecessary  character,  dies  in  his  infancy  ;  but  it  confirms  the 
allusion,  as  Queen  Anne,  before  Elizabeth,  bore  a  still-bom  son.  But  the  most 
striking  passage,  and  which  had  nothing  to  do  in  the  tragedy  but  as  it  pictured 
Elizabeth,  is  where  Paulina,  describing  the  new-born  princess,  and  her  likeness  to 
her  father,  says,  '  She  has  the  very  trick  of  his  frown.'  There  is  one  sentence,  indeed, 
so  applicable  both  to  Elizabeth  and  her  father,  that  I  should  suspect  the  poet 
inserted  it  after  her  death.     Paulina,  speaking  of  the  child,  tells  the  king — 

*  'T  is  yours ; 
And  might  we  lay  the  old  proverb  to  your  charge, 
So  like  you,  't  is  the  worse.' 

The  '  Winter's  Tale '  was  therefore  in  reality  a  Second  Part  of  *  Henry  VIII.'  " 

Plausible  as  this  may  appear,  the  conjecture  falls  to  the  ground 
when  we  consider  that  Shakspere  adopted  all  that  part  of  the  plot  of 
this  comedy  which  relates  to  the  "  unreasonable  jealousy  of  Leontes" 
from  a  novel  of  which  we  have  an  edition  as  early  as  1 588.  Robert 
Greene,  the  author  of  '  Pandosto,'  could  scarcely  have  intended  his 
story  as  "  a  compliment  to  Queen  Elizabeth  "  and  a  "  true  por- 
trait of  Henry  VHI., "  for  he  makes  the  jealous  king  of  his  novel 
terminate  his  career  with  suicide.      In  truth,  as   we  have  already 


A  WINTER'S  TALE.  O 

inferred,  questions  such  as  this  are  very  pretty  conundrums,  and 
worthy  to  be  cherished  as  the  amusement  of  elderly  gentlemen  who 
have  outlived  their  relish  for  early  sports,  and  leave  to  others  who 
are  less  careful  of  their  dignity  to 

"  Play  at  push-pin  with  the  boys." 

Beyond  this  they  are  for  the  most  part  worthless. 

In  the  absence  of  any  satisfactory  internal  evidence  of  the  date  of 
this  comedy,  beyond  that  furnished  by  the  general  character  of  the 
language  and  versification,  it  was  at  length  pointed  out  by  Malone 
that  an  entry  in  the  office-book  of  Sir  Henry  Herbert,  Master  of  the 
Revels  in  1623,  mentions  "an  old  play  called  'Winter's  Tale,'  for- 
merly allowed  of  by  Sir  George  Bucke  and  likewise  by  me."  Sir 
George  Bucke  first  exercised  the  office  of  Master  of  the  Revels  in 
1610.  The  play,  therefore,  could  not  have  been  earlier  than  this 
year ;  and  Mr.  Collier  has  produced  conclusive  evidence  that  it  was 
acted  in  1611.  In  our  Introductory  Notice  to  'Richard  II.'  mention 
will  be  found  of  "  a  book  of  plays,  and  notes  thereof,  for  common 
policy"  kept  by  Dr.  Symon  Forman,  and  discovered  some  few  years 
ago  in  the  Bodleian  Library.  Forman  saw  the  'Winter's  Tale  ' 
acted  on  the  15th  of  May,  1611,  at  Shakspere's  theatre,  the  Globe. 
It  was  most  probably  then  a  new  play ;  for  he  is  very  minute  in  his 
description  of  the  plot. 

"  Observe  there  how  Leontes,  King  of  Sicilia,  was  overcome  with  jealousy  of  his 
wife  with  the  King  of  Bohemia,  his  friend  that  came  to  see  him ;  and  how  he  con- 
trived his  death,  and  would  have  had  his  cupbearer  to  have  poisoned  him,  who  gave 
the  King  of  Bohemia  warning  thereof,  and  fled  with  him  to  Bohemia. 

"  Remember,  also,  how  he  sent  to  the  oracle  of  Apollo,  and  the  answer  of  Apollo 
that  she  was  guiltless,  and  that  the  king  w£is  jealous,  &c.,  and  how,  except  tlie  child 
was  found  again  that  was  lost,  the  king  should  die  without  issue ;  for  the  child  was 
carried  into  Bohemia,  and  there  laid  in  a  forest,  and  brought  up  by  a  shepherd. 
And  the  King  of  Bohemia's  son  married  that  wench,  and  how  they  fled  into  Sicilia 
to  Leontes ;  and  the  shepherd  having  showed  the  letter  of  the  nobleman  whom 
Leontes  sent,  it  was  that  child,  and  by  the  jewels  found  about  her  she  was  known  to 
be  Leontes'  daugiiter,  and  was  then  sixteen  years  old. 

"  Remember,  also,  the  rogue  that  came  in  all  tattered,  like  Coll  Pipin,  and  how 
he  feigned  him  sick  and  to  have  been  robbed-  of  all  he  had,  and  how  he  cozened  the 
poor  man  of  all  his  money,  and  after  came  to  the  sheep-shear  with  a  pedlar's  pack, 
and  there  cozened  them  again  of  all  their  money.  And  how  he  changed  apparel 
with  the  King  of  Bohemia's  son,  and  then  how  he  turned  courtier,  &c. 

"  Beware  of  trusting  feigned  beggars  or  fawning  fellows."'* 

*  New  Particulars,  p.  20. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


SUPl'OSED  SOURCE  OF  THE  I'LOT. 


The  novel  of  Robert  Greene,  called  '  Pandosto,'  and  'The  History 
of  Dorastus  and  Fawnia,'  which  Shakspere  undoubtedly  followed, 
with  very  few  important  deviations,  in  the  construction  of  the  plot 
of  his  '  Winter's  Tale,'  is  a  small  book,  occupying  fifty-nine  pages 
in  the  reprint  lately  published,  with  an  Introductory  Notice  by 
Mr.  Collier.*  It  was  a  work  of  extraordinary  popularity,  there 
being  fourteen  editions  known  to  exist.  Of  the  nature  of  Shak- 
epere's  obligations  to  this  work,  Mr.  Collier  thus  justly  speaks  : — 

"  Robert  Greene  was  a  man  who  possessed  all  the  advantages  of  education  :  he 
was  a  graduate  of  both  Universities — he  was  skilled  in  ancient  learning  and  in  mo- 
dern languages — he  had,  besides,  a  prolific  imagination,  a  lively  and  elegant  fancy, 
and  a  grace  of  expression  rarely  exceeded ;  yet,  let  any  person  well  acquainted  with 
the  'Winter's  Tale'  read  the  novel  of'  Pandosto,'  upon  which  it  was  founded,  and 
he  will  be  struck  at  once  with  the  vast  pre-eminence  of  Shakespeare,  and  with  the 
admirable  manner  in  which  he  has  converted  materials  supplied  by  another  to  his 
own  use.  The  bare  outline  of  the  story  (with  the  exception  of  Shakespeare's  mira- 
culous conclusion)  is  nearly  tlie  same  in  both;  but  this  is  all  they  have  in  common, 
and  Shakes])eare  may  be  said  to  have  scarcely  ailopted  a  single  hhit  for  his  descrip- 
tions, or  a  line  for  his  dialogue;  while  in  |x)int  of  jjassion  and  sentiment  Greene  is 
cold,  formal,  and  artificial — the  very  opposite  of  everything  in  Shakesjjeare." 

Without  wearying  the  reader  with  any  very  extensive  compari- 
sons of  the  novel  and  tlie  drama,  we  shall  run  through  the  produc- 
tion of  Greene,  to  which  our  great  poet  has  incidentally  imparted  a 
real  interest ;  and  in  doing  so  we  shall  take  occasion  so  to  analyse 
the  action  and  characterisation  of  the  '  Winter's  Tale'  as  to  super- 
sede the  necessity  for  a  Supplementary  Notice. 

"  In  the  country  of  Bohemia,"  says  the  novel,  "  there  reigned  a 
king  called  Pandosto."  The  '  Leontes'  of  Shakspere  is  the  '  Pan- 
dosto' of  Greene.  The  Polixenes  of  the  play  is  Egistus  in  the 
novel : — 

"  It  so  happened  that  Egistus,  King  of  Sicilia,  who  in  his  youth  had  been  brought 
up  with  Pandosto,  desirous  to  show  that  neither  tract  of  time  nor  distance  of  place 
could  diminish  their  former  friendship,  provided  a  navy  of  ships,  and  sailed  into 
Bohemia  to  visit  his  old  friend  and  companion.'' 

Here,  then,  we  have  the  scene  of  the  action  reversed.  The  jealous 
king  is  of  Bohemia, — ^his  injured  friend  of  Sicilia.  But  the  visitor 
sails  into  Bohemia.  We  have  noticed  this  point  under  the  head 
Costume,  and  shall  be  content  to  refer  the  reader  to  what  we  have 
there  said.  The  wife  of  Pandosto  is  Bellaria ;  and  they  have  a 
young  son  called  Garinter.  Pandosto  becomes  jealous,  slowly,  and 
•  Shake8])eare'8  Library,  Part  I. 


A  WINTERS  TALE.  7 

by  degrees ;  and  there  is  at  least  some  want  of  caution  in  the  queen 
to  justify  it : — 

"  Bellaria  noting  in  Egistus  a  princely  and  bountiful  mind,  adorned  with  sundry 
and  excellent  qualities,  and  Egistus  finding  in  her  a  virtuous  and  courteous  disposi- 
tion, there  grew  such  a  secret  uniting  of  their  afiections,  that  the  one  could  not  well 
be  without  the  company  of  the  other," 

The  great  author  of  '  Othello '  would  not  deal  with  jealousy  after 
this  fashion.     He  had  already  produced  that  immortal  portrait 

"  Of  one,  not  easily  jealous,  but,  being  wrought, 
Perplex'd  in  the  extreme." 

He  had  now  to  exhibit  the  distractions  of  a  mind  to  which  jealousy 
was  native ;  to  depict  the  terrible  access  of  passion,  uprooting  in  a 
moment  all  deliberation,  all  reason,  all  gentleness.  The  instant  the 
idea  enters  the  mind  of  Leontes  the  passion  is  at  its  height : — 

"  I  have  tremor  cordis  on  me : — my  heart  dances." 

Very  different  is  the  jealous  king  of  Greene  : — 

"  These  and  such-like  doubtful  thoughts,  a  long  time  smothering  in  his  stomach, 
began  at  last  to  kindle  in  his  mind  a  secret  mistrust,  which,  increased  by  suspicion, 
grew  at  last  to  a  flaming  jetdousy  that  so  tormented  him  as  he  could  take  no  rest." 

Coleridge  has  described  the  jealousy  of  Leontes  with  incomparable 
truth  of  analysis : — 

"  The  idea  of  this  delightful  drama  is  a  genuine  jealousy  of  disposition,  and  it 
should  be  immediately  followed  by  the  perusal  of '  Othello,'  which  is  the  direct  con- 
trast of  it  in  every  particular.  For  jealousy  is  a  vice  of  the  mind,  a  culpable  tend- 
ency of  the  temper,  having  certain  well-known  and  well-defined  effects  and  conco- 
mitants, all  of  which  are  visible  in  Leontes,  and,  I  boldly  say,  not  one  of  which 
marks  its  presence  in  Othello ; — such  as,  first,  an  excitability  by  the  most  inade- 
quate causes,  and  an  eagerness  to  snatch  at  proofs ;  secondly,  a  grossness  of  concep- 
tion, and  a  disposition  to  degrade  the  object  of  the  passion  by  sensual  fancies  and 
images ;  thirdly,  a  sense  of  shame  of  his  own  feelings  exhibited  in  a  solitary  moodi- 
ness of  humour,  and  yet,  from  the  violence  of  the  jiassion,  forced  to  utter  itself,  and 
therefore  catching  occasions  to  ease  the  mind  by  ambiguities,  equivoques,  by  talking 
to  those  who  cannot,  and  who  are  known  not  to  be  able  to,  understand  what  is  said 
to  them, — in  short,  by  soliloquy  iu  the  form  of  dialogue,  and  hence  a  confused, 
broken,  and  fragmentary  manner  ;  fourthly,  a  dread  of  vulgar  ridicule,  as  distinct 
from  a  high  sense  of  honour,  or  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty ;  and  lastly,  and  imme- 
diately consequent  on  this,  a  spirit  of  selfish  vindictiveness."* 

The  action  of  the  novel  and  that  of  the  drama  continue  in  a  pretty 
equal  course.  Pandosto  tampers  with  his  cupbearer,  Franion,  to 
poison  Egistus ;  and  the  cupbearer,  terrified  at  the  fearful  commis- 
sion, reveals  the  design  to  the  object  of  his  master's  hatred.  Event- 
ually they  escape  together : — 

*  literary  Remains,  vol.  ii. 


8  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

"  Egirtiw,  feoriiig  that  delay  might  breed  danger,  and  willing  that  the  graw 
should  not  be  cut  from  under  hii  feet,  taking  bag  and  baggage,  by  the  help  of 
Franion  conveyed  himself  and  his  men  out  at  a  postern  gate  of  the  city,  so  secretly 
and  speedily,  that  without  any  suspicion  they  got  to  the  sea-shore ;  where,  with 
many  a  bitter  curse  taking  their  leave  of  Bohemia,  they  went  aboard." 

Bellaria  is  committed  to  prison,  where  she  gives  birth  to  a  daughter. 
The  guard 

"  carried  the  child  to  the  king,  who,  quite  devoid  of  pity,  commanded  that  without 
delay  it  should  be  put  in  the  boat,  having  neitlier  sail  nor  rudder  to  guide  it,  and 
so  to  be  carried  into  the  midst  of  the  sea,  and  there  left  to  the  wind  and  wave  as  the 
destinies  please  to  appoint." 

The  queen  appeals  to  the  oracle  of  Apollo;  and  certain  lords  are 
sent  to  Delphos,  where  they  receive  this  decree  : — 

"  SUSPICION  IS  NO  PROOF  :    JEALOUSY  IS  AN  UNEQUAL  JUDGE  :    BELLABIA    IS   CHASTE  ; 

EoisTus  blameless:    fbanion  a  true  subject;  pandosto  tbeacheeous:  his 

BABE  innocent;  AND  THE  KING  SHALL  LIVE  WITHOUT  AN  HEIR,  IF  THAT  WHICH  IS 
LOST  BE  NOT  FOUND." 

On  their  return,  upon  an  appointed  day,  the  queen  was  "  brought 
in  before  the  judgment-seat,"  Shakspere  has  followed  a  part  of  the 
tragical  ending  of  this  scene ;  but  he  preserves  his  injured  Hermione, 
to  be  reunited  to  her  daughter  after  years  of  solitude  and  suflfering. 

"  Bellaria  had  no  sooner  said  but  the  king  commanded  that  one  of  his  dukes 
should  read  the  contents  of  the  scroll,  which,  after  the  commons  had  heard,  they 
gave  a  great  shout,  rejoicing  and  clapping  their  hands  that  the  queen  was  clear  of 
that  false  accusation.  But  the  king,  whose  conscience  was  a  witness  against  him  of 
his  witless  fury  and  false  suspected  jealousy,  was  so  ashamed  of  his  rash  folly  that 
he  entreated  his  nobles  to  persuade  Bellaria  to  forgive  and  forget  these  injuries  ; 
promising  not  only  to  show  himself  a  loyal  and  lovuig  husband,  but  also  to  recon- 
cile himself  to  Egistus  and  Franion ;  revealing  then  before  them  all  the  cause  of 
their  secret  flight,  and  how  treacherously  he  thought  to  have  practised  his  death,  if 
the  good  mind  of  his  cupbearer  had  not  prevented  his  purpose.  As  thus  he  was 
relating  the  whole  matter,  there  was  word  brought  him  that  his  young  son  Garinter 
was  suddenly  dead,  which  news  so  soon  as  Bellaria  heard,  surcharged  before  with 
extreme  joy  and  now  sup])rc8sed  with  heavy  sorrow,  her  vital  spirits  were  so  8topi)ed 
that  she  fell  down  presently  dead,  and  could  never  be  revived." 

Greene  mentions  only  the  existence  and  the  death  of  the  king's 
son.  The  dramatic  exhibition  of  Mamillius  by  Shakspere  is 
amongst  the  most  charming  of  his  sketches.  The  affection  of  the 
father  for  his  boy  in  the  midst  of  his  distraction,  and  the  tender- 
ness of  the  poor  child,  to  whom  his  father's  ravings  are  unintelli- 
gible— 

"  1  am  like  you,  they  say," — 
are  touches  of  nature  such  as  only  one  man  has  produced.     How 


A  WINTER'S  TALE.  y 

must  he  have  studied  the  inmost  character  of  childhood  to  have 
given  us  the  delicious  little  scene  of  the  second  act ! — 

"  Her.  What  wisdom  stirs  amongst  you  ?     Come,  sir,  now, 
I  am  for  you  again  :    Pray  you,  sit  by  us, 
And  tell 's  a  tale. 

Mam.  Merry,  or  sad,  shall  "t  be  ? 

Her.  As  merry  as  you  will. 

Mam.  A  sad  tale 's  best  for  winter : 

I  have  one  of  sprites  and  goblins.  . 

Her.  Let 's  have  that,  good  sir. 

Come  on,  sit  down  : — Come  on,  and  do  your  best 
To  fright  me  with  your  sprites  :  you  're  powerful  at  it. 

Mam.  There  was  a  man, — 

Her.  Nay,  come,  sit  down ;  then  on. 

Mam.  Dwelt  by  a  churchyard ; — I  will  tell  it  softly; 
Yon  crickets  shall  not  hear  it. 

Her.  Come  on  then, 

And  give 't  me  in  mine  ear." 

It  requires  the  subsequent  charm  of  a  Perdita  to  put  that  poor  boy 
out  of  our  thoughts. 

The  story  of  the  preservation  of  the  deserted  infant  is  prettily 
told  in  the  novel : — 

"  It  fortuned  a  poor  mercenary  shepherd  that  dwelt  in  Sicilia,  who  got  his  living 
by  other  men's  flocks,  missed  one  of  his  sheep,  and,  thinking  it  had  strayed  into  the 
covert  that  was  hard  by,  sought  very  diligently  to  find  that  which  he  could  not  see, 
fearing  either  that  the  w  olves  or  eagles  had  undone  him  (for  he  was  so  poor  as  a 
sheep  was  half  his  substance),  wandered  down  towards  the  sea-cliffs  to  see  if  i)er- 
chance  the  sheep  was  browsing  on  the  sea-ivy,  whereon  they  greatly  do  feed  ;  but 
not  finding  her  there,  as  he  was  ready  to  return  to  his  flock  he  heard  a  child  cry, 
but,  knowing  there  was  no  house  near,  he  thought  he  had  mistaken  the  sound,  and 
that  it  was  the  bleating  of  his  sheep.  Wherefore  looking  more  narrowly,  as  he  cast 
his  eye  to  the  sea  he  spied  a  little  boat,  from  whence,  as  he  attentively  listened,  he 
might  hear  the  cry  to  come.  Standing  a  good  while  in  amaze,  at  last  he  went  to 
the  shore,  and,  wading  to  the  boat,  as  he  looked  in  he  saw  the  little  babe  lying  all 
alone  ready  to  die  for  hunger  and  cold,  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  scarlet  richly  em- 
broidered with  gold,  and  having  a  chain  about  the  neck." 

Although  the  circumstances  of  the  child's  exposure  are  different, 
Shakspere  adopts  the  shepherd's  discovery  pretty  literally.  He 
even  makes  him  about  to  seek  his  sheep  by  the  sea-side,  "  browsing 
on  the  sea-ivy."  The  infant  in  the  novel  is  taken  to  the  shepherd's 
home,  and  is  brought  up  by  his  wife  and  himself  under  the  name 
of  Fawnia.  In  a  narrative  the  lapse  of  sixteen  years  may  occur 
without  any  violation  of  propriety.  The  shepherd  of  Greene,  every 
night  at  his  coming  home,  would  sing  to  the  child  and  dance  it  on 
his  knee ;  then,  a  few  lines  onward,  the  little  Fawnia  is  seven  years 
old;  and,  very  shortly. 


10  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

"  when  she  came  to  the  age  of  sixteen  years  she  so  increased  with  exquisite  jwrfec- 
tion  both  of  body  atid  mind,  as  her  natural  disjwsition  did  bewray  that  she  was  born 
of  some  high  parentage." 

These  changes,  we  see,  are  gradual.  But  in  a  drama  whose  action 
depends  upon  a  manifest  lapse  of  time,  there  must  be  a  sudden 
transition.  Shakspere  is  perfectly  aware  of  the  difficulty ;  and  he 
diminishes  it  by  the  introduction  of  Time  as  a  Chorus : — 

"  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." 

Lyly,  without  such  an  apology,  gives  us  a  lapse  of  forty  years  in 
his  '  Endymion.'  Dryden  and  Pope  depreciated  the  '  Winter's 
Tale ;'  and  no  doubt  this  violation  of  the  unity  of  time  was  one  of 
the  causes  which  blinded  them  to  its  exquisite  beauties.  But  Dr. 
Johnson,  without  any  special  notice  of  the  case  before  us,  has  made 
a  triumphant  defence  against  the  French  critics  of  Shakspere's 
general  disregard  of  the  unities  of  time  and  place  : — 

"  By  supposition,  as  place  is  introduced,  time  may  be  extended ;  the  time  required 
by  the  fable  elapses  for  the  most  part  between  the  acts ;  for,  of  so  much  of  the  action 
as  is  represented,  the  real  and  poetical  duration  is  the  same.  If,  in  the  first  act, 
preparations  for  war  against  Mithridates  are  repieseiited  to  be  made  in  Rome,  the 
event  of  the  war  may,  without  absurdity,  be  represented  in  the  catastrophe  as  hap- 
pening in  Pontus.  We  know  that  there  is  neither  war  nor  preparation  for  war ;  we 
know  that  we  are  neither  in  Rome  nor  Pontus — that  neither  Mithridates  nor  Lu- 
cuUus  are  before  us.  The  drama  exhibits  successive  imitations  of  successive  actions, 
and  why  may  not  the  second  imitation  represent  an  action  that  happened  years  after 
the  first,  if  it  be  so  connected  with  it  that  nothing  but  time  can  be  supposed  to  inter- 
vene ?  Time  is,  of  all  modes  of  existence,  most  obsequious  to  the  imagination  ;  a 
lapse  of  years  is  as  easily  conceived  as  a  passage  of  hours.  In  contemplation  we 
easily  contract  the  time  of  real  actions,  and  therefore  willingly  permit  it  to  be  con- 
tracted when  we  only  see  their  imitation."* 

Shakspere  has  exhibited  his  consummate  art  in  opening  the  fourth 
act  with  Polixenes  and  Camillo,  of  whom  we  have  lost  sight  since 
the  end  of  the  first.  Had  it  been  otherwise, — had  he  brought 
Autolycus,  and  Florizel,  and  Perdita,  at  once  upon  the  scene, — 
the  continuity  of  action  would  have  been  destroyed ;  and  the  com- 
mencement of  the  fourth  act  would  have  appeared  as  the  com- 
mencement of  a  new  play.  Shakspere  made  the  difficulties  of  his 
plot  bend  to  his  art;  instead  of  wanting  art,  as  Ben  Jonson  says. 
Autolycus  and  the  Clown  prepare  us  for  Perdita ;  and  when  the 

*  Preface  to  his  edition  of  17C5. 


A  WINTER'S  TALE.  1 1 

third  scene  opens,  what  a  beautiful  vision  lights  upon  this  earth ! 
There  perhaps  never  was  such  a  union  of  perfect  simplicity  and 
perfect  grace  as  in  the  character  of  Perdita.  What  an  exquisite 
idea  of  her  mere  personal  appearance  is  presented  in  Florizel's 
rapturous  exclamation, — 

"  When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that!" 

Greene,  in  describing  the  beauties  of  his  shepherdess,  deals  only  in 
generalities  : — 

"  It  happened  not  long  after  this  that  tliere  was  a  meeting  of  all  the  farmers' 
daughters  in  SicUia,  whither  Fawnia  was  also  bidden  as  the  mistress  of  the  feast, 
who,  having  attired  herself  in  her  best  garments,  went  among  the  rest  of  her  com- 
panions to  the  merry  meeting,  there  spending  the  day  in  such  homely  pastimes  as 
shepherds  use.  As  the  evening  grew  on  and  their  sports  ceased,  each  taking  their 
leave  at  other,  Fawnia,  desiring  one  of  her  companions  to  bear  her  company,  went 
home  by  the  flock  to  see  if  they  were  well  folded ;  and,  as  they  returned,  it  fortuned 
that  Dorastus  (who  all  that  day  had  been  hawking,  and  killed  store  of  game) 
encountered  by  the  way  these  two  maids,  and,  casting  his  eye  suddenly  on  Fawnia, 
he  was  half  afraid,  fearing  that  with  Acteon  he  had  seen  Diana,  for  he  thought  such 
exquisite  perfection  could  not  be  found  in  any  mortal  creature.  As  thus  he  stood 
in  amaze,  one  of  his  pages  told  him  that  the  maid  with  the  garland  on  her  head  was 
Fawnia,  the  fair  shepherd  whose  beauty  was  so  much  talked  of  in  the  court.  Do- 
rastus, desirous  to  see  if  nature  had  adorned  her  mind  with  any  inward  qualities,  as 
she  had  decked  her  body  with  outward  shape,  began  to  question  with  her  whose 
daughter  she  was,  of  what  age,  and  how  she  had  been  trained  up  ?  who  answered 
him  with  such  modest  reverence  and  sharpness  of  wit,  that  Dorastus  thought  her 
outward  beauty  was  but  a  counterfeit  to  darken  her  inward  qualities,  wondering 
how  so  courtly  behaviour  could  be  found  in  so  simple  a  cottage,  and  cursing  fortune 
that  had  shadowed  wit  and  beauty  with  such  hard  fortune." 

But  Greene  was  unequal  to  conceive  the  grace  of  mind  which  dis- 
tinguishes Perdita  : — 

"  Sir,  my  gracious  lord, 
To  chide  at  your  extremes  it  not  becomes  me ; 
O,  pardon,  that  I  name  them  :  your  high  self. 
The  gracious  mark  o'  the  land,  you  have  obscur'd 
With  a  swain's  wearhig ;  and  me,  poor  lowly  maid, 
Most  goddess-like  prank'd  up." 

Contrast  this  with  Greene  :  — 

*♦  Fawnia,  poor  soul,  was  no  less  joyful  that,  being  a  shepherd,  fortune  had 
favoured  her  so  as  to  reward  her  with  the  love  of  a  prince,  hoping  in  time  to  be 
advariced  from  the  daughter  of  a  poor  farmer  to  be  the  wife  of  a  rich  king." 

Here  we  see  a  vulgar  ambition,  rather  than  a  deep  affection.  Fawnia, 
in  the  hour  of  discovery  and  danger,  was  quite  incapable  of  exhibit- 
ing the  feminine  dignity  of  Perdita  :-*— 


12  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

•*  I  waa  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  ou  alike. — Will 't  please  you,  sir,  be  gone? 

[to  Florizel. 
I  told  you  what  would  come  of  this :  'Beseech  you, 
Of  your  own  state  take  care :  this  dream  of  mine. 
Being  now  awake,  I  '11  queen  it  no  inch  farther, 
But  milk  my  ewes,  and  weep." 

This  is  something  higher  than  the  sentiment  of  a  "  queen  of  curds 
and  cream." 

In  the  novel  we  have  no  trace  of  the  interruption  by  the  father 
of  the  princely  lover  in  the  disguise  of  a  guest  at  the  shepherd's 
cottage.  Dorastus  and  Fawnia  flee  from  the  country  without  the 
knowledge  of  the  king.  The  ship  in  which  they  embark  is  thrown 
by  a  storm  upon  the  coast  of  Bohemia.  Messengers  are  despatched 
in  search  of  the  lovers ;  and  they  arrive  in  Bohemia  with  the  re- 
quest of  Egistus  that  the  companions  in  the  flight  of  Dorastus  shall 
be  put  to  death.  The  secret  of  Fawnia's  birth  is  discovered  by  the 
shepherd;  and  her  father  recognises  her.  But  the  previous  cir- 
cumstances exhibit  as  much  grossness  of  conception  on  the  part  of 
the  novelist,  as  the  different  management  of  the  catastrophe  shows 
the  matchless  skill  and  taste  of  the  dramatist.  We  forgive  Leontes 
for  his  early  folly  and  wickedness;  for  during  sixteen  years  has 
his  remorse  been  bitter  and  his  afi'ection  constant.  The  pathos  of 
the  following  passage  is  truly  Shaksperian : — 

"  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  kill'd. 
Would  be  unparallel'd. 

Leon.  I  think  so.     Kill'd f 

She  I  kill'd!     I  did  so :  but  thou  strik'st  me 
Sorely,  to  say  I  did ;  it  is  as  bitter 
Upon  thy  tongue  as  in  my  thought.     Now,  good  now, 
Say  so  but  seldom." 

The  appropriateness  of  the  title  of  the  '  Winter's  Tale  '  has  been 
prettily  illustrated  by  Ulrici : — 


A  WINTER'S  TALE.  13 

"  From  the  point  of  view  taken  in  this  drama,  life  appears  like  a  sing^ar  and 
serene,  even  while  terrifying,  winter's  tale,  related  by  the  flickering  light  of  the  fire 
in  a  rough  boisterous  night,  in  still  and  homelike  trustiness,  by  an  old  grandmother 
to  a  listening  circle  of  children  and  grandchildren,  while  the  warm,  secure,  and 
happy  feeling  of  the  assembly  mixes  itself  with  a  sense  of  the  fear  and  the  dread  of 
the  related  adventures  and  the  cold  wretched  night  without.  But  this  arises  only 
through  the  secret  veil  which  lies  over  the  power  of  chance,  and  which  is  here  spread 
over  the  whole.  It  appears  serene,  because  everywhere  glimmers  through  this  veil 
the  bright  joyful  light  of  a  futurity  leading  all  to  good  ;  because  we  continually 
feel  that  the  unhealthy  darkness  of  the  present  will  be  again  thro\vn  off  even  through 
an  equally  obscure  inward  necessity."' 


COSTUME. 

This  comedy  is  so  thoroughly  taken  out  of  the  region  of  the  literal 
that  it  would  be  worse  than  idle  to  talk  of  its  costume.  When  the 
stage-manager  shall  be  able  to  reconcile  the  contradictions,  chro- 
nological and  geographical,  with  which  it  abounds,  he  may  decide 
whether  the  characters  should  wear  the  dress  of  the  ancient  or  the 
modern  world,  and  whether  the  architectural  scenes  should  partake 
most  of  the  Grecian  style  of  the  times  of  the  Delphic  oracle,  or  of 
the  Italian  in  the  more  familiar  days  of  Julio  Romano.  We  can- 
not assist  him  in  this  difficulty.  It  may  be  sufficient  for  the  reader 
of  this  delicious  play  to  know  that  he  is  purposely  taken  out  of  the 
empire  of  the  real ; — ^to  wander  in  some  poetical  sphere  where 
Bohemia  is  but  a  name  for  a  wild  country  upon  the  sea,  and  the 
oracular  voices  of  the  pagan  world  are  heard  amidst  the  merriment 
of  "  Whitsun  pastorals  "  and  the  solemnities  of  "  Christian  burial ;" 
where  the  "  Emperor  of  Russia  "  represents  some  dim  conception 
of  a  mighty  monarch  of  far-off  lands ;  and  "  that  rare  Italian  master, 
Julio  Romano,"  stands  as  the  abstract  personification  of  excellence 
in  art.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  imagine  that  he  who,  when  it  was 
necessary  to  be  precise,  as  in  the  Roman  plays,  has  painted  manners 
with  a  truth  and  exactness  which  have  left  at  an  immeasurable  dis- 
tance such  imitations  of  ancient  manners  as  the  learned  Ben  Jonson 
has  produced, — ^that  he  should  have  perplexed  this  play  with  such 
anomalies  through  ignorance  or  even  carelessness.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  the  most  accomplished  scholars  amongst  our  early 
dramatists,  when  dealing  with  the  legendary  and  the  romantic, 
purposely  committed  these  anachronisms.  Greene,  as  we  have 
shown,  of  whose  scholarship  his  friends  boasted,  makes  a  ship  sail 
from  Bohemia  in  the  way  that  Shakspere  makes  a  ship  wrecked 
upon  a  Bohemian  coast.     When  Jonson,  therefore,  in  his  celebrated 


14  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

conversation  with  Drummond  of  Hawthomden,  said,  "  Shakspere 
wanted  art,  and  sometimes  sense,  for  in  one  of  his  plays  he  brought 
in  a  number  of  men  saying  they  had  suffered  shipwreck  in  Bohemia, 
where  is  no  sea  near  by  a  hundred  miles,"  he  committed  the  un- 
fairness of  imputing  to  Shakspere  the  fault,  if  fault  it  be,  which  he 
knew  to  be  the  common  property  of  the  romantic  drama.  Gifford, 
in  a  note  upon  this  passage  in  his  '  Life  of  Jonson,'  says,  "  No  one 
ever  read  the  play  without  noticing  the  '  absurdity,'  as  Dr.  Johnson 
calls  it ;  yet  for  this  simple  truism,  for  this  casual  remark  in  the 
freedom  of  conversation,  Jonson  is  held  up  to  the  indignation  of 
the  world,  as  if  the  blunder  was  invisible  to  all  but  himself."  We 
take  no  part  in  the  stupid  attempt  of  Shakspere's  commentators  to 
show  that  Jonson  treated  his  great  contemporary  with  a  paltry 
jealousy  ;  but  we  object  to  Jonson,  in  the  instance  before  us,  talk- 
ing of  Shakspere  wanting  "  sense,"  as  we  object  to  Gifford  speaking 
of  the  anachronism  as  a  "  blunder."  It  is  absurd  to  imagine  that 
Shakspere  did  not  know  better.  Mr.  Collier  has  quoted  a  passage 
from  Taylor,  the  water-poet,  who  published  his  '  Journey  to  Prague,' 
in  which  the  honest  waterman  laughs  at  an  alderman  who  "  catches 
me  by  the  goll,  demanding  if  Bohemia  be  a  great  town,  whether 
there  be  any  meat  in  it,  and  whether  the  last  fleet  of  ships  be  arrived 
there."  Mr.  Collier  infers  that  Taylor  "  ridicules  a  vulgar  error 
of  the  kind  "  committed  by  Shakspere.  We  rather  think  that  he 
meant  to  ridicule  very  gross  ignorance  generally ;  and  we  leave 
our  readers  to  take  their  choice  of  placing  Greene  and  Shakspere 
in  the  same  class  with  Taylor's  "  Gregory  Gandergoose,  an  Alder- 
man of  Gotham,"  or  of  believing  that  a  confusion  of  time  and 
place  was  considered  (whether  justly  is  not  here  the  question)  a 
proper  characteristic  of  the  legendary  drama — such  as  '  A  Winter's 
Tale: 


Scene  I.] 


A  WINTERS  TALE. 


15 


I'  .III   <^.f-»        /,  .x\ 


ACT   I. 


SCENE  I. — Slcilia.     An  Antechamber  in  Leontes'  Palace. 

Enter  Camillo  and  Archidamus, 

Arch.  If  you  shall  chance,  Camillo,  to  visit  Bohemia,  on 
the  like  occasion  whereon  my  services  are  now  on  foot,  you 
shall  see,  as  I  have  said,  great  difference  betwixt  our  Bo- 
hemia and  your  Sicilia. 

Cam.  I  think,  this  coming  summer,  the  king  of  Sicilia 
means  to  pay  Bohemia  the  visitation  which  he  justly  owes 
him. 


16  A  WINTERS  TALE.  [Act  I. 

Arch.  Wherein  our  entertainment  shall  shame  us  we  will 
be  justified  in  our  loves :  for,  indeed, — 

Cam.  'Beseech  you, — 

Arch.  Verily,  I  speak  it  in  the  freedom  of  my  knowledge  : 
we  cannot  with  such  magnificence — in  so  rare — I  know  not 
what  to  say. — We  will  give  you  sleepy  drinks,  that  your 
senses,  unintelligent  of  our  insufficience,  may,  though  they 
cannot  praise  us,  as  little  accuse  us. 

Cam.  You  pay  a  great  deal  too  dear  for  what's  given 
freely. 

Arch.  Believe  me,  I  speak  as  my  understanding  instructs 
me,  and  as  mine  honesty  puts  it  to  utterance. 

Cam.  Sicilia  cannot  show  himself  over-kind  to  Bohemia. 
They  were  trained  together  in  their  childhoods ;  and  there 
rooted  betwixt  them  then  such  an  affection  which  cannot 
choose  but  branch  now.  Since  their  more  mature  dignities, 
and  royal  necessities,  made  separation  of  their  society,  their 
encounters,  though  not  personal,  have  been  royally  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 
ends  of  opposed  winds.     The  heavens  continue  their  loves ! 

Arch.  I  think  there  is  not  in  the  world  either  malice,  or 
matter,  to  alter  it.  You  have  an  unspeakable  comfort  of 
your  young  prince  Mamillius ;  it  is  a  gentleman  of  the 
greatest  promise  that  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  frc?h ;  they  that  went  on  crutches  ere  he 
was  bom,  desire  yet  their  life  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. 

Arch.  If  the  king  had  no  son  they  would  desire  to  live  on 
crutches  till  he  had  one.  [Exeunt. 

»  Fatt.  So  the  folio  of  1623.  That  of  1632  reads  vast  sea.  In  Pericles  we  have 
the  line, 

"  Thou  God  of  this  great  vast,  rebuke  the  surjjes." 
In  the  text  vast  probably  has  the  meaning  of  great  space. 


Scene  1 1.  J  A  WINTER'S  TALK.  17 

SCENE  II. —  The  same.     A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Leontes,  Polixenes,  Hermione,  Mamillius,   Ca- 
MiLLO,  and  Attendants. 

Pol.  Nine  changes  of  the  wat'ry  star  have  been 
The  shepherd's  note,  since  we  have  left  our  throne 
Without  a  burthen  :  time  as  long  again 
Would  be  fill'd  up,  my  brother,  with  our  thanks  ; 
And  yet  we  should,  for  perpetuity. 
Go  hence  in  debt :  And  therefore,  like  a  cipher 
Yet  standing  in  rich  place,  I  multiply. 
With  one  we-thank-you,  many  thousands  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  winds  at  home,  to  make  us  say, 
"  This  is  put  forth  too  truly ! "  *    Besides,  I  have  stay'd 
To  tire  your  royalty. 

Leon.  We  are  tougher,  brother. 

Than  you  can  put  us  to 't. 

Pol.  No  longer  stay. 

Leon.  One  seven-night  longer. 

Pol.  Very  sooth,  to-morrow. 

Leon.  We  '11  part  the  time  between  's  then :  and  in  that 
\  I  '11  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  win  me :  so  it  should  now. 
Were  there  necessity  in  your  request,  although 
'T  were  needful  I  denied  it.     My  affairs 
Do  even  drag  me  homeward  :  which  to  hinder 
Were,  in  your  love,  a  whip  to  me ;  my  stay, 

"  The  construction  of  this  passage  is  somewhat  involved  ;  but  the  meaning  is,  O 
that  no  sneaping  (ruffling)  winds  at  home  may  blow,  to  make  us  say  my  presages 
were  too  true. 

Vol.  IV.  C 


18  A  WINTERS  TALE.  [Act  I. 

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 :  this  satisfaction 
The  by -gone  day  proclaim'd ;  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  '11  thwack  him  hence  with  distaffs. — 
Yet  of  your  royal  presence  [to  Polixenes]  I'll  adventure 
The  borrow  of  a  week.     When  at  Bohemia 
You  take  my  lord,  I  '11  give  him  my  commission. 
To  let '  him  there  a  month,  behind  the  gest  ^ 
Prefix'd  for 's  parting :  yet,  good  deed,*=  Leontes, 
I  love  thee  not  a  jar  o'  the  clock  ^  behind 
What  lady  she  her  lord. — You  '11  stay  ? 

Pol.  No,  madam. 

Her.  Nay,  but  you  will? 

Pol.  I  may  not,  verily. 

Her.  Verily ! 
You  put  me  off  with  limber  vows  :  But  I, 
Though  you  would  seek  to  unsphere  the  stars  with  oaths. 
Should  yet  say,  "  Sir,  no  going."     Verily, 
You  shall  not  go  ;  a  lady's  verily  is 
As  potent  as  a  lord's.     Will  you  go  yet? 
Force  me  to  keep  you  as  a  prisoner, 

•  To  let  is  to  hinder  :  and  it  is  probably  here  used  as  a  reflective  verb — to  stay 
himself. 

''  Gest  is  literally  a  lodging ;  and  the  houses  or  towns  where  a  prince  had  assigned 
to  stop  in  his  progress,  and  of  which  a  list  was  prepared  with  dates,  were  so  called. 
We  have  the  expression  in  Webster  sufficiently  clear : — 
"  Like  the  gesse  in  the  progress; 
You  know  where  you  sliall  find  me." 
<=  Good  deed — indeed. 
^  Jar  of  the  clock — the  ticking  of  the  pendulum. 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  19 

Not  like  a  guest ;  so  you  shall  pay  your  fees. 
When  you  depart,  and  save  your  thanks.     How  say  you  ? 
My  prisoner?  or  my  guest?  by  your  dread  verily. 
One  of  them  you  shall  be. 

Pol.  Your  guest  then,  madam  : 

To  be  your  prisoner  should  import  offending ; 
Which  is  for  me  less  easy  to  commit. 
Than  you  to  punish. 

Her.  Not  your  gaoler  then. 

But  your  kind  hostess.     Come,  I  '11  question  you 
Of  my  lord's  tricks,  and  yours,  Avhen  you  were  boys ; 
You  were  pretty  lordings  then. 

Pol.  We  were,  fair  queen. 

Two  lads,  that  thought  there  was  no  more  behind 
But  such  a  day  to-morrow  as  to-day. 
And  to  be  boy  eternal. 

Her.  Was  not  my  lord  the  verier  wag  o'  the  two  ? 

Pol.  We  were  as  twinn'd  lambs,  that  did  frisk  i'  the  sun. 
And  bleat  the  one  at  the  other :    What  we  chang'd 
Was  innocence  for  innocence ;  we  knew  not 
The  doctrine  of  ill-doing,  nor  dream'd 
That  any  did :  Had  we  pursued  that  life. 
And  our  weak  spirits  ne'er  been  higher  rear'd 
With  stronger  blood,  we  should  have  answer'd  heaven 
Boldly,  "  Not  guilty ;"  the  imposition  clear'd. 
Hereditary  ours. 

Her.  By  this  we  gather. 

You  have  tripp'd  since. 

Pol.  O  my  most  sacred  lady. 

Temptations  have  since  then  been  born  to  us :  for 
In  those  unfledg'd  days  was  my  wife  a  girl ; 
Your  precious  self  had  then  not  cross'd  the  eyes 
Of  my  young  playfellow. 

Her.  Grace  to  boot ! 

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  '11  answer ; 
If  you  first  sinn'd  with  us,  and  that  with  us 

C  2 


i 


20  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  I. 

You  did  continue  fault,  and  that  you  slipp'd  not 
With  any  but  with  us. 

Leon.  Is  he  won  yet  ? 

Her.  He  *11  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  prithee,  tell  me :  Cram  us  with  praise,  and  make  us 
As  fat  as  tame  things  :  One  good  deed  dying  tongueless 
Slaughters  a  thousand,  waiting  upon  that. 
Our  praises  are  our  wages :  You  may  ride  us. 
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  :  O,  would  her  name  were  Grace ! 
But  once  before  I  spoke  to  the  purpose :  When  ? 
Nay,  let  me  have  't ;  I  long. 

Leon.  Why,  that  was  when 

Three  crabbed  months  had  sour'd  themselves  to  death. 
Ere  I  could  make  thee  open  thy  white  hand. 
And  clap  thyself  my  love  '^  then  didst  thou  utter, 
'*  I  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.  [Giving  her  hand  to  Pol. 

Leon.  Too  hot,  too  hot :     \Aside. 

To  mingle  friendship  far,  is  mingling  bloods. 

■  Good  deed.     All  the  modem  editions  have  contrived  to  leave  out  the  word  deed, 
without  authority  and  without  explanation. 

^  This  was  part  of  the  troth-plight.     So  in  '  King  John :' — 

"  It  likes  us  well ;  young  princes,  close  your  hands." 
And  in  '  Henry  V. :' — 

"  And  so,  clap  handi,  and  a  bargain." 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  21 

I  have  tremor  cordis  on  me  : — my  heart  dances ; 
But  not  for  joy, — not  joy. — This  entertainment 
May  a  free  face  put  on ;  derive  a  liberty 
From  heartiness,  from  bounty,  fertile  bosom. 
And  well  become  the  agent :  it  may,  I  grant : 
But  to  be  paddling  palms,  and  pinching  fingers. 
As  now  they  are ;  and  making  practis'd  smiles. 
As  in  a  looking-glass ; — and  then  to  sigh,  as  't  weije 
The  mort  o'  the  deer ;  *  O,  that  is  entertainment  V 
My  bosom  likes  not,  nor  my  brows. — Mamillius,    A 
Art  thou  my  boy? 

Mam.  Kj,  my  good  lord. 

Leon.  V  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  call'd  neat. — Still  virginalling 

[Observing  Polixenes  and  Hermione. 
Upon  his  palm  ?  ^ — How  now,  you  wanton  calf? 
Art  thou  my  calf? 

Mam.  Yes,  if  you  will,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Thou  want'st  a  rough  pash,"^  and  the  shoots  that  I 
have. 
To  be  full  like  me  f — yet,  they  say  we  are 
Almost  as  like  as  eggs ;  women  say  so. 
That  will  say  anything :  But  were  they  false 
As  o'er-died  blacks,*^  as  wind,  as  waters ;  false 
As  dice  are  to  be  wish'd,  by  one  that  fixes 
No  bourn  'twixt  his  and  mine ;  yet  were  it  true 
To  say  this  boy  were  like  me. — Come,  sir  page, 

■  The  mort  o'  the  deer — the  prolonged  note  of  the  hunter's  hom  at  the  death  of  the 
deer. 

^  Pash.  Jamieson  explains  the  word  as  used  in  Scotland  to  be  head;  as  a  bare 
pash,  a  bare  head.  But  in  the  midland  counties  the  tuft  of  hair  between  the  horns 
of  a  bull  is  called  the  pash.  The  correct  application  of  the  local  word  is  evident 
when  we  observe  that  Leontes  has  just  said,  "  Art  thou  my  calf?" 

"  Full  like  me — quite  like  me. 

■*  O'er-died  blacks — cloths  died  black  a  second  time,  or  cloths  originally  of  another 
colour  died  black ;  and  so,  false,  because  impaired  in  quality. 


22  A  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? 

Affection !  thy  intention  ^  stabs  the  centre : 

Thou  dost  make  possible  things  not  so  held, 

Communicat'st  with  dreams; — (How  can  this  be?) — 

With  what 's  unreal  thou  coactive  art. 

And  fellow'st  nothing  :  Then,  't  is  very  credent," 

Thou  mayst  co-join  with  something ;  and  thou  dost ; 

(And  that  beyond  commission ;  and  I  find  it,) 

And  that  to  the  infection  of  my  brains. 

And  hardening  of  my  brows. 

Pol.  What  means  Sicilia? 

Her.  He  something  seems  unsettled. 

Pol.  How  !  my  lord ! 

Leon.  What  cheer?  how  is't  with  you,  best  brother?'* 

Her.  You  look 

As  if  you  held  a  brow  of  much  distraction  : 
Are  you  mov'd,  my  lord  ? 

Leon.  No,  in  good  earnest. — 

How  sometimes  nature  will  betray  its  folly. 
Its  tenderness,  and  make  itself  a  pastime 
To  harder  bosoms  !  Looking  on  the  lines 
Of  my  boy's  face,  my  thoughts  I  did  recoil^ 
Twenty-three  years ;  and  saw  myself  unbreech'd, 

*  fVelAin  eye — ^blue  eye. 

''  Affection  is  imagination ;  itttention,  eagerness  of  attention. 

^  Credent — credible. 

^  We  restore  this  line  to  Leontes,  according  to  the  original.     On  the  authority  of 
Hanmer  and  Steevens,  the  passage  is  now  invariably  printed  as  follows: — 
"  Pol.  How,  my  lord  ? 

What  cheer?  how  is't  wifh  you,  best  brother?" 
It  is  impossible,  we  think,  for  any  alteration  to  be  more  tasteless  than  this,  and  more 
destructive  of  the  spirit  of  the  autlior.     Leontes,  even  in  his  moody  reverie,  has  his 
eye  fixed  upon  his  queen  and  Polixenes;  and  when  he  is  addressed  by  the  latter 
with  "How,  my  lord?"  he  replies,  with  a  forced  gaiety, 

"  What  cheer?  how  is't  with  you?" 
The  addition  of  "  best  brother  "  is,  we  apprehend,  meant  to  be  uttered  in  a  tone  of 
bitter  irony.     All  this  is  destroyed  by  making  the  line  merely  a  prolongation  of  the 
inquiry  of  Polixenes. 

«  This  is  usually  printed  "  methoughts,  I  did  recoil."  The  original  has  "  me 
thoughts  "  as  two  words,  without  a  comma  following.  Five  lines  lower  we  have 
"  me  thought,"  as  a  parenthesis.  We  have  no  doubt  that  me  is  a  misprint  for  my, 
and  that  recoil  is  used  as  an  active  verb — "  I  did  put  back  my  thoughts." 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE. 


23 


In  my  green  velvet  coat ;  my  dagger  muzzled. 
Lest  it  should  bite  its  master,  and  so  prove. 
As  ornaments  oft  do,  too  dangerous. 
How  like,  metliouglit,  I  tlien  was  to  this  kernel. 
This  quash,  this  gentleman  : — Mine  honest  friend. 
Will  you  take  eggs  for  money  ?* 

Mam.  No,  my  lord,  I  '11  fight. 

Leon.  You  will?    why,  happy  man  be  his  dole!* — My 
brother. 
Are  you  so  fond  of  your  young  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 

Offic'd  with  me :  We  two  will  walk,  my  lord. 
And  leave  yovi  to  your  graver  steps. — Hermione, 
How  thou  lov'st  us,  show  in  our  brother's  welcome ; 
Let  what  is  dear  in  Sicily  be  cheap  : 
Next  to  thyself,  and  my  young  rover,  he  's 
Apparent  to  my  heart. ^ 

■*  A  proverbial  expression ;  meaning,  may  his  lot  (dole)  be  happy. 

''  We  have  been  favoured  with  the  following  note  by  Mr.  Richardson,  the  author 
of  '  A  New  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language  :' — "Johnson  thinks  '  apparent  to 
my  heart '  means  '  heir  apparent.''  But  why  is  he  '  whose  right  of  inheritance  is 
indefeasible  provided  he  outlives  his  ancestor '  (Blackstone)  called  heir  apparent  ? 
Surely  because  he  is  something  more  than  apparently  heir.  The  heir  presumptive 
is  that.  The  heir  apparent  is  evidently  so  near  the  ancestor  that  no  one  can  at  any 
time  intervene  or  become  nearer.  And  in  Cotgrave  we  find  not  only  apparent 
(appearing),  but '  apparaite,  m.,  eef.,  of  kin,  or  near  kinsman  unto.'  In  Richard- 
son's Dictionary  the  old  word  paravaunt,  used  several  times  by  Spenser,  and 
adopted  from  the  Fr.  paravant,  is  explained  by — '  Advance,  in  the  van  or  front, 
before ;  before  in  succession,  next  in  succession,  as  heir  paraunt,  i,  e.  apparent.'' 
And  this  latter  interpretation  is  supported  by  a  quotation  from  Fabian  :  '  By 
auctoryte  of  the  same  Parliament,  Syr  Roger  Mortymer,  Erie  of,  &c.,  was  pro- 
claymed  heyer  paraiint  vnto  Xhe  crowne  of  Englonde:'  anno  1386.  In  Lacomte 
and  Roquefort  pai-avant  is  explained — '  Devant,  auparavant.'  The  contraction  of 
auparavant  into  auparant,  apparant,  and  thence,  by  ignorance,  into  apparente,  is 
intelligible  enough.     '  Apparetit  to  my  heart,'  then,  is  '  Next  to  my  heart.'  " 


24  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  I. 

Her.  If  you  would  seek  us. 

We  are  yours  i'  the  garden ;  Shall 's  attend  you  there  ? 

Leon.  To  your  own  bents  dispose  you  :  you  '11  be  found. 
Be  you  beneath  the  sky  : — I  am  angling  now. 
Though  you  perceive  me  not  how  I  give  line. 
Go  to,  go  to !  [Aside.    Observing  Polix.  and  Herm. 

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  ; 
Inch-thick,  knee-deep,  o'er  head  and  ears  a  fork'd  one. 

[Exeunt  Polixenes,  Hermione,  and  Attendants. 
Go,  play,  boy,  play ; — thy  mother  plays,  and  I 
Play  too ;  but  so  disgrac'd  a  part,  whose  issue 
Will  hiss  me  to  my  grave ;  contempt  and  clamour 
Will  be  my  knell. — Go,  play,  boy,  play ; — There  have  been. 
Or  I  am  much  deceiv'd,  cuckolds  ere  now ; 
And  many  a  man  there  is,  even  at  this  present. 
Now,  while  I  speak  this,  holds  his  wife  by  the  arm. 
That  little  thinks  she  has  been  sluic'd  in  his  absence. 
And  his  pond  fish'd  by  his  next  neighbour,  by 
Sir  Smile,  his  neighbour :  nay,  there 's  comfort  in 't. 
Whiles  other  men  have  gates,  and  those  gates  open'd. 
As  mine,  against  their  will :  Should  all  despair 
That  have  revolted  wives,  the  tenth  of  mankind 
Would  hang  themselves.     Physic  for 't  there  's  none ; 
It  is  a  bawdy  planet,  that  will  strike 
Where  't  is  predominant ;  and  't  is  powerful,  think  it. 
From  east,  west,  north,  and  south :  Be  it  concluded. 
No  barricade  for  a  belly ;  know  it ; 
It  will  let  in  and  out  the  enemy. 
With  bag  and  baggage  :  many  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!  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. 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  25 

Cam..  You  had  mucli  ado  to  make  his  anchor  hold : 
When  you  cast  out,  it  still  came  home. 

Leon.  Didst  note  it? 

Cam.  He  would  not  stay  at  your  petitions ;  made 
His  business  more  material. 

Leon.  Didst  perceive  it? — 

They  're  here  with  me  already ;  whispering,  rounding," 
"  Sicilia  is  a — so-forth  :"  'T  is  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  pertinent : 
But  so  it  is,  it  is  not.     Was  this  taken 
By  any  understanding  pate  but  thine? 
For  thy  conceit  is  soaking,  will  draw  in 
More  than  the  common  blocks  : — Not  noted,  is  't. 
But  of  the  finer  natures  ?  by  some  severals 
Of  head-piece  extraordinary  ?  lower  messes  ' 
Perchance  are  to  this  business  purblind  ?  say. 

Cam.  Business,  my  lord  ?  I  think,  most  understand 
Bohemia  stays  here  longer. 

Leon.  Ha ! 

Cam.  Stays  here  longer. 

Leon.  Ay,  but  why? 

Cam.  To  satisfy  your  highness,  and  the  entreaties 
Of  our  most  gracious  mistress. 

Leon.  Satisfy 

The  entreaties  of  your  mistress? satisfy? — 

Let  that  suffice.     I  have  trusted  thee,  Camillo, 
With  all  the  nearest  things  to  my  heart,  as  well 
My  chamber-councils  :  wherein,  priest-like,  thou 
Hast  cleans'd  my  bosom ;  I  from  thee  departed 
Thy  penitent  reform'd  :  but  we  have  been 
Deceiv'd  in  thy  integrity,  deceiv'd 
In  that  which  seems  so. 

Cam.  Be  it  forbid,  my  lord ! 

Leon.  To  bide  upon't; — Thou  art  not  honest:  or. 
If  thou  inclin'st  that  way,  thou  art  a  coward ; 

•  Rounding — telling  secretly. 


26  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  I. 

Whicli  hoxes  '  honesty  behind,  restraining 

From  course  requir'd :  Or  else  thou  must  be  counted 

A  servant  grafted  in  my  serious  trust. 

And  therein  negligent :  or  else  a  fool. 

That  seest  a  game  play'd  home,  the  rich  stake  drawn. 

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. 
Among  the  infinite  doings  of  the  world. 
Sometimes  puts  forth :  In  your  affairs,  my  lord. 
If  ever  I  were  wilful-negligent. 
It  was  my  folly ;  if  industriously 
I  play'd  the  fool,  it  was  my  negligence. 
Not  weighing  well  the  end ;  if  ever  fearful 
To  do  a  thing,  where  I  the  issue  doubted. 
Whereof  the  execution  did  cry  out 
Against  the  non-performance,  't  was  a  fear 
Which  oft  infects  the  wisest :  these,  my  lord. 
Are  such  allow'd  infirmities,  that  honesty 
Is  never  free  of.     But,  'beseech  your  grace. 
Be  plainer  with  me :  let  me  know  my  trespass 
By  its  own  visage  :  if  I  then  deny  it, 
'T  is  none  of  mine. 

Leon.  Have  not  you  seen,  Camillo, 

(But  that 's  past  doubt — you  have  ;  or  your  eye-glass 
Is  thicker  than  a  cuckold's  horn,)  or  heard, 
(For,  to  a  vision  so  apparent,  rumour 
Cannot  be  mute,)  or  thought,  (for  cogitation 
Resides  not  in  that  man  that  does  not  think,'') 

"  Hoxes.     To  hox  is  to  hamstring — to  hough. 

^  We  print  this  as  in  the  original.     Theobald  defends  his  well-known  line  of 
"  None  but  himself  can  be  his  parallel " 
by  this  example ;  and  Pope — perhaps  to  rob  Theobald  of  his  authority — reads, 

"  for  cogitation 
Resides  not  in  that  man  that  does  not  think  «V." 
Malone  justly  shows  that  the  addition  of  it  is  unnecessary ;  that  this  is  not  an 
abstract  proposition;  and  that  the  words  "my  wife  is  slippery,"  though  disjoined 
from  "think"  by  the  parenthesis,  are  evidently  to  be  received  in  construction  with 
that  verb. 


Scene  11]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  27 

My  wife  is  slippery  ?    If  thou  wilt  confess, 

(Or  else  be  impudently  negative. 

To  have  nor  eyes,  nor  ears,  nor  thought,)  then  say. 

My  wife  's  a  hobbyhorse ;  deserves  a  name 

As  rank  as  any  flax-wench,  that  puts  to 

Before  her  troth-plight :  say  it,  and  justify  it. 

Cam.  I  would  not  be  a  stander-by,  to  hear 
My  sovereign  mistress  clouded  so,  without 
My  present  vengeance  taken :  'Shrew  my  heart. 
You  never  spoke  what  did  become  you  less 
Than  this ;  which  to  reiterate,  were  sin 
As  deep  as  that,  though  true. 

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  :)  horsing  foot  on  foot  ? 
Skulking  in  corners  ?  wishing  clocks  more  swift  ? 
Hours,  minutes  ?  noon,  midnight  ?  and  all  eyes 
Blind  with  the  pin  and  web,*  but  theirs,  theirs  only. 
That  would  unseen  be  wicked  ?  is  this  nothing  ? 
Why,  then  the  world,  and  all  that 's  in  't,  is  nothing ; 
The  covering  sky  is  nothing ;  Bohemia  nothing ; 
My  wife  is  nothing ;  nor  nothing  have  these  nothings. 
If  this  be  nothing. 

Cam.  Good  my  lord,  be  cur'd 

Of  this  diseas'd  opinion,  and  betimes ; 
For  't  is  most  dangerous. 

Leon.  Say,  it  be  ;  't  is  true. 

Cam.  No,  no,  my  lord. 

Leon.  It  is  ;  you  lie,  you  lie  : 

I  say,  thou  liest,  Camillo,  and  I  hate  thee ; 
Pronounce  thee  a  gross  lout,  a  mindless  slave ; 
Or  else  a  hovering  temporizer,  that 
Canst  with  thine  eyes  at  once  sec  good  and  evil. 
Inclining  to  them  both :  Were  my  wife's  liver 
Infected  as  her  life,  she  would  not  live 
The  running  of  one  glass. 

"  See  '  King  Lear,'  Act  IIL,  Scene  4. 


28  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  I. 

Ckim.  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  that 
Which  should  undo  more  doing :  Ay,  and  thou. 
His  cupbearer, — whom  I  from  meaner  form 
Have  bench'd  and  rear'd  to  worship;  who  mayst  see 
Plainly,  as  heaven  sees  earth,  and  earth  sees  heaven. 
How  I  am  galled, — mightst  bespice  a  cup. 
To  give  mine  enemy  a  lasting  wink ; 
Which  draught  to  me  were  cordial. 

Cam.  Sir,  my  lord, 

I  could  do  this ;  and  that  with  no  rash  potion. 
But  with  a  ling'ring  dram,  that  should  not  work 
Maliciously  like  poison :  But  I  cannot 
Believe  this  crack  to  be  in  my  dread  mistress. 
So  sovereignly  being  honourable. 
I  have  lov'd  thee, 

Leon.  Make  that  thy  question,  and  go  rot  !* 

Dost  think,  I  am  so  muddy,  so  unsettled. 
To  appoint  myself  in  this  vexation  ?  sully 
The  purity  and  whiteness  of  my  sheets. 
Which  to  preserve  is  sleep ;  which  being  spotted. 
Is  goads,  thorns,  nettles,  tails  of  wasps  ? 
Give  scandal  to  the  blood  o'  the  prince  my  son. 
Who  I  do  think  is  mine,  and  love  as  mine ; 
Without  ripe  moving  to 't  ? — Would  I  do  this  ? 
Could  man  so  blench? 

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  son's  sake ;  and,  thereby,  for  sealing 
The  injury  of  tongues,  in  courts  and  kingdoms 
Known  and  allied  to  yours. 

*  Disregarding  Camillo's  "  I  have  lov"d  thee,"  Leontes  is  enraged  at  his  making 
a  (question  of  the  alleged  dishonour  of  his  "  dread  mistress." 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  29 

Leon.  Thou  dost  advise  me. 

Even  so  as  I  mine  own  course  have  set  down : 
I  '11  give  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.  This  is  all : 

Do 't,  and  thou  hast  the  one  half  of  my  heart ; 
Do 't  not,  thou  splitt'st  thine  own. 

Cam.  I  '11  do 't,  my  lord. 

Leon.  I  will  seem  friendly,  as  thou  hast  advis'd  me.   \_Exit. 

Cam.  O  miserable  lady ! — But,  for  me. 
What  case  stand  I  in  ?  I  must  be  the  poisoner 
Of  good  Polixenes  :  and  my  ground  to  do 't 
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  villainy  itself  forswear 't.     I  must 
Forsake  the  court :  to  do 't,  or  no,  is  certain 
To  me  a  break -neck.     Happy  star,  reign  now ! 
Here  comes  Bohemia. 

Enter  Polixenes. 

Pol.  This  is  strange !  methinks. 

My  favour  here  begins  to  warp.     Not  speak? — 
Good  day,  Camillo. 

Cam.  Hail,  most  royal  sir ! 

Pol.  What  is  the  news  i'  the  court  ? 

Cam.  None  rare,  my  lord. 

Pol.  The  king  hath  on  him  such  a  countenance 
As  he  had  lost  some  province,  and  a  region 
Lov'd  as  he  loves  himself:  even  now  I  met  him 


30  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  I. 

With  customary  compliment ;  when  he, 
Wafting  his  eyes  to  the  contrary,  and  falling 
A  lip  of  much  contempt,  speeds  from  me  ;  and 
So  leaves  me,  to  consider  what  is  breeding 
That  changes  thus  his  manners. 

Cam.  I  dare  not  know,  my  lord. 

Pol.  How !  dare  not  ?  do  not  ?  Do  you  know,  and  dare  not 
Be  intelligent  to  me.*     'T  is  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  it. 

Cam.  There  is  a  sickness 

Which  puts  some  of  us  in  distemper ;  but 
I  cannot  name  the  disease  ;  and  it  is  caught 
Of  you  that  yet  are  well. 

Pol.  How  caught  of  me  ? 

Make  me  not  sighted  like  the  basilisk  : 
I  have  look'd  on  thousands  who  have  sped  the  better 
By  my  regard,  but  kill'd  none  so.     Camillo — 
As  you  are  certainly  a  gentleman ;  thereto 
Clerk -like,  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  it  not 
In  ignorant  concealment. 

Cam.  I  may  not  answer. 

Pol.  A  sickness  caught  of  me,  and  yet  I  well ! 
I  must  be  answer'd. — Dost  thou  hear,  Camillo  ? 
I  conjure  thee,  by  all  the  parts  of  man 
Which  honour  does  acknowledge, — whereof  the  least 
Is  not  this  suit  of  mine, — that  thou  declare 

*  We  point  this  as  in  the  original.     The  general  reading  is, 
"  Do  you  know,  and  dare  not 
Be  intelligent  to  me  ?" 
*•  Succest — succession. 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTERS  TALE.  31 

What  incidency  tliou  dost  guess  of  harm 

Is  creeping  toward  me ;  how  far  off,  how  near  j 

Which  way  to  be  prevented,  if  to  be ; 

If  not,  how  best  to  bear  it. 

Cam.  Sir,  I  will  tell  yon  ; 

Since  I  am  charg'd  in  honour,  and  by  him 
That  I  think  honourable  ;  Therefore,  mark  my  counsel ; 
Which  must  be  even  as  swiftly  foUow'd  as 
I  mean  to  utter  it ;  or  both  yourself  and  me 
Cry  "lost,"  and  so  good  night. 

Pol.  On,  good  Camillo. 

Cam.  I  am  appointed  him  to  murther  you. 

Pol.  By  whom,  Camillo  ? 

Cam.  By  the  king. 

Pol.  For  what? 

Cam.  He  thinks,  nay,  with  all  confidence,  he  swears. 
As  he  had  seen 't  or  been  an  instrument 
To  vice  you  to 't, — that  you  have  touch'd  his  queen 
Forbiddenly. 

Pol.  O,  then  my  best  blood  turn 

To  an  infected  jelly ;  and  my  name 
Be  yok'd  with  his  that  did  betray  the  Best !  * 
Turn  then  my  freshest  reputation  to 
A  savour  that  may  strike  the  dullest  nostril 
Where  I  arrive ;  and  my  approach  be  shunn'd. 
Nay,  hated  too,  worse  than  the  great'st  infection 
That  e'er  was  heard,  or  read ! 

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. 

*  We  print  Best  with  a  capital  as  in  the  folio.  The  allusion  is  to  Judas.  The 
sentence  against  excommunicated  persons  contains  a  clause  that  they  should  have 
part  with  that  betrayer. 

'^  Over-swear  his  thought. 


32  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  I. 

Pol.  How  should  this  grow? 

Cam.  1  know  not :  but,  I  am  sure,  't  is  safer  to 
Avoid  what 's  grown  than  question  how  't  is  born. 
If  therefore  you  dare  trust  my  honesty, — 
That  lies  enclosed  in  this  trunk,  which  you 
Shall  bear  along  impawn'd, — away  to-night. 
Your  followers  I  will  whisper  to  the  business : 
And  will,  by  twos,  and  threes,  at  several  posterns. 
Clear  them  o'  the  city :  For  myself,  I  '11  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.  I  do  believe  thee ; 

I  saw  his  heart  in  his  face.     Give  me  thy  hand ; 
Be  pilot  to  me,  and  thy  places  "  shall 
Still  neighbour  mine  :  My  ships  are  ready,  and 
My  people  did  expect  my  hence  departure 
Two  days  ago. — This  jealousy 
Is  for  a  precious  creature  :  as  she  's  rare. 
Must  it  be  great  j  and,  as  his  person  's  mighty. 
Must  it  be  violent :  and  as  he  does  conceive 
He  is  dishonour'd  by  a  man  which  ever 
Profess'd  to  him,  why,  his  revenges  must 
In  that  be  made  more  bitter.     Fear  o'ershades  me : 
Good  expedition  be  my  friend,  and  comfort 
The  gracious  queen,  part  of  his  theme,  but  nothing     .       ^ 
Of  his  ill-ta'en  suspicion !     Come,  Camillo ;  J>      jl* 

I  will  respect  thee  as  a  father,  if  \7\)\^^ 

Thou  bear'st  my  life  off  hence  :  Let  us  avoid.     /     * 

Cam.  It  is  in  mine  authority  to  command 
The  keys  of  all  the  posterns :  Please  your  highness 
To  take  the  urgent  hour :  come,  sir,  away.  \Rxeunt. 

*  Placet — honours. 


A  WINTER'S  TALE. 


33 


["  Still  virginalling."] 


ILLUSTRATIONS     OF    ACT    I. 


'  Scene  II. —  "  Still  virginalling 

Upon  his  pa/m  ?  " 

Nares,  in  his  '  Glossary,'  rightly  explains  the  verb  to  virginal,  here  used,  as  "  to 
play  with  the  fingers  as  on  a  virginal ; "'  but  he  adds,  "  apparently  intended  as  a 
word  coined  in  contempt  or  indignation."  It  appears  to  us  that  Shakspere  meant 
simply  to  convey  the  notion  of  a  rapid  movement  with  the  fingers;  just  in  the  same 
way  that  Cowper,  describing  his  tame  hare,  says,  "  He  would  invite  me  to  the  garden 
by  drumming  upon  my  knee."  The  virginal  was  a  sort  of  rectangular  spinnet,  with 
one  wire  to  each  note ;  and  Nares  suggests  that  the  name  was  derived  from  their 
"  being  used  by  young  girls."  The  idea  which  Shakspere  has  conveyed  in  the  pas- 
sage before  us  is  elaborated  in  the  Hundred  and  Twenty-eighth  Sonnet : — 
"  How  oft,  when  thou,  my  music,  music  play'st, 

Upon  that  blessed  wood  whose  motion  sounds 

With  thy  sweet  fingers,  when  thou  gently  sway'st 

The  wiry  concord  that  mine  ear  confounds, 

Do  1  envy  those  jacks,  that  nimble  leap 

To  kiss  the  tender  inward  of  thy  hand, 

Whilst  my  poor  lips,  which  should  that  harvest  reap, 

At  the  wood's  boldness  by  thee  blushing  stand  ! 

To  be  so  tickled,  they  would  change  their  state 

And  situation  with  those  dancing  chips. 

O'er  whom  thy  fingers  walk  with  gentle  gait. 

Making  dead  wood  more  bless'd  than  Ijving  lips. 
Since  saucy  jacks  so  happy  are  in  this, 
Give  them  thy  fingers,  me  thy  lips,  to  kiss.'' 

*  Scene  II. — "  Will  you  take  eggs  for  money?'''' 

The  answer  of  Mamillius  shows  that  this  quaint  proverbial  expression  was  fami- 
liar enough  even  to  a  boy : — 

"  No,  my  lord,  I'll  fight." 
Vol.  IV.  D 


34  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 

The  meaning  is  pretty  evident, — Will  you  truckle,  submit  to  injustice,  be  bullied, 
cheated  ?  Reed  says  that  Leontes  "  seems  only  to  ask  his  sun  if  he  would  fly  from 
an  enemy  ;"'  and  he  quotes  the  following  passage  in  support  of  his  opinion  : — 

"  The  French  infantry  skirmislieth  bravely  afar  off,  and  cavalry  gives  a  furious 
onset  at  the  first  charge;  but  after  the  first  heat  they  will  take  eggt  for  their  money.'' — 
('  Relations  of  the  Most  Famous  Kingdoms,'  &c.,  1630.)  This,  it  appears  to  us,  is 
a  special  application  of  a  general  meaning.  It  was  part  of  the  defence  of  the  Earl 
of  Kildare,  in  answer  to  Wolsey's  charge  against  him  that  he  had  not  been  suflB- 
ciently  active  to  take  the  rebellious  Earl  of  Desmond,  that  "  my  good  brotlier  of 
Ossory,  notwithstanding  his  high  promises,  liaving  also  the  king's  power,  is  glad  to 
take  eggs  for  his  money,  and  bring  him  in  at  leisure." 

"  Scene  II. — "  Lower  messes.'''' 

A  mess  was  a  company  of  four  persons,  dining  together  with  an  apportioned  pro- 
vision, such  as  we  see  in  this  day  in  the  halls  of  the  Inns  of  Court.  The  lou)er 
messes  are  therefore  the  inferior  servants,  or  retainers  ;  those  who  sat  below  the  salt. 
The  setting  out  of  the  provisions  apportioned  to  each  mess  was  a  great  duty  in  the 
old  establishments  of  the  nobility.  In  the  '  Northumberland  Household  Book  *  we 
find  that  the  clerks  of  the  kitchen  are  to  be  with  the  cooks  at  the  "  striking  out  of 
the  messes ;"  and  in  the  same  curious  picture  of  ancient  manners  there  are  the  most 
minute  directions  for  serving  delicacies  to  my  lord's  own  mess;  but  bacon  and  other 
pieces  de  resistance  to  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  and  Steward's  messes. 


Scene  I.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  35 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  l.—Sicilia—The  Palace. 
Enter  Hermione,  Mamillius,  and  Ladies. 

Her.  Take  the  boy  to  you :  he  so  troubles  me 
'T  is  past  enduring. 

1  Lady.  Come,  my  gracious  lord. 

Shall  I  be  your  playfellow  ? 

Mam.  No,  I  '11  none  of  you. 

1  Lady.  Why,  my  sweet  lord  ? 

Mam.  You  11  kiss  me  hard ;  and  speak  to  me  as  if 
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  in  a  semicircle. 
Or  a  half-moon  made  with  a  pen. 

2  Lady.  Who  taught  you  this? 

Mam.  I  learn'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. 

2  Lady.  Hark  ye  : 
The  queen,  your  mother,  rounds  apace  :  we  shall 
Present  our  services  to  a  fine  new  prince. 

One  of  these  days  ;  and  then  you  'd  wanton  with  us. 
If  we  would  have  you. 

*  The  general  reading  is,  my  good  lord.  Some  thirty  lines  lower  down  we  find 
"  let 's  have  that,  good  sir."  In  this  passage  good  is  left  out  in  the  modern  editions. 
The  reason  which  Steevens  gives  for  thus  corrupting  the  text  is  singularly  amus- 
ing : — "  The  epithet  good,  which  is  wantuig  iu  the  old  copies,  is  transplanted  {for 
the  sake  of  metre^  from  a  redundant  speech  iu  the  following  page." 

D2 


36  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  fAcr  II. 

1  Lady.  Slie  is  spread  of  late 

Into  a  goodly  bulk  :  Good  time  encounter  her ! 

Her.  What  -wisdom  stirs  amongst  you  ?     Come,  sir,  now 
I  am  for  you  again :  Pray  you,  sit  by  us. 
And  tell 's  a  tale. 

Mam.  Merry,  or  sad,  sliall  't  be  ? 

Her.  As  merry  as  you  will. 

Mam.  A  sad  tale  's  best  for  winter : 

I  have  one  of  sprites  and  goblins. 

Her.  Let 's  have  that,  good  sir. 

Come  on,  sit  down : — Come  on,  and  do  your  best 
To  fright  me  with  your  sprites  :  you  're  powerful  at  it. 

Mam.  There  was  a  man, — 

Her.  Nay,  come,  sit  down  ;  then  on . 

Mam.  Dwelt  by  a  churchyard ; — I  will  tell  it  softly ; 
Yon  crickets  shall  not  hear  it. 

Her.  Come  on  then. 

And  give 't  me  in  mine  ear. 

Enter  Leontes,  Antigonus,  Lords,  and  others. 

Leon.  Was  he  met  there  ?  his  train  ?  Camillo  with  him  ? 

1  Lord.  Behind  the  tuft  of  pines  I  met  them  ;  never 
Saw  I  men  scour  so  on  their  way ;  I  ey'd  them 
Even  to  their  ships, 

Leon.  How  bless'd  am  I 

In  my  just  censure  ! — in  my  true  opinion  ! — 
Alack,  for  lesser  knowledge ! — How  accurs'd 
In  being  so  bless'd ! — There  may  be  in  the  cup 
A  spider  steep'd,*  and  one  may  drink ;  depart. 
And  yet  partake  no  venom ;  for  his  knowledge 
Is  not  infected  :  but  if  one  present 
The  abhorr'd  ingredient  to  his  eye,  make  known 
How  he  hath  drunk,  he  cracks  his  gorge,  his  sides. 
With  violent  hefts  :^ — I  have  drunk,  and  seen  the  spider. 


■  There  was  a  popular  notion  that  spiders  were  poisonous.  One  of  the  witnesses 
against  the  Countess  of  Somerset,  in  the  affair  of  Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  says, — 
"  The  Countess  wished  me  to  get  the  strongest  poison  I  could,  &c.  Accordingly  I 
bought  seven  great  spiders  and  cantharides." 

b  Hefts — hearings. 


Scene  I.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  37 

Camillo  was  his  help  in  this,  his  pander  : — 

There  is  a  plot  against  my  life,  my  crown ; 

All 's  true  that  is  mistrusted : — that  false  villain. 

Whom  I  employ'd,  was  pre-employ'd  by  him : 

He  has  discover'd  my  design,  and  I 

Remain  a  pinch'd  thing ;  *  yea,  a  very  trick 

For  them  to  play  at  will : — How  came  the  posterns 

So  easily  open? 

1  Lord.  By  his  great  authority  ; 

Which  often  hath  no  less  prevail'd  than  so. 
On  your  command. 

Leon.  I  know  't  too  well. — 

Give  me  the  boy ;  I  am  glad  you  did  not  nurse  him  : 
Though  he  does  bear  some  signs  of  me,  yet  you 
Have  too  much  blood  in  him. 

Her.  What  is  this  ?  sport  ? 

Leon.  Bear  the  boy  hence,  he  shall  not  come  about  her; 
Away  with  him : — and  let  her  sport  herself 
With  that  she  's  big  with ;  for  't  is  Polixenes 
Has  made  thee  swell  thus. 

Her.  But  I  'd  say,  he  had  not. 

And,  I  '11  be  sworn,  you  would  believe  my  saying, 
Howe'er  you  lean  to  the  nayward. 

Leon.  You,  my  lords. 

Look  on  her,  mark  her  well ;  be  but  about 
To  say  "  she  is  a  goodly  lady,"  and 
The  justice  of  your  hearts  will  thereto  add, 
"  'T  is  pity  she  's  not  honest,  honourable  :" 
Praise  her  but  for  this  her  without-door  form, 
(Which,  on  my  faith,  deserves  high  speech,)  and  straight 
The  shrug,  the  hum,  or  ha ;  these  petty  brands 
That  calumny  doth  use  : — O,  I  am  out. 
That  mercy  does ;  for  calumny  will  sear 
Virtue  itself:  these  shrugs,  these  hums,  and  ha's. 
When  you  have  said  she  's  goodly,  come  between, 

"  A  pinch'd  thing.  Heath  explains  this  as  "  A  mere  child's  baby,  a  thing  pinched 
out  of  clouts.''  This  is  surely  a  forced  interpretation  ;  although  pincKd  may  con- 
vey the  meaning  of  one  made  petty  and  contemptible,  shrunk  up,  pinched,  as  we 
gay,  by  poverty  or  hunger. 

11 7nQ7 


38  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  II. 

Ere  you  can  say  she 's  honest :  But  be  't  known. 
From  him  that  has  most  cause  to  grieve  it  should  be. 
She  's  an  adultress. 

Her.  Should  a  villain  say  so. 

The  most  replenish'd  villain  in  the  world. 
He  were  as  much  more  villain  :  you,  my  lord. 
Do  but  mistake. 

Leon.  You  have  mistook,  my  lady, 

Polixenes  for  Leontes :  O  thou  thing. 
Which  I  '11  not  call  a  creature  of  thy  place. 
Lest  barbarism,  making  me  the  precedent. 
Should  a  like  language  use  to  all  degrees. 
And  mannerly  distinguishment  leave  out 
Betwixt  the  prince  and  beggar ! — I  have  said. 
She 's  an  adultress  ;  I  have  said,  with  whom  : 
More,  she  's  a  traitor  ;  and  Camillo  is 
A  federary  *  with  her  ;  and  one  that  knows 
What  she  should  shame  to  know  herself^ 
But  with  her  most  vile  principal,  that  she  's 
A  bed-swerver,  even  as  bad  as  those 
That  vulgars  give  bold'st  ^  titles ;  ay,  and  privy 
To  this  their  late  escape. 

Her.  No,  by  my  life. 

Privy  to  none  of  this :  How  will  this  grieve  you 
When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
You  thus  have  publish'd  me  !     Gentle  my  lord. 
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  schoolboy's  top. — Away  with  her  to  prison : 
He  who  shall  speak  for  her  is  afar  oflf*^  guilty. 
But  that  he  speaks. 

"  Federary — confederate ;  the  same  as  feodary. 
*"  Bold'tt.     Steevens  has  minced  this  into  bold. 

*  No.     The  emphatic  no,  witli  a  pause  such  as  a  judicious  actor  would  supply, 
is  turned  in  all  modern  editions  into  tio,  no. 
''  Afar  off — in  a  remote  degri-i-. 


Scene  I.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  39 

Her.  There  's  some  ill  planet  reigns  : 

I  must  be  patient,  till  the  heavens  look 
With  an  aspect  more  favourable. — Good  my  lords, 
I  am  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are  ;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew. 
Perchance,  shall  dry  your  pities :  but  I  have 
That  honourable  grief  lodg'd  here,  which  burns 
Worse  than  tears  drown  :  'Beseech  you  all,  my  lords. 
With  thoughts  so  qualified  as  your  charities 
Shall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me ; — and  so 
The  king's  will  be  perform'd  ! 

Leon.  Shall  I  be  heard?     [To  the  Guards. 

Her.  Who  is  't  that  goes  with  me  ? — 'Beseech  your  high- 
ness. 
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, 
I  trust,  I  shall. — My  women,  come  ;  you  have  leave. 

Leon.  Go,  do  our  bidding ;  hence. 

l^Exeunt  Queen  and  Ladies. 

1  Lord.  'Beseech  your  highness,  call  the  queen  again. 

Ant.  Be  certain  what  you  do,  sir  ;  lest  your  justice 
Prove  violence :  in  the  which  three  great  ones  suffer. 
Yourself,  your  queen,  your  son. 

1  Lord.  For  her,  my  lord, 

I  dare  my  life  lay  doAvn,  and  will  do  't,  sir. 
Please  you  t'  accept  it,  that  the  queen  is  spotless 
r  the  eyes  of  heaven,  and  to  you ;  I  mean. 
In  this  which  you  accuse  her. 

Ant.  If  it  prove 

She  's  otherwise,  I  '11  keep  my  stables  where 
I  lodge  my  wife ;  I  '11  go  in  couples  with  her ; 
Than*  when  I  feel  and  see  her,  no  further  trust  her  ; 

"   Than  was  formerly  8i)elt  theri ;  and  we  have  to  choose  in  this  passage  between 


40  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  II. 

For  every  inch  of  woman  in  the  world. 
Ay,  every  dram  of  woman's  flesh,  is  false. 
If  she  be. 

Leon.  Hold  your  peaces. 

1  Lord.  Good  my  lord, — 

u4nt.  It  is  for  you  we  speak,  not  for  ourselves  : 
You  are  abus'd,  and  by  some  putter-on. 
That  will  be  damn'd  for 't ;  'would  I  knew  the  villain, 
I  would  land-damn'  him :  Be  she  honour-flaw'd — 
I  have  three  daughters ;  the  eldest  is  eleven ; 
The  second,  and  the  third,  nine,  and  some  five ;  ^ 
If  this  prqve  true,  they  '11  pay  for 't :  by  mine  honour, 
I  '11  geld  them  all :  fourteen  they  shall  not  see. 
To  bring  false  generations :  they  are  co-heirs ; 
And  I  had  rather  glib  myself  than  they 
Should  not  produce  fair  issue. 

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  feel.*^ 

Ant.  If  it  be  so. 

We  need  no  grave  to  bury  honesty ; 
There 's  not  a  grain  of  it,  the  face  to  sweeten 
Of  the  whole  dungy  earth. 

Leon.  What!  lack  I  credit? 

1  Lord.  I  had  rather  you  did  lack  than  I,  my  lord. 
Upon  this  ground  :  and  more  it  would  content  me 
To  have  her  honour  true,  than  your  suspicion ; 
Be  blam'd  for  't  how  you  might. 

Leon.  Why,  what  need  we 

than  and  thtn.  Malone  prefers  then ;  but  we  think  the  sentence  is  comparative  :  I 
will  trust  her  no  farther  than  I  see  her. 

*  Land-damn.  We  are  unable  to  explain  this ;  and  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to 
trouble  our  readers  with  the  notes  of  the  commentators,  some  of  which  are  not  of 
the  most  delicate  nature.  Farmer's  conjecture,  that  it  meant  laudanum  him — poison 
him  with  laudanum — is,  we  suppose,  intended  for  a  joke. 

**  The  word  nine  refers  to  the  second,  and  some  Jive  to  the  third. 

'  But  I  do  tee '/.     This  is  frittered  down  by  Steevens  to  /  see 't. 

^  Some  action  must  accompany  this  passage,  as  that  of  Leontes  seizing  hold  of 
the  arm  of  Antigonus. 


Scene  I.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  41 

Commune  with  you  of  this  ?  but  rather  follow 

Our  forceful  instigation  ?     Our  prerogative 

Calls  not  your  counsels  ;  but  our  natural  goodness 

Imparts  this:  which — if  you  (or  stupified. 

Or  seeming  so  in  skill)  cannot,  or  will  not, 

Relish  a  truth*  like  us ;  inform  yourselves. 

We  need  no  more  of  your  advice  :  the  matter. 

The  loss,  the  gain,  the  ordering  on  't,  is  all 

Properly  ours. 

Ant.  And  I  wish,  my  liege. 

You  had  only  in  your  silent  judgment  tried  it, 
^Without  more  overture. 
»  Leon.  How  could  that  be  ? 

Either  thou  art  most  ignorant  by  age. 

Or  thou  wert  born  a  fool.     Camillo's  flight. 

Added  to  their  familiarity 

(Which  was  as  gross  as  ever  touch'd  conjecture. 

That  lack'd  sight  only,  nought  for  approbation,** 

But  only  seeing,'^  all  other  circumstances 

Made  up  to  the  deed),  doth  push  on  this  proceedin  g. 

Yet,  for  a  greater  confirmation 

(For,  in  an  act  of  this  importance,  't  were 

Most  piteous  to  be  wild),  I  have  despatch'd  in  post. 

To  sacred  Delphos,  to  Apollo's  temple, 

Cleomenes  and  Dion,  whom  you  know 

Of  stuff 'd  sufficiency :  Now,  from  the  oracle 

They  will  bring  all ;  whose  spiritual  counsel  had 

Shall  stop,  or  spur  me.     Have  I  done  well  ? 
1  Lord.  Well  done,  my  lord. 
Leon.  Though  I  am  satisfied,  and  need  no  more 

Than  what  I  know,  yet  shall  the  oracle 

Give  rest  to  the  minds  of  others  ;  such  as  he 

Whose  ignorant  credulity  will  not 

Come  up  to  the  truth  :  So  have  we  thought  it  good. 

From  our  free  person  she  should  be  confin'd ; 

Lest  that  the  treachery  of  the  two,  fled  hence, 

»  A  truth.     So  the  original.     Rowe  changed  it  to  a»  truth. 
••  Approbation — proof. 
•=  Seeing — used  as  a  uoun. 


:  I       >(,•*' 


42  'V^  1^^  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  II. 

Be  left  her  to  perform.     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 ; 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 
Let  him  have  knowledge  who  I  am. — Good  lady ! 
No  court  in  Europe  is  too  good  for  thee. 
What  dost  thou  then  in  prison  ? — Now,  good  sir. 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  the  Keeper. 

You  know  me,  do  you  not  ? 

Keep.  For  a  worthy  lady. 

And  one  whom  much  I  honour. 

Paul.  Pray  you  then. 

Conduct  me  to  the  queen. 

Keep.  I  may  not,  madam ;  to  the  contrary 
I  have  express  commandment. 

Paul.  Here  's  ado. 

To  lock  up  honesty  and  honour  from 
The  access  of  gentle  visitors ! — Is 't  lawful,  pray  you. 
To  see  her  women  ?  any  of  them  ?  Emilia  ? 

Keep.  So  please  you,  madam. 
To  put  apart  these  your  attendants,  I 
Shall  bring  Emilia  forth. 

Paul.  I  pray  now,  call  her. 

Withdraw  yourselves."  [Exeunt  Attendants. 

Keep.  And,  madam, 

I  must  be  present  at  your  conference. 

Paul.  Well,  be  it  so,  prithee.  [Exit  Keeper. 

Here 's  such  ado  to  make  no  stain  a  stain. 
As  passes  colouring. 

*  In  these  speeches  we  follow  the  metrical  arrangement  of  the  original,  which  is 
certainly  not  improved  by  the  botching  which  we  find  in  all  modem  editions. 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  43 

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,  deliver'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, 
I  am  innocent  as  you." 

Paul.  I  dare  be  sworn : — 

These  dangerous  unsafe  lunes  i'  the  king !  beshrew  them ! 
He  must  be  told  on 't,  and  he  shall :  the  office 
Becomes  a  woman  best ;  I  '11  take  't  upon  me : 
If  I  prove  honey-mouth'd,  let  my  tongue  blister ; 
And  never  to  my  red-look'd  anger  be 
The  trumpet  any  more  : — Pray  you,  Emilia, 
Commend  my  best  obedience  to  the  queen ; 
If  she  dares  trust  me  with  her  little  babe, 
I  '11  show 't  the  king,  and  undertake  to  be 
Her  advocate  to  th'  loudest :  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  madam. 

Your  honour,  and  your  goodness,  is  so  evident. 
That  your  free  undertaking  cannot  miss 
A  thriving  issue ;  there  is  no  lady  living 
So  meet  for  this  great  errand  :  Please  your  ladyship 
To  visit  the  next  room,  I  '11  presently 
Acquaint  the  queen  of  your  most  noble  offer ; 
Who,  but  to-day,  hammer'd  of  this  design ; 
But  durst  not  tempt  a  minister  of  honour. 
Lest  she  should  be  denied. 

Paul.  Tell  her,  Emilia, 

I'll  use  that  tongue  I  have:  if  wit  flow  from  it. 


44  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  II. 

As  boldness  from  my  bosom,  let  it  not  be  doubted 
I  shall  do  good. 

Emil.  Now  be  you  bless'd  for  it ! 

I  '11  to  the  queen :  Please  you,  come  something  nearer. 

Keep.  Madam,  if 't  please  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 : 
This  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 ;  upon  mine  honour,  I 
Will  stand  betwixt  you  and  danger.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. —  The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Leontes,  Antigonus,  Lords,  and  other  Attendants. 

Leon.  Nor  night  nor  day,  no  rest :  It  is  but  weakness 
To  bear  the  matter  thus ;  mere  weakness,  if 
The  cause  were  not  in  being ; — ^part  o'  the  cause. 
She,  the  adultress  j  for  the  harlot  king 
Is  quite  beyond  mine  arm,  out  of  the  blank 
And  level  of  my  brain,  plot-proof:  but  she 
I  can  hook  to  me :  Say,  that  she  were  gone. 
Given  to  the  fire,  a  moiety  of  my  rest 
Might  come  to  me  again. — ^Who  's  there  ? 

I  Attend.  My  lord !     [Advancing. 

Leon.  How  does  the  boy  ? 

1  Attend.  He  took  good  rest  to-night ; 

*T  is  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 ; 
Fasten'd  and  fix'd  the  shame  on 't  in  himself; 
Threw  oiF  his  spirit,  his  appetite,  his  sleep, 
And  downright  languish'd. — Leave  me  solely  : — go. 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  45 

See  how  lie  fares.     [Exit  Attend.] — Fie,  fie  !  no  thought  of 

him; 
The  very  thought  of  my  revenges  that  way 
Recoil  upon  me  :  in  himself  too  mighty : 
And  in  his  parties,  his  alliance, — Let  him  be. 
Until  a  time  may  serve  :  for  present  vengeance. 
Take  it  on  her.     Camillo  and  Polixenes 
Laugh  at  me ;  make  their  pastime  at  my  sorrow  : 
They  should  not  laugh  if  I  could  reach  them ;  nor 
Shall  she,  within  my  power. 

Enter  Paulina,  with  a  Child. 

1  Lord.  You  must  not  enter. 

Paul.  Nay,  rather,  good  my  lords,  be  second  to  me : 
Fear  you  his  tyrannous  passion  more,  alas. 
Than  the  queen's  life  ?  a  gracious  innocent  soul ; 
More  free  than  he  is  jealous. 

Ant.  That 's  enough. 

1  Attend.  Madam,  he  hath  not  slept  to-night ;  commanded 
None  should  come  at  him. 

Paul.  Not  so  hot,  good  sir ; 

I  come  to  bring  him  sleep.     'T  is  such  as  you, — 
That  creep  like  shadows  by  him,  and  do  sigh 
At  each  his  needless  heavings, — such  as  you 
Nourish  the  cause  of  his  awaking :  I 
Do  come  with  words  as  medicinal  as  true ; 
Honest  as  either ;  to  purge  him  of  that  humour 
That  presses  him  from  sleep. 

Leon.  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 ; 
I  knew  she  would. 

Ant.  I  told  her  so,  my  lord. 

On  your  displeasure's  peril,  and  on  mine. 
She  should  not  visit  you. 

°  What.     The  original  reads  who,  evidently  a  misiirinf. 


46  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  II. 

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 ! 

When  she  will  talce  the  rein,  I  let  her  run ; 
But  she  '11  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.  Good  queen ! 

Paul.  Good  queen,    my  lord,  good  queen :    I  say,    good 
queen ; 
And  would  by  combat  make  her  good,  so  were  I 
A  man,  the  worst  about  you. 

Leon.  Force  her  hence. 

Paul.  Let  him  that  makes  but  trifles  of  his  eyes 
First  hand  me  :  on  mine  own  accord,  I  '11  off; 
But,  first,  I  '11  do  my  errand. — The  good  queen. 
For  she  is  good,  hath  brought  you  forth  a  daughter ; 
Here  't  is ;  commends  it  to  your  blessing. 

^Laying  down  the  Child. 

Leon.  Out ! 

A  mankind*^  witch !  Hence  with  her,  out  o'  door : 
A  most  intelligencing  bawd  ! 

Paul.  Not  so : 

I  am  as  ignorant  in  that,  as  you 
In  so  entitling  me :  and  no  less  honest 

*  La.     This  is  commonly  printed  lo.     The  words  each  mean  look  you;  but  la  is 
used  affectedly,  or  ironically,  as  in  this  case. 

*"   Comforting — encouraging.     We  have  still  "  comforting  and  abetting,"  in  legal 
language. 

*=  Mankind — masculine.     Jonson  has  an  example  of  this  use  of  the  word  : — 
"  Pallas,  now  thee  I  call  on,  mankind  maid." 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  47 

Than  you  are  mad  ;  which  is  enough,  I  '11  warrant. 
As  this  world  goes,  to  pass  I'or  honest. 

Leon.  Traitors ! 

Will  you  not  push  her  out  ?     Give  her  the  bastard — 
Thou  dotard,  \to  Antigonus]  thou  art  woman-tired,"  un- 

roosted 
By  thy  dame  Partlet  here, — take  up  the  bastard  ; 
Take  't  up,  I  say ;  give  't  to  thy  crone. 

Paul.  For  ever 

Un venerable  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  't  Avere  past  all  doubt 
You  'd  call  your  children  yours. 

Leon.  A  nest  of  traitors  ! 

Ant.  I  am  none,  by  this  good  light. 

Paul.  Nor  I ;  nor  any. 

But  one,  that 's  here ;  and  that 's  himself:  for  he 
The  sacred  honour  of  himself,  his  queen's. 
His  hopeful  son's,  his  babe's,  betrays  to  slander. 
Whose  sting  is  sharper  than  the  sword's ;  and  will  not 
(For,  as  the  case  now  stands,  it  is  a  curse 
He  cannot  be  compell'd  to  't)  once  remove 
The  root  of  his  opinion,  which  is  rotten. 
As  ever  oak,  or  stone,  was  sound. 

Leon.  A  callat. 

Of  boundless  tongue  ;  who  late  hath  beat  her  husband. 
And  now  baits  me  ! — This  brat  is  none  of  mine  ; 
It  is  the  issue  of  Polixenes : 
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, 

»  Woman-tired.     This  is  equivalent  to  our  hen-pecked.     To  tire  is  to  tear,  as  a 
bird  of  prey  does  his  meat : — 

-"  And  like  an  empty  eagle, 

Tire  on  the  flesh  of  me  and  of  my  son." 

('Henry  VI.,  Part  III.') 


48  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  II. 

So  like  you,  't  is  the  worse. — Behold,  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  and  cheek ;  his  smiles ; 

The  very  mould  and  frame  of  hand,  nail,  finger : — 

And  thou,  good  goddess  Nature,  which  hast  made  it 

So  like  to  him  that  got  it,  if  thou  hast 

The  ordering  of  the  mind  too,  'mongst  all  colours 

No  yellow  in 't  j  lest  she  suspect,  as  he  does. 

Her  children  not  her  husband's ! 

Leon.  A  gross  hag ! — 

And,  lozel,*  thou  art  worthy  to  be  hang'd. 
That  wilt  not  stay  her  tongue. 

Ant.  Hang  all  the  husbands 

That  cannot  do  that  feat,  you  '11  leave  yourself 
Hardly  one  subject. 

Leon.  Once  more,  take  her  hence. 

Paul.  A  most  unworthy  and  unnatural  lord 
Can  do  no  more. 

Leon.  I  '11  have  thee  burn'd. 

Paul.  I  care  not : 

It  is  an  heretic  that  makes  the  fire. 
Not  she  which  burns  in  't.     I  '11  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  one.     Away  with  her. 

Paul.  I  pray  you,  do  not  push  me ;  I  '11  be  gone. 
Look  to  your  babe,  my  lord  ;  't  is  yours  :  Jove  send  her 
A  better  guiding  spirit ! — What  need  these  hands  ? — 

■  Lozel.  Verstegan  explains  this  as  "  one  that  hath  lost,  neglected,  or  cast  off, 
his  own  good  and  welfare,  and  so  is  become  lewd  and  careless  of  credit  and 
honesty." 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  49 

You,  that  are  thus  so  tender  o'er  his  follies. 

Will  never  do  him  good,  not  one  of  you. 

So,  so : — 'Farewell ;  we  are  gone.  [Exit. 

Leon.  Thou,  traitor,  hast  set  on  thy  wife  to  this. — 
My  child  !  away  with  't ! — even  thou,  that  hast 
A  heart  so  tender  o'er  it,  take  it  hence. 
And  see  it  instantly  consum'd  with  fire ; 
Even  thou,  and  none  but  thou.     Take  it  up  straight : 
Within  this  hour  bring  me  word  't  is  done, 
(And  by  good  testimony,)  or  I  '11  seize  thy  life. 
With  what  thou  else  call'st  thine  :  If  thou  refuse. 
And  wilt  encounter  with  my  wrath,  say  so  ; 
The  bastard  brains  with  these  my  proper  hands 
Shall  I  dash  out.     Go,  take  it  to  the  fire ; 
For  thou  sett'st  on  thy  wife. 

Ant.  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  serv'd  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  purpose ; 
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  midwife,  there. 
To  save  this  bastard's  life :  for  't  is  a  bastard. 
So  sure  as  this  beard 's  grey," — what  will  you  adventure 
To  save  this  brat's  life  ? 

*  Leontes  here  probably  points  to  the  beard  of  Antigonus. 
Vol.  IV.  E 


50  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  II. 

Ant.  Anything,  my  lord. 

That  my  ability  may  undergo, 
And  nobleness  impose  :  at  least,  thus  much, — 
I  '11  pawn  the  little  blood  which  I  have  left 
To  save  the  innocent :  anything  possible. 

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-tongued  wife  ; 
Wliom,  for  this  time,  we  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  up. 

Ant.  I  swear  to  do  this,  though  a  present  death 
Had  been  more  merciful. — Come  on,  poor  babe  : 
Some  powerful  spirit  instruct  the  kites  and  ravens 
To  be  thy  nurses !  Wolves  and  bears,  they  say. 
Casting  their  savageness  aside,  have  done 
Like  offices  of  pity. — Sir,  be  prosperous 
In  more  than  this  deed  does  require  !  and  blessing. 
Against  this  cruelty,  fight  on  thy  side. 
Poor  thing,  condemn'd  to  loss !  *  [Exit,  with  the  Child. 

Leon.  No,  I  '11  not  rear 

Another's  issue. 


•  Loss.     We  have  the  word  repeated  in  the  third  act: — 

"  Poor  wretch, 
That,  for  thy  mother's  fault,  art  thus  exjjos'd 
To  loss,  and  what  may  follow  !"' 
This  passage  shows  that  loss  does  not  here  mean  destruction — a  final  calamity;  for 
something  may  follow.     It  probably  means  exposure. 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  51 

1  Attend.         Please  your  highness,  posts. 
From  those  you  sent  to  the  oracle,  are  come 
An  hour  since  :  Cleomenes  and  Dion, 
Being  well  arriv'd  from  Delphos,  are  both  landed. 
Hasting  to  the  court. 

1  Lord.  So  please  you,  sir,  their  speed 

Hath  been  beyond  account. 

Leon.  Twenty-three  days 

They  have  been  absent :  't  is  good  speed ;  foretells 
The  great  Apollo  suddenly  will  have 
The  truth  of  this  appear.     Prepare  you,  lords  ; 
Summon  a  session,  that  we  may  arraign 
Our  most  disloyal  lady :  for,  as  she  hath 
Been  publicly  accus'd,  so  shall  she  have 
A  just  and  open  trial.     While  she  lives. 
My  heart  will  be  a  burthen  to  me.     Leave  me ; 
And  think  upon  my  bidding.  [Exeunt. 


E  2 


52  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  III. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.— Sicilia.     A  Street. 
Enter  Cleomenes  and  Dion. 

Cleo.  The  climate 's  delicate  :  the  air  most  sweet ; 
Fertile  the  isle  j  the  temple  much  surpassing 
The  common  praise  it  bears. 

Dion.  I  shall  report. 

For  most  it  caught  me,  the  celestial  habits, 
(Methinks  I  so  should  term  them,)  and  the  reverence 
Of  the  grave  wearers.     O,  the  sacrifice  ! 
How  ceremonious,  solemn,  and  unearthly 
It  was  i'  the  offering ! 

Cleo.  But,  of  all,  the  burst 

And  the  ear-deafening  voice  o'  the  oracle. 
Kin  to  Jove's  thunder,  so  surpris'd  my  sense. 
That  I  was  nothing. 

Dion.  If  the  event  o'  the  journey 

Prove  as  successful  to  the  queen, — O,  be  't  so ! — - 
As  it  hath  been  to  us  rare,  pleasant,  speedy. 
The  time  is  worth  the  use  on  't. 

Cleo.  Great  Apollo, 

Turn  all  to  the  best !  These  proclamations. 
So  forcing  faults  upon  Hermione, 
I  little  like. 

Dion.       The  violent  carriage  of  it 
Will  clear,  or  end,  the  business  :  When  the  oracle 
(Thus  by  Apollo's  great  divine  seal'd  up) 
Shall  the  contents  discover,  something  rare 
Even  then  will  rush  to  knowledge. — Go, — fresh  horses; — 
And  gracious  be  the  issue !  [Exeunt. 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  53 

SCENE  II. —  The  same.     A  Court  of  Justice. 

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  in  justice  ;  which  shall  have  due  course. 
Even  *  to  the  guilt,  or  the  purgation.  , 

Produce  the  prisoner.  \,-fir*****  f 

Offi,.  It  is  his  highness'  pleasure  that  the  queen^^  '    •  f*»*^  * 
Appear  in  person  here  in  court. — Silence  !     — z>^     .J  p  f\^ ^ 

Hermione  is  brought  in,  guarded  ;  Paulina  and  Ladies, 
attending. 

Leon.  Read  the  indictment. 

Offi,.  "Hermione,  queen  to  the  worthy  Leontes,  king  of 
Sicilia,  thou  art  here  accused  and  arraigned  of  high  treason, 
in  committing  adultery  with  Polixenes,  king  of  Bohemia ; 
and  conspiring  with  Camillo  to  take  away  the  life  of  our 
sovereign  lord  the  king,  thy  royal  husband :  the  pretence  ^ 
thereof  being  by  circumstances  partly  laid  open,  thou, 
Hermione,  contrary  to  the  faith  and  allegiance  of  a  true  sub- 
ject, didst  counsel  and  aid  them,  for  their  better  safety,  to  fly 
away  by  night." 

Her.  Since  what  I  am  to  say  must  be  but  that 
Which  contradicts  my  accusation,  and 
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  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience. — You,  my  lord,  best  know, 

*  Even — equal,  indifferent.  *   Pretence — design. 


54  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  III. 

(Who  least  Avill  seem  to  do  so,)  my  past  life 

Hath  been  as  continent,  as  chaste,  as  true. 

As  I  am  now  unhappy ;  which  is  more 

Than  history  can  pattern,  though  devis'd. 

And  play'd,  to  take  spectators  :  For  behold  me, — ■ 

A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owe 

A  moiety  of  the  throne,  a  great  king's  daughter. 

The  mother  to  a  hopeful  prince, — here  standing. 

To  prate  and  talk  for  life  and  honour  'fore 

Who  please  to  come  and  hear.     For  life,  I  prize  it. 

As  I  weigh  grief,  which  I  would  spare :  for  honour, 

'T  is  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine. 

And  only  that  I  stand  for.     I  appeal 

To  your  own  conscience,  sir,  before  Polixenes 

Came  to  your  court,  how  I  was  in  your  grace. 

How  merited  to  be  so ;  since  he  came. 

With  what  encounter  so  uncurrent  I 

Have  strain'd,*  to  appear  thus  :  if  one  jot  beyond 

The  bound  of  honour ;  or,  in  act  or  will. 

That  way  inclining ;  harden'd  be  the  hearts 

Of  all  that  hear  me,  and  my  near'st  of  kin 

Cry  Fie !  upon  my  grave  ! 

Leon.  I  ne'er  heard  yet. 

That  any  of  these  bolder  vices  wanted 
Less  impudence  to  gainsay  what  they  did. 
Than  to  perform  it  first. 

Her.  That  's  true  enough ; 

Though  't  is  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, 
I  lov'd  him,  as  in  honour  he  requir'd. 
With  such  a  kind  of  love  as  might  become 
A  lady  like  me ;  with  a  love,  even  such. 
So,  and  no  other,  as  yourself  commanded : 

■  The  metaphor  appears  to  be  taken  from  an  encounter  of  chivalry,  in  which  one 
swerving  from  the  accustomed  course  would  be  uncurrent. 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  55 

Which  not  to  have  done,  I  think,  had  been  in  me 

Both  disobedience  and  ingratitude. 

To  you,  and  toAvard  your  friend  ;  whose  love  had  spoke. 

Even  since  it  could  speak,  from  an  infant,  freely. 

That  it  was  yours.     Now,  for  conspiracy, 

I  know  not  how  it  tastes  ;  though  it  be  dish'd 

For  me  to  try  how  :  all  I  know  of  it 

Is,  that  Camillo  was  an  honest  man ; 

And,  why  he  left  your  court,  the  gods  themselves. 

Wotting  no  more  than  I,  are  ignorant. 

Leon.  You  knew  of  his  departure,  as  you  know 
What  you  have  underta'en  to  do  in  his  absence.     .  ^^  *"  -»'»-'*' *^ 

Her.  Sir,  'z      /  -_ .,     \  ^^ 

You  speak  a  language  that  I  understand  not :         -/  '^  ^   /  (^^  ^ . 

My  life  stands  in  the  level  of  your  dreams,"       -^     ri       ' ) 
Which  I  '11  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^ 
No  father  owning  it,  (which  is,  indeed. 
More  criminal  in  thee,  than  it,)  so  thou 
Shalt  feel  our  justice ;  in  whose  easiest  passage. 
Look  for  no  less  than  death. 

Her.  Sir,  spare  your  threats ; 

The  bug  which  you  would  fright  me  with  I  seek. 
To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity : 
The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favour, 
I      I  do  give  lost ;  for  I  do  feel  it  gone, 
^      But  know  not  how  it  went :  My  second  joy. 
And  first-fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence 
I  am  barr'd,  like  one  infectious :  My  third  comfort, 
Starr'd  most  unluckily,  is  from  my  breast. 
The  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth. 
Haled  out  to  murther  :  Myself  on  every  post 

»  Your  dreams  afford  tlie  lex^el,  tlie  aim,  of  this  accusation;  and  my  life  therefore 
stands  within  the  range  of  the  attack  you  direct  agahist  it. 


f 


J*     56  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  III. 

Proclaim'd  a  strumpet ;  with  immodest  hatred. 
The  childbed  privilege  denied,  which  'longs 
K     To  women  of  all  fashion  : — Lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place,  i'  the  open  air,  before 
I  have  got  strength  of  limit.     Now,  my  liege. 
Tell  me  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive. 
That  I  should  fear  to  die  ?  Therefore,  proceed. 
But  yet  hear  this ;  mistake  me  not ; — 'No  life, 
I  prize  it  not  a  straw  : — but  for  mine  honour, 
(Which  I  would  free,)  if  I  shall  be  condemn'd 
Upon  surmises  ;  all  proofs  sleeping  else. 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake ;  I  tell  you 
'T  is  rigour,  and  not  law. — Your  honours  all, 
I  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  Officers. 

Her.  The  emperor  of  Russia  was  my  father  : 
O,  that  he  were  alive,  and  here  beholding 
His  daughter's  trial !    that  he  did  but  see 
The  flatness  of  my  misery ;  yet  with  eyes 
Of  pity,  not  revenge  ! 

Re-enter  Officers,  with  Cleomenes  and  Dion. 

Offi,.  You  here  shall  swear  upon  this  sword  of  justice. 
That  you,  Cleomenes  and  Dion,  have 
Been  both  at  Delphos ;  and  from  thence  have  brought 
This  seal'd-up  oracle,  by  the  hand  deliver'd 
Of  great  Apollo's  priest ;  and  that,  since  then. 
You  have  not  dar'd  to  break  the  holy  seal. 
Nor  read  the  secrets  in  't. 

Cleo.,  Dion.  All  this  we  swear. 

Leon.  Break  up  the  seals,  and  read. 
\  Offi,.  [Reads.]  "  Hermione  is  chaste,  Polixenes  blameless, 

Camillo  a  true  subject,  Leontes  a  jealous  tyrant,  his  innocent 
babe  truly  begotten;  and  the  king  shall  live  without  an 
heir,  if  that  which  is  lost  be  not  found." 

Lords.  Now  blessed  be  the  great  Apollo ! 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  57 

Her.  Prais'd ! 

Leo7i.  Hast  thou  read  truth? 

Offi,.  Ay,  my  lord ;  even  so 

As  it  is  liere  set  down. 

Leon.  There  is  no  truth  at  all  i'  the  oracle  : 
The  sessions  shall  proceed :  this  is  mere  falsehood. 

Enter  a  Servant,  hastily. 

Scrv.  My  lord  the  king,  the  king ! 

Leon.  What  is  the  business? 

Serv.  O  sir,  I  shall  be  hated  to  report  it : 
The  prince  your  son,  with  mere  conceit  and  fear 
Of  the  queen's  speed,*  is  gone. 

Leon.  How  !  gone  ? 

Serv.  Is  dead. 

Leon.  Apollo's  angry;  and  the  heavens  themselves 
Do  strike  at  my  injustice.     [HERMiONEya^j^j".]     How  now 
there  ? 

Paul.  This  news  is  mortal  to  the  queen : — Look  down. 
And  see  what  death  is  doing. 

Leon.  Take  her  hence  : 

Her  heart  is  but  o'ercharg'd ;  she  will  recover. — 
I  have  too  much  believ'd  mine  own  suspicion  : — 
'Beseech  you,  tenderly  apply  to  her 
Some  remedies  for  life. — Apollo,  pardon 

\_Exeunt  Paulina  and  Ladies,  with  Herm. 
My  great  profaneness  'gainst  thine  oracle ! — 
I  '11  reconcile  me  to  Polixenes ; 
New  woo  my  queen  ;  recall  the  good  Camillo, 
Whom  I  proclaim  a  man  of  truth,  of  mercy : 
For,  being  transported  by  my  jealousies 
To  bloody  thoughts  and  to  revenge,  I  chose 
Camillo  for  the  minister,  to  poison 
My  friend  Polixenes  :  which  had  been  done. 
But  that  the  good  mind  of  Camillo  tardicd 
My  swift  command,  though  I  with  death,  and  with 
Reward,  did  threaten  and  encourage  him. 
Not  doing  it,  and  being  done ;  he,  most  humane, 

'  Of  how  the  queen  may  $peed — of  the  issue  of  this  charge. 


58  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  III. 

And  fill'd  with  honour,  to  ray  kingly  guest 
Unclasp'd  my  practice  ;  quit  his  fortunes  here. 
Which  you  knew  great ;  and  to  the  hazard 
Of  all  incertainties  himself  commended. 
No  richer  than  his  honour  : — How  he  glisters 
Thorough  my  rust !  and  how  his  piety 
Does  my  deeds  make  the  blacker ! 

Re-enter  Paulina. 

Paul.  Woe  the  while ! 

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?  fires?    What  flaying?  boiling. 
In  leads,  or  oils?  what  old  or  newer  torture 
Must  I  receive ;  whose  every  word  deserves 
To  taste  of  thy  most  worst  ?     Thy  tyranny 
Together  working  with  thy  jealousies, — 
Fancies  too  weak  for  boys,  too  green  and  idle 
For  girls  of  nine  ! — O,  think  what  they  have  done. 
And  then  run  mad,  indeed  ;  stark  mad  !  for  all 
Thy  by-gone  fooleries  were  but  spices  of  it. 
That  thou  betray 'dst  Polixenes,  't  was  nothing  ; 
That  did  but  show  thee,  of  a  fool,  inconstant. 
And  damnable  ingrateful :  nor  was  't  much. 
Thou  wouldst  have  poison'd  good  Camillo's  honour. 
To  have  him  kill  a  king ;  poor  trespasses. 
More  monstrous  standing  by :  whereof  I  reckon 
The  casting  forth  to  crows  thy  baby  daughter. 
To  be  or  none,  or  little ;  though  a  devil 
Would  have  shed  water  out  of  fire,  ere  done  't : 
Nor  is  't  directly  laid  to  thee,  the  death 
Of  the  young  prince ;  whose  honourable  thoughts 
(Thoughts  high  for  one  so  tender)  cleft  the  heart 
That  could  conceive  a  gross  and  foolish  sire 
Blemish'd  his  gracious  dam :  this  is  not,  no. 
Laid  to  thy  answer :  But  the  last, — O,  lords. 
When  I  have  said,  cry  Woe ! — the  queen,  the  queen. 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  59 

The  sweetest,  dearest  creature 's  dead ;  and  vengeance  for  't 

Not  dropp'd  down  yet. 

1  Lord.  The  higher  powers  forbid ! 

p^'TaM/.  I  say,  she  's  dead  :  I  '11  swear  't :  if  word,  nor  oath, 
/    Prevail  not,  go  and  see  :  if  you  can  bring 
I     Tincture,  or  lustre,  in  her  lip,  her  eye, 
'     Heat  outwardly,  or  breath  within,  I  '11  serve  you 

As  I  would  do  the  gods. — But,  O  thou  tyrant! 

Do  not  repent  these  things ;  for  they  are  heavier 

Than  all  thy  woes  can  stir :  therefore  betake  thee 

To  nothing  but  despair.     A  thousand  knees. 

Ten  thousand  years  together,  naked,  fasting. 

Upon  a  barren  mountain,  and  still  winter 

In  storm  perpetual,  could  not  move  the  gods 

To  look  that  way  thou  wert. 

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 

r  the  boldness  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  help. 

Should  be  past  grief:  Do  not  receive  affliction 

At  my  petition,  I  beseech  you  ;  rather 

Let  me  be  punish'd,  that  have  minded  you 

Of  what  you  should  forget.     Now,  good  my  liege. 

Sir,  royal  sir,  forgive  a  foolish  woman : 

The  love  I  bore  your  queen, — lo,  fool,  again ! — 

I  '11  speak  of  her  no  more,  nor  of  your  children ; 

I  '11  not  remember  you  of  my  own  lord. 

Who  is  lost  too  :  Take  your  patience  to  you. 

And  I  '11  say  nothing. 

Leon.  Thou  didst  speak  but  well. 

When  most  the  truth ;  which  I  receive  much  better 

Than  to  be  pitied  of  thee.     Prithee,  bring  me 


60  A  WINTERS  TALE.  [Act  III 

To  tlie  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  '11  visit 

The  chapel  where  they  lie ;  (^a^^teai^i_jJi£d_diere, 

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  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  my  lord  ;  and  fear 

We  have  landed  in  ill  time :  the  skies  look  grimly. 
And  threaten  present  blusters.     In  my  conscience. 
The  heavens  with  that  we  have  in  hand  are  angry. 
And  frown  upon  us. 

Ajit.  Their  sacred  wills  be  done ! — Go,  get  aboard  ; 
Look  to  thy  bark  ;  I  '11  not  be  long  before 
I  call  upon  thee. 

Mar.  Make  your  best  haste ;  and  go  not 
Too  far  i'  the  land  :  't  is  like  to  be  loud  weather ; 

*  We  follow  the  metrical  arrangement  of  the  origuial.     In  all  the  modem  editions 
the  lines  are  distorted  as  follows : — 

"  Shall  be  my  recreation  :  so  long  as 

Nature  will  bear  up  with  this  exercise, 

Si)  lotig  I  daily  vow  to  use  it.     Come, 

And  lead  me  to  these  sorrows." 
We  claim  no  merit  for  having  first  pointed  out  these  abominable  corruptions  of  the 
text ;  but  we  do  most  earnestly  exhort  those  who  reprint  Shakspere — and  the  very 
act  of  reprinting  is  in  some  sort  a  tribute  to  him — not  to  continue  to  present  him  in 
this  mangled  shape.  If  the  freedom  and  variety  of  his  versification  were  offensive 
to  those  who  had  been  trained  in  tiie  school  of  Pope,  let  it  be  remembered  that  we 
have  now  come  back  to  the  proper  estimation  of  a  nobler  rhythm  ;  and  that  Shak- 
spere, of  all  the  great  dramatists,  appears  to  have  held  the  true  mean,  between  a 
syllabic  monotony  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  licence  running  into  prose  on  the  other. 
•>  Perfect — assured. 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE,  61 

Besides,  this  place  is  famous  for  the  creatures 
Of  prey,  that  keep  upon  't. 

Ant.  Go  thou  away : 

I  '11  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  dead 
May  walk  again  :  if  such  thing  be,  thy  mother 
Appear'd  to  me  last  night ;  for  ne'er  was  dream 
So  like  a  waking.     To  me  comes  a  creature. 
Sometimes  her  head  on  one  side,  some  another ; 
I  never  saw  a  vessel  of  like  sorrow. 
So  fill'd,  and  so  becoming :  in  pure  white  robes. 
Like  very  sanctity,  she  did  approach 
My  cabin  where  I  lay  :  thrice  bow'd  before  me ; 
And,  gasping  to  begin  some  speech,  her  eyes 
Became  two  spouts :  the  fury  spent,  anon 
Did  this  break  from  her :  "  Good  Antigonus, 
Since  fate,  against  thy  better  disposition. 
Hath  made  thy  person  for  the  thrower-out 
Of  my  poor  babe,  according  to  thine  oath. 
Places  remote  enough  are  in  Bohemia, 
There  weep,  and  leave  it  crying ;  and,  for  the  babe 
Is  counted  lost  for  ever,  Perdita, 
I  prithee,  call  't :  for  this  ungentle  business. 
Put  on  thee  by  my  lord,  thou  ne'er  shalt  see 
Thy  wife  Paulina  more :" — and  so,  with  shrieks. 
She  melted  into  air.     Aifrighted  much, 
I  did  in  time  collect  myself;  and  thought 
This  was  so,  and  no  slumber.     Dreams  are  toys ; 
Yet,  for  this  once,  yea,  superstitiously, 
I  will  be  squar'd  by  this.     I  do  believe 
Hermione  hath  sufFer'd  death;  and  that 
Apollo  would,  this  being  indeed  the  issue 
Of  king  Polixcnes,  it  should  here  be  laid. 
Either  for  life,  or  death,  upon  the  earth 
Of  its  right  father.     Blossom,  speed  thee  well ! 

[Laying  down  the  Child. 


62  A  WINTER'S  TALE,  [Act  III. 

There  lie ;  and  there  thy  character :  *  there  these ; 

[^Laying  down  a  bundle. 
Which  may,  if  fortune  please,  both  breed  thee  pretty. 
And  still  rest  thine. — The  storm  begins  : — Poor  wretch. 
That,  for  thy  mother's  fault,  art  thus  expos'd 
To  loss,  and  what  may  follow ! — ^Weep  I  cannot. 
But  my  heart  bleeds  :  and  most  accurs'd  am  I, 
To  be  by  oath  enjoin'd  to  this. — Farewell ! 
The  day  frowns  more  and  more — thou  'rt  like  to  have 
A  lullaby  too  rough :  I  never  saw 
The  heavens  so  dim  by  day.     A  savage  clamour ! — 
Well  may  I  get  aboard  ! — This  is  the  chace ; 
I  am  gone  for  ever.  \^Exit,  pursued  by  a  Bear. 

Enter  an  old  Shepherd. 

Shep.  I  would  there  was  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,  stealing,  fighting. — Hark  you 
now ! — Would  any  but  these  boiled  brains  of  nineteen  and 
two-and-twenty  hunt  this  weather?  They  have  scared 
away  two  of  my  best  sheep ;  which,  I  fear,  the  wolf  will 
sooner  find  than  the  master ;  if  anywhere  I  have  them,  't  is 
by  the  sea-side,  browzing  of  ivy.  Good  luck,  an  't  be  thy 
will!  what  have  we  here?  [Taking  up  the  Child.']  Mercy 
on  's,  a  barne  ;  ^  a  very  pretty  barne !  A  boy,  or  a  child,''  I 
wonder  ?  A  pretty  one ;  a  very  pretty  one :  Sure,  some 
scape :  though  I  am  not  bookish,  yet  I  can  read  waiting-gen- 
tlewoman  in  the  scape.      This  has  been  some  stair-work, 

*  Charade}- — description — the  writing  which  describes  thee. 

^  Barne  —the  Scotch  bairn  ;  a  chihi  baren,  or  born. 

'  A  chilli.  Steeveus  says  that  he  is  told  "  that,  in  some  of  our  inland  counties,  a 
female  infant,  in  contradistinction  to  a  male  one,  is  still  termed  among  the  peasantry 
— a  child."  This  use  of  the  word  was  clearly  the  meaning  of  Shakspere;  but  in 
none  of  the  provincial  glossaries  can  we  find  any  authority  for  such  an  application. 
On  the  contrary,  in  all  the  ancient  writers  childe  means  a  boy,  a  young  man,  and 
generally  in  some  association  with  chivalry.  Byron,  in  his  preface  to  '  Childe 
Harold,'  says, — "  It  is  almost  superfluous  to  mention  that  the  appellation  '  Childe,' 
as  '  Childe  Waters,'  '  Childe  Childers,'  &c.,  is  used  as  more  consonant  with  the  old 
structure  of  versification  which  I  have  adopted."  Nares  observes  upon  the  passage 
before  us  that  the  expression  child  "  may  perhaps  be  rather  referred  to  the  simplicity 
of  the  shepherd,  reversing  the  common  practice,  than  taken  as  an  authority  for  it." 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  63 

some  trunk- work,  some  behind-door-work :  they  were  warmer 
that  got  this  than  the  poor  thing  is  here.  I  '11  take  it  up 
for  pity :  yet  I  '11  tarry  till  my  son  come ;  he  hollaed  but 
even  now.     Whoa,  ho  lioa ! 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  Hilloa,  loa ! 

Shep.  What,  art  so  near?  If  thou  'It  sec  a  thing  to  talk 
on  when  thou  art  dead  and  rotten,  come  hither.  What 
ailest  thou,  man  ? 

Clo.  I  have  seen  two  such  sights,  by  sea,  and  by  land ; — 
but  I  am  not  to  say,  it  is  a  sea,  for  it  is  now  the  sky ;  be- 
twixt the  firmament  and  it  you  cannot  thrust  a  bodkin's 
point. 

Shep.  Why,  boy,  how  is  it? 

Clo.  I  would  you  did  but  see  how  it  chafes,  how  it  rages, 
how  it  takes  up  the  shore !  but  that  's  not  to  the  point !  O, 
the  most  piteous  cry  of  the  poor  souls !  sometimes  to  see  'em, 
and  not  to  see  'em :  now  the  ship  boring  the  moon  with  her 
main-mast;  and  anon  swallowed  with  yest  and  froth,  as 
you  'd  thrust  a  cork  into  a  hogshead.  And  then  for  the 
land-service, — To  see  how  the  bear  tore  out  his  shoulder- 
bone  ;  how  he  cried  to  me  for  help,  and  said  his  name  was 
Antigonus,  a  nobleman : — But  to  make  an  end  of  the  ship  : — 
to  see  how  the  sea  flap-dragoned  it :  * — but,  first,  how  the 
poor  souls  roared,  and  the  sea  mocked  them ; — and  how  the 
poor  gentleman  roared,  and  the  bear  mocked  him,  both  roar- 
ing 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  ! 

■  Flap-dragoned  it.  In  'Love's  Labour's  Lost'  we  have, — "Thou  art  easier 
swallowed  than  a  flap-dragon."  This  was  some  inflammable  substance  floating  on  a 
goblet,  to  be  gulped  down  in  the  wildness  of  the  toper's  revels.  FalstafT  says  of 
Prince  Henry  that  he  "  drinks  off  candle-ends  for  flap-dragons."  The  practice, 
however,  was  not  always  safe,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  assertion  of  the  captain  in 
Rowley's 'Match  at  Midnight,'  who  says  that  his  "corporal  was  lately  choked  at 
Delf  by  swallowing  a  flap-dragon." 


G4  A  WINTERS  TALE.  [Act  III. 

Clo.  I  would  you  had  been  by  the  ship  side,  to  have 
helped  her ;  there  your  charity  would  have  lacked  footing. 

Shep.  Heavy  matters !  heavy  matters !  but  look  thee  here, 
boy.  Now  bless  thyself ;  thou  mett'st  with  things  dying,  I 
with  things  new  born.  Here  's  a  sight  for  thee ;  look  thee, 
a  bearing  cloth '  for  a  squire's  child !  look  thee  here !  take 
up,  take  up,  boy ;  open  't.  So,  let 's  see.  It  was  told  me,  I 
should  be  rich  by  the  fairies  ;  this  is  some  changeling : '' — 
open  't :  What  's  within,  boy  ? 

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  't  will  prove  so :  up 
with  it,  keep  it  close ;  home,  home,  the  next  way.  We  are 
lucky,  boy,  and  to  be  so  still  requires  nothing  but  secrecy. — 
Let  my  sheep  go  : — Come,  good  boy,  the  next  way  home. 

Clo.  Go  you  the  next  way  with  your  findings ;  I  '11  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  '11  bury  it. 

Shep.  That  's  a  good  deed  :  If  thou  mayst  discern,  by  that 
which  is  left  of  him,  what  he  is,  fetch  me  to  the  sight  of 
him. 

Clo.  Marry,  will  I  -,  and  you  shall  help  to  put  him  i'  the 
ground. 

Shep.  'T  is  a  lucky  day,  boy ;  and  we  '11  do  good  deeds 
on  't.  [Exeunt. 

■  Bearing-cloth.  Percy  explains  this  as  "  the  fine  mantle  or  cloth  with  which  a 
child  is  usually  covered  when  it  is  carried  to  the  church  to  be  baptized." 

•>  Changrling — a  child  changed.  The  allusion  is  here  to  the  superstition  that 
children  were  sometimes  changed  by  fairies.  So  in  'A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,' — 

"  A  lovely  boy,  stol'n  from  an  Indian  king ; 
She  never  had  so  sweet  a  changeling.'" 
*  Made.    In  the  original,  mad.     The  correction  is  by  Theobald. 
^  Curtt — mischievous. 


A  WINTERS  TALK.  65 


ACT   IV. 

Enter  Time,  as  Chorus. 

Time.  I,  that  please  some,  try  all, — both  joy  and  terror 
Of  good  and  bad, — that  make,  and  unfold  error, — 
Now  take  upon  me,  in  the  name  of  Time, 
To  use  my  wings.     Impute  it  not  a  crime 
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  receiv'd :  I  witness  to 
The  times  that  brought  them  in :  so  shall  I  do 
To  the  freshest  things  now  reigning ;  and  make  stale 
The  glistering  of  this  present,  as  my  tale 
Now  seems  to  it.     Your  patience  this  allowing, 
I  turn  my  glass ;  and  give  my  scene  such  growing 
As  you  had  slept  between.     Leontes  leaving 
The  effects  of  his  fond  jealousies  ;  so  grieving. 
That  he  shuts  up  himself;  imagine  me. 
Gentle  spectators,  that  I  now  may  be 
In  fair  Bohemia  ;  and  remember  well, 
I  mentioned  a  son  o'  the  king's,  which  Florizel 
I  now  name  to  you ;  and  with  speed  so  pace 
To  speak  of  Perdita,  now  grown  in  grace 
Equal  with  wondering :  What  of  her  ensues 
I  list  not  prophesy ;  but  let  Time's  news 
Be  known  when  't  is  brought  forth : — a  shepherd's  daughter. 
And  what  to  her  adheres,  which  follows  after. 
Is  the  argument  of  time  :  Of  this  allow,' 
If  ever  you  have  spent  time  worse  ere  now ; 

*  ^Ihw — approve. 
Vol.  IV.  F 


66  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  IV. 

If  never  yet,  that  Time  himself  doth  say. 

He  wishes  earnestly  you  never  may.  [Exit. 

SCENE  I. — Bohemia.     A  Room  in  the  Palace  o/"  Polixenes. 

Enter  Polixenes  and  Camillo. 

Pol.  I  pray  thee,  good  Camillo,  be  no  more  importunate : 
'tis  a  sickness  denying  thee  anything;  a  death  to  grant 
this. 

Cam.  It  is  fifteen  years  since  I  saw  my  country.  Though 
I  have,  for  the  most  part,  been  aired  abroad,  I  desire  to  lay 
my  bones  there.  Besides,  the  penitent  king,  my  master, 
hath  sent  for  me :  to  whose  feeling  sorrows  I  might  be  some 
allay,  or  I  o'erween  to  think  so;  which  is  another  spur  to 
my  departure. 

Pol.  As  thou  lovest  me,  Camillo,  wipe  not  out  the  rest  of 
thy  services,  by  leaving  me  now :  the  need  I  have  of  thee 
thine  own  goodness  hath  made ;  better  not  to  have  had  thee 
than  thus  to  want  thee :  thou,  having  made  me  businesses 
which  none  without  thee  can  sufficiently  manage,  must 
either  stay  to  execute  them  thyself,  or  take  away  with  thee 
the  very  services  thou  hast  done  :  which  if  I  have  not 
enough  considered,  (as  too  much  I  cannot,)  to  be  more 
thankful  to  thee  shall  be  my  study ;  and  my  profit  therein, 
the  heaping  friendships.  Of  that  fatal  country,  Sicilia, 
prithee  speak  no  more :  whose  very  naming  punishes  me 
with  the  remembrance  of  that  penitent,  as  thou  callest  him, 
and  reconciled  king,  my  brother;  whose  loss  of  his  most 
precious  queen  and  children  are  even  now  to  be  afresh 
lamented.  Say  to  me,  when  sawest  thou  the  prince  Florizel 
my  son  ?  Kings  are  no  less  unhappy,  their  issue  not  being 
gracious,  than  they  are  in  losing  them  when  they  have 
approved  their  virtues. 

Cam.  Sir,  it  is  three  days  since  I  saw  the  prince :  What 
his  happier  affairs  may  be  are  to  me  unknown :  but  I  have, 
missingly,"  noted  he  is  of  late  much  retired  from  court ;  and 

"  Missingly.  Steevens  explains  this, — "  I  have  observed  him  at  intervals.^'  But 
is  it  not  rather — missing  him,  I  have  noted  he  is  of  late  much  retired  from  court  I 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  67 

is  less  frequent  to  his  princely  exercises  than  formerly  he 
hath  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  shep- 
herd ;  a  man,  they  say,  that  from  very  nothing,  and  beyond 
the  imagination  of  his  neighbours,  is  grown  into  an  unspeak- 
able 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  cottage. 

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 
simplicity  I  think  it  not  uneasy  to  get  the  cause  of  my  son's 
resort  thither.  Prithee,  be  my  present  partner  in  this 
business,  and  lay  aside  the  thoughts  of  Sicilia. 

Cam.  I  willingly  obey  your  command. 

Pol.  My  best  Camillo  ! — We  must  disguise  ourselves. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE    II. —  The   same.      A   Road   near   the   Shepherd'* 

Cottage. 
Enter  Autolycus,  singing. 

When  dafTodiU  begin  to  peer, 

With  heigh !  the  doxy  over  the  dale, 
Why  then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year ; 

For  tlie  red  blood  reigns  in  the  winter's  pale.  ■ 
The  white  sheet  bleaching  on  the  hedge, 

With  heigh!  the  sweet  birds,  O,  how  they  sing; 
Doth  set  my  pugging  •"  tooth  on  <=  edge ; 

For  a  quart  of  ale  is  a  dish  for  a  king. 

"  The  winters  pale.  Farmer  explains  this, — "the  red,  the  spring  blood,  now 
reigns  o'er  the  parts  lately  under  the  dominion  of  winter."  Daffodils,  as  Perdita 
tells  us,  "  come  before  the  swallow  dares.'  The  spring  which  Autolycus  describes 
is  the  early  spring,  when  winter  still  holds  a  partial  reign,  and  the  pale — boundary — 
which  divides  it  from  spring  is  not  yet  broken  up. 

^  Pugging.  This  appears  a  ilasb  word  which  the  commentators  cannot  explain. 
A  puggard  is  a  thief. 

'  On.  The  original  has  an.  It  is  not  clear  to  us  that  the  article,  and  not  the 
prepoflition,  is  not  the  proper  form  of  this  idiom. 

F2 


^  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  IV. 

The  lark  that  tirra-lirra  chants, 

With  heigh  !  with  hey !  *  the  thrash  and  the  jay : 

Are  summer  songs  for  me  and  my  aunts, 
While  we  lie  tumbling  in  the  hay. 

I  have  served  prince  Florizel,  and,  in  my  time,  wore  three- 
pile  ;''  but  now  I  am  out  of  service  : 

But  shall  I  go  mourn  for  that,  my  dear  ? 

The  pale  moon  shines  by  night : 
And  when  I  wander  here  and  there, 

I  then  do  most  go  right. 
If  tinkers  may  have  leave  to  live, 

And  bear  the  sow-skin  bowget; 
Then  my  account  I  well  may  give, 

And  in  the  stocks  avouch  it. 

My  traffic  is  sheets ;  when  the  kite  builds,  look  to  lesser 
linen.*'  My  father  named  me  Autolycus;  who,  being  as  I 
am,  littered  under  Mercury,  was  likewise  a  snapper  up  of 
unconsidered  trifles :  With  die,  and  drab,  I  purchased  this 
caparison  ;  and  my  revenue  is  the  silly  cheat :  Gallows,  and 
knock,  are  too  powerful  on  the  highway  :  beating,  and  hang- 
ing, are  terrors  to  me ;  for  the  life  to  come,  I  sleep  out  the 
thought  of  it. — A  prize  !  a  prize ! 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  Let  me  see : — Every  'leven  wether — tods ; '  every  tod 
yields — pound  and  odd  shilling :  fifteen  hundred  shorn, — 
What  comes  the  wool  to? 

Aut.  If  the  springe  hold,  the  cock 's  mine.  [Aside. 

Clo.  I  cannot  do  't  without  counters. — Let  me  see ;  what 
am  I  to  buy  for  our  sheep-shearing  feast  ?     "  Three  pound 

of  sugar ;  five  pound  of  currants ;  rice  " What  will  this 

sister  of  mine  do  with  rice  ?  But  my  father  hath  made  her 
mistress  of  the  feast,  and  she  lays  it  on.  She  hath  made  me 
four-and-twenty  nosegays  for  the  shearers :  three-man  song- 
men  all,*  and  very  good  ones ;  but  they  are  most  of  them 
means  and  bases :  *  but  one  Puritan  amongst  them,  and  he 
sings  psalms  to  hornpipes.*     I  must  have  saffron,  to  colour 

•  The  second  folio  introduces  "  with  heyV     The  first  has  only  ''with  heigh. ''^ 
'*'   Three-pile — rich  velvet. 

*  Autolycus  has  his  eye  upon  the  "  white  sheets."     The  kites  may  take  the 
smaller  linen  for  their  nests. 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTERS  TALE.  69 

the  warden  pies ;  *  mace, — dates, — ^none ;  that 's  out  of  my 
note :  nutmegs,  seven ;  a  race  or  two  of  ginger  ;  but  that  I 
may  beg ; — four  pound  of  prunes,  and  as  many  of  raisins  o' 
the  sun. 

Aut.  O,  that  ever  I  was  born !   [Grovelling  on  the  ground. 

Clo.  V  the  name  of  me, 

Aut.  O,  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  millions. 

Clo.  Alas,  poor  man !  a  million  of  beating  may  come  to  a 
great  matter. 

Aut.  I  am  robbed,  sir,  and  beaten ;  my  money  and  apparel 
ta'en  from  me,  and  these  detestable  things  put  upon  me. 

Clo.  What,  by  a  horse-man,  or  a  foot-man  ? 

Aut.  A  foot-man,  sweet  sir,  a  foot-man? 

Clo.  Indeed,  he  should  be  a  foot-man,  by  the  garments  he 
hath  left  with  thee ;  if  this  be  a  horse-man's  coat,  it  hath 
seen  very  hot  service.  Lend  me  thy  hand,  I  '11  help  thee : 
come,  lend  me  thy  hand.  [Helping  him. 

Aut.  O  !  good  sir,  tenderly,  oh ! 

Clo.  Alas,  poor  soul ! 

Aut.  O,  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^  good  sir,  softly; 
you  ha'  done  me  a  charitable  office. 

Clo.  Dost  lack  any  money  ?  I  have  a  little  money  for 
thee. 

Aut.  No,  good  sweet  sir ;  no,  I  beseech  you,  sir :  I  have  a 
kinsman  not  past  three-quarters  of  a  mile  hence,  unto  whom 
I  was  going ;  I  shall  there  have  money,  or  anything  I  want : 
Offer  me  no  money,  I  pray  you ;  that  kills  my  heart. 

Clo.  What  manner  of  fellow  was  he  that  robbed  you  ? 

Aut.  A  fellow,  sir,  that  I  have  known  to  go  about  with 

*  Warden  pies.     Warden  was  the  name  of  a  pear. 


70  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  IV. 

trol-my -dames  : '  I  knew  him  once  a  servant  of  the  prince ; 
I  cannot  tell,  good  sir,  for  which  of  his  virtues  it  was,  but 
he  was  certainly  whipped  out  of  the  court. 

Clo.  His  vices,  you  would  say ;  there 's  no  virtue  whipped 
out  of  the  court :  they  cherish  it,  to  make  it  stay  there ;  and 
yet  it  will  no  more  but  abide." 

Aut.  Vices,  I  would  say,  sir.  I  know  this  man  well :  he 
hath  been  since  an  ape-bearer ; '  then  a  process-server,  a 
bailiff;  then  he  compassed  a  motion  of  the  prodigal  son,"  and 
married  a  tinker's  wife  within  a  mile  where  my  land  and 
living  lies;  and,  having  flown  over  many  knavish  profes- 
sions, he  settled  only  in  rogue :  some  call  him  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  to- 
wards 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  our 
sheep-shearing. 

Aut.  Prosper  you,  sweet  sir ! — [Exit  Clown.] — Your  purse 
is  not  hot  enough  to  purchase  your  spice.  I  '11  be  with  you 
at  your  sheep-shearing  too :  If  I  make  not  this  cheat  bring 
out  another,  and  the  shearers  prove  sheep,  let  me  be  unrolled, 
and  my  name  put  in  the  book  of  virtue  ! 

Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-pafh  way,^ 

And  merrily  hent  '^  the  stile-a : 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a.  \ Exit 


■  Abide — sojourn. 
^  Hent— take  hold  of. 


Scene  III.J  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  71 

SCENE  lU.—The  same.     A  Shepherd'*  Cottage. 

Enter  Florizel  and  Perdita. 

Flo.  These  your  unusual  weeds  to  each  part  of  you 
Do  give  a  life  :  no  shepherdess  ;  but  Flora, 
Peering  in  April's  front.     This  your  sheep-shearing 
Is  as  a  meeting  of  the  petty  gods. 
And  you  the  queen  on  't. 

Per.  Sir,  my  gracious  lord. 

To  chide  at  your  extremes  it  not  becomes  me ; 
O,  pardon,  that  I  name  them :  your  high  self. 
The  gracious  mark  o'  the  land,  you  have  obscur'd 
With  a  swain's  wearing ;  and  me,  poor  lowly  maid. 
Most  goddess-like  prank'd  up  :  *     But  that  our  feasts 
In  every  mess  have  folly,  and  the  feeders 
Digest  it  with  a  custom,  I  should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attir'd ;  sworn,  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  aiford  you  cause  ! 

To  me,  the  difference  forges  dread  ;  your  greatness 
Hath  not  been  us'd  to  fear.     Even  now  I  tremble 
To  think,  your  father,  by  some  accident. 
Should  pass  this  way,  as  you  did :  O,  the  fates ! 
How  would  he  look,  to  see  his  work,  so  noble. 
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  firc-rob'd  god. 
Golden  Apollo,  a  poor  humble  swain, 

*  Prank'd  uf. — dressed  splendidly — decorated. 


72  A  VVINTER-S  TALE.  [Act  IV, 

As  I  seem  now  :  Their  transformations 
Were  never  for  a  piece  of  beauty  rarer  ; 
Nor  in  a  way  so  chaste  :  since  my  desires 
Run  not  before  mine  honour ;  nor  my  lusts 
Burn  hotter  than  my  faith. 

Per.  O  but,  sir. 

Your  resolution  cannot  hold,  when  't  is 
Oppos'd,  as  it  must  be,  by  the  power  o'  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  prithee,  darken  not 
The  mirth  o'  the  feast :  Or  I  '11  be  thine,  my  fair. 
Or  not  my  father's  :  for  I  cannot  be 
Mine  own,  nor  anything  to  any,  if 
I  be  not  thine  :  to  this  I  am  most  constant. 
Though  destiny  say  No.     Be  merry,  gentle ; 
Strangle  such  thoughts  as  these,  with  anything 
That  you  behold  the  while.     Your  guests  are  coming : 
Lift  up  your  countenance ;  as  it  were  the  day 
Of  celebration  of  that  nuptial,  which 
We  two  have  sworn  shall  come. 

Per.  O  lady  fortune. 

Stand  you  auspicious ! 

Enter  Shepherd,  ivith  Polixenes  and  Camillo  disguised  ; 
Clown,  MopsA,  Dorcas,  and  others. 

Flo.  See,  your  guests  approach : 

Address  yourself  to  entertain  them  sprightly. 
And  let 's  be  red  with  mirth. 

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'  tlie  middle  ; 
On  his  shoulder,  and  his :  her  face  o'  fire 
With  labour ;  and  the  thing  she  took  to  quench  it. 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTERS  TALE.  73 

She  would  to  each  one  sip :  You  are  retir'd 
As  if  you  were  a  feasted  one,  and  not 
The  hostess  of  the  meeting :  Pray  you,  bid 
These  unknown  friends  to  us  welcome  :  for  it  is 
A  way  to  make  us  better  friends,  more  known. 
Come,  quench  your  blushes  ;  and  present  yourself 
That  which  you  are,  mistress  o'  the  feast :  Come  on. 
And  bid  us  welcome  to  your  sheep-shearing. 
As  your  good  flock  shall  prosper. 

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 ! 

[To  Camillo. 
Give  me  those  flowers  there,  Dorcas. — Reverend  sirs. 
For  you  there 's  rosemary,  and  rue ;  these  keep 
Seeming,  and  savour,  all  the  winter  long : 
Grace,  and  remembrance,  be  to  you  both. 
And  welcome  to  our  shearing ! 

Pol.  Shepherdess, 

(A  fair  one  are  you,)  well  you  fit  our  ages 
With  flowers  of  winter. 

Per.  Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient, — 

Not  yet  on  summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  winter, — the  fairest  flowers  o'  the  season 
Are  our  carnations,  and  streak'd  gilly'vors,'' 
Which  some  call  nature's  bastards  :  of  that  kind 
Our  rustic  garden 's  barren ;  and  I  care  not 
To  get  slips  of  them. 

Pol.  Wherefore,  gentle  maiden. 

Do  you  neglect  them  ? 

Per.  For  I  have  heard  it  said. 

There  is  an  art  which,  in  their  piedness,  shares 
With  great  creating  nature. 

Pol.  Say,  there  be ; 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean, 

'  The  modem  reading  is,  H'elcome,  sir, 

*>  Gilb/'vors.  We  print  this  word  as  it  is  twice  printed  in  the  original.  Some  of 
the  old  authors  write  ^j7/^0K»er,  some  ^i/fo/r*.  Gilly'vor  is  perhajw  a  contraction 
of  gillyflower. 


74  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  IV. 

But  nature  makes  that  mean  :  so,  over  that  art. 

Which,  you  say,  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 

That  nature  makes.     You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 

A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock ; 

And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 

By  bud  of  nobler  race :  This  is  an  art 

Which  does  mend  nature, — change  it  rather :  but 

The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Per.  So  it  is. 

Pol.  Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gilly'vors. 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards. 

Per.  I  '11  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,  't  were  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  weeping ;  these  are  flowers 
Of  middle  summer,  and,  I  think,  they  are  given 
To  men  of  middle  age  :  You  are  very  welcome. 

Cam.  I  should  leave  grazing,  were  I  of  your  flock. 
And  only  live  by  gazing. 

Per.  Out,  alas ! 

You  'd  be  so  lean,  that  blasts  of  January 
Would  blow  you  through  and  through. — Now,  my  fairest 

friend, 
I  would  I  had  some  flowers  o'  the  spring,  that  might 
Become  your  time  of  day  ;  and  yours,  and  yours  ; 
That  wear  upon  your  virgin  branches  yet 
Your  maidenheads  growing : — O,  Proserpina,' 
For  the  flowers  now,  that,  frighted,  thou  lett'st  fall 
From  Dis's  waggon  !  daffodils. 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty  ;  violets,  dim. 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes. 
Or  Cytherea's  breath  ;  pale  primroses. 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  a  malady 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  75 

Most  incident  to  maids ;  bold  oxlips,  and 
The  crown-imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds. 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one !    O  !  these  I  lack. 
To  make  you  garlands  of;  and,  my  sweet  friend. 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

Flo.  What !  like  a  corse  ? 

Per.  No,  like  a  bank,  for  love  to  lie  and  play  on ; 
Not  like  a  corse :  or  if, — not  to  be  buried. 
But  quick,  and  in  mine  arms.     Come,  take  your  flowers : 
Methinks,  I  play  as  I  have  seen  them  do. 
In  Whitsun'  pastorals  :  sure,  this  robe  of  mine 
Does  change  my  disposition. 

Flo.  What  you  do 

Still  betters  what  is  done.     When  you  speak,  sweet, 
I  'd  have  you  do  it  ever :  when  you  sing, 
I  'd  have  you  buy  and  sell  so ;  so  give  alms ; 
Pray  so ;  and,  for  the  ordering  your  affairs. 
To  sing  them  too :  When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
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.  O  Doricles, 

Your  praises  are  too  large :  but  that  your  youth. 
And  the  true  blood  which  peeps  fairly  through 't. 
Do  plainly  give  you  out  an  unstain'd  shepherd. 
With  wisdom  I  might  fear,  my  Doricles, 
You  woo'd  me  the  false  way. 

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  '11  swear  for  'em. 

Pol.  This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  green  sward :  nothing  she  does  or  seems. 


76  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  IV. 

But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

Cam.  He  tells  her  something 
That  makes  her  blood  look  out:*  Good  sooth,  she  is 
The  queen  of  curds  and  cream. 

Clo.  Come  on,  strike  up. 

Dor.  Mopsa  must  be  your  mistress :  marry,  garlic. 
To  mend  her  kissing  with. 

Mop.  Now,  in  good  time ! 

Clo.  Not  a  word,  a  word ;  we  stand  upon  our  manners. — 
Come,  strike  up.  [Music. 

Here  a  dance  ©/"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  '11  stand,  and  read. 
As  't  were,  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  upon  her,  she  shall  bring  him  that 
Which  he  not  dreams  of. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  O  master,  if  you  did  but  hear  the  pedlar  at  the  door, 
you  would  never  dance  again  after  a  tabor  and  pipe ;  no,  the 

*  Look  out.    The  original  has  look  on  7.     We  are  not  quite  sure  that  Theobald's 
correction  is  necessary.     The  idea  reminds  one  of  the  fine  lines  in  Donne : — 

"  Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 
Spoke  in  her  veins,  and  such  expression  wrought, 
You  might  have  almost  said  her  body  thought."' 
^  Feeding — pasture. 
<:  Soo/A— trutli. 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTERS  TALE.  11 

bagpipe  could  not  move  you :  he  sings  several  tunes  faster 
than  you  '11  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  sung 
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  burthens  of  "  dildos  and 
fadings:"'"  "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,  "  Whoop,  do  me  no  harm,  good  man ;"  puts  him  off, 
slights  him,  with  "  Whoop,  do  me  no  harm,  good  man." 

Pol.  This  is  a  brave  fellow. 

Clo.  Believe  me,  thou  talkest  of  an  admirable-conceited 
fellow.     Has  he  any  unbraided  wares  ? 

Serv.  He  hath  ribands  of  all  the  colours  i'  the  rainbow ; 
points,  more  than  all  the  lawyers  in  Bohemia  can  learnedly 
handle,  though  they  come  to  him  by  the  gross ;  inkles,  cad- 
disses,  cambrics,  lawns ;  why,  he  sings  them  over,  as  they 
were  gods  or  goddesses ;  you  would  think  a  smock  were  a 
she-angel :  he  so  chants  to  the  sleeve-hand,  and  the  work 
about  the  square  on 't. 

Clo.  Prithee,  bring  him  in;  and  let  him  approach  sing- 
ing. 

Per.  Forewarn  him,  that  he  use  no  scurrilous  words  in 
his  tunes. 

Clo.  You  have  of  these  pedlars,  that  have  more  in  them 
than  you  'd  think,  sister. 

Per.  Ay,  good  brother,  or  go  about  to  think. 

Enter  Autolycus,  singing. 

Lawn,  as  white  as  driven  snow ; 
Cyprus,  black  as  e'er  was  crow ; 
Gloves,  as  sweet  as  damask  roses ; 
Masks  for  faces,  and  for  noses; 
Bugle  bracelet,  necklace-amber, 
Perfume  for  a  lady's  chamber : 


78  A  WINTERS  TALE.  [Act  IV. 

Golden  quoifs,  and  stotnacbera, 

For  my  lada  to  give  their  dears ; 

Pins,  and  poking-sticks  of  steel,'* 

What  maids  lack  from  head  to  heel : 
Come,  buy  of  me,  come ;  come  buy,  come  buy  ; 
Buy,  lads,  or  else  your  lasses  cry  :  Come,  buy, 

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,  he 
has  paid  you  more ;  which  will  shame  you  to  give  him  again. 

Clo.  Is  there  no  manners  left  among  maids?  will  they 
wear  their  plackets,  where  they  should  bear  their  faces  ?  Is 
there  not  milking-time,  when  you  are  going  to  bed,  or  kiln- 
hole,  to  whistle  of'  these  secrets ;  but  you  must  be  tittle- 
tattling  before  all  our  guests  ?  'T  is  well  they  are  whisper- 
ing :  Clamour  your  tongues,'^  and  not  a  word  more. 

Mop.  I  have  done.  Come,  you  promised  me  a  tawdry 
lace,  and  a  pair  of  sweet  gloves.'* 

Clo.  Have  I  not  told  thee  how  I  was  cozened  by  the  way, 
and  lost  all  my  money  ? 

Aut.  And,  indeed,  sir,  there  are  cozeners  abroad ;  there- 
fore it  behoves  men  to  be  wary. 

Clo.  Fear  not  thou,  man,  thou  shalt  lose  nothing  here. 

Aut.  I  hope  so,  sir  j  for  I  have  about  me  many  parcels  of 
charge. 

Clo.  What  hast  here  ?  ballads  ? 

'  Whistle  of.    So  the  original.     The  modem  editions  rpad  whistle  off. 

^  Clamour  your  tongues.  Gifibrd  maintains  that  this  is  a  misprint  for  charm  your 
tongues.     We  have  in  '  Henry  VI.,  Part  III.,' 

*'  Peace,  wilful  boy,  or  I  will  charm  your  tongue.'' 
But  the  word  charm  in  the  text  before  us  was  not  likely  to  be  mistaken  for  clamour. 
Nares  says  the  "  expression  is  taken  from  bell-ringing ;  it  is  now  contracted  to  clam, 
and  in  that  form  is  common  among  ringers.  The  bells  are  said  to  be  clamed,  when, 
after  a  course  of  rounds  or  changes,  they  are  all  pulled  off  at  once,  and  give  a 
general  crash  or  clam,  by  which  the  peal  is  concluded.  This  is  also  caUedJirinff, 
and  is  frequently  practised  on  rejoicing  days.  As  this  clam  is  succeeded  by  a 
silence,  it  exactly  suits  tlie  sense  of  the  passage  in  which  the  unabbreviated  word 
occurs." 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  79 

Mop.  Pray  now,  buy  some  :  I  love  a  ballad  in  print, 
a' -life  ;  for  then  we  are  sure  they  are  true. 

Aut.  Here 's  one  to  a  very  doleful  tune.  How  a  usurer's 
wife  was  brought  to  bed  of  twenty  money-bags  at  a  burthen ; 
and  how  she  longed  to  cat  adders'  heads,  and  toads  carbo- 
nadoed. 

Mop.  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  name  to  't,  one  mistress  Tale- 
porter  ;  and  five  or  six  honest  wives  that  were  present  : 
Why  should  I  carry  lies  abroad  ? 

Mop.  'Pray  you  now,  buy  it. 

do.  Come  on,  lay  it  by :  And  let 's  fi,rst  see  more  ballads  ; 
we  '11  buy  the  other  things  anon. 

Aut.  Here 's  another  ballad.  Of  a  fish,  that  appeared  upon 
the  coast,  on  Wednesday  the  fourscore  of  April,  forty  thou- 
sand fathom  above  water,  and  sung  this  ballad  against  the 
hard  hearts  of  maids  :  it  was  thought  she  was  a  woman, 
and  was  turned  into  a  cold  fish,  for  she  would  not  exchange 
flesh  with  one  that  loved  her :  The  ballad  is  very  pitiful, 
and  as  true. 

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  sings  it ;  't  is  in  request,  I  can  tell  you. 

Mop.  We  can  both  sing  it  j  if  thou  'It  bear  a  part,  thou 
shalt  hear ;  't  is  in  three  parts. 

Dor.  We  had  the  tune  on 't  a  month  ago. 

Aut.  I  can  bear  my  part ;  you  must  know,  't  is  my  occu- 
pation :  have  at  it  with  you. 

SONG. 
A.  Get  you  hence,  for  I  must  go ; 
Where  it  (its  not  you  to  know. 


80  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  IV. 

D.  Whither? 

M.  O,  whither  ? 

D.  Whither? 

M.  It  becomes  thy  oath  full  well, 

Thou  to  me  thy  secrets  tell : 
D.  Me  too,  let  me  go  thither. 

M.  Or  thou  go'st  to  the  grange,  or  mill  : 
D.  If  to  either,  thou  dost  ill. 
A.  Neither. 
D.  What,  neither  ? 
A.  Neither. 

D.  Thou  hast  sworn  my  love  to  be ; 
M.  Thou  hast  sworn  it  more  to  me  : 
Then,  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  '11  not 
trouble  them :  Come,  bring  away  thy  pack  after  me. 
Wenches,  I  '11  buy  for  you  both  : — Pedlar,  let 's  have  the 
first  choice. — Follow  me,  girls. 

Aut.  And  you  shall  pay  well  for  'em.  [Aside, 

Will  you  buy  any  tape, 

Or  lace  for  your  cape. 
My  dainty  duck,  my  dear-a? 

Any  silk,  any  thread, 

Any  toys  for  your  head. 
Of  the  new'st,  and  fin'st,  fin'st  wear-a  ? 

Come  to  the  pedlar  ; 

Money  's  a  medler. 
That  doth  utter  all  men's  ware-a. 

[Exeunt  Clown,  Autolycus,  Dorcas,  and  Mopsa. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv,  Master,  there  is  three  carters,  three  shepherds, 
three  neatherds,  three  swineherds,  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.  kyjdiy  \  we  '11  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. 

"  Gallimaufry — a  confused  heap  of  things. 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  8i 

Serv,  One  three  of  them,  by  their  own  report,  sir,  hath 
danced  before  the  king ;  and  not  the  worst  of  the  three  but 
jumps  twelve  foot  and  a  half  by  the  squire.* 

Shep.  Leave  your  prating :  since  these  good  men  are 
pleased,  let  them  come  in ;  but  quickly  now. 

Serv.  Why,  they  stay  at  door,  sir.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Servant,  with  Twelve  Rustics,  habited  like  Satyrs. 
They  dance,  and  then  exeunt. 

Pol.  O,  father,  you  '11  know  more  of  that  hereafter. — ^ 
Is  it  not  too  far  gone? — 'Tis  time  to  part  them. — 
He  's  simple  and  tells  much.    [Aside.] — How  now,  fair  shep- 
herd ? 
Your  heart  is  full  of  something  that  does  take 
Your  mind  from  feasting.     Sooth,  when  I  was  young. 
And  handed  love  as  you  do,  I  was  wont 
To  load  my  she  with  knacks  :  I  would  have  ransack'd 
The  pedlar's  silken  treasury,  and  have  pour'd  it 
To  her  acceptance  ;  you  have  let  him  go. 
And  nothing  marted  with  him  :  If  your  lass 
Interpretation  should  abuse,  and  call  this 
Your  lack  of  love  or  bounty,  you  were  straited 
For  a  reply,  at  least,  if  you  make  a  care 
Of  happy  holding  her. 

Flo.  Old  sir,  I  know 

She  prizes  not  such  trifles  as  these  are : 
The  gifts  she  looks  from  me  are  pack'd  and  lock'd 
Up  in  my  heart ;  which  I  have  given  already. 
But  not  deliver'd. — O,  hear  me  breathe  my  life 
Before  this  ancient  sir,  who,  it  should  seem. 
Hath  sometime  lov'd :  I  take  thy  hand ;  this  hand. 
As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it ; 
Or  Ethiopian's  tooth,  or  the  fann'd  snow. 
That 's  bolted  by  the  northern  blasts  twice  o'er. 

Pol.  What  follows  this?— 


'  Squire — foot-rule. 

*>  During  the  dance  Polixenes  and  the  Shepherd  have  been  conversing  apart,  and 
this  is  a  continuation  of  their  supposed  dialogue. 

Vol.  IV.  G 


82  A  WINTERS  TALK.  [Act  IV. 

How  prettily  the  young  swain  seems  to  wasli 
The  hand  was  fair  before ! — I  have  put  you  out : — 
But  to  your  protestation  ;  let  me  hear 
What  you  profess. 

F/o.  Do,  and  be  witness  to 't. 

Pol.  And  this  my  neighbour  too? 

Flo  And  he,  and  more 

Than  he,  and  men  ;  the  earth,  the  heavens,  and  all : 
That,  were  I  crown'd  the  most  imperial  monarch. 
Thereof  most  worthy ;  were  I  the  fairest  youth 
That  ever  made  eye  swerve  ;  had  force,  and  knowledge. 
More  than  was  ever  man's,  I  would  not  prize  them. 
Without  her  love :  for  her,  employ  them  all ; 
Commend  them,  and  condemn  them,  to  her  service. 
Or  to  their  own  perdition. 

Pol.  Fairly  offer'd. 

!     Cam.  This  shows  a  sound  affection. 

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  pattern  of  mine  own  thoughts  I  cut  out 
The  purity  of  his. 

Shep.  Take  hands,  a  bargain  ; — 

And,  friends  unknown,  you  shall  bear  witness  to 't : 
I  give  my  daughter  to  him,  and  will  make 
Her  portion  equal  his. 

Flo.  O,  that  must  be 

r  the  virtue  of  your  daughter:  one  being  dead, 
I  shall  have  more  than  you  can  dream  of  yet ; 
Enough  then  for  your  wonder  :  But,  come  on. 
Contract  us  'fore  these  witnesses. 

Shep.  Come,  your  hand  ; 

And,  daughter,  yours. 

Pol.  Soft,  swain,  awhile,  'beseech  you  ; 

Have  you  a  father? 

Flo.  I  have  :  But  what  of  him? 

Pol.  Knows  he  of  this  ? 

Flo.  He  neither  does,  nor  shall. 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  88 

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  grown  incapable 
Of  reasonable  affairs  ?  is  he  not  stupid 
With  age,  and  altering  rheums?  Can  he  speak?  hear? 
Know  man  from  man  ?  dispute  his  own  estate  ? 
Lies  he  not  bed-rid  ?  and  again  does  nothing. 
But  what  he  did  being  childish  ? 

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  unfilial :  Reason,  my  son 
Should  choose  himself  a  wife ;  but  as  good  reason. 
The  father  (all  whose  joy  is  nothing  else 
But  fair  posterity)  should  hold  some  counsel 
In  such  a  business. 

Flo.  I  yield  all  this  ; 

But,  for  some  other  reasons,  my  grave  sir. 
Which  't  is  not  fit  you  know,  I  not  acquaint 
My  father  of  this  business. 

Pol.  Let  him  know  't. 

Flo.  He  shall  not. 

Pol.  Prithee,  let  him. 

Flo.  No,  he  must  not. 

Shep.  Let  him,  my  son ;  he  shall  not  need  to  grieve 
At  knowing  of  thy  choice. 

Flo.  Come,  come,  he  must  not : — 

Mark  our  contract. 

Pol.  Mark  your  divorce,  young  sir, 

[^Discovering  himself. 
Whom  son  I  dare  not  call ;  thou  art  too  base 
To  be  acknowledg'd :  Thou  a  sceptre's  heir. 
That  thus  affect'st  a  sheephook ! — Thou  old  traitor, 
I  am  sorry,  that,  by  hanging  thee^  I  can 
But  shorten  thy  life  one  week. — And  thou,  fresh  piece 

G  2 


84  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  IV. 

Of  excellent  witchcraft,  who,  of  force,  must  know 
The  royal  food  thou  cop'st  with ; — 

Shep.  O,  my  heart ! 

Pol.    I  '11   have   thy  beauty   scratch'd   with   briars,   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  never  see  '  this  knack,  (as  never 
I  mean  thou  shalt,)  we  '11  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  '11  queen  it  no  inch  farther. 
But  milk  my  ewes,  and  weep. 

Cam.  Why,  how  now,  father ! 

Speak,  ere  thou  diest. 

Shep.  I  cannot  speak,  nor  think. 

Nor  dare  to  know  that  which  I  know. — O,  sir,  [to  Flo. 

You  have  undone  a  man  of  fourscore  three, 

■  The  double  negative,  which  is  characteristic  of  Shakspere's  time,  is  corrected 
in  modem  editions  by  the  omission  of  never. 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  85 

That  tliought  to  fill  his  grave  in  quiet ;  yea. 

To  die  upon  the  bed  my  father  died. 

To  lie  close  by  his  honest  bones :  but  now 

Some  hangman  must  put  on  my  shroud,  and  lay  me 

Where  no  priest  shovels  in  dust. — O  cursed  wretch ! 

[to  Perdita. 
That  knew'st  this  was  the  prince,  and  wouldst  adventure 
To  mingle  faith  with  him. — Undone !  undone ! 
If  I  might  die  within  this  hour,  I  have  liv'd 
To  die  when  I  desire.  [Exif. 

Flo.  Why  look  you  so  upon  me? 

I  am  but  sorry,  not  afeard ;  delay 'd. 
But  nothing  altered  :  What  I  was,  I  am  : 
More  straining  on,  for  plucking  back ;  not  following 
My  leash  unwillingly. 

Cam.  Gracious  my  lord. 

You  know  your  father's  temper  :  at  this  time 
He  will  allow  no  speech, — which,  I  do  guess. 
You  do  not  purpose  to  him ; — and  as  hardly 
Will  he  endure  your  sight  as  yet,  I  fear  : 
Then,  till  the  fury  of  his  highness  settle. 
Come  not  before  him.  * 

Flo.  I  not  purpose  it. 

I  think,  Camillo. 

Cam.  Even  he,  my  lord. 

Per.  How  often  have  I  told  you  't  would  be  thus  ? 
How  often  said,  my  dignity  would  last 
But  till  't  were  known  ? 

Flo.  It  cannot  fail,  but  by 

The  violation  of  my  faith  :  And  then 
Let  nature  crush  the  sides  o'  the  earth  together. 
And  mar  the  seeds  within !  Lift  up  thy  looks : 
From  my  succession  wipe  me,  father !  I 
Am  heir  to  my  affection. 

Cam.  Be  advised. 

Flo.  I  am  ;  and  by  my  fancy :  ■  if  my  reason 
Will  thereto  be  obedient,  I  have  reason ; 

*   Fancy — love. 


86 


A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  IV. 


If  not,  my  senses,  better  pleas'd  with  madness. 
Do  bid  it  welcome. 

Cam.  This  is  desperate,  sir. 

Flo.  So  call  it :  but  it  does  fulfil  my  vow ; 
I  needs  must  think  it  honesty.     Camillo, 
Not  for  Bohemia,  nor  the  pomp  that  may 
Be  thereat  glean'd ;  for  all  the  sun  sees,  or 
The  close  earth  wombs,  or  the  profound  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. 
When  he  shall  miss  me,  (as,  in  faith,  I  mean  not 
To  see  him  any  more,)  cast  your  good  counsels 
Upon  his  passion  :  Let  myself  and  fortune 
Tug  for  the  time  to  come.     This  you  may  know. 
And  so  deliver, — I  am  put  to  sea 
With  her,  whom  here  I  cannot  hold  on  shore  ; 
And,  most  opportune  to  her  *  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.  O,  my  lord, 

I  would  your  spirit  were  easier  for  advice. 
Or  stronger  for  your  need. 

Flo.  Hark,  Perdita.     [Takes  her  aside. 

I  '11  hear  you  by  and  by.  \to  Camillo. 

Cam.  He 's  irremoveable, 

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. 

Flo.  Now,  good  Camillo, 

I  am  so  fraught  with  curious  business,  that 
I  leave  out  ceremony.  \Going. 

Cam.  Sir,  I  think, 

■  Her.     So  the  original,  but  usually  our.     Her  need  is  the  need  we  liave  of  her. 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  87 

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  direction, 
(If  your  more  ponderous  and  settled  project 
May  suffer  alteration,)  on  mine  honour 
I  '11  point  you  where  you  shall  have  such  receiving 
As  shall  become  your  highness ;  where  you  may 
Enjoy  your  mistress ;  (from  the  whom,  I  see, 
There 's  no  disjunction  to  be  made,  but  by. 
As  heavens  forfend  !  your  ruin :)  marry  her ; 
And  (with  my  best  endeavours,  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  '11  go  ? 

Flo.  Not  any  yet : 

But  as  the  unthought-on  accident  is  guilty 
To  what  we  wildly  do,  so  we  profess 
Ourselves  to  be  the  slaves  of  chance,  and  flies 
Of  every  wind  that  blows. 

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,  I  see 
Leontes,  opening  his  free  arms,  and  weeping 


88  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  IV. 

His  welcomes  forth  :  asks  thee,  the  '  son,  forgiveness. 
As  't  were  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  visitation  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,  with 
What  you,  as  from  your  father,  shall  deliver. 
Things  known  betwixt  us  three,  I  '11  write  you  down : 
The  which  shall  point  you  forth  at  every  sitting 
What  you  must  say ;  that  he  shall  not  perceive. 
But  that  you  have  your  father's  bosom  there. 
And  speak  his  very  heart. 

Flo.  I  am  bound  to  you  : 

There  is  some  sap  in  this. 

Cam.  A  course  more  promising 

Than  a  wild  dedication  of  yourselves 
To  unpath'd  waters,  undream'd  shores ;  most  certain. 
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  ofl&ce,  if  they  can  but  stay  you 
Where  you  '11  be  loth  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  seven  years. 
Be  born  another  such. 

Flo.  My  good  Camillo, 

"   The.     Ill  (he  original,  there,  , 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTERS  TALE.  89 

She  is  as  forward  of  her  breeding,  as 
She  is  i'  the  rear  of  our  birth.* 

Cam.  I  cannot  say,  't  is  pity 

She  lacks  instructions  ;  for  she  seems  a  mistress 
To  most  that  teach. 

Per.  Your  pardon,  sir,  for  this  : 

1 11  blush  you  thanks. 

Flo.                           My  prettiest  Perdita ! — 
But,  O,  the  thorns  we  stand  upon ! — Camillo, — 
Preserver  of  my  father,  now  of  me  ; 
The  medicine  of  our  house  ! — how  shall  we  do  ? 
We  are  not  furnish'd  like  Bohemia's  son ; 
Nor  shall  appear  in  Sicilia 

Cam.  My  lord. 

Fear  none  of  this :  I  think  you  know  my  fortunes 
Do  all  lie  there  :  it  shall  be  so  my  care 
To  hav«  you  royally  appointed,  as  if 
The  scene  you  play  were  mine.     For  instance,  sir. 
That  you  may  know  you  shall  not  want, — one  word. 

[They  talk  aside. 

Enter  Autolycus. 

Aut.  Ha,  ha !  what  a  fool  honesty  is !  and  trust,  his  sworn 
brother,  a  very  simple  gentleman !  I  have  sold  all  my  trum- 
pery ;  not  a  counterfeit  stone,  not  a  riband,  glass,  pomander,'* 
brooch,  table-book,  ballad,  knife,  tape,  glove,  shoe-tie,  brace- 
let, horn-ring,  to  keep  my  pack  from  fasting;  they  throng 
who  should  buy  first,  as  if  my  trinkets  had  been  hallowed^ 
and  brought  a  benediction  to  the  buyer :  by  which  means  I 
saw  whose  purse  was  best  in  picture;  and  what  I  saw,  to 
my  good  use  I  remembered.  My  clown  (who  wants  but 
something  to  be  a  reasonable  man)  grew  so  in  love  with  the 
wenches'  song,  that  he  would  not  stir  his  pettitoes  till  he 
had  both  tune  and  words ;  which  so  drew  the  rest  of  the  herd 
to  me,  that  all  their  other  senses  stuck  in  ears :  you  might 

»  The  original  reads — 

"  She  is  i'  th'  reere  'our  birth." 
The  ajjogtropfaes  indicate  the  sense ;  but  Steeveiis,  sacrificing  everything  to  uni- 
formity of  metre,  has  simply  j'  th'  rear  of  birth,  omitting  die  is,  and  substituting  of 
for  our. 


90  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  IV. 

have  pinched  a  placket,  it  was  senseless ;  't  was  nothing  to 
geld  a  codpiece  of  a  purse  ;  I  would  have  filed  keys  off  that 
hung  in  chains  :  no  hearing,  no  feeling,  but  my  sir's  song, 
and  admiring  the  nothing  of  it.  So  that,  in  this  time  of 
lethargy,  I  picked  and  cut  most  of  their  festival  purses  :  and 
had  not  the  old  man  come  in  with  a  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. 

[Cam.,  Flo.,  and  Per.  come  forward. 

Cam.  Nay,  but  my  letters  by  this  means  being  there 
So  soon  as  you  arrive,  shall  clear  that  doubt. 

Flo.  And  those  that  you  '11  procure  from  king  Leontes — 

Cam.  Shall  satisfy  your  father. 

Per.  Happy  be  you ! 

All  that  you  speak  shows  fair. 

Cam.  Who  have  we  here? — 

[Seeing  Aut^jlycus. 
We  '11  make  an  instrument  of  this  ;  omit 
Nothing  may  give  us  aid. 

Aut.  If  they  have  overheard  me  now, why,  hanging. 

[Aside. 

Cam.  How  now,  good  fellow  ?  why  shakest  thou  so  ?  Fear 
not,  man ;  here  's  no  harm  intended  to  thee. 

Aut.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir. 

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  think 
there  's  a  necessity  in 't,)  and  change  garments  with  this  gen- 
tleman :  Though  the  pennyworth,  on  his  side,  be  the  worst, 
yet  hold  thee,  there  's  some  boot. 

Aut.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir : — I  know  ye  well  enough. 

[Aside. 

Cam.  Nay,  prithee,  despatch  :  the  gentleman  is  half  flay'd 
already. 

Aut.  Are  you  in  earnest,  sir  ? — I  smell  the  trick  on 't. — ■ 

[Aside. 

Flo.  Despatch,  I  prithee. 

Aut.  Indeed,  I  have  had  earnest ;  but  I  cannot  with  con- 
science take  it. 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTERS  TALE.  91 

Cam.  Unbuckle,  unbuckle. — 

[Flo.  and  Autol.  exchange  garments. 
Fortunate  mistress, — ^let  my  prophecy 
Come  home  to  you  ! — you  must  retire  yourself 
Into  some  covert :  take  your  sweetheart's  hat. 
And  pluck  it  o'er  your  brows ;  muffle  your  face ; 
Dismantle  you ;  and,  as  you  can,  dislikeu 
The  truth  of  your  own  seeming ;  that  you  may 
(For  I  do  fear  eyes  over  you*)  to  shipboard 
Get  undescried. 

Per.  I  see  the  play  so  lies 

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 : 

Come,  lady,  come. — ^Farewell,  my  friend. 

Aut.  Adieu,  sir. 

Flo.  O  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 
To  force  him  after ;  in  whose  company 
I  shall  review  Sicilia ;  for  whose  sight 
I  have  a  woman's  longing, 

Flo.  Fortune  speed  us ! — 

Thus  we  set  on,  Camillo,  to  the  sea-side. 

Cam.  The  swifter  speed  the  better. 

[Exeunt  Florizel,  Perdita,  and  Camillo. 

Aut.  I  understand  the  business,  I  hear  it :  To  have  an 
open  ear,  a  quick  eye,  and  a  nimble  hand,  is  necessary  for  a 
cutpurse ;  a  good  nose  is  requisite  also,  to  smell  out  work  for 
the  other  senses.  I  see  this  is  the  time  that  the  unjust  man 
doth  thrive.  What  an  exchange  had  this  been,  without 
boot !  what  a  boot  is  here,  with  this  exchange  !  Sure,  the 
gods  do  this  year  connive  at  us,  and  we  may  do  anything 

*   Yuu,  which  was  wanting  in  the  original,  was  added  by  Rowe. 


92  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  IV. 

extempore.  The  prince  himself  is  about  a  piece  of  iniquity ; 
stealing  away  from  his  father,  with  his  clog  at  his  heels :  If 
I  thought  it  were  a  piece  of  honesty  to  acquaint  the  king 
withal,  I  would  not  do  't :  I  hold  it  the  more  knavery  to 
conceal  it :  and  therein  am  I  constant  to  my  profession. 

Enter  Clown  and  Shepherd. 

Aside,  aside ; — here  is  more  matter  for  a  hot  brain  :  Every 
lane's  end,  every  shop,  church,  session,  hanging,  yields  a 
careful  man  work. 

Clo.  See,  see ;  what  a  man  you  are  now  !  there  is  no  other 
way  but  to  tell  the  king  she  's  a  changeling,  and  none  of 
your  flesh  and  blood. 

Shep.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Clo.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Shep.  Go  to  then. 

Clo.  She  being  none  of  your  flesh  and  blood,  your  flesh 
and  blood  has  not  offended  the  king ;  and,  so,  your  flesh  and 
blood  is  not  to  be  punished  by  him.  Show  those  things  you 
found  about  her ;  those  secret  things,  all  but  what  she  has 
with  her :  This  being  done,  let  the  law  go  whistle ;  I  war- 
rant you. 

Shep.  I  will  tell  the  king  all,  every  word ;  yea,  and  his 
son's  pranks  too  ;  who,  I  may  say,  is  no  honest  man  neither 
to  his  father,  nor  to  me,  to  go  about  to  make  me  the  king's 
brother-in-law. 

Clo.  Indeed,  brother-in-law  was  the  farthest  off"  you  could 
have  been  to  him  ;  and  then  your  blood  had  been  the  dearer, 
by  I  know  how  much  an  ounce. 

Aut.  Very  wisely ;  puppies  !  [Aside. 

Shep.  Well;  let  us  to  the  king-  there  is  that  in  this 
fardel  will  make  him  scratch  his  beard. 

Aut.  I  know  not  what  impediment  this  complaint  may  be 
to  the  flight  of  my  master. 

Clo.  'Pray  heartily  he  be  at  palace. 

Aut.  Though  I  am  not  naturally  honest,  I  am  so  some- 
times by  chance : — Let  me  pocket  up  my  pedlar's  excre- 
ment.— [Takes  off  his  false  beard.']  How  now,  rustics? 
whither  are  you  bound  ? 

Shep.  To  the  palace,  an  it  like  your  worship. 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  93 

Aut.  Your  affairs  there ;  what ;  with  whom ;  the  condi- 
tion of  that  fardel ;  the  place  of  your  dwelling  ;  your  names  ; 
your  ages  ;  of  what  having,*  breeding  ;  and  anything  that  is 
fitting  to  be  known,  discover. 

Clo.  We  are  but  plain  fellows,  sir. 

Aut.  A  lie ;  you  are  rough  and  hairy :  Let  me  have  no 
lying ;  it  becomes  none  but  tradesmen,  and  they  often  give 
us  soldiers  the  lie  :  but  we  pay  them  for  it  with  stamped 
coin,  not  stabbing  steel ;  therefore  they  do  not  give  us  the  lie.'' 

Clo.  Your  worship  had  like  to  have  given  us  one,  if  you 
had  not  taken  yourself  with  the  manner.'^ 

Shep.  Are  you  a  courtier,  an 't  like  you,  sir  ? 

Aut.  Whether  it  like  me,  or  no,  I  am  a  courtier.  See'st 
thou  not  the  air  of  the  court  in  these  enfoldings  ?  hath  not 
my  gait  in  it  the  measure  of  the  court?  receives  not  thy 
nose  court-odour  from  me?  reflect  I  not  on  thy  baseness, 
court-contempt  ?  Think'st  thou,  for  that  I  insinuate,  or  toze 
from  thee  thy  business,  I  am  therefore  no  courtier  ?  I  am 
courtier  cap-a-p6 ;  and  one  that  will  either  push  on  or  pluck 
back  thy  business  there :  whereupon  I  command  thee  to  open 
thy  affair. 

Shep.  My  business,  sir,  is  to  the  king. 

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. 

Shep.  None,  sir ;  I  have  no  pheasant,  cock  nor  hen. 

Aut.  How  bless'd  are  we  that  are  not  simple  men ! 
Yet  nature  might  have  made  me  as  these  are. 
Therefore  I  '11  not  disdain. 

Clo.  This  cannot  be  but  a  great  courtier. 

Shep.  His  garments  are  rich,  but  he  wears  them  not  hand- 
somely. 

Clo.  He  seems  to  be  the  more  noble  in  being  fantastical :  a 
great  man,  I  '11  warrant ;  I  know  by  the  picking  on 's  teeth. 

Aut.  The  fardel  there  ?  what 's  i'  the  fardel  ? 
Wherefore  that  box  ? 

*  Having — estate.         ''  As  they  are  paid  for  lying,  they  do  not^rive  us  the  lie, 
"  fVith  the  tnanrtfr — in  the  fact. 


94  A  WINTER'S  TALK.  [Act  IV. 

Shep.  Sir,  there  lies  such  secrets  in  this  fardel  and  box, 
which  none  must  know  but  the  king ;  and  which  he  shall 
know  within  this  hour,  if  I  may  come  to  the  speech  of  him. 

Aut.  Age,  thou  hast  lost  thy  labour. 

Shep.  Why,  sir  ? 

Aut.  The  king  is  not  at  the  palace :  he  is  gone  aboard  a 
new  ship  to  purge  melancholy,  and  air  himself:  For  if  thou 
be'st  capable  of  things  serious,  thou  must  know  the  king  is 
full  of  grief. 

Shep.  So  'tis  said,  sir,  about  his  son,  that  should  have 
married  a  shepherd's  daughter. 

Aut.  If  that  shepherd  be  not  in  hand-fast,  let  him  fly ;  the 
curses  he  shall  have,  the  tortures  he  shall  feel,  will  break  the 
back  of  man,  the  heart  of  monster. 

Clo.  Think  you  so,  sir  ? 

Aut.  Not  he  alone  shall  suiFer  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- 
man :  which  though  it  be  great  pity,  yet  it  is  necessary.  An 
old  sheep-whistling  rogue,  a  ram-tender,  to  offer  to  have  his 
daughter  come  into  grace !  Some  say,  he  shall  be  stoned ; 
but  that  death  is  too  soft  for  him,  say  I :  Draw  our  throne 
into  a  sheep-cote  !  all  deaths  are  too  few,  the  sharpest  too  easy. 

Clo.  Has  the  old  man  e'er  a  son,  sir,  do  you  hear,  an 't  like 
you,  sir? 

Aut.  He  has  a  son,  who  shall  be  flayed  alive ;  then,  'nointed 
over  with  honey,  set  on  the  head  of  a  wasp's  nest ;  then  stand, 
till  he  be  three  quarters  and  a  dram  dead ;  then  recovered 
again  with  aqua-vitae,  or  some  other  hot  infusion ;  then,  raw 
as  he  is,  and  in  the  hottest  day  prognostication  proclaims, 
shall  he  be  set  against  a  brick  wall,  the  sun  looking  with  a 
southward  eye  upon  him,  where  he  is  to  behold  him  with  flies 
blown  to  death.  But  what  talk  we  of  these  traitorly  rascals, 
whose  miseries  are  to  be  smiled  at,  their  offences  being  so  ca- 
pital ?  Tell  me  (for  you  seem  to  be  honest  plain  men)  what 
you  have  to  the  king :  being  something  gently  considered, 
I  '11  bring  you  where  he  is  aboard,  tender  your  persons  to  his 
presence,  whisper  him  in  your  behalfs  ;  and,  if  it  be  in  man, 
besides  the  king,  to  effect  your  suits,  here  is  man  shall  do  it. 


Scene  UI.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  95 

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 :  Remem- 
ber, stoned  and  flayed  alive ! 

Shep.  An  't  please  you,  sir,  to  undertake  the  business  for 
us,  here  is  that  gold  I  have :  I  '11  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  in  this 
business  ? 

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  '11  be  made  an  example. 

Clo.  Comfort,  good  comfort :  we  must  to  the  king,  and 
show  our  strange  sights  :  he  must  know,  't  is  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  per- 
formed ;  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. 

Clo.  We  are  blessed  in  this  man,  as  I  may  say,  even 
blessed. 

Shep.  Let 's  before,  as  he  bids  us :  he  was  provided  to  do 
us  good.  \^Exeunt  Shepherd  and  Clown. 

Aut.  If  I  had  a  mind  to  be  honest,  I  see  fortune  would  not 
sufier  me;  she  drops  booties  in  my  mouth.  I  am  courted 
now  with  a  double  occasion ;  gold,  and  a  means  to  do  the 
prince  my  master  good ;  which,  who  knows  how  that  may 
turn  back  to  my  advancement  ?  I  will  bring  these  two  moles, 
these  blind  ones,  aboard  him :  if  he  think  it  fit  to  shore  them 
again,  and  that  the  complaint  they  have  to  the  king  concerns 
him  nothing,  let  him  call  me  rogue  for  being  so  far  oflicious ; 
for  I  am  proof  against  that  title,  and  what  shame  else  belongs 
to 't :  To  him  will  I  present  them ;  there  may  be  matter  in  it. 

[Exit. 


96 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IV. 


[Trol-my-dames.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    ACT    IV. 


'  Scene  II. — "  Every  ''leven  wether — todsj'^ 

Shakspere  has  here  brought  his  agricultural  knowledge  to  bear.  We  have  every 
reason  to  believe  that  he  was  a  practical  farmer ;  for,  after  he  had  bought  his  estate 
in  Stratford  Fields,  in  1602,  we  find  him  suing  one  Philip  Rogers  for  a  debt  of  35 
shillings  and  10  pence,  for  com  delivered  ;  and  in  1605  he  purchased  a  moiety  of 
the  tithes  of  Stratford,  which  he  probably  had  to  collect  in  kind.  When  he  puts 
this  speech,  therefore,  in  the  mouth  of  the  Clown,  we  may  reasonably  conclude  that 
he  knew,  of  his  own  experience,  that  the  average  produce  of  eleven  wethers  was  a 
tod  of  wool ;  and  that  the  value  of  a  tod  was  a  "  pound  and  odd  shilling."  Ritson 
says,  "  It  appears  from  Stafford's  '  Breefe  Conceipte  of  English  Pollicye,'  1581, 
that  the  price  of  a  tod  of  wool  was  at  that  period  twenty  or  two-and-twenty  shillings ; 
80  that  the  medium  price  was  exactly  '  pound  and  odd  shilling.' " 

*  Scene  II. — "  Three-man  song-men  all."' 

Singers  of  three-part  songs,  i.  e.  songs  for  three  voices.  And  in  some  old  plays 
we  find  the  term  three-men  s  songs.  In  '  The  Turnament  of  Tottenham,'  an  ancient 
ballad  (see  Percy's  '  Reliques,'  ii.  15)  ascribed  to  Gilbert  Pilkington,  and  sup- 
posed to  have  been  written  before  the  time  of  Edward  III.,  a  sir-men's  song  is  thus 
mentioned : — 

•'  In  every  corner  of  the  house 
Was  melody  delicious, 
For  to  hear  precious. 
Of  six-men's  song." 

^  Scene  II. — "  Means  and  bases.''' 
Means  are  tenors — intermediate  voices,  between  the  treble  and  bass. 


A  WINTER'S  TALE. 


97 


*  Scene  II. — "  Sings  psalms  to  hornpipes''' 

In  the  early  days  of  psalmody  it  was  not  unusual  to  adapt  the  popular  secular 
tunes  to  versions  of  the  psalms,  the  rage  for  which  originated  in  France.  (See  War- 
ton's  *  History  of  Poetry,'  sec.  xlv.) 

'  Scene  II. — "  Trol-my-dames.^ 

Farmer  quotes  an  old  treatise  on  Buxton  baths,  in  which,  describing  the  amuse- 
ments of  the  place,  the  writer  says,  "  The  ladies,  gentlewomen,  wives,  maids,  if  the 
weather  be  not  agreeable,  may  have  in  the  end  of  a  bench  eleven  holes  made,  into 
the  which  to  troule  pummits,  either  violent  or  soft,  after  their  own  discretion  :  the 
pastime  troule  in  madame  is  termed."  This  is  evidently  the  same  game  as  our 
bagatelle,  with  the  only  difference  that  there  £ire  eleven  holes  instead  of  nine.  In 
the  bagatelle-board  the  balls  are  sometimes  driven  through  the  arches  of  a  bridge 
which  crosses  it ;  and  for  this  reason  the  game  was  anciently  called  Pigeon-holes,  as 
well  as  Trou-madame.     In  Rowley's  '  New  Wonder'  we  have — 

"  I  am  sure  you  cannot  but  hear  what  quicksands  he  finds  out;  as  dice,  cards,  pij^on. 
holes." 


•  Scene  II. — "  An  ape-bearer." 

This  personage  was  always  a  favourite  with  the  English.  We  have  representa- 
tions of  him  in  manuscripts  as  old  as  the  thirteenth  century ;  and  in  Shakspere's 
time  he  had  lost  none  of  his  popularity.  Jonson,  in  his  Induction  to  *  Bartholo. 
mew  Fair,'  says,  "  He  has  ne'er  a  sword-and-buckler  man  in  his  fair ;  nor  a  juggler 
with  a  well-educated  ape  to  come  over  the  chain  for  the  king  of  England,  and  back 
again  for  the  prince." 

7  Scene  II. — "  ^  motion  0/  the  prodigal  son,'^ 

The  puppet-show  was  anciently  called  a  motion  ;  and  the  subjects  which  were 
chosen  for  these  exhibitions  were  mostly  scriptural.  In  Jonson's  humorous  play 
which  we  have  just  quoted,  the  puppet-show  professor  says,  "  O  the  motions  that 
I,  Lanthorn    Leatherhead,  have   given   light   to,  in  my  time,  since  my   master 

Vol.  IV.  H 


98 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IV, 


Pod  died !  Jerusalem  was  a  stately  thing,  and  so  was  Nineveh,  and  the  City  of 
Norwich."  The  '  Spectator,'  No.  14,  speaking  of  Powell  the  puppet-show  man,  says, 
"  There  cannot  be  too  great  encouragement  given  to  his  skill  in  motions,  provided  he 
is  under  proper  restrictions."  Even  in  the  days  of  Anne,  these  successors  of  the  old 
Mysteries  still  presented  scriptural  subjects.  Strutt,  in  his  '  Sports  and  Pastimes,' 
has  printed  a  Bartholomew  Fair  bill  of  that  time,  from  wtiich  the  following  is  an 
extract : — 

"  At  Crawley's  booth,  over  against  the  Crown  tavern  in  Smithfield,  during  the 
time  of  Bartholomew  Fair,  will  be  presented  a  little  opera,  called  '  The  Old  Crea- 
tion of  the  World,'  yet  newly  revived ;  with  the  addition  of  Noah's  Flood ;  also 
several  fountains  playing  water  during  the  time  of  the  play. — The  last  scene  does 
present  Noah  and  his  family  coming  out  of  the  ark,  witli  all  the  beasts  two  and  two, 
and  all  the  fowls  of  the  air  seen  in  a  prospect  sitting  upon  trees ;  likewise  over  the 
ark  is  seen  the  sun  rising  in  a  most  glorious  manner :  moreover,  a  multitude  of 
angels  will  be  seen  in  a  double  rank,  which  presents  a  double  prospect,  one  for  the 
sun,  the  other  for  a  palace,  where  will  be  seen  six  angels  ringing  of  bells." 

'  SICENE  II. — "  Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  joay." 

This  is  the  first  of  three  stanzas  of  a  song  which  we  do  not  meet  with  in  print  till 
1661,  when  it  appeared  in  '  The  Antidote  against  Melancholy,'  a  collection  of 
ballads,  &c.  We  are  told  that  it  was  set  as  a  round  for  three  voices  by  John  Hil- 
ton, and  so  published  in  the  Jlrtt  edition  of  his  '  Catch  that  catch  can,'  an  edition 
80  rare  that  we  have  never  been  able  to  obtain  a  sight  of  it.  The  melody,  however, 
is  given  in  *  The  Dancing-Master'  of  1650,  under  the  title  of  '  Jog  on,  my  honey,' 
and  is  as  follows,  a  base  and  accompaniment  being  now  added  to  it,  and  the  mea- 
sure changed  from  six-crotchet  time  to  six-quaver  : — 


Joa 


/       1  ^ 

on,      jog      on        the 


^^1^^ 


foot  -  path    way,     And 
• — -i- 


ee; 


y— •- 


ler   -   ri  -  ly     hent     the     stile,    O ;        A     mer  -  ry     heart  goes 


^g 


'f- 


A  WINTERS  TALE. 


99 


all         the     day,  Your      sad     tires     in         a       tnile,         O. 


se^g 


¥ 


i 


»  Scene  III.—"  0,  Proterpinar 

The  pamage  in  the  Fifth  Book  of  Ovid's  *  Metamorphoses'  is  thus  translated  by 
Golding,  1587  :— 

"  While  in  this  garden  Proserpine  was  taking  her  pastime. 
In  gathering  either  violets  blue,  or  lilies  white  as  lime; 
Dis  spied  her,  lov'd  her,  caught  her  up,  and  all  at  once  well  near. — 
The  lady  with  a  wailing  voice  affright  did  often  call 

Her  mother 

And  as  she  from  the  upper  part  her  garm.ent  would  have  rent. 
By  chance  she  let  her  lap  slip  down,  and  out  her  flowers  went." 

i<*  Scene  III.—"  Fading»r 

The  fadings  was  a  darice.  Malone  quotes  a  song  from  '  Sportive  Wit,'  1666, 
which  implies  that  it  was  a  rustic  dance  : — 

"  The  courtiers  scorn  ns  country  cIowtis, 
We  country  clowns  do  scorn  the  court ; 
We  can  be  as  merry  upon  the  downs 
As  yon  at  midnight  with  all  your  sport. 
With  K  fading,  with  &  fading.'' 

It  would  appear  also,  from  a  letter  appended  to  Boswell's  edition  of  Malone,  that  it 
was  an  Irish  dance,  and  that  it  was  practised  upon  rejoicing  occasions  as  recently 
as  1803,  the  date  of  the  letter. 

"  The  dance  is  called  Riuca  Fada,  and  means,  literally,  '  the  long  dance.' 
Though  yaerf  is  a  reed,  the  name  of  the  dance  is  not  borrowed  from  it ;  'fada  is  the 
adjective,  long,  and  rinca  the  substantive,  dance.'  In  Irish  the  adjective  follows  the 
substantive,  differing  from  the  English  construction ;  hence  rinca  fada  :  faeden  is 
the  diminutive,  and  means  little  reed ;  faeden  is  the  first  person  of  the  verb  to 
whistle,  either  with  the  lips  or  with  a  reed  ;   i. «.  I  whistle. 

"  This  dance  is  still  practised  on  rejoicing  occasions  in  many  parts  of  Ireland. 
A  king  and  queen  are  chosen  from  amongst  the  young  persons  who  are  the  best 
dancers  ;  the  queen  carries  a  garland  composed  of  two  hoops  placed  at  right  angles, 
and  fastened  to  a  handle ;  the  hoops  are  covered  with  flowers  and  ribbons ;  you 
have  seen  it,  I  dare  say,  with  the  May-maids.  Frequently  in  the  course  of  the 
dance  the  king  and  queen  lift  up  their  joined  hands  as  high  as  they  can,  she  still 
holding  the  garland  in  the  other.  The  most  remote  couple  from  the  king  and 
queen  first  pass  under  ;  all  the  rest  of  the  line  linked  together  follow  in  succession  : 
when  the  last  has  passed,  the  king  and  queen  suddenly  face  about  and  front  their 
companions ;  this  is  often  repeated  during  the  dance,  and  the  various  undulations 
are  pretty  enough,  resembling  the  movements  of  a  serpent.     The  dancers  on  the  first 

H2 


100  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IV. 

of  May  visit  guch  newly  wedded  pairs  of  a  certain  rank  as  have  been  married  since 
last  May-day  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  commonly  bestow  on  them  a  stuffed  ball 
richly  decked  with  gold  and  silver  lace,  (this  I  never  heard  of  before,)  and  accom- 
panied with  a  present  in  money,  to  regale  themselves  after  the  dance.  This  dance 
is  practised  when  the  bonfires  are  lighted  up,  the  queen  hailing  the  return  of  summer 
in  a  popular  Irish  song,  beginning, — 

'  Thuga  mair  sein  lu  soure  ving.' 

'  We  lead  on  summer — see  !  she  follows  in  our  train.'  " 

'*  Scene  III. — "  Poking-sticks  of  steel."' 

Stow  tells  us  that  "  about  the  sixteenth  year  of  the  queen  (Elizabeth)  began  the 
making  of  steel  poking-sticks,  and  until  that  time  all  laundresses  used  setting-sticks 
made  of  wood  or  bone."  The  ruff  itself,  in  the  setting  of  which  the  poking-stick 
was  used,  (that  of  steel  having  the  advantage  of  being  heated,)  is  thus  described  by 
Stubbes,  with  bis  accustomed  bitterness  against  the  luxuries  of  his  time  : — 

"  The  women  use  great  ruffs,  and  neckerchers  of  holland,  lawn,  cambric,  and 
such  cloth  as  the  g^-eatest  thread  shall  not  be  so  big  as  the  least  hair  that  is ;  and 
lest  they  should  fall  down,  they  are  smeared  and  starched  in  the  devil's  liquor,  I 
mean  starch ;  after  that  dried  with  great  diligence,  streaked,  patted,  and  rubbed 
very  nicely,  and  so  applied  to  their  goodly  necks,  and,  withal,  under-propped,  with 
supporters  (as  I  told  you  before),  the  stately  arches  of  pride  ;  beyond  all  this,  they 
have  a  further  fetch,  nothing  inferior  to  the  rest,  as  namely,  three  or  four  degrees  of 
minor  ruffs,  placed  gradatim,  one  beneath  another,  and  all  under  the  master-devil 
ruff :  the  skirts  then  of  these  great  ruffs  are  long  and  side  every  way  plaited,  and 
crested  full  curiously,  God  wot.  Then,  last  of  all,  they  are  either  clogged  with 
gold,  silver,  or  silk  lace  of  stately  price,  wrought  all  over  with  needlework,  speckled 
and  sparkled  here  and  there  with  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  and  many  other 
antiques,  strange  to  behold.  Some  are  wrought  with  open  work  down  to  the  midst 
of  the  ruff  and  further  ;  some  with  close  work,  some  with  purled  lace  so  clogged, 
and  other  gewgaws  so  pestered,  as  the  ruff  is  the  least  part  of  itself.  Sometimes 
they  are  pinned  up  to  their  ears,  sometimes  they  are  suffered  to  hang  over  their 
shoulders,  like  windmill-sails  fluttering  in  the  wind,  and  thus  every  one  pleaseth 
herself  in  her  own  foolish  devices." 

1*  Scene  III. — "  A  pair  of  sweet  gloves.'^ 
Autolycus  has  offered  for  sale 

"  Gloves  as  sweet  as  damask  roses." 
Howes,  who  continues  Stow's  Chronicle,  thus  describes  the  introduction  of  per- 
fumed gloves  in  the  eaxly  part  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  : — 

"  Milliners  or  haberdashers  had  not  then  any  gloves  embroidered,  or  trimmed 
with  gold  or  silk,  neither  gold  nor  embroidered  girdles  and  hangers ;  neither  could 
they  make  any  costly  wash  or  perfume  until,  about  the  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  year 
of  the  queen,  the  right  honourable  Edward  de  Vere,  Earl  of  Oxford,  came  from 
Italy,  and  brought  with  him  gloves,  sweet  bags,  a  perfumed  leather  jerkin,  and 
other  pleasant  things ;  and  that  year  the  queen  had  a  pair  of  perfumed  gloves 
trimmed  only  with  four  tufts  or  roses  of  coloured  silk.  The  queen  took  such 
pleasure  in  those  gloves,  that  she  was  pictured  with  those  gloves  upon  her  hands,  and 
for  many  years  after  it  was  called  the  Earl  of  Oxford's  perfume." 

"  Scene  III. — "  Made  themselves  alltnen  of  hair.'" 

The  original  stage-direction  suflSciently  explains  this :  "  Here  a  dance  of  twelve 
fatyrs."     We  find,  from  a  book  of  songs  composed  by  Thomas  Ravenscroft  and 


A  WINTER'S  TALK.  101 

others,  in  the  time  of  Shakspere,  that  in  this  popular  entertaiumeiit  the  satyrs  had 
an  appropriate  roundel  : — 

"  Round  a  round,  a  rounda,  keep  your  ring; 
To  the  glorious  sun  we  sing ; 

Ho,  ho ! 

He  that  wears  the  flaming  rays. 
And  the  imperial  crown  of  bays. 
Him,  with  him,  with  shouts  and  songs  we  praise ; 
Ho,  ho ! 

That  in  Iiis  bounty  would  vouchsafe  to  grace 
The  humble  sylvans  and  their  shaggy  race." 

The  satyrs'  dance  was  not  confined  to  England ;  and  it  has  been  rendered  memorable 
by  the  fearful  accident  with  which  it  was  accompanied  at  the  court  of  France  in 
1392.  The  description  by  Froissart  of  this  calamity  is  so  graphic  that  we  are  sure 
our  readers  will  not  regret  the  space  which  it  occupies.  We  give  it  from  Lord 
Bemers'  fine  old  translation : — 

"  It  fortuned  that,  soon  after  the  retaining  of  the  foresaid  knight,  a  marriage  was 
made  in  the  king's  house  between  a  young  knight  of  Vermandois  and  one  of  the 
queen's  gentlewomen ;  and  because  they  were  both  of  the  king's  house,  the  king's 
uncles  and  other  lords,  ladies,  and  damoiselles,  made  great  triumph  :  there  was  the 
Dukes  of  Orleans,  Berry,  and  Bourgogne,  and  their  wives,  dancing  and  making 
great  joy.  The  king  made  a  great  supper  to  the  lords  and  ladies,  and  the  queen 
kept  her  estate,  desiring  every  man  to  be  merry  :  and  there  was  a  squire  of  Nor- 
mandy, called  Hogreymen  Gensay,  he  advised  to  make  some  pastime.  The  day  of 
the  marriage,  which  was  on  a  Tuesday  before  Candlemas,  he  provided  for  a  mum- 
mery against  night :  he  devised  six  coats  made  of  linen  cloth,  covered  with  pitch, 
and  thereon  flax-like  hair,  and  had  them  ready  in  a  chamber.  The  king  put  on  one 
of  them,  and  the  Earl  of  Jouy,  a  young  lusty  knight,  another,  and  Sir  Charles  of 
Poitiers  the  third,  who  was  son  to  the  Earl  of  Valentenois,  and  Sir  Juan  of  Foix 
another,  and  the  son  of  the  Lord  Nanthorillet  had  on  the  fifth,  and  the  squire  him- 
self had  on  the  sixth;  and  when  they  were  thus  arrayed  in  these  sad  coats,  and 
sewed  fast  in  them,  they  seemed  like  wild  woodhouses,*  full  of  hair  from  the  top 
of  the  head  to  the  sole  of  the  foot.  This  device  pleased  well  the  French  king,  and 
was  well  content  with  the  squire  for  it.  They  were  appjurelled  in  these  coats  secretly 
in  a  chamber  that  no  man  knew  thereof  but  such  as  helped  them.  When  Sir  Juan 
of  Foix  had  well  devised  these  coats,  he  said  to  the  king, — '  Sir,  command  straightly 
that  no  man  approach  near  us  with  any  torch  or  fire,  for  if  the  fire  fasten  in  any  of 
these  coats,  we  shall  all  be  burnt  without  remedy.'  The  king  answered  and  said, — 
'  Juan,  ye  speak  well  and  wisely ;  it  shall  be  done  as  ye  have  devised ;'  and  incon- 
tinent sent  for  an  usher  of  his  chamber,  commanding  him  to  go  into  the  chamber 
where  the  ladies  danced,  and  to  command  all  the  varlets  holding  torches  to  stand 
up  by  the  walls,  and  none  of  them  to  approach  near  to  the  woodhouses  that  should 
come  thither  to  dance.  The  usher  did  the  king's  commandment,  which  was  ful- 
filled. Soon  after  the  Duke  of  Orleans  entered  into  the  hall,  accompanied  with 
four  knights  and  six  torches,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  king's  commandment  for  the 
torches,  nor  of  the  mummery  that  was  coming  thither,  but  thought  to  behold  the 
dancing,  and  began  himself  to  dance.  Therewith  the  king  with  the  five  other  came 
in ;  they  were  so  disguised  in  flax  that  no  man  knew  them :  five  of  them  were  fast- 
ened one  to  another ;  the  king  was  loose,  and  went  before  and  led  the  device. 

"  When  they  entered  into  the  hall  every  man  took  so  great  heed  to  them  that 
they  forgot  the  torches:  the  king  departed  from  his  company  and  went  to  the  ladies 

*  Savages. 


102  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IV. 

to  sport  with  them,  as  youth  required,  and  so  passed  by  the  queen  and  came  to  the 
Duchess  of  Berry,  who  took  and  held  him  by  the  arm  to  know  what  he  was,  but 
the  king  would  not  show  his  name.  Then  the  duchess  said,  Ye  shall  not  escape  me 
till  I  know  your  name.  In  this  mean  season  great  mischief  fell  on  the  other,  and 
by  reason  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans ;  howbeit,  it  was  by  ignorance,  and  against  his 
will,  for  if  he  had  considered  before  the  mischief  that  fell,  he  would  not  have  done 
as  he  did  for  all  the  good  in  the  world ;  but  he  was  so  desirous  to  know  what  per- 
sonages the  five  were  that  danced,  he  put  one  of  the  torches  that  his  servant  held  so 
near,  that  the  heat  of  the  fire  entered  into  the  flax  (wherein  if  fire  take  there  is  no 
remedy),  and  suddenly  was  on  a  bright  flame,  and  so  each  of  tliem  set  fire  on  other; 
the  pitch  was  so  fastened  to  the  linen  cloth,  and  their  shirts  so  dry  and  fine,  and  so 
joining  to  their  flesh,  that  they  began  to  bum  and  to  cry  for  help :  none  durst  come 
near  them ;  they  that  did  burnt  their  hands  by  reason  of  the  heat  of  the  pitch :  one 
of  them  called  Nanthorillet  advised  him  how  the  botry  was  thereby ;  he  fled  thither, 
and  cast  himself  into  a  vessel  full  of  water,  wherein  they  rinsed  pots,  which  saved 
him,  or  else  be  had  been  dead  as  the  other  were ;  yet  he  was  sore  hurt  with  the  fire. 
When  the  queen  heard  the  cry  that  they  made,  she  doubted  her  of  the  king,  for  she 
knew  well  that  he  should  be  one  of  the  six ;  therewith  she  fell  into  a  swoon,  and 
knights  and  ladies  came  and  comforted  her.  A  piteous  noise  there  was  in  the  hall. 
The  Duchess  of  Berry  delivered  the  king  from  that  peril,  for  she  did  cast  over  him 
the  train  of  her  gown,  and  covered  him  from  the  fire.  The  king  would  have  gone 
from  her.  Whither  will  ye  go?  quoth  she;  ye  see  well  how  your  company  burns. 
What  are  ye  ?  I  am  the  king,  quoth  he.  Haste  ye,  quoth  she,  and  get  you  into 
Other  apparel,  and  come  to  the  queen.  And  the  Duchess  of  Berry  had  somewhat 
comforted  her,  and  had  showed  her  how  she  should  see  the  king  shortly.  There- 
with the  king  came  to  the  queen,  and  as  soon  as  she  saw  him,  for  joy  she  embraced 
him  and  fell  in  a  swoon  ;  then  she  was  borne  to  her  chamber,  and  the  king  went 
with  her.  And  the  bastard  of  Foix,  who  was  all  on  a  fire,  cried  ever  with  a  loud 
voice.  Save  the  king,  save  the  king !  Thus  was  the  king  saved.  It  was  happy  for 
him  that  he  went  from  his  company,  for  else  he  had  been  dead  without  remedy. 
This  great  mischief  fell  thus  about  midnight  in  the  hall  of  Saint  Powle  in  Paris, 
where  there  was  two  burnt  to  death  in  the  place,  and  other  two,  the  bastard  of  Foix 
and  the  Earl  of  Jouy,  borne  to  their  lodgings,  and  died  within  two  days  after  in 
great  misery  and  pain." 

The  illuminated  Froissart  in  the  British  Museum  supplies  us  with  a  representa- 
tion of  this  tragical  event.  It  would  appear  from  a  passage  in  Melvil's  '  Memoirs' 
that  the  French  brought  this  species  of  mummery  to  the  court  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots : — 

"  During  their  abode  (that  of  the  ambassadors  who  assembled  to  congratulate 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots  on  the  birth  of  her  son)  at  Stirling,  there  was  daily  banquet- 
ing, dancing,  and  triumph.  And  at  the  principal  banquet  there  fell  out  a  great 
grudge  among  the  Englishmen ;  for  a  Frenchman,  called  Bastian,  devised  a  number 
of  men  formed  like  satyrs,  with  long  tails,  and  whips  in  their  bands,  running  before 
the  meat,  whhch  was  brought  through  the  great  hall  upon  a  machine  or  engine, 
marching  as  appeared  alone,  with  musicians  clothed  like  maids,  singing,  and  play- 
ing upon  all  sorts  of  instruments.  But  the  satyrs  were  not  content  only  to  make 
way  or  room,  but  put  their  hands  behind  them  to  their  tails,  which  they  wagged 
with  their  hands  in  such  sort  as  the  Englishmen  supposed  it  had  been  devised  and 
done  in  derision  of  them,  weakly  apprehending  that  which  they  should  not  have 
appeared  to  understand.  For  Mr.  Hatton,  Mr.  Lignish,  and  the  most  part  of  the 
gentlemen,  desired  to  sup  before  the  queen  and  great  banquet,  that  they  might  see 
the  better  the  order  and  ceremonies  of  the  triumph  :  but  so  soon  as  they  perceived 


A  WINTER  S  TALE. 


103 


the  gatyrs  wagging  their  tails,  they  all  sat  down  upon  the  bare  floor  behind  the  back 
of  the  table,  that  they  might  not  see  themselves  derided,  as  they  thought.  Mr. 
Hatton  said  unto  me,  if  it  were  not  in  the  queen's  presence,  he  would  put  a  dagger 
to  the  heart  of  that  French  knave  Bastian,  who,  he  alleged,  had  done  it  out  of 
despite  that  the  queen  made  more  of  them  than  of  the  Frenchmen." 


'*  Scene  III. — '•  PomatuUr." 

We  have  a  passage  in  Cavendish's  '  Life  of  Wolsey '  in  which  the  great  cardinal 
is  described  coming  after  mass  into  his  privy  chamber,  "  holding  in  his  hand  a  very 
fair  orange,  whereof  the  meat  or  substance  within  was  taken  out,  and  filled  up  again 
with  the  part  of  a  sponge,  wherein  was  vinegar  and  other  confections  against  the 
pestilent  airs ;  the  which  he  most  commonly  smelt  unto,  passing  among  the  press, 
or  else  when  he  was  pestered  with  many  suitors."  This  was  a  pomander.  It 
appears  from  a  passage  in  Mr.  Burgon's  valuable  '  Life  of  Sir  Thomas  Gresham ' 
that  the  supposed  orange  held  in  the  hand  in  several  ancient  portraits,  amongst 
others  in  those  of  Lord  Berners  and  Gresham,  was  in  truth  a  pomander. 


104  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  V. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — Sicilia.     A  Room  in  the  Palace  o/'Leontes. 

Enter  Leontes,  Cleomenes,  Dion,  Paulina,  and  others. 

Cleo.  Sir,  you  have  done  enough,  and  have  perform'd 
A  saint-like  sorrow  :  no  fault  could  you  make 
Which  you  have  not  redeem'd ;  indeed,  paid  down 
More  penitence,  than  done  trespass :  At  the  last 
Do,  as  the  heavens  have  done  ;  forget  your  evil ; 
With  them,  forgive  yourself 

Leon.  Whilst  I  remember 

Her,  and  her  virtues,  I  cannot  forget 
My  blemishes  in  them ;  and  so  still  think  of 
The  wrong  I  did  myself:  which  was  so  much, 
That  heirless  it  hath  made  my  kingdom  j  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  aU  the  world. 
Or,  from  the  all  that  are  took  something  good. 
To  make  a  perfect  woman,  she,  you  kill'd. 
Would  be  unparallel'd. 

Leon.  I  think  so.     Kill'd ! 

She  I  kill'd  !     I  did  so :  but  thou  strik'st  me 
Sorely,  to  say  I  did ;  it  is  as  bitter 
Upon  thy  tongue  as  in  my  thought.     Now,  good  now. 
Say  so  but  seldom. 

Cleo.  Not  at  all,  good  lady ; 

You  might  have  spoken  a  thousand  things  that  would 
Have  done  the  time  more  benefit,  and  grac'd 
Your  kindness  better. 

Paul.  You  are  one  of  those 

Would  have  him  wed  again. 

Dion.  If  you  would  not  so. 


Scene  I.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  105 

You  pity  not  the  state,  nor  the  remembrance 
Of  his  most  sovereign  name ;  consider  little. 
What  dangers,  by  his  highness'  fail  of  issue. 
May  drop  upon  his  kingdom,  and  devour 
Incertain  lookers-on.     What  were  more  holy 
Than  to  rejoice  the  former  queen  is  well  ?  ■ 
What  holier  than, — for  royalty's  repair. 
For  present  comfort  and  for  future  good, — 
To  bless  the  bed  of  majesty  again 
With  a  sweet  fellow  to  't  ? 

Paul.  There  is  none  worthy. 

Respecting  her  that 's  gone.     Besides,  the  gods 
Will  have  fulfill'd  their  secret  purposes : 
For  has  not  the  divine  Apollo  said. 
Is 't  not  the  tenor  of  his  oracle. 
That  king  Leontes  shall  not  have  an  heir 
Till  his  lost  child  be  found  ?  which,  that  it  shall. 
Is  all  as  monstrous  to  our  human  reason. 
As  my  Antigonus  to  break  his  grave. 
And  come  again  to  me ;  who,  on  my  life. 
Did  perish  with  the  infant.     'T  is  your  counsel 
My  lord  should  to  the  heavens  be  contrary. 
Oppose  against  their  wills. — Care  not  for  issue  -,    [To  Leon. 
The  crown  will  find  an  heir :  Great  Alexander 
Left  his  to  the  worthiest ;  so  his  successor 
Was  like  to  be  the  best. 

Leon.                                 Good  Paulina, — 
Who  hast  the  memory  of  Hermione, 
I  know,  in  honour, — O,  that  ever  I 
Had  squar'd  me  to  thy  counsel !  then,  even  now, 
I  might  have  look'd  upon  my  queen's  full  eyes  ; 
Have  taken  treasure  from  her  lips, 

Paul.  And  left  them 

More  rich,  for  what  they  yielded. 

Leon.  Thou  speak'st  truth. 

No  more  such  wives ;  therefore,  no  wife  :  one  worse. 
And  better  us'd,  would  make  her  sainted  spirit 

"  In  '  Antony  and  Cleopatra '  we  have  an  explanation  of  the  text : — 
"  We  use  to  say,  the  dead  are  well." 


106  A  WINTER  S  TALE.  [Act  V. 

Again  possess  her  cjorps  ;  and,  on  this  stage, 
(Where  we  offenders  now,)  appear,'  soul-vex'd. 
And  begin,  "  Why  to  me  ?  " 

Paul.  Had  she  such  power. 

She  had  just  cause.'' 

Leon.  She  had  ;  and  would  incense  me 

To  murther  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  your  ears 
Should  rift  to  hear  me  ;  and  the  words  that  follow 'd 
Should  be,  "  Remember  mine  !  " 

Leon.  Stars,  stars,'' 

And  all  eyes  else  dead  coals ! — fear  thou  no  wife, 
I  '11  have  no  wife,  Paidina. 

Paul.  Will  you  swear 

Never  to  marry,  but  by  my  free  leave  ? 

Leon.  Never,  Paulina:  so  be  bless'd  my  spirit ! 

Paul.  Then,  good  my  lords,  bear  witness  to  his  oath,— r- 

Cleo.  You  tempt  him  over-much. 

Paul.  Unless  another. 

As  like  Hermione  as  is  her  picture. 
Affront  his  eye  ; — '^ 

Cleo.  Good  madam,  I  have  done. 

Paul.  Yet,  if  my  lord  will  marry, — if  you  will. 
No  remedy  but  you  will ;  give  me  the  office 

■  The  original  reads — 

(Where  we  offenders  now  appear.) 
We  bare  shifted  the  place  of  the  parenthesis,  making  "  her  sainted  spirit "  the  DOjcai- 
native  case  to  "  appear."     By  this  arrangement,  "  where  we  offenders  now  "  are  must 
be  understood.     By  any  other  construction  we  lose  the  force  of  the  word  "  apjjear," 
as  applied  to  "  sainted  spirit."     Malone  proposed  to  read, — 
"  Again  possess  her  corps,  (and  on  this  stage 
Where  we  offenders  now  appear  soul-vex'd,) 
And  begin,  Why  to  me  ?" 
*"  Jutt  cause.    In  the  original  jui/  such  cause.    In  modem  editions  uch  is  omitted, 
following  the  authority  of  the  third  folio. 

"  Stars,  stars.     So  the  original,  but  diluted  by  Haumer  into  stars,  very  stars. 
*  The  vehemence  of  Paulina  overbears  the   interruption  of  Cleomenes,  and  he 
says  "  I  have  done."     The  modern  editors  give  "  I  have  done"  to  Paulina;  when 
she  is  evidently  going  on,  perfectly  regardless  of  any  opposition. 


Scene  I.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  107 

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. 

Paul.  That 

Shall  be,  when  your  first  queen  's  again  in  breath  ; 
Never  till  then. 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Gent.  One  that  gives  out  himself  prince  Florizel, 
Son  of  Polixenes,  with  his  princess,  (she 
The  fairest  I  have  yet  beheld,)  desires  access 
To  your  high  presence. 

Leon.  What  with  him  ?  he  comes  not 

Like  to  his  father's  greatness  :  his  approach. 
So  out  of  circumstance  and  sudden,  tells  us 
'T  is  not  a  visitation  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.  Aj,  the  most  peerless  piece  of  earth,  I  think. 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  bright  on. 

Paul.  O  Hermione, 

As  every  present  time  doth  boast  itself 
Above  a  better,  gone,  so  must  thy  grave 
Give  way  to  what 's  seen  now.     Sir,  you  yourself 
Have  said,  and  writ  so,  (but  your  writing  now 
Is  colder  than  that  theme,)  "  She  had  not  been. 
Nor  was  not  to  be  equall'd ;" — ^thus  your  verse 
Flow'd  with  her  beauty  once ;  't  is  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 

•  So  the  original.     The  modern  editors  read  "such  a  creature." 


108  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  V. 

Of  all  professors  else ;  make  proselytes 
Of  who  she  but  bid  follow. 

Paul.  How  ?  not  women  ? 

Gent.  Women  will  love  her,  that  she  is  a  woman. 
More  worth  than  any  man ;  men,  that  she  is 
The  rarest  of  all  women. 

Leon.  Go,  Cleomenes  ; 

Yourself,  assisted  with  your  honour'd  friends. 
Bring  them  to  our  embracement. — Still  't  is  strange, 

[Exeunt  Cleomenes,  Lords,  and  Gentleman. 
He  thus  should  steal  upon  us. 

Paul.  Had  our  prince 

(Jewel  of  children)  seen  this  hour,  he  had  pair'd 
Well  with  this  lord ;  there  was  not  full  a  month 
Between  their  births. 

Leon.  Prithee,  no  more  ;  cease ;'  thou  know'st. 

He  dies  to  me  again,  when  talk'd  of:  sure. 
When  I  shall  see  this  gentleman,  thy  speeches 
Will  bring  me  to  consider  that  which  may 
Unfurnish  me  of  reason. — They  are  come. — 

Re-enter   Cleomenes,  with    Florizel,  Perdita,  and   At- 
tendants. 

Your  mother  was  most  true  to  wedlock,  prince  ; 
For  she  did  print  your  royal  father  off. 
Conceiving  you :  Were  I  but  twenty-one. 
Your  father's  image  is  so  hit  in  you. 
His  very  air,  that  I  should  call  you  brother. 
As  I  did  him ;  and  speak  of  something,  wildly 
By  us  perform'd  before.     Most  dearly  welcome  ! 
And  your  fair  princess,  goddess  ! — O,  alas ! 
I  lost  a  couple,  that  'twixt  heaven  and  earth 
Might  thus  have  stood,  begetting  wonder,  as 
You,  gracious  couple,  do !  and  then  I  lost 
(All  mine  own  folly)  the  society. 
Amity  too,  of  your  brave  father ;  whom. 
Though  bearing  misery,  I  desire  my  life 
Once  more  to  look  on  him. 

•  Ceate  is  omitted  by  Steevens,  for  the  iake  of  metre. 


Scene  I.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  109 

Flo.  By  his  command 

Have  I  here  touch'd  Sicilia :  and  from  him 
Give  you  all  greetings,  that  a  king,  at  friend. 
Can  send  his  brother :  and,  but  infirmity 
(Which  waits  upon  worn  times)  hath  something  seiz'd 
His  wish'd  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.  O,  my  brother, 

(Good  gentleman !)  the  wrongs  I  have  done  thee  stir 
Afresh  within  me ;  and  these  thy  offices. 
So  rarely  kind,  are  as  interpreters 
Of  my  behind-hand  slackness  ! — Welcome  hither. 
As  is  the  spring  to  the  earth.     And  hath  he  too 
Expos'd  this  paragon  to  the  fearful  usage   . 
(At  least,  ungentle)  of  the  dreadful  Neptune, 
To  greet  a  man  not  worth  her  pains ;  much  less 
The  adventure  of  her  person  ? 

Flo.  Good  my  lord. 

She  came  from  Libya. 

Leon.  Where  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  dismiss'd  ; 
Who  for  Bohemia  bend,  to  signify 
Not  only  my  success  in  Libya,  sir. 
But  my  arrival,  and  my  wife's,  in  safety 
Here,  where  we  are. 

Leon.  The  blessed  gods 

Purge  all  infection  from  our  air,  whilst  you 
Do  climate  here !     You  have  a  holy  father, 
A  graceful  gentleman ;  against  whose  person. 


110  A  WINTERS  TALK.  [Act  V. 

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  things  as  you  ! 

Enter  a  Lord. 

Lord.  Most  noble  sir. 

That  which  I  shall  report  will  bear  no  credit. 
Were  not  the  proof  so  nigh.     Please  you,  great  sir, 
Bohemia  greets  you  from  himself  by  me : 
Desires  you  to  attach  his  son ;  who  has 
(His  dignity  and  duty  both  cast  off) 
Fled  from  his  father,  from  his  hopes,  and  with 
A  shepherd's  daughter. 

Leon.  Where 's  Bohemia ?  speak. 

Lord.  Here  in  your  ■  city ;  I  now  came  from  him : 
I  speak  amazedly  ;  and  it  becomes 
My  marvel,  and  my  message.     To  your  court 
Whiles  he  was  hast'ning,  (in  the  chase,  it  seems. 
Of  this  fair  couple,)  meets  he  on  the  way 
The  father  of  this  seeming  lady,  and 
Her  brother,  having  both  their  country  quitted 
With  this  young  prince. 

Flo.  Camillo  has  betray'd  me  ; 

Whose  honour,  and  whose  honesty,  till  now, 
Endur'd  all  weathers. 

Lord.  h&j  't  so  to  his  charge; 

He 's  with  the  king  your  father. 

Leon.  Who?     Camillo? 

Lord.  Camillo,  sir ;  I  spake  with  him ;  who  now 
Has  these  poor  men  in  question.     Never  saw  I 
Wretches  so  quake :  they  kneel,  they  kiss  the  earth ; 
Forswear  themselves  as  often  as  they  speak  : 
Bohemia  stops  his  ears,  and  threatens  them 
With  divers  deaths  in  death. 

■    Your.    This  is  changed  to  the,  in  modern  editioiu,  without  explanation. 


Scene  I.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  1 1 1 

Per.  O,  my  poor  father ! — 

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. 

When  once  she  is  my  wife. 

Leon.  That  once,  I  see,  by  your  good  father's  speed. 
Will  come  on  very  slowly.     I  am  sorry. 
Most  sorry,  you  have  broken  from  his  liking. 
Where  you  were  tied  in  duty :  and  as  sorry. 
Your  choice  is  not  so  rich  in  worth  as  beauty. 
That  you  might  well  enjoy  her. 

Flo.  Dear,  look  up  : 

Though  fortune,  visible  an  enemy. 
Should  chase  us,  with  my  father,  power  no  jot 
Hath  she  to  change  our  loves. — 'Beseech  you,  sir. 
Remember  since  you  ow'd  no  more  to  time 
Than  I  do  now :  with  thought  of  such  affections. 
Step  forth  mine  advocate  ;  at  your  request. 
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. 

Your  eye  hath  too  much  youth  in  't :  not  a  month 
'Fore  your  queen  died,  she  was  more  worth  such  gazes 
Than  what  you  look  on  now. 

Leon.  I  thought  of  her. 

Even  in  these  looks  I  made. — But  your  petition      [To  Flo. 
Is  yet  unanswer'd  :  I  will  to  your  father ; 
Your  honour  not  o'erthrown  by  your  desires, 
I  am  friend  to  them,  and  you :  upon  which  errand 
I  now  go  toward  him ;  therefore  follow  me. 
And  mark  what  way  I  make  :  Come,  good  my  lord.  [Exeunt. 


1 12  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  V. 

SCENE  IL— The  same.     Before  the  Palace. 

Enter  Autolycus  and  a  Gentleman. 

Aut.  'Beseech  you,  sir,  were  you  present  at  this  relation  ? 

1  Gent.  I  was  by  at  the  opening  of  the  fardel ;  heard  the 
old  shepherd  deliver  the  manner  how  he  found  it :  where- 
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  de- 
stroyed :  A  notable  passion  of  wonder  appeared  in  them : 
but  the  wisest  beholder,  that  knew  no  more  but  seeing,  could 
not  say  if  the  importance  *  were  joy  or  sorrow ;  but  in  the 
extremity  of  the  one  it  must  needs  be. 

Enter  another  Gentleman. 

Here  comes  a  gentleman,  that,  happily,  knows  more :  The 
news,  Rogero? 

2  Gent.  Nothing  but  bonfires :  The  oracle  is  fulfilled  ;  the 
king's  daughter  is  found :  such  a  deal  of  wonder  is  broken 
out  within  this  hour,  that  ballad-makers  cannot  be  able  to 
express  it. 

Enter  a  third  Gentleman. 

Here  comes  the  lady  Paulina's  steward  ;  he  can  deliver  you 
more. — How  goes  it  now,  sir  ?  this  news,  which  is  called  true, 
is  so  like  an  old  tale,  that  the  verity  of  it  is  in  strong  suspi- 
cion :  Has  the  king  found  his  heir  ? 

3  Gent.  Most  true ;  if  ever  truth  were  pregnant  by  cir- 
cumstance ;  that  which  you  hear  you  '11  swear  you  see,  there 
is  such  unity  in  the  proofs.    The  mantle  of  queen  Hermione  : 

•  Importance — import. 


ScENBlL]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  113 

— her  jewel  about  the  neck  of  it : — the  letters  of  Antigonus, 
found  with  it,  which  they  know  to  be  his  character : — the 
majesty  of  the  creature,  in  resemblance  of  the  mother ; — the 
affection  of  nobleness,  which  nature  shows  above  her  breed- 
ing,— and  many  other  evidences,  proclaim  her,  with  all  cer- 
tainty, to  be  the  king's  daughter.  Did  you  see  the  meeting 
of  the  two  kings  ? 

2  Gent.  No. 

3  Gent.  Then  have  you  lost  a  sight,  which  was  to  be  seen, 
cannot  be  spoken  of.  There  might  you  have  beheld  one  joy 
crown  another ;  so,  and  in  such  manner,  that  it  seemed  sor- 
row wept  to  take  leave  of  them ;  for  their  joy  waded  in  tears. 
There  was  casting  iip  of  eyes,  holding  up  of  hands ;  with 
countenance  of  such  distraction,  that  they  were  to  be  known 
by  garment,  not  by  favour.  Our  king,  being  ready  to  leap 
out  of  himself  for  joy  of  his  found  daughter ;  as  if  that  joy 
were  now  become  a  loss,  cries,  "  O,  thy  mother,  thy  mother !" 
then  asks  Bohemia  forgiveness ;  then  embraces  his  son-in- 
law  ;  then  again  worries  he  his  daughter,  with  clipping  her ; 
now  he  thanks  the  old  shepherd,  which  stands  by,  like  a 
weather-bitten  conduit '  of  many  kings'  reigns.  I  never 
heard  of  such  another  encounter,  which  lames  report  to  follow 
it,  and  undoes  description  to  do  it. 

2  Gent.  What,  pray  you,  became  of  Antigonus,  that  car- 
ried hence  the  child? 

3  Gent.  Like  an  old  tale  still;  which  will  have  matter  to 
rehearse,  though  credit  be  asleep,  and  not  an  ear  open  :  He 
was  torn  to  pieces  with  a  bear :  this  avouches  the  shepherd's 
son ;  who  has  not  only  his  innocence  (which  seems  much)  to 
justify  him,  but  a  handkerchief,  and  rings,  of  his,  that  Pau- 
lina knows. 

1  Gent.  What  became  of  his  bark,  and  his  followers  ? 

3  Gent.  Wracked,  the  same  instant  of  their  master's  death ; 
and  in  the  view  of  the  shepherd  :  so  that  all  the  instruments, 
which  aided  to  expose  the  child,  were  even  then  lost,  when 
it  was  found.  But,  O,  the  noble  combat  that,  'twixt  joy  and 
sorrow,  was  fought  in  Paulina !  She  had  one  eye  declined 
for  the  loss  of  her  husband  ;  another  elevated  that  the  oracle 
was  fulfilled  :  She  lifted  the  princess  from  the  earth ;  and  so 

Vol.  IV.  I 


114.  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  V. 

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. 

3  Gent.  One  of  the  prettiest  touches  of  all,  and  that  which 
angled  for  mine  eyes  (caught  the  water,  though  not  the 
fish),  was,  when  at  the  relation  of  the  queen's  death,  with  the 
manner  how  she  came  to  it,  (bravely  confessed,  and  lamented 
by  the  king,)  how  attentiveness  wounded  his  daughter ;  till, 
from  one  sign  of  dolour  to  another,  she  did,  with  an  "  alas !" 
I  would  fain  say,  bleed  tears ;  for,  I  am  sure,  my  heart  wept 
blood.  Who  was  most  marble  there  changed  colour ;  some 
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  master, 
Julio  Romano ;  who,  had  he  himself  eternity,  and  could  put 
breath  into  his  work,  would  beguile  nature  of  her  custom,  so 
perfectly  he  is  her  ape :  he  so  near  to  Hermione  hath  done 
Hermione,  that  they  say,  one  would  speak  to  her,  and  stand 
in  hope  of  answer :  thither,  with  all  greediness  of  affection, 
are  they  gone ;  and  there  they  intend  to  sup. 

2  Gent,  I  thought  she  had  some  great  matter  there  in 
hand;  for  she  hath  privately,  twice  or  thrice  a  day,  ever 
since  the  death  of  Hermione,  visited  that  removed  house. 
Shall  we  thither,  and  with  our  company  piece  the  rejoicing  ? 

1  Gent.  Who  would  be  thence  that  has  the  benefit  of 
access  ?  every  wink  of  an  eye,  some  new  grace  will  be  born  : 
our  absence  makes  us  unthrifty  to  our  knowledge.  Let 's 
along,  [Exeunt  Gentlemen. 

Aut,  Now,  had  I  not  the  dash  of  my  former  life  in  me, 
would  preferment  drop  on  my  head.  I  brought  the  old 
man  and  his  son  aboard  the  prince ;  told  him,  I  heard  them 
talk  of  a  fardel,  and  I  know  not  what ;  but  he  at  that  time, 
overfond  of  the  shepherd's  daughter,  (so  he  then  took  her 
to  be,)  who  began  to  be  much  sea-sick,  and  himself  little 
better,  extremity  of  weather  continuing,  this  mystery  re- 


Scene  II.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE,  115 

mained  undiscovered.  But  't  is  all  one  to  me  ;  for  had  I 
been  the  finder  out  of  this  secret,  it  would  not  have  relished 
among  my  other  discredits- 

Enter  Shepherd  and  Clown- 
Here  come  those  I  have  done  good  to  against  my  will,  and 
already  appearing  in  the  blossoms  of  their  fortune. 

Shep.  Come,  boy ;  I  am  past  more  children,  but  thy  sons 
and  daughters  will  be  all  gentlemen  borm 

do.  You  are  well  met,  sir :  You  denied  to  fight  with  me 
this  other  day,  because  I  was  no  gentleman  born :  See  you 
these  clothes?  say,  you  see  them  not,  and  think  me  still  no 
gentleman  born :  you  were  best  say  these  robes  are  not  gen- 
tlemen born.  Give  me  the  lie ;  do ;  and  try  whether  I  am 
not  now  a  gentleman  born. 

Aut.  I  know  you  are  now,  sir,  a  gentleman  born. 

Clo.  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  born  before 
my  father:  for  the  king's  son  took  me  by  the  hand,  and 
called  me,  brother ;  and  then  the  two  kings  called  my  father, 
brother ;  and  then  the  prince,  my  brother,  and  the  princess, 
my  sister,  called  my  father,  father;  and  so  we  wept:  and 
there  was  the  first  gentlemanlike  tears  that  ever  we  shed. 

Shep.  We  may  live,  son,  to  shed  many  more. 

Clo.  kj ;  or  else  't  were  hard  luck ;  being  in  so  prepos- 
terous estate  as  we  are. 

Aut.  I  humbly  beseech  you,  sir,  to  pardon  me  all  the 
faults  I  have  committed  to  your  worship,  and  to  give  me 
your  good  report  to  the  prince  my  master. 

Shep.  Prithee,  son,  do ;  for  we  must  be  gentle,  now  we 
are  gentlemen. 

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. 

Shep.  You  may  say  it,  but  not  swear  it. 

Clo.  Not  swear  it,  now  I  am  a  gentleman  ?  Let  boors  and 
franklins  say  it,  I  '11  swear  it. 

I  3 


116  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  V. 

Shep.  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  '11  swear  to  the 
prince,  thou  art  a  tall  fellow  of  thy  hands,  and  that  thou 
wilt  not  be  drunk ;  but  I  know,  thou  art  no  tall  fellow  of 
thy  hands,  and  that  thou  wilt  be  drunk ;  but  I  '11  swear  it : 
and  I  would  thou  wouldst  be  a  tall  fellow  of  thy  hands. 

Aut.  I  will  prove  so,  sir,  to  my  power. 

do.  Ay,  by  any  means  prove  a  tall  fellow :  If  I  do  not 
wonder  how  thou  darest  venture  to  be  drunk,  not  being  a  tall 
fellow,  trust  me  not. — Hark !  the  kings  and  the  princes,  our 
kindred,  are  going  to  see  the  queen's  picture.  Come,  follow 
us :  we  '11  be  thy  good  masters.  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — The  same,     A  Room  in  Paulina'*  House. 

Enter  Leontes,  Polixenes,  Florizel,  Perdita,  Camillo, 
Paulina,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Leon.  O  grave  and  good  Paulina,  the  great  comfort 
That  I  have  had  of  thee ! 

Paul.  What,  sovereign  sir, 

I  did  not  well,  I  meant  well:  All  my  services 
You  have  paid  home :  but  that  you  have  vouchsaPd, 
With  your  crown'd  brother,  and  these  your  contracted 
Heirs  of  your  kingdoms,  my  poor  house  to  visit ; 
It  is  a  surplus  of  your  grace,  which  never 
My  life  may  last  to  answer. 

Leon.  O  Paulina, 

We  honour  you  with  trouble ;  But  we  came 
To  see  the  statue  of  our  queen :  your  gallery 
Have  we  pass'd  through,  not  without  much  content 
In  many  singularities ;  but  we  saw  not 
That  which  my  daughter  came  to  look  upon. 
The  statue  of  her  mother. 

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 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  1 1 7 

To  see  the  life  as  lively  mock'd,  as  ever 

Still  sleep  mock'd  death  :  behold ;  and  say,  't  is  well. 

[Paulina  undraws  a  curtain,  and  discovers  a  statue. 
I  like  your  silence,  it  the  more  shows  oflf 
Your  wonder :  But  yet  speak  j — first,  you,  my  liege. 
Comes  it  not  something  near  ? 

Leon.  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  her ! 
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  t'  is  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  : 

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 


118  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  V. 

Did  ever  so  long  live ;  no  sorrow. 
But  kill'd  itself  much  sooner. 

Pol.  Dear  my  brother. 

Let  him  that  was  the  cause  of  this  have  power 
To  take  off  so  much  grief  from  you,  as  he 
Will  piece  up  in  himself. 

Paul.  Indeed,  my  lord. 

If  I  had  thought  the  sight  of  my  poor  image 
Would  thus  have  wrought  you  (for  the  stone  is  mine), 
I  'd  not  have  show'd  it. 

Leon.  Do  not  draw  the  curtain. 

Paul.  No  longer  shall  you  gaze  on 't ;  lest  your  fancy 
May  think  anon  it  moves. 

Leon.  Let  be,  let  be. 

Would  I  were  dead,  but  that,  methinks,  already  ' — ■ 
What  was  he  that  did  make  it  ? — See,  my  lord. 
Would  you  not  deem  it  breath'd  ?  and  that  those  veins 
Did  verily  bear  blood? 

Pol.  Masterly  done : 

The  very  life  seems  warm  upon  her  lip. 

Leon.  The  fixure  of  her  eye  has  motion  in  *t. 
As  we  are  mock'd  with  art. 

Paul.  I  '11  draw  the  curtain ; 

My  lord 's  almost  so  far  transported  that 
He  '11  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  comfort. — Still,  methinks, 

'  Tieck  understands  this—"  Would  I  were  dead,"  if  that  could  reanimate  Her- 
mione — "  but  that — methinks — already  " — the  sculptor  has  done  it — made  her 
breathe— given  her  motion — '*  what  was  he  that  did  make  it?"  It  is  scarcely  neces- 
sary to  conjecture  how  Leontes  would  have  closed  the  sentence ;  for  the  abrupt 
breaking  off  is  one  of  those  touches  of  nature  with  which  Shakspere  knew  how  to 
give  passion  an  eloquence  beyond  words. 


SckneIII.]  a  WINTER'S  tale.  119 

There  is  an  air  comes  from  her  :  What  fine  chisel 
Could  ever  yet  cut  breath  ?     Let  no  man  mock  me. 
For  I  will  kiss  her. 

Paul.  Good  my  lord,  forbear  : 

The  ruddiness  upon  her  lip  is  wet ;  * 
You  '11  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  '11  make  the  statue  move  indeed  ;  descend. 
And  take  you  by  the  hand  :  but  then  you  '11  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  't  is  as  easy 
To  make  her  speak,  as  move. 

Paul.  It  is  requir'd 

You  do  awake  your  faith':  Then,  all  stand  still : 
On :  *  Those  that  think  it  is  unlawful  business 
I  am  about,  let  them  depart. 

Leon.  Proceed; 

No  foot  shall  stir. 

Paul.  Music ;  awake  her :  strike. —      [Music. 

'T  is  time  ;  descend  ;  be  stone  no  more :  approach  ; 
Strike  all  that  look  upon  with  marvel.     Come  ; 
I  '11  fill  your  grave  up  :  stir  ;  nay,  come  away  ; 
Bequeath  to  death  your  numbness,  for  from  him 
Dear  life  redeems  you. — You  perceive  she  stirs ; 

[Hermione  comes  down  from  the  pedestal. 
Start  not :  her  actions  shall  be  holy,  as. 
You  hear,  my  spell  is  lawful :  do  not  shun  her, 

»  On.     We  understand  this  as,  let  us  go  on.     The  king  immediately  adds  "pro- 
ceed,"   This  emphatic  on  has  been  changed  into  or: — 

"  Or  those  that  think  it  is  anlawful  business.'' 


120  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  [Act  V. 

Until  you  see  her  die  again ;  for  then 
You  kill  her  double  :  Nay,  present  your  hand : 
When  she  was  young  you  woo'd  her ;  now,  in  age. 
Is  she  become  the  suitor  ! 

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,  how  stol'n  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. — Turn,  good  lady ; 
Our  Perdita  is  found.    [Prese7iting  Per.,  who  kneels  to  Her. 

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  hope  thou  wast  in  being, — have  preserv'd 
Myself,  to  see  the  issue. 

Paul.  There  's  time  enough  for  that ; 

Lest  they  desire,  upon  this  push,  to  trouble 
Your  joys  with  like  relation. — Go  together. 
You  precious  winners  all ;  your  exultation 
Partake  to  every  one.     I,  an  old  turtle. 
Will  wing  me  to  some  wither'd  bough,  and  there 
My  mate,  that 's  never  to  be  found  again. 
Lament  till  I  am  lost. 

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  ; 


Scene  III.]  A  WINTER'S  TALE.  121 

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  '11  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  riclily  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.  [Exeuni^. 


122 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   ACT   V. 


'  Scene  II. — "  fVeather-bilten  conduit.'' 

The  old  stone  conduits  were  in  Shakspere's  time  very  numerous  in  London,  and 
allusions  to  them  are  frequent  in  the  dramatists.  We  give  a  representation  of  the 
"  Little  Conduit"  in  Westcheap,  built  in  1442. 

*  Scene  III. — "  The  ruddinett  upon  her  lip  t»  wet." 

We  have  shown  in  a  note  to  '  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona '  that  the  words 
statue  and  picture  were  often  used  without  distinction.  In  the  peissage  before  us  we 
have  the  mention  of  "oily  painting;''  and  the  Clown  talks  of  going  to  see  "the 
queen's  picture."  But  it  is  clear  from  other  passages  that  a  statue,  in  the  modern 
sense  of  the  word,  was  intended.     Leontes  says, 

"  Does  not  the  stone  rebuke  me, 
For  being  more  stone  than  it  ?" 

It  is  clear,  therefore,  from  all  the  context,  that  the  statue  must  have  been  painted. 
Sir  Henry  Wotton  calls  this  practice  an  English  barbarism  ;  but  it  is  well  known 
that  the  ancients  had  painted  statues.  The  mention  of  Julio  Romano  is  generally 
designated  as  "  a  strange  absurdity."  We  have  touched  upon  this  in  the  Introduc- 
tory Notice. 


THE   TEMPEST. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED." 


Alonso,  King  of  Naples. 

Sebastian,  his  brother. 

Prospero,  the  right  Duke  of  Milan. 

Antonio,  his  brother,  the  usurping  Duke  of  Milan 

Ferdinand,  son  to  the  King  of  Naples. 

GoNZALO,  an  honest  old  counsellor  of  Naples. 

Adrian,        ] 

>  lords. 
Francisco,  J 

Caliban,  a  savage  and  deformed  slave. 

Trinculo,  a  jester. 

^TEPHANO,  a  drunken  butler. 

Master  of  a  ship.  Boatswain,  and  Mariners. 

Miranda,  daughter  to  Prospero. 

Ariel,  an  airy  spirit. 

Iris, 

Ceres, 

Juno,        )  sjnrits. 

Nymphs, 

Reapers, 

SCENE, — The  sea,  with  a  ship ;  afterwards  an 
island. 


•  This  is  one  of  the  few  lists  of  the  ••  Names  of  the  Actors  "  which  appear  in  the 
])lay8  first  printed  in  flie  folio  of  1623. 


["  The  still  vex'd  Bermoothes."] 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE, 


STATE  OF  THE  TEXT,  AND  CHRONOLOGY,  OF  THE  TEMPEST. 

This  comedy  stands  the  first  in  the  folio  collection  of  1623,  in 
which  edition  it  was  originally  printed.  In  the  entry  upon  the 
Stationers'  registers  of  November  the  8th,  1623,  claiming  for  Blount 
and  Jaggard  such  plays  of  Shakspere  as  were  not  formerly  entered 
to  other  men,  it  also  is  the  first  in  order.  The  original  text  is 
printed  with  singular  correctness  ;  and  if,  with  the  exception  of  one 
or  two  obvious  typographical  errors,  it  had  continued  to  be  reprinted 
without  any  change,  the  world  would  have  possessed  a  copy  with  the 
mint-mark  of  the  poet  upon  it,  instead  of  the  clipped  and  scoured 
impression  that  bears  the  name  of  Steevens.  Fortunately,  however, 
in  consequence  of  this  remarkable  correctness  of  the  original,  the 
commentators  have  been  unable  to  do  much  in  the  way  of  what  they 
call  emendation;  but  what  they  have  done  is  done  as  badly  as 
possible. 

Until  within  the  last  year  or  so  the  general  opinion  of  the  readers 
of  Shakspere  had  settled  into  the  belief  that  '  The  Tempest'  was  the 


126  Introductory  notice. 

last  of  his  works.  We  are  inclined  to  think  that  this  belief  was 
rather  a  matter  of  feeling  than  of  judgment.  Mr.  Campbell  has 
put  the  feeling  very  elegantly  : — " '  The  Tempest '  has  a  sort  of 
sacredness  as  the  last  work  of  a  mighty  workman.  Shakspeare,  as  if 
conscious  that  it  would  be  his  last,  and  as  if  inspired  to  typify  him- 
self, has  made  his  hero  a  natural,  a  dignified,  and  benevolent  magi- 
cian, who  could  conjure  up  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep,  and  com- 
mand supernatural  agency  by  the  most  seemingly  natural  and  sim- 
ple means.  And  this  final  play  of  our  poet  has  magic  indeed ;  for, 
what  can  be  simpler  in  language  than  the  courtship  of  Ferdinand 
and  Miranda,  and  yet  what  can  be  more  magical  than  the  sympathy 
with  which  it  subdues  us  ?  Here  Shakspeare  himself  is  Prospero,  or 
rather  the  superior  genius  who  commands  both  Prospero  and  Ariel. 
But  the  time  was  approaching  when  the  potent  sorcerer  was  to 
break  his  staff,  and  to  bury  it  fathoms  in  the  ocean, 

'  Deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound.' 

That  staff  has  never  been,  and  never  will  be,  recovered."  But  this 
feeling,  pretty  and  fanciful  as  it  is,  is  certainly  somewhat  deceptive. 
It  is  not  borne  out  by  the  internal  evidence  of  the  play  itself.  Shak- 
spere  never  could  have  contemplated,  in  health  and  intellectual 
vigour,  any  abandonment  of  that  occupation  which  constituted  his 
happiness  and  glory.  "We  have  no  doubt  that  he  wrote  on  till  the 
hour  of  his  last  illness.  His  later  plays  are  unquestionably  those  in 
which  the  mighty  intellect  is  more  tasked  than  the  unbounded 
fancy.  His  later  plays,  as  we  believe,  present  the  philosophical  and 
historical  aspect  of  human  affairs  rather  than  the  passionate  and  the 
imaginative.  The  Roman  historical  plays  are,  as  it  appears  to  us, 
at  the  end  of  his  career,  as  the  English  historical  plays  are  at  the 
beginning.  Nothing  can  be  more  different  than  the  principle  of 
art  upon  which  the  *  Henry  VI.'  and  the  '  Antony  and  Cleopatra'  are 
constructed.  The  Roman  plays  denote,  we  think,  the  growth  of  an 
intellect  during  five-and-twenty  years.  'The  Tempest'  does  not 
present  the  characteristics  of  the  latest  plays.  It  has  the  playfulness 
and  beauty  of  the  comedies,  mingled  with  the  higher  notes  of  pas- 
sionate and  solemn  thought  which  distinguish  the  great  tragedies. 
It  is  essentially,  too,  written  wholly  with  reference  to  the  stage,  at 
a  period  when  an  Ariel'  could  be  presented  to  an  imaginative 
audience  without  the  prosaic  encumbrance  of  wings.  The  later 
plays,  such  as  '  Troilus  and  Cressida,'  and  the  three  Roman  subjects, 
are  certainly  written  without  any  very  strong  regard  to  dramatic 
effect.     They  are  noble  acting  plays,  especially  *  Julius  Caesar'  and 


THE  TEMPEST.  127 

'  Coriolanus ;'  but  even  in  these  the  poet  appears  to  have  poured 
himself  forth  with  a  philosophical  mastery  of  the  great  principles  by 
which  men  are  held  in  the  social  state,  without  being  very  solicitous 
as  to  the  favourable  reception  of  his  opinions  by  the  mixed  audiences 
of  the  days  of  James  I.  The  '  Antony  and  Cleopatra'  is  still  more 
remarkable  for  its  surpassing  historical  truth — not  the  mere  truth 
of  chronological  exactness,  but  that  truth  which  is  evolved  out  of 
the  power  of  making  the  past  present  and  real,  through  the  marvel- 
lous felicity  of  knowing  and  representing  how  individuals  and 
masses  of  men  must  have  acted  under  circumstances  which  are  only 
assimilated  to  the  circumstances  of  modem  times  by  the  fact  that  all 
the  great  principles  and  motives  of  human  action  are  essentially  the 
same  in  every  age  and  in  every  condition  of  civilization.  The 
plays  that  we  have  mentioned  must  have  been  the  result  of 
very  profound  thought  and  very  accurate  investigation.  The  cha- 
racters of  the  '  Troilus  and  Cressida '  are  purposely  Gothicised. 
An  episode  of  "  the  tale  of  Troy  divine  "  is  seized  upon,  to  be  di- 
vested of  its  romantic  attributes,  and  to  be  presented  with  all  the 
bold  colouring  of  a  master  regardless  of  minute  proprieties  of  cos- 
tume, but  producing  the  most  powerful  and  harmonious  effect 
through  the  universal  truth  of  his  delineations.  On  the  contrary, 
the  Roman  plays  are  perfect  in  costume.  We  do  not  believe  that 
there  are  any  productions  of  the  human  mind  in  existence,  ancient 
or  modern,  which  can  give  us  so  complete  a  notion  of  what  Roman 
life  was  under  its  great  general  aspects.  This  was  the  effect,  not 
only  of  his  instinctive  wisdom,  but  of  that  leisure  for  profound  in- 
quiry and  extensive  investigation  which  Shakspere  possessed  in  the 
latter  years  of  his  life.  We  cannot  bring  ourselves  to  believe  that 
'  The  Tempest '  belonged  to  the  latest  period.  -  Ulrici  has  said 
"  '  The  Tempest '  is  the  completing  companion-piece  of  the  '  Win- 
ter's Tale'  and  '  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream.'  "  The  ^jMidsum- 
mer-Night's  Dream'  was  printed  in  1600; — it  was  proba»w  written 
some  five  or  six  years  previous.  The  '  Winter's  Tale'\was  acted 
in  1611.  From  the  'Extracts  from  the  Accounts  of  the  'Revels  at 
Court,'  recently  edited  by  Mr.  Peter  Cunningham,  we  learn  that  on 
Hallowmas  Night  (November  1),  1611,  "was  presented  at  White- 
hall, before  the  King's  Majesty,  a  play  called '  The  Tempest.'  "  Four 
nights  afterwards  the  '  Winter's  Tale '  was  also  presented.  The 
'  Winter's  Tale'  appears  to  us  to  bear  marks  of  a  later  composition 
than  '  The  Tempest.'  But  we  are  not  disposed  to  separate  them  by 
any  very  wide  interval :  more  especially  we  cannot  agree  with 
Mr.  Hunter,  who  has  brought  great  learning  to  an  investigation 


128  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

of  all  the  points  connected  with  'The  Tempest,'  that  this  play, 
"  instead  of  being  the  latest  work  of  this  great  master,  is  in  reality 
one  of  the  earliest,  nearly  the  first  in  time,  as  the  first  in  place,  of 
the  dramas  which  are  wholly  his."  The  difficulty  of  settling  the 
chronology  of  some  of  Shakspere's  plays  by  internal  evidence  is 
very  much  increased  by  the  circumstance  that  some  of  them  must 
be  regarded  as  early  performances  that  have  come  down  to  us  with 
the  large  additions  and  corrections  of  maturer  years.  For  ex- 
ample: '  Pericles'  was,  it  is  probable,  produced  as  a  novelty  in  1608, 
or  not  long  before.  There  are  portions  of  that  play  which  we  think 
no  one  could  have  written  but  the  mature  Shakspere ;  mixed  up 
with  other  portions  which  indicate,  not  so  much  immature  powers 
as  the  treatment  of  a  story  in  the  spirit  of  the  oldest  dramas.  So  it 
is  with  '  Cymbeline ;'  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  with  the  '  Winter's 
Tale.'  The  probability  is,  that  these  plays  were  produced  in  their 
present  form  soon  after  the  period  of  Shakspere's  quitting  the  stage 
about  1603;  and  perhaps  before  the  production  of  'Macbeth,' 
'Troilus  and  Cressida,'  'Henry  VIII.,'  and  the  Roman  plays.  'The 
Tempest'  appears  to  us  to  belong  to  the  same  cycle.  The  opinion 
which  we  here  express  is  not  inconsistent  with  a  belief  that  Mr. 
Hunter  has  brought  forward  several  curious  facts  to  render  it 
highly  probable  that  it  was  produced  in  1596.  But  the  aggregate 
evidence,  as  we  think,  outweighs  these  curious  facts. 

'  The  Tempest '  is  not  included  by  name  in  the  list  of  plays 
ascribed  to  Shakspere  by  Francis  Meres  in  1599.  Mr.  Hunter 
says  that  it  was  included,  under  the  name  of  '  Lovers  Labour  Woti.' 
We  have  endeavoured  to  show,  in  the  Introductory  Notice  to  '  All 's 
Well  that  Ends  Well,'  not  only  that  the  comedy  bearing  that  name 
had  the  highest  pretension  to  the  title  of  '  Love's  Labour  Won,' 
but  that  '  The  Tempest '  had  no  such  pretension.  The  Love 
Labours  of  '  The  Tempest,'  according  to  Mr.  Hunter,  are  the 
labours  of  Ferdinand  under  the  harsh  commands  of  Prospero,  and 
the  title  given  to  '  The  Tempest '  by  Meres  is  derived  from  this 
incident.  To  this  argument  we  have  answered, — "  We  venture  to 
say  that  our  belief  in  the  significancy  of  Shakspere's  titles  would 
be  at  an  end,  if  even  a  main  incident  were  to  suggest  a  name,  in- 
stead of  the  general  course  of  the  thought  or  action.  In  this  case 
there  are  really  no  Love  Labours  at  all.  The  lady  is  not  won  by 
the  piling  of  the  logs ;  the  audience  know  that  both  Ferdinand  and 
Miranda  are  under  the  influence  of  Prospero's  spells,  and  the 
magician  has  explained  to  them  why  he  enforces  these  harsh 
labours."     We  do  not  agree  that  the  comedy  called  '  The  Tem- 


THE  TEMPEST.  129 

pest,'  when  it  was  first  printed,  bore  the  title,  either  as  a  leading 
or  secondary  title,  when  Meres  published  his  list  in  1599,  of  '  Love 
Labour 's  Won.'  We  believe  that  it  was  always  called  '  The  Tem- 
pest;' and  that,  looking  at  its  striking  fable,  and  its  beauty  of 
characterization  and  language,  it  would  undoubtedly  have  been 
mentioned  by  Meres  if  it  had  existed  in  1 599. 

The  '  Bartholomew  Fair'  of  Ben  Jonson  was  produced  at  the 
Hope  Theatre  in  1614;  and  it  was  performed  by  "the  Lady 
Elizabeth's  servants."  It  is  stated  by  Malone  that  "it  appears 
from  MSS.  of  Mr.  Vertue  that  '  The  Tempest '  was  acted  by  John 
Heminge  and  the  rest  of  the  King's  company,  before  Prince 
Charles,  the  Lady  Elizabeth,  and  the  Prince  Palatine  Elector,  in 
the  beginning  of  the  year  1613."  This  circumstance  gives  some 
warrant  to  the  belief  of  the  commentators  that  a  passage  in  the 
Induction  to  '  Bartholomew  F9.ir  '  is  a  sarcasm  upon  Shakspere : — 
"  If  there  be  never  a  servant-monster  in  the  fair,  who  can  help  it, 
he  says,  nor  a  nest  of  antiques  ?  He  is  loth  to  make  nature  afraid 
in  his  plays,  like  those  that  beget  tales,  tempests,  and  such-like 
drolleries."  GifFord  has  contended,  arguing  against  the  disposition 
of  the  commentators  to  charge  Jonson  with  malignity,  that  the 
expressions  servant-monster,  and  tales,  tempests,  and  such-like 
drolleries,  had  reference  to  the  popular  puppet-shows  which  were 
especially  called  drolleries.  The  passage,  however,  still  looks  to 
us  like  a  sly,  though  not  ill-natured,  allusion  to  Shakspere's 
Caliban,  and  his  '  Winter's  Tale,'  and  '  Tempest,'  which  were  then 
popular  acting  plays.  Mr.  Hunter  believes  that  in  this  passage 
Jonson  does  pointedly  direct  his  satire  against  '  The  Tempest ;'  but 
he  also  maintains  that  Jonson  does,  in  the  same  way,  satirize  '  The 
Tempest'  in  1596,  in  the  Prologue  to  'Every  Man  in  his  Hu- 
mour :' — 

"  He  rather  prays  you  will  be  pleas'd  to  see 
One  such  to-day,  as  other  plays  should  be; 
Where  ueither  chorus  wafts  you  o'er  the  seas, 
Nor  creaking  throne  comes  down  the  boys  to  please ; 
Nor  nimble  squib  is  seen  to  make  afeard 
The  gentlewomen  ;  nor  roU'd  bullet  heard, 
To  say,  it  thunders  :  nor  tempestuous  drum 
Rumbles,  to  tell  you  when  the  storm  doth  come." 

It  is  scarcely  probable,  if  Jonson  had  meant  to  allude  to  'The 
Tempest,'  either  in  the  Prologue  or  the  Induction,  that  he  would 
have  been  so  wanting  in  materials  for  his  dislike  of  the  romantic 
drama  in  general  as  to  select  the  same  play  for  attack  in  works 
separated  by  an  interval  of  eighteen  years.  The  "  creaking  throne" 
Vol.  IV.  K 


130  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

ia,  according  to  Mr.  Hunter,  the  throne  of  Juno  as  she  descends,  in 
the  mask ;  the  "  nimble  squib"  is  the  lightning,  and  the  "  tem- 
pestuous drum"  the  thunder,  of  the  first  scene.  Mr.  Hunter  adds 
that  the  last  line  of  the  Prologue, — 

"  Vou  that  have  so  grac'd  monsters  may  like  men," — 
must  allude  to  Caliban.  Surely  the  term  monsters,  as  opposed  to 
men,  must  be  a  general  designation  of  what  Jonson  believed  to  be 
unnatural  in  the  romantic  drama,  as  contrasted  with  the  "  image 
of  the  times  "  in  comedy.  But,  if  we  must  have  real  monsters, 
there  were  plenty  to  be  found  in  the  older  plays.  Gosson,  in  1581, 
thus  writes : — "  Sometimes  you  shall  see  nothing  but  the  adventures 
of  an  amorous  knight,  passing  from  country  to  country  for  the  love 
of  his  lady,  encountering  many  a  terrible  monster,  made  of  brown 
paper,  and  at  his  return  is  so  wonderfully  changed  that  he  cannot 
be  known  but  by  some  posy  in  his  tablet,  or  by  a  broken  ring,  or 
a  handkerchief,  or  a  piece  of  a  cockle-shell."  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
ridicules  the  appearance  of  ^^  &  hideous  monster  with  fire  and  smoke." 
Much  older  theatres  than  the  Globe  were  furnished  with  their 
thunder  and  lightning.  In  1572  John  Izarde,  according  to  an 
entry  in  the  accounts  of  the  revels  at  court,  was  paid  for  a  device 
for  "  counterfeiting  thunder  and  lightning."*  It  is  as  likely  that 
thrones  descended  in  other  plays  besides  '  The  Tempest,'  as  it  is 
certain  that  in  'The  Tempest'  Juno  descended  with  a  classical 
fitness  of  which  Jonson  has  given  us  many  similar  examples  in  his 
own  masks.  We  can  see  nothing  in  these  circumstances  to  connect 
the  date  of  '  The  Tempest '  with  that  of  Ben  Jonson's  '  Every  Man 
in  his  Humour.' 

The  third  point  upon  which  Mr.  Hunter  relies  for  fixing  the 
date  of  '  The  Tempest '  as  of  1 596  is  deduced  from  the  passage  in 
the  third  act  where  Gonzalo  laughs  at  the  stories  of  "  men  whose 
heads  stood  in  their  breasts."  Raleigh  told  this  story,  in  his  account 
of  his  voyage  to  Guiana,  in  1595.  (See  Illustrations  of  '  Othello,' 
Act  I.)  To  mention  the  matter  here  very  briefly,  Sliakspere  makes 
Othello,  not  in  a  boasting  or  lying  spirit,  but  wiUi  the  confiding 
belief  that  belonged  to  his  own  high  nature,  tell  Desdemona  of 

"  The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders." 

Would  Mr.  Hunter  contend  that  this  second  notice  of  "  men  whose 
heads  do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders  "  fixes  the  date  of  '  Othello,^ 
as  well  as  that  of  '  The  Tempest,' in  1596?     Such  circumstances 

*  Collier,  <  Annals  of  the  Stage/  vol.  iii.,  p.  370. 


THE  TEMPEST.  131 

are,  as  we  have  always  contended,  of  the  very  slightest  value.  The 
argument  may  be  put  ingeniously  and  learnedly,  as  Mr.  Hunter 
puts  it ;  or  it  may  be  rendered  ludicrous,  as  Chalmers  renders  it. 
What,  for  example,  can  be  more  absurd  than  Chalmers'.s  attempt  to 
make  us  believe  that,  because  the  King  of  Naples  is  inconsolable 
for  the  supposed  loss  of  Ferdinand,  there  is  an  allusion  to  the  death 
of  Prince  Henry  in  1612  ;  that  the  line 

"  Like  poison  given  to  work  a  great  time  after" 
plainly  refers  to  the  murder  of  Sir  Thomas  Overbury  in  the  same 
year;  and  that  a  great  storm  which  happened  in  January,  1613, 
"  gave  the  appropriate  name  to  this  admirable  drama"  ? 

In  the  Illustrations  of  Act  II.  the  reader  will  find  an  extract 
from  the  '  Essays'  of  Montaigne,  as  translated  by  Florio,  which 
establishes  beyond  all  possible  doubt  that  the  lines  of  Gonzalo, — 

"  I'  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  things,"  &c. — 

were  founded  upon  this  passage  in  Montaigne,  and  upon  Florio's 
translation.  That  translation  was  not  published  before  1603.  But 
portions  of  it  had  been  seen  in  manuscript,  says  Mr.  Hunter.  Sir 
William  Cornwallis  mentions  in  his  '  Essays '  that  "  divers  of  his 
pieces  I  have  seen  translated,"  and  he  describes  Florio  as  the  trans- 
lator. The  'Essays'  of  Cornwallis  were  not  printed  till  1600;  but 
they,  also,  had  been  seen  in  manuscript ;  and  so  Cornwallis  might 
have  written  about  "divers  parts"  of  Florio's  'Montaigne'  before 
1 596 ;  and  Shakspere  might  have  read  this  identical  part  of  Florio's 
'Montaigne'  before  1596;  and  thus  the  dates  both  of  Cornwallis's 
and  Florio's  books  go  for  nothing  in  this  inquiry.  Is  this  evi- 
dence ? 

The  date  of  Shakspere's  '  Tempest '  has  been  a  fertile  subject  for 
the  exercise  of  critical  conjecture.  Malone  writes  a  pamphlet  of 
sixty  pages  upon  it ;  Chalmers  another  pamphlet  somewhat  longer. 
The  first  has  been  reprinted  in  Boswell's  edition ;  the  other  costs 
as  much  as  a  manuscript  in  the  days  before  printing.  It  is  worth 
the  money,  however,  for  a  quiet  laugh.  The  two  critics  differ  very 
slightly  in  their  opinions  as  to  the  date  of  the  comedy ;  but  their 
proofs  are  essentially  different.  Malone  contends  for  1611,  holding 
that  "  the  storm  by  which  Sir  George  Sommers  was  shipwrecked 
on  the  island  of  Bermuda,  in  1609,  unquestionably  gave  rise  to 
Shakspeare's  '  Tempest,'  and  suggested  to  him  the  title,  as  well  as 
some  incidents."  The  whole  relation  is  contained  in  the  additions 
to  Stow's  '  Annals'  by  Howes  : — 

"  In  the  year  1609  the  Adventurers  and  Company  of  Virginia  sent  from  I^AndoiA 

K  2 


132 


INTRODUCTORV  NOTICE. 


a  fleet  of  eight  ships,  with  people  to  supply  and  make  strong  the  colony  in  Virginia; 
Sir  Thomas  Gates  being  general,  in  a  ship  of  300  tons  :  in  this  ship  was  also  Sir 
George  Sommers,  who  was  admiral,  and  Captain  Newport,  vice-admiral,  and  with 
them  about  160  persons.  '1  his  ship  was  •  Admiral,'  and  kept  comjjany  with  the 
rest  of  the  fleet  to  the  height  of  30  degrees ;  and  being  then  assembled  to  consult 
touching  divers  matters,  they  were  surprised  with  a  most  extreme  violent  storm, 
which  scattered  the  whole  fleet,  yet  all  the  rest  of  the  fleet  bent  their  course  for  Vir- 
ginia, where,  by  God's  special  favour,  they  arrived  safely;  but  this  great  ship, 
though  new,  and  far  stronger  than  any  of  the  rest,  fell  into  a  great  leak,  so  as 
mariners  and  passengers  were  forced,  for  three  days'  space,  to  do  their  utmost  to  save 
themselves  from  sudden  sinking  :  but  notwithstanding  their  incessant  pumping,  and 
casting  out  of  water  by  buckets  and  all  other  means,  yet  the  water  covered  all  the 
goods  within  the  hold,  and  all  men  were  utterly  tired,  and  s))ent  in  strength,  and 
overcome  with  labour ;  and  hopeless  of  any  succour,  most  of  them  were  gone  to 
sleep,  yielding  themselves  to  the  mercy  of  the  sea,  being  all  very  desirous  to  die 
upon  any  shore  wheresoever.  Sir  George  Sommers,  silting  at  the  stern,  seeing  the 
ship  desperate  of  relief,  looking  every  minute  when  the  ship  would  sink,  he  espied 
land,  which,  according  to  his  and  Captain  Newport's  opinion,  they  judged  it  should 
be  that  dreadful  coast  of  the  Bermudas,  which  islands  were,  of  all  nations,  said  and 
supposed  to  be  enchanted,  and  inhabited  with  witches  and  devils,  which  grew  by 
reason  of  accustomed  monstrous  thunder-storm  and  temjjest  near  unto  those  islands; 
also  fur  that  the  wliole  coast  is  so  wonderous  dangerous  of  rocks  that  few  can  approach 
them  but  with  unspeakable  hazard  of  shipwreck.  Sir  George  Sommers,  Sir  Thomas 
Gates,  Captain  Newport,  and  the  rest,  suddenly  agreed  of  two  evils  to  choose  the 
least,  and  so,  in  a  kind  of  desperate  resolution,  directed  the  ship  mainly  for  these 
islands,  which,  by  God's  divine  providence,  at  a  high  water  ran  right  between  two 
strong  rocks,  where  it  stuck  fast  without  breaking,  which  gave  leisure  and  good 
opportunity  for  them  to  hoist  out  their  boat,  and  to  land  all  their  people,  as  well 
sailors  as  soldiers  and  others,  in  good  safety  ;  and  being  come  ashore  they  were  soon 
refreshed  and  cheered,  the  soil  and  air  being  most  sweet  and  delicate." 

Here  we  have  a  storm,  a  wreck,  the  Bermudas,  and  an  enchanted 
island ;  and,  in  other  descriptions  of  the  same  event,  we  have  men- 
tion of  a  sea-monster.  "  Nothing  can  be  more  conclusive  then," 
says  Malone,  "  that  the  date  of  the  play  is  fixed,  with  uncommon 
precision,  between  the  end  of  the  year  1610  and  the  autumn  of 
1611."  No,  says  Chalmers,  the  shipwreck  of  Sir  George  Sommers 
did  suggest  the  incidents ;  but  Malone  himself  had  admitted  that 
there  was  a  great  tempest  at  home  in  1612 j — "the  author  availed 
himself  of  a  circumstance  then  fresh  in  the  minds  of  his  audience, 
by  affixing  a  title  to  it  which  was  more  likely  to  excite  curiosity 
than  any  other  that  he  could  have  chosen,  while,  at  the  same  time, 
it  was  sufficiently  justified  by  the  subject  of  the  drama."  "  Now 
this  tempest,"  says  Chalmers,  "  happened  at  Christmas  1612;  and 
80  the  play  could  not  have  been  written  in  the  summer  of 
1612."  Surely  all  this  is  admirable  fooling,  which  it  is  scarcely  ne- 
cessary to  say  is  put  an  end  to  by  the  certainty  that  the  play  existed 
in  1611.  In  such  minute  inquiries,  all  assuming  that  poetry  is  to  be 
4ealt  with  by  the  same  laws  as  chronology,  or  geography,  or  any 


THE  TEMPEST. 


133 


other  exact  branch  of  knowledge,  there  can  be  nothing  but  perpetual 
mistake,  and  contradiction,  and  false  inference.  Chalmers,  in  some 
respects  acute  enough,  has,  through  the  indulgence  of  these  propen- 
sities for  making  poetry  literal,  fallen  into  the  mistake  of  imagining 
that  Bermuda  was  the  scene  of  'The  Tempest.'  Mr.  Hunter  says, 
"  No  editor  of  Shakspeare  has  ever  gone  so  far  as  to  represent  the 
island  of  Bermuda  as  actually  the  scene  of  this  play ;"  but  he  adds, 
"  Chalmers  has  given  some  encouragement  to  this  very  prevalent 
mistake."  Encouragement?  He  says,  in  his  '  Apology,'  and  repeats 
the  passage  in  his  rare  tract,*  "  Our  maker  showed  great  judgment 
in  causing,  by  enchantment,  the  king's  ship  to  he  wrecked  on  the 
still-vex' d  Bermoothes."  Again,  "  Stephano  became  king  of  the 
still -vex'd  Bermoothes."  Lastly,  in  the  '  Another  Account,' — "If 
it  be  asked  what  circumstance  it  was  which  induced  our  dramatist 
to  think  of  Bermudas,  in  1613,  as  the  scene  of  his  comedy,  the  an- 
swer must  be  that  the  Bermudas,  which  had  been  considered,  ever 
since  the  publication,  in  1596,  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  description 
of  Guiana,  as  a  '  hellish  sea  for  thunder,  lightning,  and  storms,'  was 
first  planted,  in  1612,  by  a  ship  called  the  Plough,  from  the 
Thames,  which  carried  out  a  colony  of  a  hundred  and  sixty  per- 
sons." The  nonsense  of  this  notion  is  self-evident.  If  the  Bermu- 
das were  the  scene,  Ariel  must  have  outdone  himself  to  convey  "  the 
rest  of  the  fleet"  over  the  Atlantic,  to  place  them  "  upon  the  Medi- 
terranean flote;"  and,  on  the  contrary,  he  would  have  been  a  mere 
human  carrier  if  he  had  been  called  up  from  one  "  deep  nook"  of  the 
island  "  to  fetch  dew"  from  some  other  part.  This  will  not  quite 
fit.  And  so  we  must  resort  to  another  geographical  system.  Mr. 
Hunter  has  discovered  "another  island,"  which  he  thus  intro- 
duces : — "  I  must  do  the  old  critics  the  justice  to  say  that,  till  this 
discovery  (such  I  may  call  it),  no  island,  as  far  as  I  know,  had  a 
better  claim  to  be  regarded  as  the  island  of  Prospero  than  Ber- 
muda." That  island  is  Lampedusa.  "  Did  we  not  know,"  he  con- 
tinues, "  how  much  still  remains  to  be  done  in  the  criticism  of  these 
plays,  it  would  be  scarcely  credible  that  no  one  seems  to  have 
thought  of  tracing  the  line  of  Alonso's  track,  or  of  speculating, 
with  the  map  before  him,  on  the  island  on  which  Prospero  and  Mi- 
randa may  be  supposed  to  have  been  cast."  Lampedusa  is  the 
island :  "  It  lies  midway  between  Malta  and  the  African  coast ;" — 
"  in  its  dimensions  Lampedusa  is  what  we  may  imagine  Prospero's 
island  to  have  been ;  in  circuit  thirteen  miles  and  a  half;" — it  is 
" situated  in  a  stormy  sea ;" — it  is  "  a  deserted  island;"  it  has  the 
*  '  Another  Account  of  the  Incidents,'  &c..  1815. 


134  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

reputation  of  "  being  enchanted."  Can  anything  be  more  deci- 
sive ?  "  What  I  contend  for  is  the  absolute  claim  of  Lampedusa  to 
have  been  the  island  in  the  poet's  mind  when  he  drew  the  scenes  of 
this  drama."  The  matter,  according  to  Mr.  Hunter,  is  beyond  all 
doubt.  "  In  the  rocks  of  Lampedusa  there  are  hollows ;" — Caliban 
is  stied  in  the  "hard  rock:"  in  Lampedusa  there  was  a  hermit's 
cell — "  this  cell  is  surely  the  origin  of  the  cell  of  Prospero :"  Cali- 
ban's employment  was  collecting  firewood ; — "  Malta  is  supplied 
with  firewood  from  Lampedusa."  Mr.  Hunter  asks  his  friend 
"  whether  you  would  think  me  presumptuous  in  requiring  that  in 
future  editions  of  these  plays  there  should  be,  in  the  accustomed 
place,  at  the  foot  of  the  dramatis  personee,  the  words 

'Scene,  Lampedusa.'" 

We  have  not  so  determined  the  scene.  We  believe  that  the  poet 
had  no  locality  whatever  in  his  mind,  just  as  he  had  no  notion  of 
any  particular  storm.  Tempests  and  enchanted  islands  are  of  the 
oldest  materials  of  poetry.  Mr.  Hunter  says  Shakspere  had  Ari- 
osto's  description  of  a  storm  in  his  mind.  Who,  we  may  ask,  sug- 
gested to  Ariosto  his  description  ?  Has  any  one  fixed  the  date  of 
Ariosto's  storm  ?     Has  not  the  poet  described  the  poet's  office  ? — 

"  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  form*  of  thingt  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

Franz  Horn  asks  whether  Prospero  left  Caliban  to  govern  the 
island  ?  We  believe  the  island  sunk  into  the  sea,  and  was  no  more 
seen,  after  Prospero  broke  his  staff  and  drowned  his  book. 


SUPPOSED  SOURCE  OF  THE  PLOT. 


There  is  a  very  curious  story  told  by  Warton,  of  poor  Collins  in- 
forming him,  during  his  mental  aberration,  that  he  had  seen  a 
romance  which  contained  the  story  of  'The  Tempest.' — 

"  I  was  informed  by  the  late  Mr.  Collins,  of  Chichester,  that  Shakspeare's  '  Tem- 
pest,' for  which  no  origin  is  yet  assigned,  was  founded  on  a  romance  called  '  Amelia 
and  Isabella,'  printed  in  Italian,  Sjianish,  French,  and  English,  in  1588.  But  though 
this  information  has  not  proved  true  on  examination,  a  useful  conclusion  may  be 
drawn  from  it,  that  Shakspeare's  story  is  somewhere  to  be  found  in  an  Italian  novel ; 
at  least,  that  the  story  preceded  Sbakspeare.  Mr.  Collins  had  searched  tliis  subject 
with  no  less  fidelity  than  judgment  and  industry  ;  but  his  memory  failing  in  his 
last  calamitous  indisposition,  he  probably  gave  me  the  name  of  one  novel  for 


THE  TEMPEST. 


135 


another.  I  remember  he  added  a  circumstance  which  may  lead  to  a  discovery,  that 
the  principal  character  of  the  romance  answering  to  Shakspeare's  '  Prospero '  was  a 
chemical  necromancer,  who  had  bound  a  spirit  like  Ariel  to  obey  his  call  and  per- 
form his  services.'' 

Mr.  Thorns,  in  a  very  interesting  paper  on  the  '  Early  English 
and  German  Dramas,'*  has  given,  from  Tieck,  an  account  of  certain 
early  productions  of  English  dramatists  which  were  translated  into 
German  about  the  year  1600.  We  cannot  here  enter  into  the  very 
curious  question  whether  an  English  company  performed  English 
plays  in  Germany  at  that  period ;  but  it  is  quite  certain  that  some 
of  our  earliest  dramas  were  either  translated  or  adapted  for  the 
German  stage  at  this  early  period.  Jacob  Ayrer,  a  notary  of  Nu- 
remburg,  was  the  author  of  thirty  dramas,  in  the  beginning  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  Some  are  clearly  derived  from  English 
models ;  and  Mr.  Thoms  thinks  that  an  old  play,  on  which  Shak- 
spere  founded  '  The  Tempest,'  is  translated  in  Ayrer's  works,  pub- 
lished in  1618. 

"  '  The  origin  of  the  plot  of  "  The  Tempest"  is  for  the  present  a  Shakspearian 
mystery,'  are  the  words  of  our  friend  Mr.  Hunter,  in  his  learned  and  interesting  dissert- 
ation upon  that  play.  That  mystery,  however,  I  consider  as  solved, — Tieck  appears 
to  entertain  no  doubt  upon  the  subject, — and  I  hope  to  bring  the  matter  before  you 
in  such  a  manner  as  will  satisfy  you  of  the  correctness  of  Tieck's  views  in  this 
respect.  But  to  the  point.  Shakspeare  unquestionably  derived  his  idea  of  '  The 
Tempest'  from  an  earlier  drama,  now  not  known  to  exist,  but  of  which  a  German 
version  is  preserved  in  Ayrer's  play,  entitled  'Die  Schone  Sidea'  (The  Beautiful 
Sidea);  and  the  proof  of  this  fact  is  to  be  found  in  the  points  of  resemblance 
between  the  two  plays,  which  are  far  too  striking  and  peculiar  to  be  the  result  of 
accident. 

"  It  is  true  that  the  scene  in  which  Ayrer's  play  is  laid,  and  the  names  of  the  per- 
sonages, differ  from  those  of  *  The  Tempest;'  but  the  main  incidents  of  the  two 
plays  are  all  but  identically  the  same.  For  instance,  in  the  Grerman  drama,  Prince 
Ltidolph  and  Prince  Leudegast  supply  the  places  of  Prospero  and  Alonso.  Lu- 
dolph,  like  Prospero,  is  a  magician,  and  like  him  has  an  only  daughter,  Sidea — the 
Miranda  of  'The  Tempest' — and  an  attendant  spirit,  Runcifal,  who,  though  not 
strictly  resembling  either  Ariel  or  Caliban,  may  well  be  considered  as  the  primary 
type  which  suggested  to  the  nimble  fancy  of  our  great  dramatist  those  strongly  yet 
admirably  contrasted  beings.  Shortly  after  the  commencement  of  the  play,  Lu- 
dolph,  having  been  vanquished  by  his  rival,  and  with  his  daughter  Sidea  driven  into 
a  forest,  rebukes  her  for  complaining  of  their  change  of  fortune,  and  then  summons 
his  spirit  Runcifal  to  learn  from  him  their  future  destiny,  and  prospects  of  revenge. 
Runcifal,  who  is,  like  Ariel,  somewhat '  moody,'  announces  to  Ludolph  that  the  son 
of  his  enemy  will  shortly  become  his  prisoner.  After  a  comic  episode,  most  proba- 
bly introduced  by  the  German,  we  see  Prince  Leudegast,  with  his  son  Engelbrecht 
— the  Ferdinand  of  'The  Tempest' — and  the  councillors,  hunting  in  the  same  forest; 
when  Engelbrecht  and  his  companion  Famulus,  having  separated  from  their  asso- 
ciates, are  suddenly  encountered  by  Ludolph  and  his  daughter.     He  commands 

"'  New  Monthly  Magazine,  January  1,  ISil. 


136  INTRODUCTORV  NOTICE. 

them  to  yield  themselves  prisoners — they  refuse,  and  try  to  draw  their  swords,  when, 
as  Prospero  tells  Ferdinand, 

'  I  can  here  disarm  thee  with  this  stick, 
And  make  thy  weapon  drop,' 
so  Ludolph,  with  his  wand,  keeps  their  swords  in  their  scabbards,  paralyses  Engel- 
brecht,  and  makes  him  confess  his 

'  Nerves  are  in  their  infancy  again, 
And  have  no  vigour  in  tliem,' 
and,  when  he  has  done  so,  gives  him  over  as  a  slave  to  Sidea,  to  carry  logs  for  her. 

"  Tlie  resemblance  between  this  scene  and  the  parallel  scene  in  '  The  Tempest'  is 
rendered  sHll  more  striking  in  a  late  part  of  the  play,  when  Sidea,  moved  by  pity 
for  the  labours  of  Engelbrecht,  in  carryhig  logs,  declares  to  him, 

'  I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me,' 
an  event  which,  in  the  end,  is  happily  brought  about,  and  leads  to  the  reconcilia- 
tion of  their  parents,  the  rival  princes." 

This  is  a  subject  so  curious  in  itself  that  we  shall  have  to  inves- 
tigate it  fully  on  some  future  occasion.  In  the  mean  time  it 
appears  not  the  least  extraordinary  circumstance  in  this  extraordi- 
nary question  of  literary  history,  that  Ayrer  did  not  translate  some 
of  Shakspere's  own  works,  particularly  those  which  existed  in 
printed  copies.  Shakspere,  according  to  Eschenburg,  was  not 
known  in  Germany,  as  far  as  can  be  collected  from  any  mention  in 
books,  till  nearly  the  close  of  the  17th  century. — 

"  The  first  German  author  who  has  given  a  thought  to  Shakspere  is  perhaps 
Morhof,  whose  'Instructions  in  the  German  Language'  was  first  printed  in  1682. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  fourth  chapter,  '  On  the  Poetry  of  the  English,'  he  is  merely 
named,  and  Morhof  acknowledges  that  he  had  himself  seen  nothing  of  his,  or  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher's.  Not  very  long  afterwards,  Benthem,  our  poet,  mentions 
him  in  his  '  State  of  the  English  Schools  and  Churches,'  in  chap,  xix.,  among  the 
leading  literary  characters  of  England.  But  all  he  says  of  him,  and  that  perhaps 
only  for  the  first  time,  in  the  second  edition,  is  the  following,  which  is  droll  enough : 
'William  Shakspeare  was  bom  at  Stratford  in  Warwickshire;  his  learning  was  very 
little,  and  therefore  it  is  the  more  a  matter  of  wonder  that  he  should  be  a  vwy 
excellent  poet.  He  had  an  ingenious  and  witty  mind,  full  of  fun;  and  was  so  suc- 
cessful both  in  tragedy  and  cuinedy,  that  he  could  move  a  Heraclitus  to  laughter, 
and  a  Democritus  to  tears.' ""  * 


COSTUME. 
The  action  of  this  play  gives  us  no  hint  as  to  a  period  in  which  it 
may  be  imagined  to  have  occurred.  The  King  of  Naples  and  a 
tributary  Duke  of  Milan  are  returning  from  Tunis,  whither  they 
have  been  to  celebrate  a  marriage  between  "  the  (Neapolitan) 
king's  fair  daughter  Claribel "  and  the  King  of  Tunis.     They  are 

*  Johan  Joachim  Eschenburg,  ilber  W.  Shakspeare,  new  edit.,    Zurich,   1806, 
p.  497. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


137 


wrecked  at  the  command  of  Prospero,  by  the  agency  of  Ariel,  who, 
however,  informs  his  master  that  there  is  "  on  their  sustaining  gar- 
ments not  a  blemish,  but  fresher  than  before."  By  this  ingenious 
contrivance  the  usual  stage  absurdity  of  persons  who  have  been 
immersed  in  either  salt  or  fresh  water  appearing  with  their  gar- 
ments as  bright  and  dry  as  if  just  out  of  a  tailor's  shop  is  avoided, 
and  the  remark  of  Gonzalo,  that  their  "  garments,  being,  as  they 
were,  drenched  in  the  sea,  hold,  notwithstanding,  their  freshness 
and  glosses;  being  rather  new  dyed  than  stained  with  salt  water," 
is  rationally  accounted  for.  That  these  garments  should  also  be 
magnificent  state  dresses  is  pointed  out  by  the  next  speech  of  Gon- 
zalo, who  therein  describes  them  as  having  been  first  put  on  "  in 
Afric,  at  the  marriage  of  the  king's  fair  daughter"  aforesaid.  With 
these  hints  we  leave  the  artist  to  select  any  Italian  costume  he  may 
consider  most  picturesque  previous  to  the  commencement  of  the 
nth  century  :  but  we  should  recommend  a  glance  at  that  given  in 
our  notice  prefixed  to  '  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.' 


'^i^c^^^J^^f^^  ^-^^^^^^^W". 


138 


THB  TKMPKST. 


[Act  I. 


["  On  the  bat's  back."] 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — On  a  Ship  at  Sea.    A  Storm,  with  Thunder  and 

Lightning. 

Enter  a  Ship-master  and  a  Boatswain. 

Master.  Boatswain, — ' 
Boats.  Here,  masted :  What  cheer  ? 

Master.  Good :  Speak  to  the  mariners  :  fall  to  't  yarely," 
or  we  run  ourselves  aground  :  bestir,  bestir.  [^Exit. 

Enter  Mariners. 

Boats.  Heigh,  my  hearts ;  cheerly,  cheerly,  my  hearts ; 
yare,  yare :  Take  in  the  topsail :  Tend  to  the  master's  whis- 
tle.— Blow  till  thou  burst  thy  wind,**  if  room  enough  ! 

»    Yarely,  the  adverb  of  yare,  quick,  ready.     Yare  is  used  several  times  by  Shak- 
spere  as  a  sea-term  (which  it  was),  but  not  exclusively  so. 
*  Steevens  would  read,  "  Blow  till  «hou  burst  thee,  wind." 


Scene!.]  THE  TEMPEST.  139 

Enter  Alonso,  Sebastian,  Antonio,  Ferdinand,  Gon- 
ZALO,  and  others. 

Alon.  Good  boats^wain,  have  care.  Where 's  the  master  ? 
Play  the  men.* 

Boats.  I  pray  now,  keep  below. 

Ant.  Where  is  the  master,  boson  ?  ^ 

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

Gon.  Nay,  good,  be  patient. 
-   Boats.  When  the  sea  is.    Hence  !  What  care  these  roarers 
for  the  name  of  king  ?     To  cabin :  silence  ;  trouble  us  not. 

Gon.  Good ;  yet  remember  whom  thou  hast  aboard. 

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

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

\^Exeunt. 
Re-enter  Boatswain. 

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

*  Behave  like  men.  So  in  our  translation  of  the  Bible,  2  Sam.  x.  12,  "  Let  us 
play  the  men  for  our  people." 

**  In  the  first  edition  (1623)  Antonio  here  uses  the  sailor's  word  boson,  instead  of 
the  more  correct  "  boatswain,"  which  is  put  in  the  mouth  of  the  King  of  Naples. 
The  modem  editors  have  made  no  distinction ;  although  the  language  of  the  king, 
throughout  the  play,  is  grave  and  dignified,  and  that  of  the  usurping  duke,  for  the 
most  part,  flippant  and  familiar.  The  variation  in  the  first  edition  could  scarcely 
be  accidental. 

*=   Or  ottr.     Steevens  changes  this  into  to  your.     He  would  make  the  boatswain 


140  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  1. 

Re-enter  Sebastian,  Antonio,  and  Gonzalo. 

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

aS^6.  a  pox  o'  your  throat !  you  bawling,  blasphemous,  in 
charitable  dog ! 

Boats.  Work  you,  then. 

Aht.  Hang,  cur,  hang!  you  whoreson,  insolent  noise- 
liiaker,  we  are  less  afraid  to  be  drowned  than  thou  art. 

Gon.  I  '11  warrant  him  for'  drowning;  though  the  ship 
were  no  stronger  than  a  nut-shell,  and  as  leaky  as  an  un- 
stanched  wench. 

Boats.  Lay  her  a-hold,  a-hold  :  set  her  two  courses ;  ^  off 
to  sea  again  ;  lay  her  off.  • 

Enter  Mariners,  wet. 

Mar.  All  lost!  to  prayers,  to  prayers !  all  lost !     [Exeimt. 

Boats.  What,  must  our  mouths  be  cold? 

Gon.  The  king  and  prince  at  prayers !  let  us  assist  them. 
For  our  case  is  as  theirs. 

Seb.  I  am  out  of  patience. 

Ant.  We  are  merely  •=  cheated  of  our  lives  by  drunkards. — 
This  wide-chopp'd  rascal ; — 'Would  thou  mightst  lie  drown- 
ing. 
The  washing  of  ten  tides  ! 

Gon.  He  '11  be  hang'd  yet ; 

Though  every  drop  of  water  swear  against  it, 
And  gape  at  wid'st  to  glut**  him. 

[A  confused  noise  within. "l — Mercy  on  us! 
We  split,  we  split ! — Farewell,  my  wife  and  children ! 
Farewell,  brother  I  We  split,  we  split,  we  split  I —  • 

say  to  your  office,  as  if  this  were  nautical  language.     Our  office  is  here  used  in  the 
sense  of  our  business,  which  was  essentially  noisy. 

*  For.     Steevens  reads yVo»j.     For  drowning  is  on  account  of  drowning. 

*"  We  follow  the  punctuation  of  Lord  Mulgrave.  Steevens  has,  tet  her  two  course* 
off.  Captain  Glascock  also  objects  to  this  ordinary  punctuation ;  and  explains 
"  that  the  ship's  head  is  to  be  put  leeward,  and  that  the  vessel  is  to  be  drawn  off  the 
land  under  that  canvass  nautically  denominated  the  two  courses." 

*  Merely — absolutely. 

^  To  glut — to  swallow. 

*  These  varioiu  exclamation^  which  are  given  to  Gonxalo,  should  be  considered, 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  141 

Ant.  Let 's  all  sink- with  the  king.  [Exit. 

Seb.  Let 's  take  leave  of  him.  [Exit. 

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

[Exit. 

SCENE  ll.~The  Island:  before  the  Cell  o/Prospero. 
Enter  Prospero  and  Miranda. 

Mira.  If  by  your  art,  my  dearest  father,  you  have 
Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  allay  them  : 
The  sky,  it  seems,  would  pour  down  stinking  pitch. 
But  that  the  sea,  mounting  to  the  welkin's  cheek. 
Dashes  the  fire  out.     O,  I  have  suffer'd 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer !  a  brave  vessel. 
Who  had  no  doubt  some  noble  creature  ^  in  her, 
Dash'd  all  to  pieces.     O,  the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart !     Poor  souls  !  they  perish'd. 
Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e'er  *= 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallow 'd,  and 
The  fraughting  ^  souls  within  her. 

Pro.  Be  collected ; 

No  more  amazement :  tell  your  piteous  heart. 
There 's  no  harm  done. 

Mira.  O,  woe  the  day ! 

according  to  Johnson,  to  be  spoken  by  no  determinate  characters.  They  form  part 
of  the  "  confused  noise  within." 

»  Hanmer  reads,  "  ling,  heath,  broom,  furze."  So  in  Harrison's  '  Description  of 
Britain,'  prefixed  to  Holinshed,  we  find,  •'  Brome,  heth,  firze,  brakes,  whinnes,  ling," 
— all  characteristics  of  "barren  ground."  But  "  long  heath '' and  "  brown  furze  " 
are  quite  intelligible,  and  are  much  more  natural  than  an  enumeration  of  many 
various  wild  plants. 

^  Creature.  So  the  original ;  but  Theobald  reads  creatures,  which  is  invariably 
followed.  Miranda  means  to  say  that,  in  addition  to  those  she  saw  suffer, — the 
"  poor  souls  "  that  perished, — the  common  sailors, — there  was  no  doubt  some  supe- 
rior person  on  board, — some  nMe  creature. 

"  Or  e'er — before — sooner  than.  So  in  Ecclesiastes,  "  Or  ever  the  silver  cord  be 
loosed,  or  the  golden  bowl  be  broken." 

<■  Fj-aughting — constituting  the  fraught,  or  freight.  The  common  reading  is 
freighting. 


142  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  I. 

fVo.  .         No  harm. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  in  care  of  thee, 
(Of  thee,  my  dear  one !  thee,  my  daughter  !)  who 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  nought  knowing 
Of  whence  I  am ;  nor  that  I  am  more  better 
Than  Prospero,  master  of  a  full  poor  cell. 
And  thy  no  greater  father. 

Mira.  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddle  with  my  thoughts. 

Pro.  'T  is  time 

I  should  inform  thee  farther.     Lend  thy  hand. 
And  pluck  my  magic  garment  from  me. — So  ; 

[Lays  down  his  mantle. 
Lie  there  my  art. — Wipe  thou  thine  eyes  ;  have  comfort. 
The  direful  spectacle  of  the  wrack,  which  touch'd 
The  very  virtue  of  compassion  in  thee, 
I  have  with  such  provision  in  mine  art 
So  safely  order'd,  that  there  is  no  soul — 
No,  not  so  much  perdition  as  an  hair. 
Betid  to  any  creature  in  the  vessel 
Which   thou   heard'st  cry,   which   thou  saw'st   sink.      Sit 

down; 
For  thou  must  now  know  farther. 

Mira.  You  have  often 

Begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am  ;  but  stopp'd 
And  left  me  to  a  bootless  inquisition  ; 
Concluding,  "  Stay,  not  yet." — 

IVo.  The  hour 's  now  come ; 

The  very  minute  bids  thee  ope  thine  ear ; 
Obey,  and  be  attentive.     Canst  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  unto  this  cell  ? 
I  do  not  think  thou  canst ;  for  then  thou  wast  not 
Out  three  years  old.' 

Mira.  Certainly,  sir,  I  can. 

Pro.  By  what  ?  by  any  other  house,  or  person  ? 
Of  anything  the  image  tell  me  that 
Hath  kept  with  thy  remembrance. 

Mira.  'T  is  far  oif ; 

*    Quite  three  yeart  old. 


Scene  II.]  ,  THE  TEMPEST.  143 

And  rather  like  a  dream  than  an  assurance 
That  my  remembrance  warrants :  Had  I  not 
Four  or  five  women  once  that  tended  me  ? 

Pro.  Thou  hadst,  and  more,  Miranda  :  But  how  is  it 
That  this  lives  in  thy  mind  ?     What  see'st  thou  else 
In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time  ? 
If  thou  remember'st  aught  ere  thou  cam'st  here. 
How  thou  cam'st  here  thou  mayst. 

Mira.  But  that  I  do  not. 

Pro.  Twelve  year  since,  Miranda,  twelve  year '  since. 
Thy  father  was  the  duke  of  Milan,  and 
A  prince  of  power. 

Mira.  Sir,  are  not  you  my  father  ? 

Pro.  Thy  mother  was  a  piece  of  virtue,  and 
She  said  thou  wast  my  daughter ;  and  thy  father 
Was  duke  of  Milan ;  and  his  only  heir 
And  princess  no  worse  issued. '^ 

Mira.  O,  the  heavens ! 

What  foul  play  had  we,  that  we  came  from  thence  ? 
Or  blessed  was  't  we  did  ? 

Pro.  Both,  both,  my  girl ; 

By  foul  play,  as  thou  say'st,  were  we  heav'd  thence  ; 
But  blessedly  holp  hither. 

Mira.  O,  my  heart  bleeds 

To  think  o'  the  teen  "^  that  I  have  tum'd  you  to. 
Which  is  from  my  remembrance !     Please  you,  farther. 

Pro.  My  brother,  and  thy  uncle,  call'd  Antonio/ — 

"   Twehe  year — the  reading  of  the  folio  ;  not  twelve  years. 
''  The  ordinary  reading  is, — 

«  Thy  father 
Was  duke  of  Milan ;  and  his  only  heir 
A  princess ;  no  worse  issued." 
Without  changing  the  original  from  and  to  a,  our  punctuation  gives  the  meaning 
with  suflBcient  clearness.     The  semicolon,  which  is  in  the  original,  has  produced 
the  ambiguity. 
^   Teen — sorrow. 

^  Antonio.  Mr.  Hunter  in  his  *  Disquisition  on  the  Tempest'  says,  "  This  is 
another  instance  of  a  slight  deterioration  of  Shakespeare's  exquisite  melody  by  a 
useless  alteration.     A  nice  ear  will  be  sensible  at  once  that  something  is  lost. 

'  My  brother,  and  thy  uncle,  call'd  Anthonio.''  " 
Something  is  certainly  lost — the  h  is  lost.     Throughout  the  play  we  have  the  spelling 
of  .4nthonio  ;  but  are  we  to  understand  that,  in  an  age  when   the  Italian  language 


144  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  I. 

I  pray  thee  mark  me  that  a  brother  should 

Be  so  perfidious ; ' — he  whom,  next  thyself. 

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

The  manage  of  my  state,  as,  at  that  time. 

Through  all  the  signiories  it  was  the  first. 

And  Prosper©  the  prime  duke,  being  so  reputed 

In  dignity ;  and  for  the  liberal  arts 

Without  a  parallel :  ^  those  being  all  my  study. 

The  government  I  cast  upon  my  brother. 

And  to  my  state  grew  stranger,  being  transported. 

And  rapt  in  secret  studies.     Thy  false  uncle — 

Dost  thou  attend  me  ? 

Mira.  Sir,  most  heedfully. 

Pro.  Being  once  perfected  how  to  grant  suits. 
How  to  deny  them  ;  whom  to  advance,  and  whom 
To  trash  "^  for  overtopping  ;  new  created 

was  as  familiar  as  French  is  now,  Shakspere  meant  the  A  to  be  pronounced  f  In 
<  Anthony  and  Cleopatra,'  indeed,  the  Latin  name  is  Anglicised ;  and  it  may  be 
reasonably  questioned  whether  the  rhythm  is  not  injured  by  the  invariable  modem 
use  of  Antony :  but  nevertheless  are  we  to  pronounce  the  A  in  the  following  line  of 
the  original  edition, — 

"  Is  Caesar  with  Anthoniut  priz'd  so  slight?" 
»  This  is  ordinarily  pointed, — 

"  I  pray  thee  mark  me — that  a  brother  should 
Be  so  perfidious !" 
•The  reader  will  observe  with  what  admirable  skill  such  interjectional  expressions  as 
"  Dost  thou  attend  me?" — "  Thou  attend'st  not," — "I  pray  thee,  mark  me," — are 
subsequently  introduced,  to  break  the  long  continuity  of  Prospero's  narrative.  But 
here,  in  the  very  beginning  of  his  story,  for  Prospero  to  use  a  similar  interruption 
quite  unnecessarily  is  not  an  evidence  of  the  same  dramatic  skill.  He  simply 
means  here  to  say, — and  the  original  punctuation  warrants  us  in  believing  so, — I  pray 
thee  note  how  a  brother  could  be  so  perfidious. 

^  The  easy  conversational  flow  of  this  narrative  is  amongst  the  finest  things  in  the 
play.  One  idea  grows  out  of  the  other  without  any  very  strict  logical  arrangement ; 
for  Prospero  speaks  out  of  the  fulness  of  his  heart.  We  follow  the  punctuation  of 
the  original.     Mr.  Hunter  would  regulate  the  passage  as  follows : — 

"  As,  at  that  time, 
Though  [of]  all  the  seigiiories  it  was  the  first; 
And  Pro8j)ero  the  prime  duke ;  (being  so  reputed 
In  dignity;)  and  for  the  liberal  arts 
Without  a  parallel." 
Though  is  the  reading  of  the  second  folio. 

<=  "  A  trath  is  a  term  still  in  use  among  hunters,  to  denote  a  piece  of  leather, 
couples,  or  any  other  weight,  fastened  round  the  neck  of  a  dog,  when  his  speed  is 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  145 

The  creatures  that  were  mine,  I  say,  or  chang'd  them. 

Or  else  new  form'd  them  ;  having  both  the  key 

Of  officer  and  office,  set  all  hearts  i'  th'  state  * 

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

The  ivy  which  had  hid  my  princely  trunk. 

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

Mira.  O  good  sir,  I  do. 

Pro.  I  pray  thee,  mark  me. 

I  thus  neglecting  worldly  ends,  all  dedicated'' 
To  closeness,  and  the  bettering  of  my  mind 
With  that,  which,  but  by  being  so  retir'd, 
O'er-priz'd  all  popular  rate,  in  my  false  brother 
Awak'd  an  evil  jiature :  and  my  trust. 
Like  a  good  parent,  did  beget  of  him 
A  falsehood,  in  its  contrary  as  great 
As  my  trust  was  ;  which  had,  indeed,  no  limit, 
A  confidence  sans  bound.     He  being  thus  lorded. 
Not  only  with  what  my  revenue  yielded. 
But  what  my  power  might  else  exact, — ^like  one 
Who  having  unto  truth,  by  telling  of  it. 
Made  such  a  sinner  of  his  memory. 
To  credit  his  own  lie,*' — he  did  believe 
He  was  indeed  ^  the  duke  ;  out  of  the  substitution. 
And  executing  the  outward  face  of  royalty. 
With  all  prerogative  : — Hence  his  ambition  growing, — 
Dost  thou  ®  hear  ? 

Mira.  Your  tale,  sir,  would  cure  deafness. 

Pro.  To  have  no  screen  between  this  part  he  play'd. 
And  him  he  play'd  it  for,  he  needs  will  be 

superior  to  the  rest  of  the  pack ;  «'.  e.  when  he  overtops  them,  when  he  hunts  too 
quick."  This  is  a  note,  having  the  initial  C,  in  Boswell's  edition.  Mr.  Hunter 
gives  us  the  same  information. 

"  /'  tK  state.  Steevens  omits  these  words  of  the  original,  being  "  redundant  in 
regard  to  metre ;"  and  he  asks,  with  a  most  knowing  flippancy,  "  What  hearts  except 
such  as  were  in  the  state  could  Antonio  incline  to  his  purpose  ?" 

*>  Dedicated.     So  the  original ;  the  modem  reading  is  dedicate. 

"  This  is  an  involved  sentence  ;  but  the  meaning  is  perfectly  clear — who  having 
made  such  a  sinner  unto  truth  of  his  memory  as  to  credit  his  own  lie  by  telling 
of  it. 

•'  All  modem  editors,  except  Malone,  omit  indeed. 

«  Thou  is  omitted  in  all  modem  editions. 

Vol.  IV.  L 


I 


146 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[Act  I. 


M 


Absolute  Milan  :  Me,  poor  man  !  my  library 
Was  dukedom  large  enough ;  of  temporal  royalties 
He  thinks  me  now  incapable :  confederates 
(So  dry  he  was  for  sway)  with  the  '  king  of  Naples, 
To  give  him  annual  tribute,  do  him  homage ; 
Subject  his  coronet  to  his  crown,  and  bend 
The  dukedom,  yet  unbow'd,  (alas,  poor  Milan !) 
To  most  ignoble  stooping."^ 

Mira.  O  the  heavens  ! 

Pro.  Mark  his  condition,  and  the  event ;  then  tell  me. 
If  this  might  be  a  brother. 

Mira.  I  should  sin 

To  think  but  nobly  of  my  grandmother : 
Good  wombs  have  borne  bad  sons. 

Pro.  Now  the  condition. 

This  king  of  Naples,  being  an  enemy 
To  me  inveterate,  hearkens  my  brother's  suit ; 
Which  was,  that  he,  in  lieu  <^  o'  the  premises 
Of  homage,^  and  I  know  not  how  much  tribute. 
Should  presently  extirpate  me  and  mine 
Out  of  the  dukedom  j  and  confer  fair  Milan, 
With  all  the  honours,  on  my  brother :  Whereon, 
A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight 
Fated  to  the  purpose,  did  Antonio  open 
The  gates  of  Milan ;  and,  i'  the  dead  of  darkness. 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me,  and  thy  crying  self. 

'  Mira.  Alack,  for  pity ! 

I,  not  rememb'ring  how  I  cried  out  then. 
Will  cry  it  o'er  again  :  it  is  a  hint. 
That  wrings  mine  eyes  to 't.® 

Pro.  Hear  a  little  further. 

And  then  I  '11  bring  thee  to  the  present  business 

*  The  is  omitted  in  the  original. 

''  Mr.  Hunter  says  "  mott  is  an  unauthorize<l  substitution  for  much,  the  reading 
of  the  old  copies."  This  is  a  mistake.  Mott  is  the  reading  of  the  first  folio ;  much 
of  the  second. 

'  In  lieu — in  consideration  of — in  exchange  for. 

<*   The  premites  of  homage,  &c. — the  circumstances  of  homage  premised. 

'  To  'I  is  omitted  in  all  popular  editions. 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  147 

Which  now 's  upon  us ;  without  the  which,  this  story 
Were  most  impertinent. 

Mira.  Wherefore  did  they  not 

That  hour  destroy  us  ? 

Pro.  Well  demanded,  wench ; 

My  tale  provokes  that  question.     Dear,  they  durst  not 
(So  dear  the  love  my  people  bore  me)  nor  set; 
A  mark  so  bloody  on  the  business ;  but 
With  colours  fairer  painted  their  foul  ends. 
In  few,  they  hurried  us  aboard  a  bark  ; 
Bore  us  some  leagues  to  sea ;  where  they  prepar'd 
A  rotten  carcase  of  a  butt,*  not  rigg'd. 
Nor  tackle,  sail,  nor  mast ;  the  very  rats 
Instinctively  have  quit  it :  there  they  hoist  us. 
To  cry  to  the  sea  that  roar'd  to  us ;  to  sigh 
To  the  winds,  whose  pity,  sighing  back  again. 
Did  us  but  loving  wrong. 

Mira.  Alack !  what  trouble 

Was  I  then  to  you  ! 

Pro.  O  !  a  cherubim 

Thou  wast  that  did  preserve  me !     Thou  didst  smile. 
Infused  with  a  fortitude  from  heaven. 
When  I  have  deckM  ^  the  sea  with  drops  full  salt ; 
Under  my  burthen  groan'd ;  which  rais'd  in  me 
An  undergoing  stomach,  to  bear  up 
Against  what  should  ensue. 

Mira.  How  came  we  ashore  ? 

Pro.  By  Providence  divine," 
Some  food  we  had,  and  some  fresh  water,  that 

"  Butt  is  the  reading  of  the  original  copies.  It  is  clear  that  we  are  not  justified 
in  adopting  the  modem  substitution  of  boat.  Whether  the  idea  of  a  wine-butt  was 
literally  meant  to  be  conveyed  may  be  questionable ;  but  the  word,  as  it  stands  in 
the  original,  gives  us  the  notion  of  a  vessel  even  more  insecure  than  the  most  rotten 
boat.  Mr.  Hunter  would  adopt  Butt,  (which  is  the  word  of  the  first  and  second  folios, 
and  with  a  capital)  upon  "tlie  great  critical  canon  of  the  "  Durior  Lectio  prceferenda.'''' 

^  Deck'd.  In  the  glossary  of  the  Craven  dialect  we  find  that  to  (leg  is  to  sprinkle. 
Ray,  in  his  catalogue  of  north-country  words,  refers  us  from  deg  to  leek,  which  is 
interpreted  "pour  on."  We  cannot  certainly  receive  deck'd  in  the  usual  sense  of 
adorned.     Its  other  meaning  of  covered  still  gives  us  a  forced  idea. 

'  To  Miranda's  question  of  "  How  came  we  ashore  ?"  the  modern  editors  make 
Prospero  answer  "  By  Providence  divine;"  but  his  entire  narrative  is  the  answer. 

L2 


148  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  I. 

A  noble  Neapolitan,  Gonzalo, 

Out  of  his  charity  (who  being  then  appointed 

Master  of  this  design)  did  give  us ;  with 

Rich  garments,  linens,  stuffs,  and  necessaries. 

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

Knowing  I  lov'd  my  books,  he  fumish'd  me. 

From  mine  own  library,  with  volumes  that 

I  prize  above  my  dukedom. 

Mira.  'Would  I  might 

But  ever  see  that  man ! 

/Vo.  Now  I  arise  : — 

Sit  still,  and  hear  the  last  of  our  sea-sorrow. 
Here  in  this  island  we  arriv'd ;  and  here 
Have  I,  thy  schoolmaster,  made  thee  more  profit 
Than  other  princess '  can,  that  have  more  time 
For  vainer  hours,  and  tutors  not  so  careful. 

Mira.  Heavens  thank  you  for  't !    And  now,  I  pray  you,  sir, 
(For  still 't  is  beating  in  my  mind,)  your  reason 
For  raising  this  sea-storm? 

Pro.  Know  thus  far  forth. 

By  accident  most  strange,  bountiful  Fortune, 
Now  my  dear  lady,''  hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore :  and  by  my  prescience 
I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 
A  most  auspicious  star  \  whose  influence 
If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 
Will  ever  after  droop. — Here  cease  more  questions ; 
Thou  art  inclin'd  to  sleep ;  't  is  a  good  dulness. 
And  give  it  way ; — I  know  thou  canst  not  choose. 

[Miranda  sleeps. 
Come  away,  servant,  come  :  I  am  ready  now ; 
Approach,  my  Ariel ;  come. 

Enter  Ariel. 

.^477.  All  hail,  great  master !  grave  sir,  hail !  I  come 
To  answer  thy  best  pleasure ;  be 't  to  fly, 

•  Princess.    This  is  the  reading  of  the  original — "  princesse." 
•>  Now  my  dear  lady.     The  antecedent  is  Fortune,  now  Prospero's  bountiful 
lady. 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  149 

To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 

On  the  curl'd  clouds ;  to  thy  strong  bidding  task 

Ariel,  and  all  his  quality. 

Pro.  Hast  thou,  spirit, 

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

Ari.  To  every  article. 
I  boarded  the  king's  ship  :  now  on  the  beak, 
,Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
I  flam'd  amazement :  Sometime  I  'd  divide 
And  bum  in  many  places ;  on  the  topmast. 
The  yards,  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distinctly. 
Then  meet,  and  join  :  Jove's  lightnings,  the  precursors 
O'  the  dreadful  thunder-claps,  more  momentary 
And  sight-outrunning  were  not :  The  fire,  and  cracks 
Of  sulphurous  roaring,  the  most  mighty  Neptune 
Seem"  to  besiege,  and  make  his  bold  waves  tremble. 
Yea,  his  dread  trident  shake. 

Pro.  My  brave  spirit ! 

Who  was  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  this  coil 
Would  not  infect  his  reason  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  soul 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,  and  play'd 
Some  tricks  of  desperation  :  All  but  mariners 
Plung'd  in  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessel. 
Then  all  a-fire  with  me :  the  king's  son,  Ferdinand, 
With  hair  up-staring,  (then  like  reeds,  not  hair,) 
Was  the  first  man  that  leap'd  ;  cried,  "  Hell  is  empty. 
And  all  the  devils  are  here." 

Pro.  Why,  that 's  my  spirit ! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ari.  Close  by,  my  master. 

Pro.  But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  hair  perish'd  ; 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish. 
But  fresher  than  before :  and,  as  thou  bad'st  me. 
In  troops  I  have  dispers'd  them  'bout  the  isle : 

*  Seem.  So  the  original — in  modem  editions  seem'd.  Mr.  Hunter  observes  that 
Shakspere's  intention  to  realize  the  scene,  by  making  the  past  present,  is  thus  defeated 
by  the  intermeddling  of  hijudicious  editors. 


150 


THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  I. 


The  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself; 
Whom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs. 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting. 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

Pro.  Of  the  king's  ship. 

The  mariners,  say,  how  thou  hast  dispos'd. 
And  all  the  rest  o'  the  fleet. 

Ari.  Safely  in  harbour 

Is  the  king's  ship ;  in  the  deep  nook,  where  once 
Thou  call'dst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still-vex'd  Bermoothes,  there  she  's  hid : 
The  mariners  all  under  hatches  stow'd ; 
Whom,  with  a  charm  join'd  to  their  suffer'd  labour, 
I  have  left  asleep :  and  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet. 
Which  I  dispers'd,  they  all  have  met  again ; 
And  are  upon  the  Mediterranean  flote. 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples ; 
Supposing  that  they  saw  the  king's  ship  wrack'd. 
And  his  great  person  perish. 

iVo.  Ariel,  thy  charge 

Exactly  is  perform'd ;  but  there  's  more  work : 
What  is  the  time  o'  the  day  ? 

Ari.  Past  the  mid  season. 

Pro.  At  least  two  glasses :  The  time  'twixt  six  and  now 
Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 

Ari.  Is  there  more  toil  ?     Since  thou  dost  give  me  pains. 
Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promis'd. 
Which  is  not  yet  perform'd  me. 

Pro.  How  now  ?  moody  ? 

What  is  't  thou  canst  demand  ? 

Ari.  My  liberty. 

Pro.  Before  the  time  be  out  ?  no  more.* 

Ari.  I  prithee 

Remember,  I  have  done  thee  worthy  service ; 
Told  thee  no  lies,  made  thee*"  no  mistakings,  serv'd 
Without  or  grudge,  or  grumblings :  thou  didst  promise 
To  bate  me  a  full  year. 

"  No  more.     We  understand  this, — say  no  more. 
''    Thee  is  omitted  by  Steeveiu. 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  151 

Pro.  Dost  thou  forget 

From  what  a  torment  I  did  free  thee  ? 

Ari.  No. 

Pro.  Thou  dost ;  and  think'st  it  much  to  tread  the  ooze 
Of  the  salt  deep ; 

To  run  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north ; 
To  do  me  business  in  the  veins  o'  the  earth. 
When  it  is  bak'd  with  frost. 

Ari.  I  do  not,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  liest,  malignant  thing !     Hast  thou  forgot 
The  foul  witch  Sycorax,  who,  with  age  and  envy. 
Was  grown  into  a  hoop  ?  hast  thou  forgot  her  ? 

Ari.  No,  sir. 

Pro.       Thou  hast :  Where  was  she  bom  ?  speak ;  tell  me. 

Ari.  Sir,  in  Argier. 

Pro.  O,  was  she  so?  I  must. 

Once  in  a  month,  recount  what  thou  hast  been. 
Which  thou  forgett'st.     This  damn'd  witch,  Sycorax, 
For  mischiefs  manifold,  and  sorceries  terrible 
To  enter  human  hearing,  from  Argier, 
Thou  know'st,  was  banish'd ;  for  one  thing  she  did 
They  would  not  take  her  life :  Is  not  this  true  ? 

Ari.  Ay,  sir. 

Pro.  This  blue-eyed  hag  was  hither  brought  with  child. 
And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors  :  Thou,  my  slave. 
As  thou  report'st  thyself,  wast  then  her  servant : 
And,  for  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 
To  act  her  earthy  and  abhorr'd  commands. 
Refusing  her  grand  bests,  she  did  confine  thee. 
By  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers. 
And  in  her  most  unmitigable  rage. 
Into  a  cloven  pine ;  within  which  rift 
Imprison'd,  thou  didst  painfully  remain 
A  dozen  years,  within  which  space  she  died. 
And  left  thee  there  ;  where  thou  didst  vent  thy  groans. 
As  fast  as  mill-wheels  strike :  Then  was  this  island 
(Save  for  the  son  that  she  did  litter  here, 
A  freckled  whelp,  hag-bom)  not  honour'd  with 
A  human  shape. 


152  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  I. 

Ari.  Yes  ;  Caliban  her  son. 

Pro.  Dull  thing,  I  say  so ;  he,  that  Caliban, 
Whom  now  I  keep  in  service.     Thou  best  know'st 
What  torment  I  did  find  thee  in  :  thy  groans 
Did  make  wolves  howl,  and  penetrate  the  breasts 
Of  ever-angry  bears  :  it  was  a  torment 
To  lay  upon  the  damn'd,  which  Sycorax 
Could  not  again  undo  ;  it  was  mine  art. 
When  I  arriv'd,  and  heard  thee,  that  made  gape 
The  pine,  and  let  thee  out. 

Ari.  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pro.  If  thou  more  murmur'st,  I  will  rend  an  oak. 
And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till 
Thou  hast  howl'd  away  twelve  winters. 
■  Ari.  Pardon,  master : 

I  will  be  correspondent  to  command. 
And  do  my  spriting  gently. 

JVo.  Do  so ;  and  after  two  days 

I  will  discharge  thee. 

Ari.  That 's  my  noble  master ! 

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

Pro.  Go  make  thyself  like  a  nymph  o'  the  sea ;  * 
Be  subject  to  no  sight  but  thine  and  mine ;  ^  invisible 
To  every  eyeball  else.     Go,  take  this  shape. 
And  hither  come  in  't :  go,  hence,  with  diligence.  [Exit  Ari. 
Awake,  dear  heart,  awake  !  thou  hast  slept  well ; 
Awake ! 

Mira.  The  strangeness  of  your  story  put 
Heaviness  in  me. 

JV-o.  Shake  it  off:  Come  on ; 

We  '11  visit  Caliban,  my  slave,  who  never 
Yields  us  kind  answer. 

Mira.  'T  is  a  villain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 

Pro.  But,  as  't  is. 

We  cannot  miss  him  :  he  does  make  our  fire. 
Fetch  in  our  wood,  and  serves  in  offices 

■  The  second  folio  reads  "  to  a  nymph  of  the  sea." 
*■  Steevens  omits  thine  and. 


\ 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  153 

That  profit  us.     What  ho !  slave  !  Caliban ! 
Thou  earth,  thou !  speak. 

Cal.  [Within.]  There 's  wood  enough  within. 

Pro.  Come  forth,  I  say ;  there 's  other  business  for  thee  : 
Come,  thou  tortoise !  when  !  " 

Re-enter  Ariel,  like  a  water-nymph. 

Fine  apparition  !  My  quaint  Ariel, 
Hark  in  thine  ear. 

Ari.  My  lord,  it  shall  be  done.  [Exit. 

Pro.  Thou  poisonous  slave,  got  by  the  devil  himself 
Upon  thy  wicked  dam,  come  forth ! 

Enter  Caliban. 

Cal.  As  wicked  dew  as  e'er  my  mother  brush'd 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen. 
Drop  on  you  both  !  a  south-west  blow  on  ye. 
And  blister  you  all  o'er. 

Pro.  For  this,  be  sure,  to-night  thou  shalt  have  cramps. 
Side-stitches  that  shall  pen  thy  breath  up ;  urchins 
Shall,  for  that  vast  of  night  ^  that  they  may  work. 
All  exercise  on  thee :  thou  shalt  be  pinch'd 
As  thick  as  honeycomb,  each  pinch  more  stinging 
Than  bees  that  made  them. 

Cal.  I  must  eat  my  dinner. 

This  island  '^s  mine,  by  Sycorax  my  mother. 
Which  thou  tak'st  from  me.     When  thou  camest  first. 
Thou  strok'dst  me,  and  mad'st  much  of  me ;  wouldst  give  me 
Water  with  berries  in  't ;  and  teach  me  how 
To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  less. 
That  burn  by  day  and  night :  and  then  I  lov'd  thee. 
And  show'd  thee  all  the  qualities  o'  the  isle. 
The  fresh  springs,  brine-pits,  barren  place,  and  fertile  j 
Cursed  be  I  that  did  so ! — All  the  charms 
Of  Sycorax,  toads,  beetles,  bats,  light  on  you  ! 

*  When — an  expression  of  great  impatience. 
^  Fast  of  night.     In  '  Hamlet'  we  have 

"  In  the  dead  waste  and  middle  of  the  night." 
The  quarto  edition  of '  Hamlet,'  1603,  reads  dead  vast. 


154  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  I. 

For  I  am  all  the  subjects  that  you  have. 
Which  first  was  mine  own  king ;  and  here  you  sty  me 
In  this  hard  rock,  whiles  you  do  keep  from  me 
The  rest  of  the  island. 

Pro.  Thou  most  lying  slave. 

Whom  stripes  may  move,  not  kindness :  I  have  us'd  thee. 
Filth  as  thou  art,  with  human  care ;  and  lodg'd  thee 
In  mine  own  cell,  till  thou  didst  seek  to  violate 
The  honour  of  my  child. 

Cal.  O  ho,  O  ho! — 'would  it  had  been  done! 
Thou  didst  prevent  me  ;  I  had  peopled  else 
This  isle  with  Calibans. 

Pro.  Abhorred  slave ; 

Which  any  print  of  goodness  will  not  take. 
Being  capable  of  all  ill !  I  pitied  thee. 
Took  pains  to  make  thee  speak,  taught  thee  each  hour 
One  thing  or  other ;  when  thou  didst  not,  savage. 
Know  thine  own  meaning,  but  wouldst  gabble  like 
A  thing  most  brutish,  I  endow'd  thy  purposes 
With  words  that  made  them  known :  But  thy  vile  race. 
Though  thou  didst  learn,  had  that  in  't  which  good  natures 
Could  not  abide  to  be  with ;  therefore  wast  thou 
Deservedly  confin'd  into  this  rock. 
Who  hadst  deserv'd  more  than  a  prison. 

Cal.  You  taught  me  language ;  and  my  profit  on  't 
Is,  I  know  how  to  curse :  the  red  plague  rid  you. 
For  learning  me  your  language  ! 

Pro.  Hag-seed,  hence ! 

Fetch  us  in  fuel ;  and  be  quick,  thou  wert  best. 
To  answer  other  business.     Shrugg'st  thou,  malice  ? 
If  thou  neglect'st,  or  dost  unwillingly 
What  I  command,  I  '11  rack  thee  with  old  cramps ; 
Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches ;  make  thee  roar 
That  beasts  shall  tremble  at  thy  din. 

Cal.  No,  pray  thee ! — 

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

It  would  control  my  dam's  god,  Setebos, 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Pro.  So,  slave ;  hence !         [Exit  Cal. 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  155 

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

Ariel's  Song. 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands. 

And  then  take  hands  : 
Courtsied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd 

The  wild  waves  whist, 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ;  * 

And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 
But.  Hark,  hark !  Bowgh,  wowgh. 

The  watch- dogs  bark  : 
Bowgh,  wowgh.  [dispersed^/. 

Art.  Hark,  hark!  I  hear 

The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-doodle-doo.'» 

Fer.  Where  should  this  music  be  ?  i'  the  air,  or  the  earth  ? 
It  sounds  no  more  : — and  sure  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  of  the  island.     Sitting  on  a  bank. 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wrack. 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters  ; 
Allaying  both  their  fury,  and  my  passion. 
With  its  sweet  air ;  thence  I  have  follow'd  it. 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather : — But  't  is  gone. 
No,  it  begins  again. 

Ariel  sings. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies  ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade. 


*  We  follow  the  punctuation  of  the  original.     In  all  modem  editions  the  passage 
stands  thus : — 

"  Courtsied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd, 
(The  wild  waves  whist) 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there." 
Steevens  explains  the  line  in  parenthesis  as  the  wild  waves  being  silent.     But  the 
original  punctuation  may  allow  us  to  interpret  the  passage  thus :  When  you  have 
courtesied  to  the  wild  waves,  and  kissed  them  into  silence, 
"  Foot  it  featly  here  and  there," 
^  We  print  the  burden,  also,  as  in  the  original.     The  modem  editors,  contrary  to 
this,  give  the  first  "  Hark,  hark !"  to  Ariel ;  and  there  make  his  song  terminate  : 
whereas  the  three  last  lines  give  us  again  the  voice  of  the  delicate  spirit. 


156  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  I. 

But  doth  suffer  a  sea-chatige 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hotirly  ring  bis  knell : 

[^Burthen,  ding-dong. 
Hark !  now  I  bear  them, — ding-dong,  bell.* 

Fer.  The  ditty  does  remember  my  drown'd  father : — 
This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owes : — I  hear  it  now  above  me. 

Pro.  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance. 
And  say,  what  thou  seest  yond'. 

Mir  a.  What  is  't?  a  spirit  ? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about !  Believe  me,  sir. 
It  carries  a  brave  form  : — But  't  is  a  spirit. 

Pro.  No,  wench ;  it  eats,  and  sleeps,  and  hath  such  senses 
As  we  have,  such :  This  gallant,  which  thou  seest. 
Was  in  the  wrack ;  and  but  he  's  something  stain'd 
With  grief,  that 's  beauty's  canker,  thou  mightst  call  him 
A  goodly  person  :  he  hath  lost  his  fellows. 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Mira.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pro.  It  goes  on,  I  see,  [Aside. 

As  my  soul  prompts  it : — Spirit,  fine  spirit !  I  '11  free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

Fer.  Most  sure,  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs  attend ! — Vouchsafe  my  prayer 
May  know  if  you  remain  upon  this  island ; 
And  that  you  will  some  good  instruction  give. 
How  I  may  bear  me  here  :  My  prime  request. 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you  wonder ! 
If  you  be  maid ''  or  no  ? 

'  We  bave  here  an  absurd  corruption  of  the  text  by  the  modem  editors.    When 
Ariel  sings 

"  Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell," 

the  burden  comes  in  "  ding-dong;"  and  then  Ariel  again  sings 
"  Hark !  now  I  hear  them,^-ding-dong,  bell." 
The  modem  editors  transpose  the  lines,  and  make  the  burden  a  mere  chorus  to 
Ariel's  song. 

••  Maid.     The  fourth  folio  substituted  made,  which  has  since  kept  its  place  in 
many  editions,  amidst  endless  controversy.     We  follow  the  reading  of  the  original. 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  157 

Mira.  No  wonder,  sir ; 

But  certainly  a  maid. 

Fer.  My  language !  heavens ! — 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech. 
Were  I  but  where  't  is  spoken. 

Pro.  How !  the  best  ? 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  king  of  Naples  heard  thee  ? 

Fer.  A  single  thing,  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples :  He  does  hear  me ; 
And  that  he  does  I  weep  :  myself  am  Naples ; 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  never  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  king  my  father  wrack'd. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  mercy ! 

Fer.  Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords  -,  the  duke  of  Milan, 
And  his  brave  son,  being  twain. 

Pro.  The  duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  more  braver  daughter,  could  control  thee. 
If  now  't  were  fit  to  do  't : — At  the  first  sight  [Aside. 

They  have  chang'd  eyes  : — Delicate  Ariel, 
I  '11  set  thee  free  for  this ! — A  word,  good  sir ; 
I  fear  you  have  done  yourself  some  wrong :  a  word. 

Mira.  Why  speaks  my  father  so  ungently  ?    This 
Is  the  third  man  that  e'er  I  saw ;  the  first 
That  e'er  I  sigh'd  for :  pity  move  my  father 
To  be  inclin'd  my  way ! 

Fer.  O,  if  a  virgin. 

And  your  afiection  not  gone  forth,  I  '11  make  you 
The  queen  of  Naples. 

Pro.  Soft,  sir!  one  word  more. — 

They  are  both  in  cither's  powers ;  but  this  swift  business 
I  must  uneasy  make,  lest  too  light  winning  [Aside. 

Make  the  prize  light. — One  word  more ;  I  charge  thee. 
That  thou  attend  me :  thou  dost  here  usurp 
The  name  thou  ow'st  not ;  and  hast  put  thyself 
Upon  this  island,  as  a  spy,  to  win  it 
From  me,  the  lord  on 't. 

Fer.  No,  as  I  am  a  man. 

Mira.  There 's  nothing  ill  can  dwell  in  such  a  temple  : 


158  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  I. 

If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fair  a  house. 
Good  things  will  strive  to  dwell  with  't. 

Pro.  Follow  me. — [To  Ferd. 

Speak  not  you  for  him  ;  he  's  a  traitor. — Come. 
I  '11  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together :» 
Sea-water  shalt  thou  drink,  thy  food  shall  be 
The  fresh-brook  muscles,  wither'd  roots,  and  husks 
Wherein  the  acorn  cradled :  Follow. 

Fer.  No; 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment,  till 
Mine  enemy  has  more  power. 

[He  draws,  and  is  charmed  from  moving  ^ 

Mira.  O  dear  father. 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 
He  's  gentle,**  and  not  fearful. 

Pro.  What,  I  say. 

My  foot  my  tutor!  Put  thy  sword  up,  traitor; 
Who  mak'st  a  show,  but  dar'st  not  strike,  thy  conscience 
Is  so  possess'd  with  guilt :  come  from  thy  ward ; 
For  I  can  here  disarm  thee  with  this  stick. 
And  make  thy  weapon  drop. 

Mira.  Beseech  you,  father ! 

Pro.  Hence ;  hang  not  on  my  garments. 

Mira.  Sir,  have  pity ; 

I  '11  be  his  surety. 

Pro.  Silence  !  one  word  more 

Shall  make  me  chide  thee,  if  not  hate  thee.     What ! 
An  advocate  for  an  impostor !  hu^h ! 
Thou  think'st  there  are  no  more  such  shapes  as  he. 
Having  seen  but  him  and  Caliban :  Foolish  wench ! 
To  the  most  of  men  this  is  a  Caliban, 
And  they  to  him  are  angels. 

Mira.  .  My  affections 

Are  then  most  humble ;  I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man. 

"  This  is  the  original  siage-direction. 

^  Smollett  suggested  that  gentle  has  here  the  sense  of  high-boni,  noble ;  aud 
therefore  courageous. 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  159 

Pro.  Come  on;  obey:  .\To  Ferd. 

Thy  nerves  are  in  their  infancy  again. 
And  have  no  vigour  in  them. 

Fer.  So  they  are: 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  dream,  are  all  bound  up. 
My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  which  I  feel. 
The  wrack  of  all  my  friends,  or  this  man's  threats. 
To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me. 
Might  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day 
Behold  this  maid :  all  corners  else  o'  the  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of;  space  enough 
Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 

Pro.  It  works : — Come  on. — 

Thou  hast  done  well,  fine  Ariel ! — Follow  me. — 

[To  Ferd.  and  Mir. 
Hark,  what  thou  else  shalt  do  me.  [To  Ariel. 

Mira.  Be  of  comfort; 

My  father 's  of  a  better  nature,  sir. 
Than  he  appears  by  speech ;  this  is  unwonted. 
Which  now  came  from  him. 

Pro.  Thou  shalt  be  as  free 

As  mountain  winds :  but  then  exactly  do 
All  points  of  my  command. 

Ari.  To  the  syllable. 

Pro.  Come,  follow :  speak  not  for  him.  [Exeunt. 


160 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  1. 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   ACT   L 


*  Scene  L — "  Boatswain,''  &c. 

Upon  this  scene  Dr.  Johnson  has  the  following  remark  : — "  In  this  naval  dialogue, 
perhaps  the  first  example  of  sailors'  language  exhibited  on  the  stage,  there  are,  as  I 
have  been  told  by  a  skilful  navigator,  some  inaccuracies  and  contradictory  orders." 
Malone,  in  reply  to  this,  very  properly  pointed  out  that  the  orders  should  be  consi- 
dered as  given  not  at  once,  but  successively,  as  the  emergency  required.  In  Bos- 
well's  edition  we  have  a  highly  valuable  communication  from  the  second  Lord 
Mulgrave,  showing  most  conclusively  that  Shakspere's  technical  knowledge  of 
seamanship  must  have  been  the  result  of  the  most  accurate  personal  observation,  or, 
what  is  perhaps  more  difficult,  of  the  power  of  combining  and  applying  the  inform- 
ation derived  from  others.  Lord  Mulgrave  supposes  Shakspere  must  have  acquired 
this  technical  knowledge  "by  conversation  with  some  of  the  most  skilful  seamen  of 
that  time."  He  adds,  "  no  books  had  then  been  published  on  the  subject."  Lord 
Mulgrave  then  exhibits  the  ship  in  five  positions,  showing  how  strictly  the  words  of 
the  dialogue  represent  these.  We  transcribe  tlie  general  observations  by  which  these 
technical  illustrations  are  Introduced  : — 

"  The  succession  of  events  is  strictly  observed  In  the  natural  progress  of  the  dis- 
tress described  ;  the  expedients  adopted  are  the  most  proper  that  could  have  been 
devised  for  a  chance  of  safety ;  and  it  is  neither  to  the  want  of  skill  of  the  seamen 
nor  the  bad  qualities  of  the  ship,  but  solely  to  the  power  of  Prospero,  that  the  ship- 
wreck is  to  be  attributed. 

"  The  words  of  command  are  not  only  strictly  proper,  but  are  only  such  as  point 
the  object  to  be  attained,  and  no  superfluous  ones  of  detail.  Shakspeare's  ship  was 
too  well  manned  to  make  it  necessary  to  tell  the  seamen  how  they  were  to  do  it,  as 
well  as  what  they  were  to  do. 

"  He  hat  shown  a  knowledge  of  the  new  improvements,  as  well  as  tlie  doubtful 


THE  TEMPEST.  161 

poiuts  of  seamanship  :  one  of  the  latter  he  has  hitroduced  under  the  only  circum- 
stauces  in  which  it  was  indisputable,'' 

Mr.  Campbell  gives  the  testimony  of  Captain  Glascock,  R.N.,  to  the  correctness 
of  Shakspere  in  nautical  matters  : — "  The  Boatswain  in  '  The  Tempest '  delivers 
himself  in  the  true  vernacular  style  of  the  forecastle." 

*  Scene  I. — "  Down  with  the  topmast.'''' 

Lord  Mulgrave  has  the  following  note  on  this  direction : — "  The  striking  the  top- 
masts was  a  new  invention  in  Shaksjieare's  time,  which  he  here  very  properly  intro- 
duces. Sir  Henry  Manwaring  says, '  It  is  not  yet  agreed  amongst  all  seamen  whe- 
ther it  is  better  for  a  ship  to  hull  with  her  topmast  up  or  down.'  In  the  Postscript 
to  the  Dictionary  he  afterwards  gives  his  own  opinion  : — '  If  you  have  sea-room  it 
is  never  good  to  strike  the  topmast.'  Shakspeare  has  placed  his  ship  in  the  situation 
in  which  it  was  indisputably  right  to  strike  tlie  topmast — where  he  had  not  sea- 
room." 

*  Scene  II. — /'//  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together. '" 

We  have  given  an  engraving  at  the  head  of  these  Illustrations  which  explains  this 
threat  better  than  any  description. 


Vol.  IV.  M 


162  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  II. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  Island. 

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

Gon.  'Beseech  you,  sir,  be  merry :  you  have  cause 
(So  have  we  all)  of  joy ;  for  our  escape 
Is  much  beyond  our  loss :  Our  hint  of  woe 
Is  common;  every  day,  some  sailor's  wife. 
The  masters  of  some  merchant,"  and  the  merchant. 
Have  just  our  theme  of  woe  :  but  for  the  miracle, 
I  mean  our  preservation,  few  in  millions 
Can  speak  like  us :  then  wisely,  good  sir,  weigh 
Our  sorrow  with  our  comfort. 

Alon.  Prithee,  peace. 

Seb.  He  receives  comfort  like  cold  porridge. 

Ant.  The  visitor  will  not  give  him  o'er  so. 

Seb.  Look,  he  's  winding  up  the  watch  of  his  wit ; 
By  and  by  it  will  strike. 

Gon.  Sir, — 

Seb.  One:— Tell. 

Gon.  When  every  grief  is  entertain'd  that 's  oflfer'd. 
Comes  to  the  entertainer — 

Seb.  A  dollar. 

Gon.  Dolour  comes  to   him,    indeed;  you   have  spoken 
truer  than  you  purposed. 

Seb.  You  have  taken  it  wiselier  than  I  meant  you  should. 

Gon.  Therefore,  my  lord, — 

Ant.  Fie,  what  a  spendthrift  is  he  of  his  tongue ! 

Alon.  I  prithee  spare. 

■  Merchant  is  here  used  for  merchant-vessel — merchantman.  Dryden  employs  it 
in  a  similar  way  :  "  As  convoy  ships  either  accompany  or  should  accomjmny  their 
merchaiitt.'"  The  "  masters  of  some  merchant"  signifies,  therefore,  the  owners  of 
some  trading  vessel ;  but  in  the  second  instance  the  "  merchant "  must  mean  the 
trader,  whose  goods  are  ventured  in  the  merchantman. 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  163 

Gon.  Well,  I  have  done  :  But  yet — 

Seb.  He  will  be  talking. 

Ant.  Whicli,  of*  he,  or  Adrian,  for  a  good  wager,  first 
begins  to  crow  ? 

Seb.  The  old  cock. 

Ant.  The  cockrel. 

Seb.  Done :  the  wager  ? 

Ant.  A  laughter. 

Seb.  A  match. 

Adr.  Though  this  island  seem  to  be  desert, — 

Seb.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Ant.  So,  you  're  paid.** 

Adr.  Uninhabitable,  and  almost  inaccessible, — 

Seb.  Yet, 

Adr.  Yet,— 

Ant.  He  could  not  miss  it. 

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

Ant.  Temperance  was  a  delicate  wench. 

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

Adr.  The  air  breathes  upon  us  here  most  sweetly. 

Seb.  As  if  it  had  lungs,  and  rotten  ones. 

Ant.  Or  as  't  were  perfumed  by  a  fen. 

Gon.  Here  is  everything  advantageous  to  life. 

Ant.  True ;  save  means  to  live. 

Seb.  Of  that  there  's  none,  or  little. 

Gon.  How  lush*^  and  lusty  the  grass  looks  !  how  green  ! 

Ant.  The  ground,  indeed,  is  tawny. 

Seb.  With  an  eye  of  green  in  't.** 

Ant.  He  misses  not  much. 

Seb.  No ;  he  doth  but  mistake  the  truth  totally. 

"  The  ordinary  reading  is  which  of  them.  The  present  form  is  quaint,  but  intel- 
ligible. . 

^  These  words,  we  think,  belong  to  Sebastian.  The  wager  is  a  laughter.  Antonio 
bets  that  "the  cockrel"  will  crow  first.  Adrian,  the  young  man,  does  crow  ;  upon 
which  Sebastian  laughs  loudly,  exclaiming  "  So  yoM  are  paid."  Steevens  proposes 
to  read  "yow't'e  paid,"  giving  the  words  to  Antonio,  as  in  the  original.  We  leave 
the  text  as  we  find  it. 

"  Lush  is  aflBrmed  by  Henley  to  mean  rank  ;  by  Malone,  juicy.  We  have  still 
the  low  word  lushy,  as  applied  to  a  drunkard. 

<*  Eye  of  green — tinge — shade. 

M2 


164  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  II. 

Gon.  But  the  rarity  of  it  is  (which  is  indeed  almost 
beyond  credit) — 

Seb.  As  many  vouched  rarities  are. 

Gon.  That  our  garments,  being,  as  they  were,  drenched 
in  the  sea,  hold,  notwithstanding,  their  freshness,  and 
glosses;  being  rather  new  dyed  than  stained  with  salt 
water. 

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

Seb.  Ay,  or  very  falsely  pocket  up  his  report. 

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

Seb.  'T  was  a  sweet  marriage,  and  we  prosper  well  in  our 
return. 

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

Gon.  Not  since  widow  Dido's  time. 

Ant.  Widow  ?  a  pox  o'  that !  How  came  that  widow  in  ? 
Widow  Dido ! 

Seb.  What  if  he  had  said,  widower  iEneas  too  ?  good  lord, 
how  you  take  it ! 

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

Gon.  This  Tunis,  sir,  was  Carthage. 

Adr.  Carthage  ? 

Gon.  I  assure  you,  Carthage. 

Ant.  His  word  is  more  than  the  miraculous  harp. 

Seb.  He  hath  rais'd  the  wall,  and  houses  too. 

Ant.  What  impossible  matter  will  he  make  easy  next? 

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

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

Gon.  Ay. 

Ant.  Why,  in  good  time. 

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


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  165 

Ant.  And  the  rarest  that  e'er  came  there. 

Seb.  'Bate,  I  beseech  you,  widow  Dido. 

Ant.  O,  widow  Dido;  ay,  widow  Dido. 

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

Ant.  That  sort  was  well  fish'd  for. 

Gon.  When  I  wore  it  at  your  daughter's  marriage  ? 

Alon.  You  cram  these  words  into  mine  ears,  against 
The  stomach  of  my  sense :  'Would  I  had  never 
Married  my  daughter  there  !  for,  coming  thence. 
My  son  is  lost ;  and,  in  my  rate,  she  too. 
Who  is  so  far  from  Italy  removed, 
I  ne'er  again  shall  see  her.     O  thou  mine  heir 
Of  Naples  and  of  Milan,  what  strange  fish 
Hath  made  his  meal  on  thee  ! 

Fran.  Sir,  he  may  live  j 

I  saw  him  beat  the  surges  under  him. 
And  ride  upon  their  backs ;  he  trod  the  water. 
Whose  enmity  he  flung  aside,  and  breasted 
The  surge  most  swoln  that  met  him ;  his  bold  head 
'Bove  the  contentious  waves  he  kept,  and  oar'd 
Himself  with  his  good  arms  in  lusty  stroke 
To  the  shore,  that  o'er  his  wave-worn  basis  bow'd. 
As  stooping  to  relieve  him ;  I  not  doubt. 
He  came  alive  to  land. 

Alon.  No,  no,  he  's  gone. 

Seb.  Sir,  you  may  thank  yourself  for  this  great  loss. 
That  would  not  bless  our  Europe  with  your  daughter. 
But  rather  lose  her  to  an  African ; 
Where  she,  at  least,  is  banish'd  from  your  eye. 
Who  hath  cause  to  wet  the  grief  on  't. 

Alon.  Prithee,  peace. 

Seb.  You  were  kneel'd  to,  and  importun'd  otherwise. 
By  all  of  us ;  and  the  fair  soul  herself 
Weigh'd,  between  lothness  and  obedience,  at 
Which  end  o'  the  beam  she  'd  bow.     We  have  lost  your  son, 
I  fear,  for  ever :  Milan  and  Naples  have 
More  widows  in  them  of  this  business'  making. 


166  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  II. 

Than  we  bring  men  to  comfort  them  :  the  fault 's 
Your  own, 

Alon.  So  is  the  dearest  of  the  loss. 

Gon.  My  lord  Sebastian, 

The  truth  you  speak  doth  lack  some  gentleness. 
And  time  to  speak  it  in;  you  rub  the  sore. 
When  you  should  bring  the  plaster. 

Seb.  '  Very  well. 

Ant.  And  most  chirurgeonly. 

Gon.  It  is  foul  weather  in  us  all,  good  sir. 
When  you  are  cloudy. 

Seb.  Foul  weather? 

Ant.  Very  foul. 

Gon.  Had  I  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord, — 

Ant.  He  'd  sow  't  with  nettle-seed. 

Seb.  Or  docks,  or  mallows. 

Gon.  And  were  the  king  of  it.  What  would  I  do  ? 

Seb.  'Scape  being  drunk,  for  want  of  wine. 

Gon.  V  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  things  ;  for  no  kind  of  traflGlc 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate  j 
Letters  should  not  be  known :  riches,  poverty. 
And  use  of  service,  none ;  contract,  succession. 
Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none  :* 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil : 
No  occupation ;  all  men  idle,  all ; 
And  women  too ;  but  innocent  and  pure : 
No  sovereignty : —  • 

Seb.  Yet  he  would  be  king  on  't. 

Ant.  The  latter  end  of  his  commonwealth  forgets  the 
beginning. 

■  We  have  given  in  an  illustration  a  passage  from  Florio's  '  Montaigne,'  which 
Shakspere  unquestionably  had  before  him  when  he  wrote  tliese  lines.  Malone  and 
Steevens  tell  us  the  metre  is  here  defective ;  and  by  a  most  ridiculous  editorial 
licence  Steevens  sets  about  mending  it  upon  the  following  principle  : — "  The  words 
quoted  from  Florio's  translation  instruct  us  to  regulate  our  author's  metre  as  it  is 
exhibited  in  my  text."     And  this  is  the  exhibition  ! — 

"  Letters  should  not  be  known ;  no  use  of  service, 
Of  riches  or  of  poverty;  no  contracts, 
Succession,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none." 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  167 

Gon.  All  things  in  common  nature  should  produce 
Without  sweat  or  endeavour :  treason,  felony. 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine. 
Would  I  not  have ;  but  nature  should  bring  forth. 
Of  its  own  kind,  all  foizon,*  all  abundance. 
To  feed  my  innocent  people. 

Seb.  No  marrying  'mong  his  subjects  ? 

Ant.  None,  man ;  all  idle ;  whores  and  knaves. 

Gon.  I  would  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir. 
To  excel  the  golden  age. 

Seb.  'Save  his  majesty ! 

Ant.  Long  live  Gonzalo ! 

Gon.  And,  do  you  mark  me,  sir  ? — 

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

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

Ant.  'T  was  you  we  laugh'd  at. 

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

Ant.  What  a  blow  was  there  given! 

Seb.  An  it  had  not  fallen  flat-long. 

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

Enter  Ariel  invisible,  playing  solemn  music. 

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

Ant.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  angry. 

Gon.  No,  I  warrant  you ;  I  will  not  adventure  my  dis- 
cretion so  weakly.  Will  you  laugh  me  asleep,  for  I  am  very 
heavy  ? 

Ant.  Go  sleep,  and  hear  us. 

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

Alon.  What,  all  so  soon  asleep !     I  wish  mine  eyes 
Would,  with  themselves,  shut  up  my  thoughts  :  I  find 
They  are  inclin'd  to  do  so. 

Seb.  Please  you^  sir, 

•  Foizon — plenty. 


168  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  II. 

Do  not  omit  the  heavy  offer  of  it : 
It  seldom  visits  sorrow ;  when  it  doth. 
It  is  a  comforter. 

Ant.  We  two,  my  lord. 

Will  guard  your  person  while  you  take  your  rest. 
And  watch  your  safety. 

Alon.  Thank  you  :  wondrous  heavy. 

[Alon.  sleeps.     Exit  Ariel, 

Seb.  What  a  strange  drowsiness  possesses  them  ! 

Ant.  It  is  the  quality  o'  the  climate. 

Seb.  Why 

Doth  it  not  then  our  eyelids  sink  ?     I  find  not 
Myself  dispos'd  to  sleep. 

Ant.  Nor  I ;  my  spirits  are  nimble. 

They  fell  together  all,  as  by  consent ; 
They  dropp'd,  as  by  a  thunder-stroke.     What  might. 
Worthy  Sebastian  ? — O,  what  might  ? — No  more  : — 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  see  it  in  thy  face^ 
What  thou  shouldst  be  :  the  occasion  speaks  thee ;  and 
My  strong  imagination  sees  a  crown 
Dropping  upon  thy  head. 

Seb.  What,  art  thou  waking  ? 

Ant.  Do  you  not  hear  me  speak  ? 

Seb.  I  do ;  and,  surely. 

It  is  a  sleepy  language  ;  and  thou  speak'st 
Out  of  thy  sleep  :  What  is  it  thou  didst  say  ? 
This  is  a  strange  repose,  to  be  asleep 
With  eyes  wide  open ;  standing,  speaking,  moving. 
And  yet  so  fast  asleep. 

Ant.  Noble  Sebastian, 

Thou  lett'st  thy  fortune  sleep,  die  rather ;  wink'st 
Whiles  thou  art  waking. 

Seb.  Thou  dost  snore  distinctly ; 

There 's  meaning  in  thy  snores. 

Ant.  I  am  more  serious  than  my  custom  :  you 
Must  be  so  too,  if  heed  me ;  which  to  do 
Trebles  thee  o'er. 

Seb.  Well,  I  am  standing  water. 

Ant.  I  '11  teach  you  how  to  flow. 


f 


Scene!.]  THE  TEMPEST.  160 

Seb.  Do  so  :  to  ebb. 

Hereditary  sloth  instructs  me. 

4nt.  O, 

If  you  but  knew  how  you  the  purpose  cherish 
Whiles  thus  you  mock  it !  how,  in  stripping  it. 
You  more  invest  it !     Ebbing  men,  indeed. 
Most  often  do  so  near  the  bottom  run. 
By  their  own  fear,  or  sloth. 

Seb.  Prithee  say  on  r 

The  setting  of  thine  eye,  and  cheek,  proclaim 
A  matter  from  thee ;  and  a  birth,  indeed. 
Which  throes  thee  much  to  yield. 

Ant.  Thus,  sir : 

Although  this  lord  of  weak  remembrance,  this 
(Who  shall  be  of  as  little  memory. 
When  he  is  earth'd)  hath  here  almost  persuaded 
■(For  he  's  a  spirit  of  persuasion,  only 
Professes  to  persuade  *)  the  king  his  son  's  alive, — 
'T  is  as  impossible  that  he 's  undrown'd. 
As  he  that  sleeps  here,  swims. 

iSeb.  I  have  no  hope 

That  he  's  undrown'd. 

Ant.  O,  out  of  that  no  hope. 

What  great  hope  have  you !  no  hope,  that  way,  is 
Another  way  so  high  a  hope,  that  even 
Ambition  cannot  pierce  a  wink  beyond. 
But  doubts  discovery  there.     Will  you  grant  with  me. 
That  Ferdinand  is  drown'd  ? 

Seb.  He 's  gone. 

Ant.  Then,  tell  me. 

Who 's  the  next  heir  of  Naples  ? 

Seb.  Claribel. 

Ant.  She  that  is  queen  of  Tunis  :  she  that  dwells 
Ten  leagues  beyond  man's  life  ;  she  that  from  Naples 
Can  have  no  note,  unless  the  sun  were  post, 
(The  man  i'  the  moon  's  too  slow,)  till  new-bom  china 
Be  rough  and  razorable ;  she,**  from  whom 

*  Steevens,  without  any  compunction,  omits  "  professes  to  persuade.'''' 
^  The  original  reads  "  she  ihat  from  whom." 


170  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  II. 

We  all  were  sea-swallow'd,  though  some  cast  again ; 
And  by  that  destiny  to  perform  an  act. 
Whereof  what 's  past  is  prologue ;  what  to  come. 
In  yours  and  my  discharge. 

Seb.  What  stuff  is  this  ? — How  say  you  ? 

'T  is  true,  my  brother's  daughter  's  queen  of  Tunis  : 
So  is  she  heir  of  Naples  ;  'twixt  which  regions 
There  is  some  space. . 

Ant.  A  space  whose  every  cubit 

Seems  to  cry  out,  "  How  shall  that  Claribel 
Measure  us  back  to  Naples  ?" — Keep  in  Tunis, 
And  let  Sebastian  wake  ! — Say,  this  were  death 
That  now  hath  seiz'd  them ;  why,  they  were  no  worse 
Than  now  they  are  :  There  be  that  can  rule  Naples 
As  well  as  he  that  sleeps ;  lords  that  can  prate 
As  amply  and  unnecessarily 
As  this  Gonzalo  ;  I  myself  could  make 
A  chough  of  as  deep  chat.     O,  that  you  bore 
The  mind  that  I  do  !  what  a  sleep  were  this 
For  your  advancement !     Do  you  understand  me  ? 

Seb.  Methinks  I  do. 

Ant.  And  how  does  your  content 

Tender  your  own  good  fortune  ? 

Seb.  I  remember. 

You  did  supplant  your  brother  Prospero. 

Ant.  True  : 

And  look  how  well  my  garments  sit  upon  me  j 
Much  feater  than  before  :  My  brother's  servants 
Were  then  my  fellows,  now  they  are  my  men. 

Seb.  But,  for  your  conscience — 

Ant.  Ay,  sir ;  where  lies  that  ?  if 't  were  a  kybe, 
'T  would  put  me  to  my  slipper  :  But  I  feel  not 
This  deity  in  my  bosom  ;  twenty  consciences. 
That  stand  'twixt  me  and  Milan,  candied  be  they, 
And  melt,  ere  they  molest !     Here  lies  your  brother. 
No  better  than  the  earth  he  lies  upon. 
If  he  were  that  which  now  he 's  like,  that  'b  dead  ; ' 

»  In  the  same  way  Steevens  omits  "  Ihal '»  dead."     What  he  omits,  arid  what  he 
iiuertt,  would  be  unwortKy  notice,  if  hie  text  were  not  that  of  nearly  every  reprint. 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  171 

Whom  I,  with  this  obedient  steel,  three  inches  of  it. 
Can  lay  to  bed  for  ever :  whiles  you,  doing  thus. 
To  the  perpetual  wink  for  aye  might  put 
This  ancient  morsel,  this  sir  Prudence,  who 
Should  not  upbraid  our  course.     For  all  the  rest. 
They  '11  take  suggestion,  as  a  cat  laps  milk  ; 
They  '11  tell  the  clock  to  any  business  that 
We  say  befits  the  hour. 

Seb.  Thy  case,  dear  friend. 

Shall  be  my  precedent ;  as  thou  gott'st  Milan, 
I  '11  come  by  Naples.     Draw  thy  sword  :  one  stroke 
Shall  free  thee  from  the  tribute  which  thou  pay'st ; 
And  I  the  king  shall  love  thee. 

Ant.  Draw  together : 

And  when  I  rear  my  hand^.  do  you  the  like. 
To  fall  it  on  Gonzalo. 

Seb.  O,  but  one  word.     [They  converse  apart. 

\  Music.     Re-enter  Ariel,  invisible. 

Ari.  My  master  through  his  art  foresees  the  danger 
That  you,  his  friend,"  are  in  j  and  sends  me  forth, 
(For  else  his  project  dies,)  to  keep  them  living. 

[Sings  in  Gonzalo'*  ear. 

While  you  here  do  snoring  lie. 
Open-eyed  Conspiracy 
His  time  doth  take  : 
^^      >iK    )     If  of  life  you  keep  a  care, 
^^J        V^'  /       Shake  off  slumber,  and  beware  : 
'       v "     I  Awake!  Awake! 

Ant.  Then  ifet  us  both  be  sudden. 

Gon.  Now,  good  angels,  preserve  the  king !   [They,  awake. 

Alon.  Why,  how  now,  ho !  awake  !    Why  are  you  drawn  ? 
Wherefore  this  ghastly  looking  ? 

Gon.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Seb.  Whiles  we  stood  here  securing  your  repose. 
Even  now,  we  heard  a  hollow  burst  of  bellowing 

In  doing  these  bold  things  with  the  present  play  Steevens  almost  inrariably  in- 
vokes Dr.  Farmer  to  liis  aid. 

"  This  is  the  reading  of  the  original.     "  These,  his  friends,'^   is  found  in  modem 
editions. 


172  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  II. 

Like  bulls,  or  rather  lions  ;  did  it  not  wake  you  ? 
It  struck  mine  ear  most  terribly. 

Alon.  I  heard  nothing. 

Ant.  O,  'twas  a  din  to  fright  a  monster's  ear; 
To  make  an  earthquake !  sure  it  was  the  roar 
Of  a  whole  herd  of  lions. 

Alon.  Heard  you  this,  Gonzalo  ? 

Gon.  Upon  mine  honour,  sir,  I  heard  a  humming. 
And  that  a  strange  one  too,  which  did  awake  me  : 
I  shak'd  you,  sir,  and  cried ;  as  mine  eyes  open'd, 
I  saw  their  weapons  drawn  : — there  was  a  noise. 
That 's  verity  :  *  'T  is  best  we  stand  upon  our  guard  ; 
Or  that  we  quit  this  place  :  let 's  draw  our  weapons. 

Alon.  Lead  off  this  ground  ;  and  let 's  make  further  search 
For  my  poor  son. 

Gon.  Heavens  keep  him  from  these  beasts ! 

For  he  is,  sure,  i'  the  island. 

Alon.  Lead  away. 

Ari.  Prospero  my  lord  shall  know  what  I  have  done  :  [Aside. 
So,  king,  go  safely  on  to  seek  thy  son.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  n. — Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  Caliban,  with  a  burthen  of  wood. 

A  noise  of  thunder  heard. 

Ckil.  All  the  infections  that  the  sun  sucks  up 
From  bogs,  fens,  flats,  on  Prosper  fall,  and  make  him 
By  inch-meal  a  disease !     His  spirits  hear  me. 
And  yet  I  needs  must  curse.     But  they  '11  nor  pinch. 
Fright  me  with  urchin  shows,  pitch  me  i'  the  mire. 
Nor  lead  me,  like  a  firebrand,  in  the  dark 
Out  of  my  way,  unless  he  bid  them ;  but 
For  every  trifle  are  they  set  upon  me : 
Sometime  like  apes,  that  moe  and  chatter  at  me. 
And  after,  bite  me  ;  then  like  hedgehogs,  which 
Lie  tumbling  in  my  barefoot  way,  and  mount 
Their  pricks  at  my  footfall ;  sometime  am  I 

"   Vaittf.     The  original  has  vtrilfi. 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  173 

All  wound*  with  adders,  who,  with  cloven  tongues. 
Do  hiss  me  into  madness  : — Lo !  now  !  lo ! 

Enter  Trinculo. 

Here  comes  a  spirit  of  his ;  and  to  torment  me. 
For  bringing  wood  in  slowly  :  I  '11  fall  flat ; 
Perchance,  he  will  not  mind  me. 

Trin.  Here 's  neither  bush  nor  shrub,  to  bear  oiF  any- 
weather  at  all,  and  another  storm  brewing ;  I  hear  it  sing 
i'  the  wind :  yond'  same  black  cloud,  yond'  huge  one,  looks 
like  a  foul  bumbard  that  would  shed  his  liquor.  If  it  should 
thunder  as  it  did  before,  I  know  not  where  to  hide  my  head : 
yond'  same  cloud  cannot  choose  but  fall  by  pailfuls. — What 
have  we  here  ?  a  man  or  a  fish  ?  Dead  or  alive  ?  A  fish : 
he  smells  like  a  fish ;  a  very  ancient  and  fish-like  smell ;  a 
kind  of,  not  of  the  newest,  Poor-John.  A  strange  fish ! 
Were  I  in  England  now,*  (as  once  I  was,)  and  had  but  this 
fish  painted,  not  a  holiday  fool  there  but  would  give  a  piece 
of  silver :  there  would  this  monster  make  a  man ;  any  strange 
beast  there  makes  a  man :  when  they  will  not  give  a  doit  to 
relieve  a  lame  beggar,  they  will  lay  out  ten  to  see  a  dead 
Indian.  Legged  like  a  man !  and  his  fins  like  arms !  Warm, 
o'  my  troth !  I  do  now  let  loose  my  opinion,  hold  it  no 
longer ;  this  is  no  fish,  but  an  islander,  that  hath  lately  suf- 
fered by  a  thunder-bolt.  [Thunder. 1  Alas!  the  storm  is 
come  again :  my  best  way  is  to  creep  under  his  gaberdine ; 
there  is  no  other  shelter  hereabout :  Misery  acquaints  a  man 
with  strange  bedfellows.  I  will  here  shroud  till  the  dregs 
of  the  storm  be  past. 

Enter  Stephano,  singing  ;  a  bottle  in  his  hand. 

Ste.  I  shall  no  more  to  sea,  to  sea. 

Here  shall  I  die  ashore ; — 

This  is  a  very  scurvy  tune  to  sing  at  a  man's  funeral :  Well, 
here  's  m^  comfort.  [Drinks. 

The  master,  the  swabber,  the  boatswain,  and  I, 
The  gunner,  and  his  mate, 


"  Wound — twisted  round. 


174      Z'  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  II. 

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

But  none  of  us  car'd  for  Kate  : 

For  she  had  a  tongue  with  a  tang, 

Would  cry  to  a  sailor,  "  Go  hang :" 
She  lov'«l  not  the  savour  of  tar  nor  of  pitch, 
Yet  a  tailor  might  scratch  her  where'er  she  did  itch : 

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

This  is  a  ecurvy  tune  too :  But  here 's  my  comfort.  [Thinks. 

Cal.  Do  not  torment  me  :  O  ! 

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

Cal.  The  spirit  torments  me :  O  ! 

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

Cal.  Do  not  torment  me,  prithee ;  I  '11  bring  my  wood 
home  faster. 

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

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

Ste.  Come  on  your  ways ;  open  your  mouth  :  here  is  that 
which  will  give  language  to  you,  cat ;  open  your  mouth : 
this  will  shake  your  shaking,  I  can  tell  you,  and  that  soundly : 
you  cannot  tell  who 's  your  friend  :  open  your  chaps  again. 

Trin.  I  should  know  that  voice  :  It  should  be — But  he  is 
drowned ;  and  these  are  devils  :  O  !  defend  me ! — 

Ste.  Four  legs,  and  two  voices ;  a  most  delicate  monster  ! 
His  forward  voice  now  is  to  speak  well  of  his  friend  ;  his 
backward  voice  is  to  utter  foul  speeches,  and  to  detract.     If 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  175 

all  the  wine  in  my  bottle  will  recover  him,  I  will  help  his 
ague  :  Come  —  Amen !  I  will  pour  some  in  thy  other 
mouth.  ^ 

Trin.  Stephano, — 

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

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

Ste.  If  thou  beest  Trinculo,  come  forth ;  I  '11  pull  thee  by 
the  lesser  legs :  if  any  be  Trinculo's  legs,  these  are  they. 
Thou  art  very  Trinculo,  indeed  :  How  camest  thou  to  be  the 
siege  of  this  moon-calf?  Can  he  vent  Trinculos  ? 

Trin.  I  took  him  to  be  killed  with  a  thunder-stroke : — 
But  art  thou  not  drowned,  Stephano  ?  I  hope  now,  thou  art 
not  drowned.  Is  the  storm  overblown  ?  I  hid  me  under  the 
dead  moon-calf's  gaberdine,  for  fear  of  the  storm  :  And  art 
thou  living,  Stephano  ?  O  Stephano,  two  Neapolitans 
'scaped ! 

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

Cal.  These  be  fine  things,  an  if  they  be  not  sprites. 
That 's  a  brave  god,  and  bears  celestial  liquor  : 
I  will  kneel  to  him. 

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

Cal.  I  '11  swear,  upon  that  bottle,  to  be  thy  true  subject ; 
for  the  liquor  is  not  earthly. 

Ste.  Here ;  swear  then  how  thou  escapedst. 

Trin.  Swam  ashore,  man,  like  a  duck  ;  I  can  swim  like  a 
duck,  I  '11  be  sworn. 

Ste.  Here,  kiss  the  book  :  Though  thou  canst  swim  like  a 
duck,  thou  art  made  like  a  goose. 

Trin.  O  Stephano,  hast  any  more  of  this  ? 


176  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  II. 

Ste.  The  whole  butt,  man  ;  my  cellar  is  in  a  rock  by  tlie 
sea-side,  where  my  wine  is  hid.  How  now,  moon-calf?  how 
does  thine  ague  ?     , 

Cal.  Hast  thou  not  dropped  from  heaven  ? 

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

Cal.  I  have  seen  thee  in  her,  and  I  do  adore  thee  ; 
My  mistress  show'd  me  thee,  and  thy  dog  and  bush. 

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

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

Cal.  I  '11  show  thee  every  fertile  inch  o'  the  island ; 
And  I  will  kiss  thy  foot :  I  prithee,  be  my  god. 

Trin.  By  this  light,  a  most  perfidious  and  drunken  mon- 
ster ;  when  his  god  's  asleep  he  '11  rob  his  bottle. 

Cal.  I  '11  kiss  thy  foot :  I  '11  swear  myself  thy  subject. 

Ste.  Come  on  then ;  down  and  swear. 

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

Ste.  Come,  kiss. 

Trin.  — but  that  the  poor  monster  's  in  drink ;  An  abomi- 
nable monster! 

Cal.  I  '11  show  thee  the   best  springs ;    I  '11  pluck  thee 
berries  ; 
I  '11  fish  for  thee,  and  get  thee  wood  enough. 
A  plague  upon  the  tyrant  that  I  serve ! 
I  '11  bear  him  no  more  sticks,  but  follow  thee. 
Thou  wondrous  man. 

Trin.  A  most  ridiciilous  monster!  to  make  a  wonder  of  a 
poor  drunkard. 

Cal.  I  prithee  let  me  bring  thee  where  crabs  grow. 
And  I  with  my  long  nails  will  dig  thee  pig-nuts ; 
Sliow  thee  a  jay's  nest,  and  instruct  thee  how 
To  snare  the  nimble  marmozet ;  I  '11  bring  thee 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  177 

To  clust'ring  filberds,  and  sometimes  I  '11  get  thee 
Young  scamels  '  from  the  rock :  Wilt  thou  go  with  me  ? 

Ste.  I  prithee  now,  lead  the  way,  without  any  more  talk- 
ing.— Trinculo,  the  king  and  all  our  company  else  being 
drowned,  we  will  inherit  here. — Here ;  bear  my  bottle.  Fel- 
low Trinculo,  we  '11  fill  him  by  and  by  again. 

Cal.  Farewell,  master  :  farewell,  fareweU.    [Sings  (Irunkenly. 

Trin.  A  howling  monster ;  a  drunken  monster. 

Kjal.  No  more  dams  I  '11  make  for  fish; 

Nor  fetch  in  firing 
At  requiring, 
Nor  scrape  trenchering,  nor  wash  dish ; 

'Ban,  'Ban,  Ca — Caliban,  /    '  '  -. 

Has  a  new  master — Get  a  new  man.  \.  1 

Freedom,  hey-day !    hey-day,    freedom !    freedom,  hVy-day, 
freedom ! 
Ste.  O  brave  monster !  lead  the  way.  \FiXeunt. 

»  ScameU.  This  is  the  word  of  the  original ;  and  we  leave  it  as  we  find  it.  The 
word  has  been  changed  into  sea-melU,  which  the  commentators  tell  us  is  a  species  of 
gull.  We  believe  there  is  no  such  word  as  sea-mell,  or  sea-mall,  although  there  is 
tea-maw  or  sea-mew.  Mr.  Hunter  very  judiciously  observes  that  the  rhythm  is 
destroyed  by  substituting  for  scamels  a  word  whose  first  syllable  is  long. 


Vol.  IV.  N 


178  ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  ACT  II. 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    ACT    IL 


'  Scene  I. — "  No  kind  of  traffic,''  S^c. 

OvK  readers  are  aware  that  there  is  in  the  British  Museum  a  copy  of  the  '  Essays  of 
Montaigne'  translated  by  Florio,  having  the  autograph  Wiu.M  Shakspehe.  We 
subjoin  a  passage  from  that  volume  which  shows  how  familiar  Shakspere  was  with 
its  contents.  It  is  an  extract  from  the  thirtieth  chapter  of  the  first  book,  describing 
an  imaginary  nation  of  cannibals : — 

"  Me  seemeth  that  what  in  those  nations  we  see  by  experience  doth  not  only 
exceed  all  the  pictures  wherewitli  licentious  poesy  hath  proudly  embellished  the 
golden  age,  and  all  her  quaint  inventions  to  fain  a  happy  condition  of  man,  but 
also  the  conception  and  desire  of  philosophy.  They  could  not  imagine  a  genuitie 
so  pure  and  simple  as  we  see  it  by  experience  ;  nor  ever  believe  our  society  might 
be  maintained  with  so  little  art  and  human  combination.  It  is  a  nation,  would  I 
answer  Plato,  that  hath  no  kind  of  traflBc,  no  knowledge  of  letters,  no  intelligence 
of  numbers,  no  name  of  magistrate,  nor  of  politic  superiority;  no  use  of  service,  of 
riches,  or  of  poverty ;  no  contracts,  no  successions,  no  dividences ;  no  occupation, 
but  idle ;  no  respect  of  kindred,  but  common ;  no  apparel,  but  natural ;  no  manur- 
ing of  lands;  no  use  of  wine,  com,  or  metal.  The  very  words  that  import  lying, 
falsehood,  treason,  dissimulation,  covetousness,  envy,  detraction,  and  pardon,  were 
never  heard  amongst  them.  How  dissonant  would  he  find  his  imaguiary  common- 
wealth from  this  perfection !" 

•  Scene  II. — "  fVere  I  in  England  now,"  8fc. 
It  was  usual  for  the  Master  of  the  Revels  to  license  all  public  shows ;  and  in 
1632  there  is  an  entry  in  the  office-book  of  Sir  Henry  Herbert,  "  to  James  Scale  to 
show  a  strange  Jish  for  half  a  year."     The  engraving  below  represents  a  show  of  the 
same  period. 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  179 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.— Before  Prospero'*  Cell. 

Enter  Ferdinand,  bearing  a  log. 

Fer.  There  be  some  sports  are  painful ;  and*  their  labour 
Delight  in  them  sets  off:  some  kinds  of  baseness 
Are  nobly  undergone  -,  and  most  poor  matters 
Point  to  rich  ends.     This  my  mean  task 
Would  be  as  heavy  to  me  as  odious ;  but'' 
The  mistress  which  I  serve  quickens  what 's  dead. 
And  makes  my  labours  pleasures  :  O,  she  is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father 's  crabbed ; 
And  he  's  compos'd  of  harshness.     I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile  them  up. 
Upon  a  sore  injunction :  My  sweet  mistress 
Weeps  when  she  sees  me  work ;  and  says  such  baseness 
Had  never  like  executor.     I  forget : 
But  these  sweet  thoughts  do  even  refresh  my  labours ; 
Most  busy -less  '^  when  I  do  it. 

Enter  Miranda,  and  Prospero  at  a  distance. 

Mira.  Alas,  now !  pray  you. 

Work  not  so  hard ;  I  would  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs  that  you  are  enjoin'd  to  pile ! 
Pray  set  it  down,  and  rest  you  :  when  this  burns, 
'T  will  weep  for  having  wearied  you  :  My  father 
Is  hard  at  study ;  pray  now  rest  yourself ; 
He  's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Fer.  O  most  dear  mistress. 

The  sun  will  set  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

»  And.     So  the  original ;  the  common  reading  is  but. 

^  This  is  the  metrical  arrangement  of  the  original.     Steevens  changes  it  by  the 
insertion  of  V  is. 

<^  Busy-less.     This  is  the  reading  of  Theobald.     The  original  has  busy  lest. 

N  2 


180  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  III. 

Mira.  If  you  '11  sit  down 

I  '11  bear  your  logs  the  while :  Pray  give  me  that ; 
I  '11  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

Fer.  No,  precious  creature  : 

I  had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back. 
Than  you  should  such  dishonour  undergo. 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

Mira.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you :  and  I  should  do  it 
With  much  more  ease ;  for  my  good  will  is  to  it. 
And  yours  it  is  against.* 

Pro.  Poor  worm !  thou  art  infected  ; 

This  visitation  shows  it. 

Mira.  You  look  wearily. 

Fer.  No,  noble  mistress ;  't  is  fresh  morning  with  me. 
When  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you, 
(Chiefly,  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers,) 
What  is  your  name  ? 

Mira.  Miranda  : — O  my  father, 

I  have  broke  your  hest  to  say  so ! 

Fer.  Admir'd  Miranda ! 

Indeed  the  top  of  admiration  ;•»  worth 
What 's  dearest  to  the  world  !  Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  eyed  with  best  regard ;  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear :  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  lik'd  several  women ;  never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  ow'd, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil :  But  you,  O  you. 
So  perfect,  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best. 

Mira.  I  do  not  know 

»  Steevens  destroys  the  force  of  this  passage  by  the  omission  of  it  is :  "  They 
would  have  rendered  the  hemistich  too  long  to  join  with  its  successor  in  making  a 
regular  verse." 

•>  We  follow  the  punctuation  of  the  original,  which  appears  to  us  to  render  the 
passage  much  more  elegant  than  it  appears  in  modem  editions  : — 

"  Admir'd  Miranda 
Indeed,  the  top  of  admiration." 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  181 

One  of  my  sex ;  no  woman's  face  remember. 
Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own ;  nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  call  men,  than  you,  good  friend. 
And  my  dear  father :  how  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skill -less  of;  but,  by  my  modesty, 
(The  jewel  in  my  dower,)  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you ; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape. 
Beside  yourself,  to  like  of:  But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
I  therein  do  forget.* 

Fer.  I  am,  in  my  condition, 

A  prince,  Miranda ;  I  do  think,  a  king ; 
(I  would  not  so !)  and  would  no  more  endure 
This  wooden  slavery,  than  to  suffer 
The  flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth. — 'Hear  my  soul  speak : — 
The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service ;  there  resides. 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;  and  for  your  sake  j 

Am  I  this  patient  log-man.  / 

Mir  a.  Do  you  love  me  ? 

Fer.  O  heaven,  O  earth,  bear  witness  to  this  sound. 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event. 
If  I  speak  true ;  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me,  to  mischief!  I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world. 
Do  love,  prize,  honour  you. 

Mira.  I  am  a  fool. 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

Pro.  Fair  encounter 

Of  two  most  rare  affections !    Heavens  rain  grace 
On  that  which  breeds  between  them ! 

Fer.  Wherefore  weep  you  ? 

Mira.  At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 
What  I  desire  to  give ;  and  much  less  take 
What  I  shall  die  to  want :  But  this  is  trifling ; 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 

*  So  the  original.     We  have  the  passage  now  frittered  down  to  therein  forget. 


^182  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  IH. 

The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.     Hence,  bashful  cunning ! 

And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence ! 

I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me  ; 

If  not  I  '11  die  your  maid  :  to  be  your  fellow 

You  may  deny  me ;  but  I  '11  be  your  servant, 

JWhether  you  will  or  no. 

•    Fer.  My  mistress,  dearest. 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

Mira.  My  husband  then? 

Fer.  Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom  :  here  's  my  hand. 

Mira.  And  mine,  with  my  heart  in 't :  And  now  farewell,' 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

Fer.  A  thousand  !  thousand ! 

[Exeunt  Fer.  and  Mir. 

Pro.  So  glad  of  this  as  they  I  cannot  be. 
Who  are  surpris'd  with  all ;  but  my  rejoicing 
At  nothing  can  be  more.     I  '11  to  my  book ; 
For  yet,  ere  supper-time,  must  I  perform 
Much  business  appertaining.  [Exit. 


SCENE  U.— Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  Stephano  and  Trinculo  ;  Caiabkv  following  with  a 

bottle. 

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

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

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

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

Ste.  My  man-monster  hath  drowned  his  tongue  in  sack  : 
for  my  part,  the  sea  cannot  drown  me  :  I  swam,  ere  I  could 
recover  the  shore,  five-and-thirty  leagues,  ofi"  and  on.    By 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  183 

this  light,*  thou  shalt   be   my  lieutenant,  monster,   or  my 
standard. 

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

Ste.  We  '11  not  run,  monsieur  monster. 

Trin.  Nor  go  neither  :  but  you  '11  lie,  like  dogs  ;  and  yet 
say  nothing  neither. 

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

Cal.  How  does  thy  honour  ?  Let  me  lick  thy  shoe  : 
I  '11  not  serve  him,  he  is  not  valiant. 

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

Cal.  Lo,  how  he  mocks  me  !  wilt  thou  let  him,  my  lord  ?  ^ 

Trin.  Lord,  quoth  he ! — that  a  monster  should  be  such  a 
natural ! 

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

Ste.  Trinculo,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  your  head ;  if  you 
prove  a  mutineer,  the  next  tree — The  poor  monster  's  my 
subject,  and  he  shall  not  suffer  indignity. 

Cal.  I  thank  my  noble  lord.     Wilt  thou  be  pleas'd 
To  hearken  once  again  to  the  suit  I  made  to  thee? 

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

Enter  Ariel,  invisible. 

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

Ari.  Thou  liest. 

Cal.  Thou  liest,  thou  jesting  monkey,  thou  ; 

*  We  here  follow  the  punctuation  of  the  original.  The  modem  reading  is  off 
ami  on,  hij  this  light. 

^  The  reader  will  observe  that  Caliban  always  speaks  metrically.  Some  of  his 
lines  in  this  scene  are  usually  printed  as  prose  ;  but  they  very  readily  shape  them- 
selves into  free  blank  verse.  Steevens  receives  them  as  metre ;  but  he  lops  then* 
after  bis  own  finger-counting  fashion. 


184  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  III. 

I  would  my  valiant  master  would  destroy  thee : 
I  do  not  lie. 

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

Trin.  Why,  I  said  nothing. 

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

Cal.  I  say,  by  sorcery  he  got  this  isle  ; 
From  me  he  got  it.     If  thy  greatness  will 
Revenge  it  on  him — for,  I  know,  thou  dar'st; 
But  this  thing  dare  not. 

Ste.  That 's  most  certain. 

Cal.  Thou  shalt  be  lord  of  it,  and  I  '11  serve  thee. 

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

Cal.  Yea,  yea,  my  lord ;  I  '11  yield  him  thee  asleep. 
Where  thou  mayst  knock  a  nail  into  his  head. 

Ari.  Thou  liest,  thou  canst  not. 

Cal.  What  a  pied  ninny 's  this !     Thou  scurvy  patch  ! — 
I  do  beseech  thy  greatness,  give  him  blows. 
And  take  his  bottle  from  him  :  when  that 's  gone. 
He  shall  drink  nought  but  brine ;  for  I  '11  not  show  him 
Where  the  quick  freshes  are. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  run  into  no  further  danger :  interrupt  the 
monster  one  word  further,  and,  by  this  hand,  I  '11  turn  my 
mercy  out  of  doors,  and  make  a  stockfish  of  thee. 

Trin.  Why,  what  did  I  ?   I  did  nothing ;  I  '11  go  further  off. 

Ste.  Didst  thou  not  say  he  lied  ? 

Ari.  Thou  liest. 

Ste.  Do  I  so  ?  take  thou  that.  [Strikes  him.]  As  you  like 
this,  give  me  the  lie  another  time. 

Trin.  I  did  not  give  the  lie  : — Out  o'  your  wits,  and  hear- 
ing too  ? A  pox  o'  your  bottle  !  this  can  sack  and  drink- 
ing do. — A  murrain  on  your  monster,  and  the  devil  take  your 
fingers ! 

Cal.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

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

Cal.  Beat  him  enough :  after  a  little  time, 
I  '11  beat  him  too. 


Scene  II.]  THE  TEMPEST.  185 

Ste.  Stand  further. — Come,  proceed. 

Cal.  Why,  as  I  told  thee,  't  is  a  custom  with  him 
r  the  afternoon  to  sleep  :  there  thou  mayst  brain  him. 
Having  first  seiz'd  his  books  ;  or  with  a  log 
Batter  his  skull,  or  paunch  him  with  a  stake. 
Or  cut  his  wezand  with  thy  knife  :  Remember, 
First  to  possess  his  books ;  for  without  them 
He  's  but  a  sot,  as  I  am,  nor  hath  not 
One  spirit  to  command  :  They  all  do  hate  him. 
As  rootedly  as  I  :  Burn  but  his  books  ; 
He  has  brave  utensils,  (for  so  he  calls  them,) 
Which,  when  he  has  a  house,  he  11  deck  withal. 
And  that  most  deeply  to  consider,  is 
The  beauty  of  his  daughter ;  he  himself 
Calls  her  a  nonpareil :  I  ne'er  saw  woman. 
But  only  Sycorax  my  dam,  and  she  ; 
But  she  as  far  surpasseth  Sycorax, 
As  greatest  does  least. 

Ste.  Is  it  so  brave  a  lass  ? 

Cal.  Ay,  lord  ;  she  will  become  thy  bed,  I  warrant. 
And  bring  thee  forth  brave  brood. 

Ste.  Monster,  I  will  kill  this  man  :  his  daughter  and  I 
will  be  king  and  queen  ;  (save  our  graces  !)  and  Trinculo 
and  thyself  shall  be  viceroys  : — Dost  thou  like  the  plot,  Trin- 
culo? 

Trin.  Excellent. 

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

Cal.  Within  this  half-hour  will  he  be  asleep  ; 
Wilt  thou  destroy  him  then  ? 

Ste.  Ay,  on  mine  honour. 

Art.  This  will  I  tell  my  master. 

Cal.  Thou  mak'st  me  merry  :  I  am  full  of  pleasure ; 
Let  us  be  jocund  :  Will  you  troll  the  catch 
You  taught  me  but  while-ere  ? 

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

Flout  'em,  and  cout  'em ;  and  skout  'em,  and  flout  'em  ; 
Thought  is  free. 


186  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  III. 

Ckil.  That 's  not  the  tune. 

[Ariel  j^/ffy*  the  tune  on  a  tabor  and  pipe. 

Ste.  What  is  this  same  ? 

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

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

Trin.  O,  forgive  me  my  sins  ! 

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

Cal.  Art  thou  afeard  ? 

Ste.  No,  monster,  not  I. 

CaL  Be  not  afeard ;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises. 
Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears ;  and  sometime  voices. 
That,  if  I  then  had  wak'd  after  long  sleep. 
Will  make  me  sleep  again  :  and  then,  in  dreaming. 
The  clouds,  methought,  would  open  and  show  riches 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me ;  that  when  I  wak'd 
I  cried  to  dream  again. 

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

Cal.  When  Prospero  is  destroyed. 

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

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

Ste.  Lead,  monster ;  we  '11  follow. — I  would  I  could  see 
this  taborer :  he  lays  it  on. 

Trin.  Wilt  come  ?     I  '11  follow  Stephano.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Another  part  of  the  Island. 

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

Gon.  By  'r  lakin,  I  can  go  no  further,  sir  ; 
My  old  bones  ache :  here  's  a  maze  trod,  indeed. 
Through  forth-rights  and  meanders  !'  by  your  patience, 
I  needs  must  rest  me. 


I 


Scene  III.]  THE  TEMPEST.  187 

Alon.  Old  lord,  I  cannot  blame  thee. 

Who  am  myself  attach'd  with  -weariness. 
To  the  dulling  of  my  spirits :  sit  down  and  rest. 
Even  here  I  will  put  off  my  hope,  and  keep  it 
No  longer  for  my  flatterer :  he  is  drown'd 
Whom  thus  we  stray  to  find ;  and  the  sea  mocks 
Our  frustrate  search  on  land :  Well,  let  him  go. 

Ant.  I  am  right  glad  that  he  's  so  out  of  hope. 

[Aside  to  Sebastian. 
Do  not,  for  one  repulse,  forego  the  purpose 
That  you  resolv'd  to  effect. 

Seb.  The  next  advantage 

Will  we  take  thoroughly. 

Ant.  Let  it  be  to-night ; 

For,  now  they  are  oppress'd  with  travel,  they 
Will  not,  nor  cannot,  use  such  vigilance. 
As  when  they  are  fresh. 

Seb.  I  say,  to-night :  no  more. 

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

Alon.  What  harmony  is  this  ?  my  good  friends,  hark ! 

Gon.  Marvellous  sweet  music  ! 

Alon.  Give  us  kind  keepers,  heavens !    What  were  these  ? 

Seb.  A  living  drollery  :  Now  I  will  believe 
That  there  are  unicorns ;  that  in  Arabia 
There  is  one  tree,  the  phoenix'  throne  ',  one  phoenix 
At  this  hour  reigning  there. 

Ant.  I  '11  believe  both ; 

And  what  does  else  want  credit,  come  to  me. 
And  I  '11  be  sworn  't  is  true  :  Travellers  ne'er  did  lie. 
Though  fools  at  home  condemn  them. 

Gon.  If  in  Naples 

I  should  report  this  now,  would  they  believe  me  ? 
If  I  should  say  I  saw  such  islanders," 
(For,  certes,  these  are  people  of  the  island,) 

*  Islanders.     The  original  has  islands. 


188  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  III. 

Who,  thougli  they  are  of  monstrous  shape,  yet,  note. 
Their  manners  are  more  gentle,  kind,  than  of 
Our  human  generation  you  shall  find 
Many,  nay,  almost  any. 

Pro.  Honest  lord. 

Thou  hast  said  well ;  for  some  of  you  there  present 
Are  worse  than  devils.  [Aside. 

Alon.  I  cannot  too  much  muse 

Such  shapes,  such  gesture,  and  such  sound,  expressing 
(Although  they  want  the  use  of  tongue)  a  kind 
Of  excellent  dumb  discourse. 

/Vo.  Praise  in  departing.      [Aside. 

Fran.  They  vanish'd  strangely. 

Seb.  No  matter,  since 

They  have  left  their  viands  behind ;  for  we  have  stomachs. — 
Will 't  please  you  taste  of  what  is  here  ? 

Alon.  Not  I. 

Gon.  Faith,  sir,  you  need  not  fear :  When  we  were  boys. 
Who  would  believe  that  there  were  mountaineers 
Dew-lapp'd  like  bulls,*  whose  throats  had  hanging  at  them 
Wallets  of  flesh  ?  or  that  there  were  such  men 
Whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts  ?  which  now  we  find. 
Each  putter-out  of  five  for  one  '  will  bring  us 
Good  warrant  of. 

Alon.  I  will  stand  to,  and  feed. 

Although  my  last :  no  matter,  since  I  feel 
The  best  is  past : — Brother,  my  lord  the  duke. 
Stand  to,  and  do  as  we. 

Thunder  and  lightning.     Enter  Ariel  like  a  harpy  ;*  claps 
his  wings  upon  the  table,  and,  with  a  quaint  device,  the 
banquet  vanishes. 
Ari.  You  are  three  men  of  sin,  whom  destiny 

(That  hath  to  instrument  this  lower  world, 

*  This  is  the  reading  of  the  original — of  Jive  for  one.  Malone  reads,  of  one  to 
five  I  Steevens,  on  five  to  one.  The  putter-out  is  he  who,  being  about  to  encounter 
the  dangers  of  travel,  deposits  a  sum  of  money  to  receive  a  larger  sum  if  he  returns 
in  safety.  Five  for  one  appears  to  have  been  the  rate  for  a  very  distant  voyage. 
Five  for  one  was  therefore  the  technical  term  applied  to  a  putter-out.  He  puts  out 
at  the  rate  of  five  for  one. 


Scene  III.]  THE  TEMPEST.  189 

And  what  is  in 't)  the  never-surfeited  sea 
Hath  caus'd  to  belch  up  you/  and  on  this  island 
Where  man  doth  not  inhabit ;  you  'mongst  men 
Being  most  unfit  to  live.     I  have  made  you  mad  ; 

[^Seeing  Alon.,  Seb.,  ^-c,  draw  their  swords. 
And  even  with  such-like  valour,  men  hang  and  drown 
Their  proper  selves.     You  fools  !  I  and  my  fellows 
Are  ministers  of  fate ;  the  elements. 
Of  whom  your  swords  are  temper'd,  may  as  well 
Wound  the  loud  winds,  or  with  bemock'd-at  stabs 
Kill  the  still-closing  waters,  as  diminish 
One  dowle  ^  that 's  in  my  plume  ;  my  fellow-ministers 
Are  like  invulnerable  :  if  you  could  hurt. 
Your  swords  are  now  too  massy  for  your  strengths. 
And  will  not  be  uplifted  :  But,  remember, 
(For  that 's  my  business  to  you,)  that  you  three 
From  Milan  did  supplant  good  Prospero ; 
Expos'd  unto  the  sea,  which  hath  requit  it. 
Him  and  his  innocent  child  :  for  which  foul  deed 
The  powers,  delaying,  not  forgetting,  have 
Incens'd  the  seas  and  shores,  yea,  all  the  creatures. 
Against  your  peace  :  Thee,  of  thy  son,  Alonso, 
They  have  bereft ;  and  do  pronounce,  by  me, 
Ling'ring  perdition  (worse  than  any  death 
Can  be  at  once)  shall  step  by  step  attend 
You,  and  your  ways ;  whose  wraths  to  guard  you  from 
(Which  here,  in  this  most  desolate  isle,  else  falls 
Upon  your  heads)  is  nothing,  but  heart's  sorrow. 
And  a  clear  life  ensuing. 

He  vanishes  in  thunder :  then,  to  soft  music,  enter  the  Shapes 
again,  and  dance  with  mops''  and  mowes,  and  carry  out  the 
table. 

Pro.  Bravely  the  figure  of  this  harpy  hast  thou 
Perform'd,  my  Ariel ;  a  grace  it  had,  devouring  : 
Of  my  instruction  hast  thou  nothing  'bated, 

*  You  is  omitted  in  all  modern  editions. 
•»  Dowle — a  feather — a  particle  of  down. 
''Mops.     lu  the  original,  ?MocA«, 


190  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  III. 

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

And  observation  strange,  my  meaner  ministers 

Their  several  kinds  have  done :  my  high  charms  work. 

And  these,  mine  enemies,  are  all  knit  up 

In  their  distractions  :  they  now  are  in  my  power ; 

And  in  these  fits  I  leave  them,  while  I  visit 

Young  Ferdinand,  (whom  they  suppose  is  drown'd,) 

And  his  and  my  lov'd  darling.  [Exit  Pro.  from  above. 

Gon.  V  the  name  of  something  holy,  sir,  why  stand  you 
In  this  strange  stare  ? 

Alon.  O,  it  is  monstrous  !  monstrous ! 

Methought  the  billows  spoke,  and  told  me  of  it ; 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me ;  and  the  thunder. 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronounc'd 
The  name  of  Prosper  ;  it  did  bass  my  trespass. 
Therefore  my  son  i'  the  ooze  is  bedded  j  and 
I  '11  seek  him  deeper  than  e'er  plummet  sounded. 
And  with  him  there  lie  mudded.  [Exit, 

Seb.  But  one  fiend  at  a  time, 

I  '11  fight  their  legions  o'er. 

jint.  I  '11  be  thy  second. 

[Exeunt  Seb.  and  Ant. 

Gon.  All  three  of  them  are  desperate  ;  their  great  guilt. 
Like  poison  given  to  work  a  great  time  after. 
Now  'gins  to  bite  the  spirits  : — I  do  beseech  you. 
That  are  of  suppler  joints,  follow  them  swiftly. 
And  hinder  them  from  what  this  ecstacy 
May  now  provoke  them  to. 

Adr.  Follow,  I  pray  you.        [Exeunt. 

•  Good  life — alacrity — energy — spirit. 


ILLUSTRATIONS     OF    ACT    I IL 


'  Scene  II. — "  The  picture  of  Nobody.''' 

Nobody  was  a  gentleman  who  figured  on  ancient  signs ;  and,  in  the  anonymous 
comedy  of  'Nobody  and  Somebody,'  printed  before  1600,  he  is  represented  as 
above. 

*  Scene  III. —  "  Here  's  a  maze  trod,  indeed, 

Through  forth-right  s  and  meanders  .'" 

Mr.  Hunter  says  that ybr/A-ri^A/«  here  evidently  means  no  more  than  straight  lines. 
The  passage  is  explained  by  the  fact  of  the  allusion  being  to  an  artificial  maze, 
sometimes  constructed  of  straight  lines  (forth-rights),  sometimes  of  circles  (mean- 
ders).    The  engraving  exhibits  a  maze  of  forth-rights. 


192 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  III. 


'  Scene  III. —  "  Mountaineers 

Dew-lapp'd  like  bulls." 

The  engraving  above  exhibits  a  sketch  recently  made  from  a  T3rrole8e  peasant. 
It  is  not  strange  that  such  an  extraordinary  appearance  of  the  got  Ire  should  in  Shak- 
spere's  time  be  considered  as  a  marvel  to  be  reckoned  with  the  phenix  and  the  uni- 
corn, and  with  "men  whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts." 

*  Scene  III. — "  Ejiter  Ariel  like  a  harpy" 

This  circumstance  is  of  course  taken  from  the  ^neid  of  Virgil.  Those  who 
maintain  that  Shaksperc  could  not  read  the  original  send  him  to  Phaer's  transla- 
tion : — 

"  Fast  to  meate  we  fall. 
But  sodenly  from  down  the  hills  with  grisly  fall  to  syght. 
The  harpies  come,  and  beating  wings  with  great  noys  out  thei  shright, 
And  at  our  meate  they  snatch,  and  with  their  clawes,"  &c. 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  193 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  L— Before  Prospero  V  Cell. 

Enter  Prospero,  Ferdinand,  and  Miranda. 

Pro.  If  I  have  too  austerely  punisli'd  you. 
Your  compensation  makes  amends  ;  for  I 
Have  given  you  here  a  thread  '  of  mine  own  life. 
Or  that  for  which  I  live  ;  whom  once  again 
I  tender  to  thy  hand  :  all  thy  vexations 
Were  but  my  trials  of  thy  love,  and  thou 
Hast  strangely  stood  the  test :  here,  afore  Heaven, 
I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.     O  Ferdinand, 
Do  not  smile  at  me  that  I  boast  her  off. 
For  thou  shalt  find  she  will  outstrip  all  praise. 
And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 

Fer.  I  do  believe  it. 

Against  an  oracle. 

Pro.  Then,  as  my  gift,''  and  thine  own  acquisition 
Worthily  purchas'd,  take  my  daughter  :  But 
If  thou  dost  break  her  virgin  knot  before 
All  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may 
With  full  and  holy  rite  be  minister' d. 
No  sweet  aspersion  •=  shall  the  heavens  let  fall 
To  make  this  contract  grow :  but  barren  hate, 

»   Thread.     This  is  spelt  third  in  the  original  edition ;  in  which  manner  ihrid,  in 
the  meaning  of  thread,  was  sometimes  spelt.     Hawkins  states  that  in  the  comedy  of 
'  Mucedorus,'  1619,  the  word  is  spelt  third  in  the  following  passage  : — 
"  Long  mayst  thou  live,  and  when  the  sisters  shall  decree 
To  cut  in  twain  the  twisted  third  of  life, 
Then  let  him  die." 
The  edition  of  1668  is  before  us,  and  there  we  find  that  third  has  become  thred. 

^  Gift.  This  stands  guest  in  the  original,  and  was  corrected  by  Rowe  to  gift.  It 
is  easy  to  see  that  gm»t  is  a  mere  typographical  error.  Five  lines  above,  gift  is 
spelt  guift ;  and  //  and  st  in  ancient  writing  and  printing  were  scarcely  to  be  dis- 
tinguished. 

"  Aspersion — sprinkling.  This  is  one  of  the  many  examples  of  the  use  of  Latin 
words  by  Shakspere  in  their  original  sense. 

Vol.  IV.  O 


194 


THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  IV. 


Sour-ey'd  disdain,  and  discord,  shall  bestrew 
The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so  loathly. 
That  you  shall  hate  it  both :  therefore  take  heed. 
As  Hymen's  lamps  shall  light  you. 

Fer.  As  I  hope 

For  quiet  days,  fair  issue,  and  long  life. 
With  such  love  as  't  is  now,  the  murkiest  den. 
The  most  opportune  place,  the  strong'st  suggestion 
Our  worser  genius  can,  shall  never  melt 
Mine  honour  into  lust ;  to  take  away 
The  edge  of  that  day's  celebration. 
When  I  shall  think,  or  Phoebus'  steeds  are  founder'd. 
Or  night  kept  chain'd  below. 

Pro.  Fairly  spoke : 

Sit  then,  and  talk  with  her,  she  is  thine  own. — 
What,  Ariel ;  my  industrious  servant,  Ariel ! 

Enter  Ariel. 

Ari.  What  would  my  potent  master  ?  here  I  am. 

Pro.  Thou  and  thy  meaner  fellows  your  last  service 
Did  worthily  perform ;  and  I  must  use  you 
In  such  another  trick :  go,  bring  the  rabble. 
O'er  whom  I  give  thee  power,  here,  to  this  place  : 
Incite  them  to  quick  motion  ;  for  I  must 
Bestow  upon  the  eyes  of  this  young  couple 
Some  vanity  of  mine  art ;  it  is  my  promise. 
And  they  expect  it  from  me. 

Ari.  Presently  ? 

Pro.  Ay,  with  a  twink. 

Ari.  Before  you  can  say.  Come,  and  Go, 
And  breathe  twice  ;  and  cry.  So,  so  ; 
Each  one,  tripping  on  his  toe. 
Will  be  here  with  mop  and  mowe  ; 
Do  you  love  me,  master  ?  no. 

Pro.  Dearly,  my  delicate  Ariel :  Do  not  approach 
Till  thou  dost  hear  me  call. 

Ari.  Well,  I  conceive.  [Exit. 

Pro.  Look  thou  be  true  :  do  not  give  dalliance 
Too  much  the  rein :  the  strongest  oaths  are  straw 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  195 

To  the  fire  i'  the  blood  :  be  more  abstemious. 
Or  else  good  night  your  vow  ! 

F^r.  I  warrant  you,  sir. 

The  white  cold  virgin  snow  upon  my  heart 
Abates  the  ardour  of  my  liver. 

Pro.  Well.— 

Now  come,  my  Ariel  :  bring  a  corollary," 
Rather  than  want  a  spirit :  appear,  and  pertly. — 
No  tongue  ;  all  eyes  \  be  silent.  [*So/if  music. 

A  Masque.     Winter  Iris. 

Ins.  Ceres,  most  bounteous  lady,  thy  rich  leas^        ^ 
Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  pease  ;  / 

Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep,  ^ 
And  flat  meads  thatch'd  with  stover,  them  to  keep  ; 
Thy  banks  with  pioned  and  twilled  brims,^  ^ 

Which  spongy  April  at  thy  hest  betrims,  C^ 

■  Corollary — a  8uri)lu8  number. 

*>  Pioned  and  twilled.  This  is  the  reading  of  the  original ;  and  a  consideration  of 
the  whole  passage  must,  we  think,  determine  its  adoption,  in  preference  to  the  ordi- 
nary reading  of 

"  Thy  banks  with  peonied  and  lilted  brims." 
These  are  banks  clothed  with  peonies  and  lilies. 
Milton,  in  the  '  Arcades,'  has  the  line — 

"  By  sandy  Ladon's  lilied  beinks ;" 
and  Warton  observes  that  "  here  is  an  authority  for  reading  lilied  instead  of  twilled, 
in  a  very  controverted  verse  of '  The  Tempest.' "   He  adds,  "  lilied  seems  to  have  been 
no  uncommon  epithet  for  the  banks  of  a  river."     Henley  was  the  first  to  ask,  as  we 
thitik  very  sensibly,  whether  the  banks  of  a  river  were  meant  at  all,  whether  peonies 
grow  on  river-banks,  and  whether  peonies  and  lilies  come  before  April  ?     To  this 
Steevens  answers  that  Sbakspere  was  no  naturalist, — an  assertion  utterly  without 
foundation.     It  is  manifest  that  the  banks  of  a  river  are  not  meant.     The  address 
is  to  Ceres.     Her  rich  leas,  her  turfy  mountains,  her  flat  meads,  precede  the  men- 
tion of  her  banks.    The  banks  are  the  artificial  mounds  by  which  the  flat  meads  and 
the  rich  leas  are  divided ;  or  they  are  the  natural  ridges  in   grove  and  grass-plot, 
which  Shakspere  hais  himself  described  as  the  home  of  the  wild  thyme  and  the 
violet.     Spongy  April  betrims  these  banks  at  the  command  of  Ceres ;  not  with 
peonies  and  lilies, — not  with  the  flowers  of  the  garden  and  the  flowers  of  the  valley, 
mingled  together  without  regard  to  season  or  character, — but  with  her  own  pretty 
hedge-flowers.     The  poet  himself  has  described  what  flowers  April  scatters  : — 
"  When  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue, 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver  white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue, 

Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight,"  What 

02 


X. 


19C  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  IV. 

To    make    cold   nymphs   chaste     crowns;    and  thy   broom 

groves. 
Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves. 
Being  lass-lom  ;  thy  pole-clipp'd  vineyard  ; 
And  thy  sea-marge,  steril,  and  rocky -hard. 
Where  thou  thyself  dost  air :  The  queen  o'  the  sky. 
Whose  watery  arch,  and  messenger,  am  I, 
Bids  thee  leave  these  ;  and  with  her  sovereign  grace. 
Here  on  this  grass-plot,  in  this  very  place. 
To  come  and  sport :  her  peacocks  fly  amain :  * 
Approach,  rich  Ceres,  her  to  entertain. 

Enter  Ceres. 


Cer.  Hail,  many-colour'd  messenger,  that  ne'er 
Dost  disobey  the  wife  of  Jupiter  ; 
Who,  with  thy  saffron  wings,  upon  my  flowers 
=^^  Diffusest  honey -drops,  refreshing  showers ; 

■^  And  with  each  end  of  thy  blue  bow  dost  crown 

.^  My  bosky  acres,  and  my  unshrubb'd  down, 

-^5^  Rich  scarf  to  my  proud  earth  :  Why  hath  thy  queen 

A,^^    Summon'd  me  hither,  to  this  short-grass'd  green  ? 

^ Iris.  A' contract  of  true  love  to  celebrate; 

And  some  donation  freely  to  estate 
On  the  bless'd  lovers. 

Cer.  Tell  me,  heavenly  bow. 

If  Venus,  or  her  son,  as  thou  dost  know. 
Do  now  attend  the  queen?     Since  they  did  plot 
The  means  that  dusky  Dis  my  daughter  got. 
Her  and  her  blind  boy's  scandal'd  company 
I  have  forsworn. 

What  banks  doe«  April  betrim  at  the  best  of  Ceres  ?  pioned  banks, — that  is  banks 
dug,  thrown  up.  A  pioneer,  or  pioner,  is  a  digger.  The  brim  of  the  bank  is  thus 
especially  pioned.  Henley  says,  "  Twilled  is  obviously  formed  from  the  participle 
of  the  French  verb  touilter,  which  Cotgrave  interprets  '  filthily  to  mix  or  mingle  ; 
confound  or  shuffle  together;  bedirt;  begrime;  besmear.'"  Any  one  who  has 
seen  the  operation  of  banking  and  ditching  in  the  early  spring,  so  essential  to  the 
proper  drainage  of  land,  must  recognise  tl»e  propriety  of  Shakspere's  epithets.  He 
was  a  practical  farmer ;  he  saw  the  poetry  even  of  the  humblest  works  of  hus- 
bandry. 

•  We  have  here  the  stage-direction  in  (be  original,  "Juno  detcendt."'     Her  pei- 
cocks  is,  in  the  original,  "  here  peacocks." 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  1^7 

Iris.  Of  her  society 

Be  not  afraid ;  I  met  her  deity 
Cutting  the  clouds  towards  Paphos ;  and  her  son 
Dove-drawn  with  her :  here  thought  they  to  have  done 
Some  wanton  charm  upon  this  man  and  maid. 
Whose  vows  are  that  no  bed-rite  shall  be  paid 
Till  Hymen's  torch  be  lighted :  but  in  vain ; 
Mars's  hot  minion  is  return'd  again; 
Her  waspish-headed  son  has  broke  his  arrows. 
Swears  he  will  shoot  no  more,  but  play  with  sparrows. 
And  be  a  boy  right  out. 

Cer.  Highest  queen  of  state. 

Great  Juno  comes :  I  know  her  by  her  gait. 

Enter  Juno. 
\  Jun.  How  does  my  bounteous  sister  ?     Go  with  mo. 
To  bless  this  twain,  that  they  may  prosperous  be. 
And  honour'd  in  their  issue. 

SONG. 

Jun.  Honour,  riches,  marriage  blessing, 

^  Long  continuance,  and  Increasing, 

i  Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you! 

Juno  sings  her  blessings  on  you. 

v/CT.  Earth's  Increase,  folson  plenty, 

Bams  and  gamers  never  empty ; 
Vines,  with  clust'ring  bunches  growing ; 
Plants  with  goodly  burthen  bowing ; 
Spring  come  to  you,  at  the  farthest, 
In  the  very  end  of  harvest ! 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you ; 
Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you. 

Fer.  This  is  a  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly  :  May  I  be  bold 
To  think  these  spirits? 

Pro.  Spirits,  which  by  mine  art 

I  have  from  their  confines  call'd  to  enact 
My  present  fancies. 

Fer.  Let  me  live  here  ever ; 

So  rare  a  wonder'd  father,  and  a  wife. 
Make  this  place  Paradise. 

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


198  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  IV. 

Pro.  Sweet  now,  silence  ; 

Juno  and  Ceres  whisper  seriously ; 
There 's  something  else  to  do :  hush,  and  be  mute. 
Or  else  our  spell  is  marr'd. 

Iris.  You  nymphs  call'd  Naiads,  of  the  windering'  brooks. 
With  your  sedg'd  crowns,  and  ever  harmless  looks. 
Leave  your  crisp  channels,  and  on  this  green  land 
Answer  your  summons  :  Juno  does  command : 
Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  to  celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love ;  be  not  too  late. 

Enter  certain  Nymphs. 

You  sun-burn'd  sicklemen,  of  August  weary^ 
Come  hither  from  the  furrow,  and  be  merry ; 
Make  holiday :  your  rye-straw  hats  put  on. 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
In  country  footing. 

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

Pro-  [Aside-I  I  had  forgot  that  foul  conspiracy 
Of  the  beast  Caliban,  and  his  confederates. 
Against  my  life ;  the  minute  of  their  plot 
Is  almost  come. — [To  the  Spirits.]     Well  done; — avoid; — 
no  more. 

Fer.  This  is  strange :  your  father 's  in  some  passion 
That  works  him  strongly. 

Mira.  Never  till  this  day. 

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

Pro.  You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  mov'd  sort. 
As  if  you  were  dismay 'd :  be  cheerful,  sir : 
Our  revels  now  are  ended :  these  our  actors. 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air : 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 

*  fVindering.     This  reading  of  the  original  has  been  turned  into  uiantifrin^.    The 
epithet,  of  course,  has  the  meaning  of  winding . 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  199 

The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces. 

The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself. 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  alssolve ; 

And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  laded. 

Leave  not  a  rack  *  behind  :  We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  littl§  life      ^^  iJ^juyiAUi^^^     ^H^ 

Is  rounded  with  a  sleep.'' — Sir,  I  am  vex'd;  -^;  /  •  --^^tteM^ 

Bear  with  my  weakness ;  my  old  brain  is  troubled. 

Be  not  disturb'd  with  my  infirmity : 

If  you  be  pleas'd,  retire  into  my  cell. 

And  there  repose  \  a  turn  or  two  I  '11  walk. 

To  still  my  beating  mind. 

Fer.,  Mira.  We  wish  your  peace.         [Exeunt. 

Pro.  Come  with  a  thought : — I  thank  thee : — Ariel,  come. 

Enter  Ariel. 

Ari.  Thy  thoughts  I  cleave  to :  What 's  thy  pleasure  ? 

Pro.  Spirit, 

We  must  prepare  to  meet  with  Caliban. 

Ari.  Ay,  my  commander ;  when  I  presented  Ceres, 
I  thought  to  have  told  thee  of  it ;  but  I  fear'd 
Lest  I  might  anger  thee. 

*  Rack.  So  the  original.  This  word  is  now  generally  received  as  the  true  text. 
The  rack,  as'explained  by  Bacon,  means  the  highest  clouds  :  "  The  winds,  which 
wave  the  clouds  above,  which  we  call  the  rack,  and  are  not  perceived  below,  pass 
without  noise. '  We  may  take  then  rack  in  the  sense  of  the  smallest  feathery  cloud, 
— the  cirrus  of  modem  science.  Mr.  Hunter  has  expressed  his  belief  that  the  word 
rack  is  never  used  with  the  indefinite  article ;  and  he  adds,  "  If  it  should  turn  out 
that  to  say  a  rack  would  be  as  improper  as  to  say  a  welkin,  we  should  be  thrown 
back  on  the  word  wrack,  which  would  not  give  a  very  bad  sense,  though,  perhaps, 
one  not  so  elegant  as  that  which  is  afforded  by  the  rarer  word,  rack.'"  Tooke  has 
not  noticed  this  point ;  but  the  reading  is  otherwise  fully  discussed  in  the  *  Diver- 
sions of  Purley.' 

**  We  have  been  asked  the  meaning  of  this  passage,  it  being  supposed  that  rowm&d 
was  used  in  the  sense  of  terminated ;  and  that  one  sleep  was  the  end  of  life.  This 
was  not  Shaksperes  philosophy  ;  nor  would  he  have  introduced  an  idea  totally  dis- 
connected with  the  preceding  description.  Rounded  is  used  in  the  sense  of  encom- 
passed. The  "  insubstantial  pageant "  had  been  presented ;  its  actors  had  "  melted 
into  thin  air;"  it  was  an  unreality.  In  the  same  way,  life  itself  is  but  a  dream.  It 
is  surrounded  with  the  sleep  which  is  the  parent  of  dreams.  Here  we  have  the  sha- 
dowing out  of  the  doctrine  of  Berkeley  ;  and  we  have  no  doubt  that  Shakspere,  to 
whom  all  philosophical  speculation  was  familiar,  may  have  entertained  the  theory 
that  our  senses  are  impressed  by  the  Creator  with  the  images  of  things,  which  form 
our  material  world, — a  world  of  idea8,^-<>f  dream-like  unrealities. 


200  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  IV. 

JVo.  Say  again,  where  didst  thou  leave  these  varlets  ? 

Art.  I  told  you,  sir,  they  were  red-hot  with  drinking : 
So  full  of  valour  that  they  smote  the  air 
For  breathing  in  their  faces ;  beat  the  ground 
For  kissing  of  their  feet ;  yet  always  bending 
Towards  their  project :  Then  I  beat  my  tabor. 
At  which,  like  unback'd  colts,  they  prick'd  their  ears, 
Advanc'd  their  eyelids,  lifted  up  their  noses. 
As  they  smelt  music ;  so  I  charm 'd  their  ears. 
That,  calf-like,  they  my  lowing  follow'd,  through 
Tooth'd  briers,  sharp  furzes,  pricking  goss,  and  thorns. 
Which  enter'd  their  frail  shins  :  at  last  I  left  them 
r  the  filthy  mantled  pool  beyond  your  cell, 
There  dancing  up  to  the  chins,  that  the  foul  lake 
O'erstunk  their  feet. 

Pro.  This  was  well  done,  my  bird ; 

Thy  shape  invisible  retain  thou  still : 
The  trumpery  in  my  house,  go,  bring  it  hither. 
For  stale  to  catch  these  thieves. 

Ari.  I  go,  I  go.  [Exit. 

Pro.  A  devil,  a  bom  devil,  on  whose  nature 
Nurture  can  never  stick ;  on  whom  my  pains. 
Humanely  taken,  all,  all  lost,  quite  lost : 
And  as,  with  age,  his  body  uglier  grows. 
So  his  mind  cankers  :  I  will  plague  them  all. 

Re-enter  Ariel,  leaden  with  glistering  apparel,  ^c. 

Even  to  roaring : — Come,  hang  them  on  this  line.' 

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

Cal.  Pray  you,  tread  softly,  that  the  blind  mole  may  not 
Hear  a  foot  fall :  we  now  are  near  his  cell. 

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

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

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


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  201 

Trin.  Thou  wert  but  a  lost  monster. 

Cal.  Good  my  lord,  give  me  thy  favour  still : 
Be  patient,  for  the  prize  I  '11  bring  thee  to 
Shall  hoodwink  this  mischance :  therefore  speak  softly. 
All 's  hush'd  as  midnight  yet. 

Trin.  Kj,  but  to  lose  our  bottles  in  the  popl, — 

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

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

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

Cal.  Prithee,  my  king,  be  quiet :  See'st  thou  here. 
This  is  the  mouth  o'  the  cell :  no  noise,  and  enter. 
Do  that  good  mischief,  which  may  make  this  island 
Thine  own  for  ever,  and  I,  thy  Caliban, 
For  aye  thy  foot-licker. 

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

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

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

Trin.  O,  ho,  monster ;  we  know  what  belongs  to  a  frip- 
pery : — O  king  Stephano  ! 

Ste.  Put  off  that  gown,  Trinculo ;  by  this  hand,  I  '11  have 
that  gown. 

Trin.  Thy  grace  shall  have  it. 

Cal.  The  dropsy  drown  this  fool !  what  do  you  mean. 
To  dote  thus  on  such  luggage  ?     Let 's  alone," 
And  do  the  murther  first :  if  he  awake. 
From  toe  to  crown  he  '11  fill  our  skins  with  pinches ; 
Make  us  strange  stuff. 

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

*  Let '»  alone.  So  the  original.  The  ordinary  reading  is  kt  it  alone  ;  which  is 
good  enough,  and  probable.  Steevens  has  suggested  that  let 's  ahne  may  mean — 
"  Let  you  and  I  only  go  to  commit  the  murder,  leaving  Trinculo,  who  is  so  soli- 
citous about  the  trash  of  dress,  behind  us." 


202  THE  TEMPBST.  [Act  IV. 

Trin.  Do,  do  :  We  steal  by  line  and  level,  an  't  like  your 
grace. 

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

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

Col.  I  will  have  none  on  't :  we  shall  lose  ouj  time. 
And  all  be  turn'd  to  barnacles,  or  to  apes 
With  forelieads  villainous  low. 

Ste.  Monster,  lay-to  your  fingers ;  help  to  bear  this  away 
where  my  hogshead  of  wine  is,  or  I  '11  turn  you  out  of  my 
kingdom  :  go  to,  carry  this. 

Trin.  And  this. 

Ste.  Ay,  and  this. 

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

Pro.  Hey,  Mountain,  hey  ! 

Ari.  Silver !  there  it  goes.  Silver ! 

Pro.  Fury,  Fury  !  there.  Tyrant,  there  !  hark,  hark  ! 

[Cal.,  Ste.,  and  Trin.  are  driven  out. 
Go,  charge  my  goblins  that  they  grind  their  joints 
With  dry  convulsions ;  shorten  up  their  sinews 
With  aged  cramps ;  and  more  pinch-spotted  make  them. 
Than  pard  or  cat  o'  mountain. 

Ari.  Hark,  they  roar. 

Pro.  Let  them  be  hunted  soundly  :  At  this  hour 
Lie  at  my  mercy  all  mine  enemies  : 
Shortly  shall  all  my  labours  end,  and  thou 
Shalt  have  the  air  of  freedom  :  for  a  little. 
Follow,  and  do  me  service.  [Exeunt. 


THE  TEMPEST.  203 


ILLUSTRATION    OF    ACT    IV. 


'  Scene  I. — "  Come,  hang  them  on  this  line.'''' 

Mr,  Hunter,  in  his  '  Disquisition  on  The  Tempest,'  has  a  special  heading,  "  the  line- 

graix.'''     He  invites  the  friend  to  whom  he  addresses  the  Disquisition  to  accompany 

him  lo  the  "  cell  of  Prospero,  and  to  the  grove  or  berry  of  line-trees  by  which  it  was 

enclosed  or  protected  from  the  weather."     He  adds,  "  if  you  look  for  the  very  word 

line-grove  in  any  verbal  index  to  Shakespeare  you  will  not  find  it ;  for  the  modern 

editors,  in  their  discretion,  have  chosen  to  alter  the  line  in  which  it  occurs,  and  we 

now  read — 

•  In  the  lime-gTO\e  which  weather-fends  your  cell.'  " 

The  editors,  then,  have  substituted  the  more  recent  name  of  the  tree  for  the  more 
ancient :  but  the  change  had  taken  place  earlier  than  the  days  of  the  commentators. 
In  Dryden's  alteration  of  '  The  Tempest'  (edit,  of  1676)  we  have  the  above  pas- 
sage, with  lime-grove.     The  effect  of  the  change,  Mr.  Hunter  says,  is  this  : — 

''  When  Prospero  says  to  Ariel,  who  comes  in  bringing  the  glittering  apparel, 
*  Come,  hang  them  on  this  line,'  he  means  on  one  of  the  line-trees  near  his  cell, 
which  could  hardly  have  been  mistaken  if  the  word  of  the  original  copies,  rtne-grove, 
had  been  allowed  to  keep  its  place.  But  the  ear  having  long  been  familiar  with 
lime-grove,  the  word  suggested  not  the  branches  of  a  tree  so  called,  but  a  cord-line, 
and  accordingly,  when  the  play  is  represented,  such  a  line  is  actually  drawn  across 
the  stage,  and  the  glittering  apparel  is  hung  upon  it.  Anything  more  remote  from 
poetry  than  this  can  scarcely  be  imagined.'' 

This,  we  admit,  is  exceedingly  ingenious ;  and  we  were  at  first  disposed,  with 
many  others,  to  receive  the  theory  with  an  implicit  belief.  A  careful  examination 
of  the  matter  has,  however,  convinced  us  that  the  poet  had  no  such  intention  of 
hanging  the  clothes  on  a  line-tree ;  that  a  clothes-line  was  destined  to  this  oflSce ; 
and  that  the  players  are  right  in  stretching  up  a  clothes-line.  Our  reasons  are  as 
follow : — 

Ist.  When  Prospero  says  "  hang  them  on  this  line,'" — when  Stephano  gives  his 
jokes  of  "  mistress  line,"  and  "  now  is  the  jerkin  under  the  line," — the  word 
"  line  "  has  no  characteristic  mode  of  printing,  neither  with  a  capital,  nor  in  italics. 
On  the  contrary,  the  tree,  in  comiexion  with  a  grove,  is  printed  thus, — Line-grove. 

2nd.  Mr.  Hunter  furnishes  no  example  of  the  word  line,  as  applied  to  a  tree, 
being  used  without  the  adjunct  of  tree  or  grove — line-tree,  line-grove.  The  quota- 
tion which  he  gives  from  Elisha  Cole  is  clear  in  this  matter : — "  Line-tree  (jilia),  a 
tall  tree,  with  broad  leaves  and  fine  flowers."  The  other  quotation  which  he  gives 
from  Gerard  would,  if  correctly  printed,  exhibit  the  same  thing : — "  The  female 
line,  says  Gerard,  or  linden-tree,  waxeth  very  great,"  &c.  But  Gerard  wrote,  "  The 
female  line  or  linden  tree  waxeth,"  &c. ;  and  the  word  tree  as  much  belongs  to  line 
as  to  linden. 

3rd.  Mr.  Hunter  quotes  "  some  clumsy  joking  about  the  line,  among  the  clowns 
as  they  steal  through  the  line-grove  with  the  murderous  intent;"  and  he  quotes  as 
follows,  omitting  certain  words,  which  we  shall  presently  give  : — 

"  Ste.  Mistress  line,  is  not  this  my  jerkin  ?    Now  is  the  jerkin  under  the  line. 
Trin.  We  steal  by  line  and  level,"  &c. 

Now  the  passage  really  stands  thus : — 


204 


ILLUSTRATION  OF  ACT  IV. 


"  Ste.  Mistren  line,  is  not  thia  my  jerkin  ?    Now  it  the  Jerkin  under  the  line :    now, 
jerkin,  you  are  like  to  lose  your  hair,  and  prove  a  bald  jerkin. 
Trin.  We  steal  by  line  and  level,"  Jfcc. 

Is  not  the  "  clumsy  joking  "  about  lote  your  hair,  and  bald  jerkin,  of  some  import- 
ance in  getting  at  tlie  meaning  ?  Steevens  has  observed  that  "  the  lines  on  which 
clothes  are  hung  are  usually  made  of  twisted  horse-hair."  But  they  were  espe- 
cially so  made  in  Shakspere's  day.  In  a  woodcut  of  twelve  distinct  figures  of 
trades  and  callings  of  the  time  of  James  I.  (see  Smith's  '  Cries  of  London/  p.  15), 
and  of  which  there  is  a  copy  in  the  British  Museum,  we  have  the  cry  of  "  Buy  a 
hair'Une ."^  The  "clumsy  joking"  would  be  intelligible  to  an  audience  accus- 
tomed to  a  hair-line.  It  is  not  intelligible  according  to  Mr.  Hunter's  assertion  that 
the  word  suggested  a  "  cord-iine."^ 

4th.  Is  it  likely  that  Shakspere  would  have  made  these  drunken  fellows  so  know- 
ing in  the  peculiarities  of  trees  as  to  distinguish  a  line-tree  from  an  elm-tree,  or  a 
plane-tree  f  Is  it  conceivable  that  the  trees  in  Prosj^ero's  islaind  were  so  young  that 
clothes  could  be  hung  ujion  their  lower  branches  ?  Are  the  branches  of  a  line-tree 
of  such  a  form  as  to  hang  clothes  upon  them,  and  to  remove  them  easily  f  Had  not 
the  clowns  a  distinct  image  in  their  minds  of  an  old-clothes  shop? — 

"  We  know  what  belongs  to  ^frippery." 
Here  is  a  pictiire  of  "a  frippery,"  from  a  print  dated  1587,  with  its  clothes  hung  in 
"line  and  level."     Is  not  the  joke  "  we  steal  by  line  and  level'^  applicable  only  to 
a  stretched  line  ? — or  is  it  meaningless  ?    It  has  the  highest  approbation  of  King 
Stephano. 

Lastly,  with  reference  to  the  chthet-line,  when  Mr.  Hunter  says  "  Anything  more 
remote  from  poetry  than  this  can  scarcely  be  imagined,"  we  answer  that  the  entire 
scene  was  intended  to  be  the  antagonist  of  poetry.  All  the  scenes  in  which  Trin- 
culo  and  Stephano  are  tricked  by  Ariel  are  essentially  ludicrous,  and,  to  a  certain 
extent,  gross.  The  "pool "  through  which  they  were  hunted  had  none  of  the  poetical 
attributes  about  it.  It  was,  compared  with  a  fountain  or  a  lake,  as  the  hair-lint  to 
the  line-tree.  Mr.  Hunter  contends  that,  "  if  the  word  of  the  original,  line-grove, 
had  been  allowed  to  keep  its  place,"  the  passages  in  the  fourth  act  referring  to  line 
must  have  been  associated  with  the  line-grove  of  the  fifth  act.  The  poet,  we  are 
satisfied,  had  no  such  association  in  his  mind. 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  205 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  I.— Before  the  Cell  of  Prosfero. 
Enter  Prospero  in  his  magic  robes  ;  and  Ariel. 

Pro.  Now  does  my  project  gather  to  a  head  : 
My  charms  crack  not ;  my  spirits  obey  ;  and  Time 
Goes  upright  with  his  carriage.     How  's  the  day  ? 

Ari.  On  the  sixth  hour ;  at  which  time,  my  lord. 
You  said  our  work  should  cease. 

Pro.  I  did  say  so. 

When  first  I  rais'd  the  tempest.     Say,  my  spirit. 
How  fares  the  king  and  's  followers  ?  * 

Ari.  Confin'd  together 

In  the  same  fashion  as  you  gave  in  charge ; 
Just  as  you  left  them ;  all  prisoners,  sir. 
In  the  line-grove  which  weather-fends  your  cell ; 
They  cannot  budge  till  your  release.     The  king. 
His  brother,  and  yours,  abide  all  three  distracted ; 
And  the  remainder  mourning  over  them, 
BrimfuU  of  sorrow  and  dismay ;  but  chiefly 
Him  that  ^  you  term'd,  sir,  "  The  good  old  lord,  Gonzalo  ;" 
His  tears  run  down  his  beard,  like  winter's  drops 
From  eaves  of  reeds :  your  charm  so  strongly  works  them. 
That  if  you  now  beheld  them  your  affections 
Would  become  tender. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit? 

Ari.  Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 

Pro.  And  mine  shall. 

Hast  thou,  which  art  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afflictions  ?  and  shall  not  myself, 

*  And '«  followers.  These  words,  says  Steevens,  spoil  the  metre  without  help  to 
the  sense;  and  so  he  prints  "  How  fares  the  king  and  his." 

*>  That.  All  the  editors  omit  this  word,  by  which  omission  they  destroy  the 
metrical  ease  of  the  line. 


206  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  V. 

One  of  their  kind,  that  relish  all  as  sharply. 

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

Though  with  their  high  wrongs  I  am  strook  to  the  quick. 

Yet,  with  my  nobler  reason  'gainst  my  fury 

Do  I  take  part :  the  rarer  action  is 

In  virtue  than  in  vengeance :  they  being  penitent. 

The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 

Not  a  frown  further  :  Go,  release  them,  Ariel ; 

My  charms  I  '11  break,  their  senses  I  '11  restore. 

And  they  shall  be  themselves. 

Ari.  I  '11  fetch  them,  sir.         [Exit. 

Pro.  Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes,  and  groves ; ' 
And  ye  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him. 
When  he  comes  back ;  you  demi-puppets  that 
By  moonshine  do  the  green  sour  ringlets  make,' 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites ;  and  you,  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight-mushrooms ;  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew ;  by  whose  aid 
(Weak  masters  though  ye  be)  I  have  bedimm'd 
The  noontide  sun,  call'd  forth  the  mutinous  winds. 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azur'd  vault 
Set  roaring  war  :  to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt :  the  strong-bas'd  promontory 
Have  I  m^e  shake ;  and  by  the  spurs  pluck'd  up 
The  pine  and  cedar :  graves,  at  my  command. 
Have  wak'd  their  sleepers ;  op'd,  and  let  them  forth 
By  my  so  potent  art :  But  this  rough  magic 
I  here  abjure  :  and,  when  I  have  requir'd 

•  The  modem  editors  all  make  here  a  compound  epithet  green-$oitr.  Douce 
would  read  green  sward.  Mr.  Hunter  agrees  with  Douce  in  his  objection  to  the 
hyphen,  and  proposes  another  reading, — 

"  By  moonshine  on  the  green  sour  ringlets  make." 
But  where  is  the  necessity  for  change  at  all  ?  Why  cannot  we  be  content  to  retain 
the  double  epithet  of  the  folio  ?  We  know  that  the  ringlets  are  of  the  green  sward, 
and  on  the  green  ;  but  the  poet,  by  using  the  epithet  green,  marks  the  intensity  of 
their  colour.  They  are  greener  than  the  green  about  them.  That  they  are  tour  he 
explains  by  "  Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites."  No  description  could  be  more  accurate 
of  what  we  still  call  fairy-rings. 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  207 

Some  heavenly  music,  (which  even  now  I  do,) 

To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses  that 

This  airy  charm  is  for,  I  '11  break  my  staff. 

Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth. 

And,  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound, 

I  '11  drown  my  book.  [Solemn  music. 

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

A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 

To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains. 

Now  useless,  boil'd  *  within  thy  skull !     There  stand. 

For  you  are  spell-stopp'd. 

Holy  Gonzalo,  honourable  man. 

Mine  eyes,  even  sociable  to  the  show  of  thine. 

Fall  fellowly  drops. — The  charm  dissolves  apace ; 

And  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night. 

Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 

Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 

Their  clearer  reason. — O  good  Gonzalo, 

My  true  preserver,  and  a  loyal  sir 

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

Home,  both  in  word  and  deed. — Most  cruelly 

Didst  thou,  Alonso,  use  me  and  my  daughter  : 

Thy  brother  was  a  furtherer  in  the  act ; — 

Thou  art  pinch'd  for  't  now,  Sebastian. — Flesh  and  blood. 

You  brother  mine,  that  entertain'd  ambition, 

Expell'd  remorse  and  nature  ;  who,  with  Sebastian, 

(Whose  inward  pinches  therefore  are  most  strong,) 

Would  here  have  kill'd  your  king ;  I  do  forgive  thee. 

Unnatural  though  thou  art ! — Their  understanding 

Begins  to  swell ;  and  the  approaching  tide 

Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shores. 

That  now  lie  foul  and  muddy.     Not  one  of  them 

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

»  BoiPd.     In  the  original,  boil. 


208  THE  TEMPEST.  •       [Act  V. 

Fetch  me  the  nat  and  rapier  in  my  cell;  [Exit  Ariel. 

I  will  disease  me,  and  myself  present, 

As  I  was  sometime  Milan : — quickly,  spirit ; 

Thou  shalt  ere  long  be  free. 

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

An,  Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  : 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer  merrily : 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough.* 

Pro.  Why,  that 's  my  dainty  Ariel :  I  shall  miss  thee ; 
But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom  :  so,  so,  so. — 
To  the  king's  ship,  invisible  as  thou  art : 
There  shalt  thou  find  the  mariners  asleep 
Under  the  hatches  j  the  master,  and  the  boatswain. 
Being  awake,  enforce  them  to  this  place ; 
And  presently,  I  prithee. 

Ari.  I  drink  the  air  before  me,  and  return 
Or  e'er  your  pulse  twice  beat.  [Exit  Ariel. 

Gon.  All  torment,  trouble,  wonder,  and  amazement 
Inhabits  here  :  Some  heavenly  power  guide  us 
Out  of  this  fearful  country ! 

Pro.  Behold,  sir  king. 

The  wronged  duke  of  Milan,  Prospero  : 
For  more  assurance  that  a  living  prince 
Does  now  speak  to  thee,  I  embrace  thy  body; 
And  to  thee,  and  thy  company,  I  bid 
A  hearty  welcome. 

Alon.  Whe'r  thou  beest  he,  or  no. 

Or  some  enchanted  trifle  to  abuse  me. 
As  late  I  have  been,  I  not  know :  thy  pulse 
Beats,  as  of  flesh  and  blood ;  and,  since  I  saw  thee. 
The  affliction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which, 
I  fear,  a  madness  held  me  :  this  must  crave 
(An  if  this  be  at  all)  a  most  strange  story. 
Thy  dukedom  I  resign ;  and  do  entreat 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  !209 

Thou  pardon  me  my  wrongs  : — But  how  should  Prospero 
Be  living,  and  be  here? 

Pro.  First,  noble  friend. 

Let  me  embrace  thine  age ;  whose  honour  cannot 
Be  measvir'd,  or  confin'd. 

Gon.  Whether  this  be. 

Or  be  not,  I  '11  not  swear. 

Pro.  You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtilties  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  you 
Believe  things  certain  : — Welcome,  my  friends  all : — 
But  you,  my  btace  of  lords,  were  I  so  minded, 

[Aside  to  Sebas.  and  Ant. 
I  here  could  pluck  his  highness'  frown  upon  you. 
And  justify  you  traitors ;  at  this  time 
I  '11  tell  no  tales. 

Seb.  The  devil  speaks  in  him,  [Aside. 

Pro.  No  :— 

For  you,  most  wicked  sir,  whom  to  call  brother 
Would  even  infect  my  mouth,  I  do  forgive 
Thy  rankest  fault ;  all  of  them ;  and  require 
My  dukedom  of  thee,  which,  perforce,  I  know 
Thou  must  restore. 

Alon.  •  If  thou  beest  Prospero, 

Give  us  particulars  of  thy  preservation  : 
How  thou  hast  met  us  here,  who  three  hours  since 
Were  wrack'd  upon  this  shore ;  where  I  have  lost 
(How  sharp  the  point  of  this  remembrance  is !) 
My  dear  son  Ferdinand. 

Pro.  I  am  woe  for^t,  sir. 

Alon.  Irreparable  is  the  loss  ;  and  patience 
.Says  it  is  past  her  cure. 

P'O.  I  rather  think. 

You  have  not  sought  her  help ;  of  whose  soft  grace 
For  the  like  loss,  I  have  her  sovereign  aid. 
And  rest  myself  content. 

Alon.  You  the  like  loss  ? 

Pro.  As  great  to  me,  as  late ;  and  supportable 

To  make  the  dear  loss,  have  I  means  much  weaker 
Vol.  IV.  p 

/ 


210  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  V. 

Than  you  may  call  to  comfort  you ;  for  I 
Have  lost  my  daughter. 

Alon.  A  daughter? 

0  heavens !  that  they  were  living  both  in  Naples, 
The  king  and  queen  there !  that  they  were,  I  wish 
Myself  were  mudded  in  that  oozy  bed 

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

Pro.  In  this  last  tempest.     I  perceive  these  lords 
At  this  encounter  do  so  m\ich  admire. 
That  they  devour  their  reason ;  and  scarce  think 
Their  eyes  do  offices  of  truth,  their  words 
Are  natural  breath  :  but,  howsoe'er  you  have 
Been  justled  from  your  senses,  know  for  certain 
That  I  am  Prospero,  and  that  very  duke 
Which  was  thrust  forth  of  Milan ;  who  most  strangely 
Upon  this  shore,  where  you  were  wrack'd,  was  landed. 
To  be  the  lord  on 't.     No  more  yet  of  this ; 
For  't  is  a  chronicle  of  day  by  day. 
Not  a  relation  for  a  breakfast,  nor 
Befitting  this  first  meeting.     Welcome,  sir ; 
This  cell 's  my  court :  here  have  I  few  attendants. 
And  subjects  none  abroad  :  pray  you,  look  in. 
My  dukedom  since  you  have  given  me  again, 

1  will  requite  you  with  as  good  a  thing ; 

At  least,  bring  forth  a  wonder  to  content  ye. 
As  much  as  me  my  dukedom. 

7%e  entrance  of  the  Cell  opens,  and  discovers  Ferdinand 
and  Miranda  playing  at  chess. 

Mira.  Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 

Fer.  No,  my  dearest  love, 

I  would  not  for  the  world. 

Mira.  Yes,  for  a  score  of  kingdoms  you  should  wrangle. 
And  I  would  call  it  fair  play. 

Alon.  If  this  prove 

A  vision  of  the  island,  one  dear  son 
Shall  I  twice  lose. 

Seb.  A  most  high  miracle 


Scene!.]  THE  TEMPEST.  211 

Fer.  Though  the  seas  threaten,  they  are  merciful : 
I  have  curs'd  them  without  cause.         [Fer.  kneels  to  Alon. 

Alon.  Now  all  the  blessings 

Of  a  glad  father  compass  thee  about ! 
Arise,  and  say  how  thou  cam'st  here> 

Mira.  O  \  wonder ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here  ! 
How  beauteous  mankind  is !     O  brave  new  worlds 
That  has  sueh  people  in  't ! 

Pro.  'T  is  new  to  thee. 

Alon.  What  is  this  maid,  with  whom  thou  wast  at  play  ? 
Your  eldest  acquaintance  cannot  be  three  hours : 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  sever'd  ua. 
And  brought  us  thus  together  ? 

Fer.  Sir,  she  is  mortal; 

But,  by  immortal  providence,  she 's  mine  ; 
I  chose  her,  when  I  could  not  ask  my  father 
For  his  advice ;  nor  thought  I  had  one  :  she 
Is  daughter  to  this  famous  duke  of  Milan, 
Of  whom  so  often  I  have  heard  renown. 
But  never  saw  before  ;  of  whom  I  have 
Receiv'd  a  second  life,  and  second  father 
This  lady  makes  him  to  me. 

Alon.  I  am  hers '. 

But  O,  how  oddly  will  it  sound  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness  ! 

Pro.  There,  sir,  stop  ; 

Let  us  not  burthen  our  remembrances  with 
A  heaviness  that 's  gone. 

Gon.  I  have  inly  wept. 

Or  should  have  spoke  ere  this.     Look  down,  you  gods. 
And  on  this  couple  drop  a  blessed  crown ; 
For  it  is  you  that  have  ehalk'd  forth  the  way 
Which  brought  us  hither ! 

Alon.  I  say,  amen,  Gonzalo  \ 

Gon.  Was  Milan  thrust  from  Milan,  that  his  issue 
Should  become  kings  of  Naples  ?     O,  rejoice 
Beyond  a  common  joy  ;  and  set  it  down 
With  gold  on  lasting  pillars  :  In  one  voyage 

P  l 


212  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  V. 

Did  Claribel  her  husband  find  at  Tunis  ; 

And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife 

Where  he  himself  was  lost  j  Prospero,  his  dukedom. 

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

When  no  man  was  his  own. 

Alon.  Give  me  your  hands :     [7b  Feb.  and  Mir. 

Let  grief  and  sorrow  still  embrace  his  heart 
That  doth  not  wish  you  joy  ! 

Gon.  Be 't  so  !  Amen  \ 

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

0  look,  sir,  look,  sir ;  here  are  more  of  us  ! 

1  prophesied  if  a  gallows  were  on  land. 

This  fellow  could  not  drown :  now,  blasphemy. 
That  swear's  t  grace  o'erboard,  not  an  oath  on  shore  ? 
Hast  thou  no  mouth  by  land  ?     What  is  the  news  ? 

Boats.  The  best  news  is  that  we  have  safely  found 
Our  king,  and  company  :  the  next  our  ship, — 
Which,  but  three  glasses  since,  we  gave  out  split, — 
Is  tight,  and  yare,  and  bravely  rigg'd,  as  when 
We  first  put  out  to  sea. 

Art.  Sir,  all  this  service] 

Have  I  done  since  I  went.  >Aside. 

Pro.  My  tricksy  spirit  ij 

Alon.  These  are  not  natural  events ;  they  strengthen. 
From  strange  to  stranger : — Say,  how  came  you  hither  ? 

Boats.  If  I  did  think,  sir,  I  were  well  awake, 
I  'd  strive  to  tell  you .     We  were  dead  of  sleep. 
And  (how,  we  know  not)  all  clapp'd  under  hatches. 
Where,  but  even  now,  with  strange  and  several  noises 
Of  roaring,  shrieking,  howling,  gingling  chains. 
And  more  diversity  of  sounds,  all  horrible. 
We  were  awak'd  ;  straightway,  at  liberty : 
Where  we,  in  all  our  trim,'  freshly  beheld 
Our  royal,  good,  and  gallant  ship  ;  our  master 

■   Our  trim.     So  the  original.     The  ordinary  rpiiding  is  her  trim.     Our  trim 
expresses  what  Ariel  had  mentioned  in  the  first  act, — 

"  On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish." 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  213 


\Aside. 


Capering  to  eye  her :  on  a  trice,  so  please  you. 
Even  in  a  dream,  were  we  divided  from  them. 
And  were  brought  moping  hither. 

Ari.  Was 't  well  done?] 

Pro.  Bravely,  my  diligence.     Thou  shalt  be  free. 

Alon.  This  is  as  strange  a  maze  as  e'er  men  trod : 
And  there  is  in  this  business  more  than  nature 
Was  ever  conduct  of:  some  oracle 
Must  rectify  our  knowledge. 

Pro.  Sir,  my  liege. 

Do  not  infest  your  mind  with  beating  on 
The  strangeness  of  this  business  :  at  pick'd  leisure. 
Which  shall  be  shortly,  single  I  '11  resolve  you 
(Which  to  you  shall  seem  probable)  of  every 
These  happen'd  accidents  :  till  when,  be  cheerful. 
And  think  of  each  thing  well. — Come  hither,  spirit ;  [Aside. 
Set  Caliban  and  his  companions  free : 

Untie  the  spell.   [Exit  Ariel.]    How  fares  my  gracious  sir? 
There  are  yet  missing  of  your  company 
Some  few  odd  lads  that  you  remember  not. 

Re-enter  Ariel,  driving  in  Caliban,  Stephano,  and  Trin- 
CULO,  in  their  stolen  Apparel. 

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

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

Cal.  O  Setebos,  these  be  brave  spirits,  indeed  ! 
How  fine  my  master  is !  I  am  afraid 
He  will  chastise  me. 

Seb.  Ha,  ha ! 

What  things  are  these,  my  lord  Antonio  ? 
Will  money  buy  them  ? 

Ant.  Very  like ;  one  of  them 

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

Pro.  Mark  but  the  badges  of  these  men,  my  lords. 
Then  say  if  they  be  true  :  this  mis-shapen  knave, — 
His  mother  was  a  witch,  and  one  so  strong 


214  THE  TEMPEST.  [Act  V. 

That  could  control  the  moon,  make  flows  and  ebbs. 
And  deal  in  her  command,  without  her  power : 
These  three  have  robb'd  me :  and  this  demi-devil 
(For  he  's  a  bastard  one)  had  plotted  with  them 
To  take  my  life  :  two  of  these  fellows  you 
Must  know,  and  own ;  this  thing  of  darkness  I 
Acknowledge  mine. 

Cal.  I  shall  be  pinch'd  to  death. 

Alon.  Is  not  this  Stephano,  my  drunken  butler  ? 

Seb.  He  is  drunk  now  :  where  had  he  wine  ? 

Alon.  And  Trinculo  is  reeling  ripe ;  Where  should  they 
Find  this  grand  liquor  that  hath  gilded  them  ? — 
How  cam'st  thou  in  this  pickle  ? 

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

Seb.  Why,  .how  now,  Stephano  ? 

Ste.  O,  touch  me  not ;  I  am  not  Stephano,  but  a  cramp. 

Pro.  You  'd  be  king  o'  the  isle,  sirrah  ? 

Ste.  I  should  have  been  a  sore  one  then. 

Alon.  This  is  as  strange  thing'  as  e'er  I  look'd  on. 

[Pointing  to  Cal. 

Pro.  He  is  as  disproportion'd  in  his  manners 
As  in  his  shape : — Go,  sirrah,  to  my  cell ; 
Take  with  you  your  companions ;  as  you  look 
To  have  my  pardon,  trim  it  handsomely. 

Cal.  Ay,  that  I  will ;  and  I  '11  be  wise  hereafter. 
And  seek  for  grace  :  What  a  thrice-double  ass 
Was  I,  to  take  this  drunkard  for  a  god. 
And  worship  this  dull  foo- 

Pro.  Go  to  ;  away  ! 

u^n.  Hence,  and  bestow  your  luggage  where  you  found 
it. 

Seb.  Or  stole  it,  rather.      [Exeunt  Cal.,  Ste.,  and  Trin. 

Pro.  Sir,  I  invite  your  highness,  and  your  train. 
To  my  poor  cell  :  where  you  shall  take  your  rest 
For  this  one  night  j  which  (part  of  it)  I  '11  waste 

•  Strange  thing.     So  tJie  original.     The  ordiimry  reading  is  "  strange  a  thing." 


Scene  I.]  THE  TEMPEST.  215 

With  such  discourse,  as,  I  not  doubt,  shall  make  it 
Go  quick  away  :  the  story  of  my  life. 
And  the  particular  accidents  gone  by. 
Since  I  came  to  this  isle  :  And  in  the  morn 
I  '11  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples, 
Where  I  have  hope  to  see  the  nuptial 
Of  these  our  dear-belov'd  solemnized  ; 
And  thence  retire  me  to  my  Milan,  where 
Every  third  thought  shall  be  my  grave. 

Alon.  I  long 

To  hear  the  story  of  your  life,  which  must 
Take  the  ear  strangely. 

Pro.  I  '11  deliver  all ; 

And  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales. 
And  sail  so  expeditious,  that  shall  catch 
Your  royal  fleet  far  off. — My  Ariel ; — chick, — 
That  is  thy  charge  ;  then  to  the  elements 
Be  free,  and  fare  thou  well ! — [aside^^     Please  you,  draw 
near.  {Exeunt. 


216  THK  TEMPEST. 


EPILOGUE. 

,    Spoken  by  Prospero. 


Now  my  charms  are  all  o'erthrown, 
And  what  strength  I  have  's  mine  own  ; 
Which  is  most  faint :  now  't  is  true, 
I  must  be  here  confin'd  by  you. 
Or  sent  to  Naples  :  Let  me  not. 
Since  I  have  my  dukedom  got. 
And  pardon'd  the  deceiver,  dwell 
In  this  bare  island,  by  your  spell ; 
But  release  me  from  my  bands. 
With  the  help  of  your  good  hands. 
Gentle  breath  of  yours  my  sails 
Must  fill,  or  else  my  project  fails. 
Which  was  to  please  :  Now  I  want 
Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant ; 
And  my  ending  is  despair. 
Unless  I  be  reliev'd  by  prayer ; 
Which  pierces  so,  that  it  assaults 
Mercy  itself,  and  frees  all  faults. 
As  you  from  crimes  would  pardon'd  be. 
Let  your  indulgence  set  me  free. 


THE  TEMPEST.  217 


ILLUSTRATIONS     OF    ACT    V. 


*  Scene  I. — "  Ye  ekes  o/hilh,'"  8fc. 

The  invocation  of  Medea,  in  Ovid's  *  Metamorphoses,'  was  no  doubt  feimiliar  to 
Shakspere  when  he  wrote  this  passage,  and  he  has  used  several  expressions  which  we 
find  in  Golding's  translation.  We  subjoin  the  passage  from  that  translation,  which 
Farmer  quotes  as  one  of  his  proofs  that  Shakspere  did  not  know  the  original.  The 
evidence  in  this  as  in  every  other  case  only  goes  to  show  that  he  knew  the  transla- 
tion : — 

"  Ye  airs  and  winds,  ye  elves  of  hills,  of  brooks,  of  woods  alone. 
Of  standing  lakes,  and  of  the  night,  approach  ye  every  one. 
Through  help  of  whom  (the  crooked  banks  much  wondering  at  the  thing) 
I  have  compelled  streams  to  run  clear  backward  to  their  spring. 
By  charms  I  make  the  calm  sea  rough,  and  make  the  rough  sea  plain. 
And  cover  all  the  sky  with  clouds,  and  chase  them  thence  again. 
By  charms  I  raise  and  lay  the  winds,  and  burst  the  viper's  jaw ; 
And  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth  both  stones  and  trees  do  draw. 
Whole  woods  and  forests  I  remove,  I  make  the  mountains  shake. 
And  even  the  earth  itself  to  groan  and  fearfully  to  quake. 
I  call  up  dead  men  from  their  graves,  and  thee,  O  lightsome  moon, 
I  darken  oft,  though  beaten  brass  abate  thy  peril  soon. 
Our  sorcery  dims  the  morning  fair,  and  darks  the  sun  at  noon. 
The  flaming  breath  of  fiery  bulls  ye  quenched  for  my  sake. 
And  caused  their  unwieldy  necks  the  bended  yoke  to  take. 
Among  tlie  earth-bred  brothers  you  a  mortal  war  did  set, 
And  brought  asleep  the  dragon  fell,  whose  eyes  were  never  shut." 

*  Scene  I. — "  HTiere  the  bee  rucks,'"  8fc. 
There  are  probably  more  persons  familiar  with  this  song  in  association  with  the 
music  of  Dr.  Arne  than  as  readers  of  Shakspere,     The  first  line  is  invariably  sung, 

"  Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  link  I." 

It  is  perfectly  clear  that  Uerk  is  not  the  word  which  Ariel  would  have  used ;  and  it 
is  equally  clear  that  the  poet  meant  to  convey  the  notion  of  a  being  not  wholly 
ethereal ;  who  required  some  aliment,  although  the  purest  and  the  most  delicate : — 

"  Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I." 

We  trust  that  the  music-sellers,  such  as  Mr.  Chappell,  for  example,  who  has  shown 
such  taste  in  his  '  National  English  Airs,'  will  not  continue  to  destroy  the  meaning 
of  the  poet.     We  point  the  third  line  as  in  the  original: — 

"  There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry." 

Capell  and  Malone  put  a  period  after  couch.  This  is  making  the  verb  little  more 
than  a  repetition  of  the  preceding  verb  He.  The  original  has  no  stop  whatever  after 
couch,  and  it  has  only  a  comma  after  cry.  Theobald  changed  the  word  summer  into 
sunset.  Warburton  supports  the  old  reading  very  ingeniously  : — "  The  roughness 
of  winter  is  represented  by  Shakspeare  as  disagreeable  to  fairies,  and  such-like  delicate 
spirits,  who,  on  this  account,  constantly  follow  summer.  Was  not  this,  then,  the 
most  agreeable  circumstance  of  Ariel's  new  recovered  liberty,  that  he  could  now 
avoid  winter,  and  follow  summer  quite  round  the  globe  f"     But  here  a  new  diffi- 


218  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 

culty  ariaes.  Bats  do  not  migrate,  as  swallows  do,  in  search  of  summer.  Steevens, 
with  his  own  real  ignorance,  says  that  Shakspere  might,  through  his  ignorance  of 
natural  history',  have  supposed  the  bat  to  be  a  bird  of  passage.  He  inclines,  bow- 
ever,  to  the  opinion,  not  that  Ariel  jmrsuet  summer  on  a  bat's  wing,  but  that  a/Her 
summer  is  past  he  rides  upon  the  warm  down  of  a  bat's  back.  Excellent  naturalistf 
Why,  the  bat  is  torpid  after  summer.  If  this  exquisite  song,  then,  is  to  be  subjected 
to  this  strict  analysis,  it  is  difficult  to  reduce  all  its  images  to  the  measure  of  fitness 
and  propriety.  We  are  unwilling  to  introduce  into  tlie  text  any  conjectural 
emendation  ;  for  the  best  interpretation  must  seem  forced  when  it  disturbs  a  long- 
established  and  familiar  idea.  We  therefore  follow  the  original  exactly,  leaving  to 
our  readers  to  form  their  own  interpretation.  Claiming  the  same  liberty  for  our- 
selves, we  believe  the  words  of  the  song  to  be  the  same  as  the  poet  wrote  them,  but 
that  the  punctuation  (to  express  his  idea  according  to  our  modem  notions  of  ])unc* 
tuatiun)  ought  to  be  as  follows  : — 

"  Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  : 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry 
On  the  bat's  back.     I  do  fly 
After  summer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough." 

We  have  here  all  the  conditions  of  Ariel's  existence  expressed  in  the  most  condensed 
form.  In  the  day  the  fine  spirit  feeds  with  the  bee,  or  reposes  in  a  cowslip's  bell. 
In  the  night,  when  owls  do  cry,  he  couches  on  the  bat's  back.  The  season  here 
expressed  is  that  of  the  latter  spring,  or  summer,  when  the  bee  is  busy,  and  the  field- 
flowers  are  spreading  their  gay  colours  to  the  sun  ; — when  the  owl  hoots,  as  in  the 
May-time  of  the  '  Midsiunmer  Night's  Dream,'  and  the  bat  is  abroad.  But  there 
are  other  seasons.  After  sttmmer  Ariel  still  flies  merrily.  The  spirit  has  here 
described  his  habitual  enjoyments  and  occupations ;  and  then,  biusting  forth  into  a 
rapturous  anticipation  of  the  happiness  of  his  freedom,  be  sees  only  one  long  spring 
of  future  pleasures, 

"  Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough." 

Mr.  Hunter  conjectures  that  Ariel  had  a  particular  blossom  and  a  particular  bough 
in  view — "  the  pendulous  blossoms  of  the  line-tree;" — and  that  his  favourite  abode 
will  be  Prospero's  "  line-grove."  We  have  not  exactly  the  same  opinion  of  Ariel's 
inhabitiveness,  as  the  phrenologists  express  the  love  of  home.  His  long  confinement 
in  the  "cloven  pine,"  during  the  reign  of  Sycorax,  would  make  the  island  have 
somewhat  of  disagreeable  associations  when  Prospero  had  quitted  it.  The  "  howl "  of 
the  "  wolves  "  would  still  ring  in  his  ears.  We  have  no  doubt  that  he  would  again 
make  a  trip  to  the  "still  vex'd  Bermoothes." 


THE  TEMPEST. 


219 


["  Where  the  bee  sucks. "'J 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 


So  much  has  been  written  on  '  The  Tempest,'  and  so  unnecessary 
is  it  for  us  to  analyse  the  plot  or  dwell  on  the  charms  of  the  poetry, 
that  we  shall  here  content  ourselves  with  presenting  our  readers 
with  some  of  the  peculiar  and  original  views  of  Franz  Horn,  trans- 
lated from  his  '  Shaksperes  Schauspiele  erlautert.'  This  very  acute 
and  lively  critic  sets  out  by  observing  that  nothing  was  more  com- 
mon in  the  early  romantic  literature  than  the  imagination  of  adven- 
tures in  a  desert  island,  in  a  far  distant  ocean.  This  consideration 
alone,  we  think,  is  sufficient  to  make  us  little  solicitous  to  localize 
the  scene  of  Prospero's  island,  or  to  seek  for  any  particular  inci- 
dents that  may  have  suggested  to  Shakspere  a  story  with  a  storm 
and  a  shipwreck.     Horn  then  proceeds  thus  : — 

"  The  beginning  takes  our  fancy  wholly  a  prisoner.  We  see  a 
ship  nearing  the  island,  driving  along  in  the  greatest  danger  amid 
storm  and  tempest,  and  struggling  as  with  a  last  effort  against  the 
fatal  summons.  Here,  placed  in  immediate  contact,  are  sovereigns 
and  their  heirs  with  rude  boatswains,  sailors,  and  jesters,  the  re- 


220  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

verend  old  man  with  the  blooming  youth,  affright  with  wit,  despera- 
tion with  prayer.  Nevertheless,  the  effect  of  this  scene  is  not 
entirely  tragic :  we  are  too  much  occupied  with  the  passing  events, — 
we  see  how  they  develop  the  unannounced  characters, — and  the 
lightnings  of  wit  flash  so  strongly  between  the  lightnings  of  heaven 
as  to  give  us  no  time  to  bestow  on  any  particular  individual  a  di- 
rectly tragical  melancholy  feeling ;  for  no  sooner  have  we  had  this 
glance  than  two  noble  behigs  immediately  vouchsafe  to  speak  to  us, 
and  quiet  us  as  to  the  fate  of  the  shipwrecked  personages  who  have 
interested  us  so  much. 

"  These  are  the  lord  of  the  island  and  his  daughter.  In  Pros- 
pero  we  have  a  delineation  of  peculiar  profundity.  He  was, 
once,  not  altogether  a  just  prince,  not  thoroughly  a  just  man; 
but  he  had  the  disposition  to  be  both.  His  soul  thirsted  after 
knowledge ;  his  mind,  sincere  in  itself,  after  love ;  and  his  fancy, 
after  the  secrets  of  nature :  but  he  forgot,  what  a  prince  should 
least  of  all  forget,  that,  upon  this  moving  earth,  superior  ac- 
quirements, in  order  to  stand  firmly,  must  be  exercised  carefully ; 
that  the  world  is  full  of  enemies  who  can  only  be  subdued  by  a 
watchful  power  and  prudence,  and  that  in  certain  situations  the 
armour  ought  never  to  be  put  off.  Thus  it  became  easy  for  his 
nearest  relation,  his  brother,  with  the  help  of  a  powerful  neighbour- 
ing king  who  could  not  resist  the  offered  but  unjustifiable  advantage, 
to  depose  him  from  his  dukedom.  But  as  the  pure  morals  of  the 
prince,  although  they  were  perhaps  but  lazily  exercised  in  behalf 
of  his  subjects,  had  nevertheless  acquired  their  love,  and  the  usurper 
not  daring  to  make  an  attack  on  the  lives  of  the  fallen,  Prospero 
saved  himself,  his  daughter,  and  a  part  of  his  magical  books,  upon 
a  desert  island.  Here  he  becomes,  what,  in  its  highest  sense,  he 
had  not  yet  been,  a  father  and  prince.  His  knowledge  extends. 
Nature  listens  to  him,  perhaps  because  he  learned  to  know  and  love 
her  more  inwardly.  Zephyr-like  spirits,  full  of  a  tender  frolicsome 
humour,  and  rude  earth-born  gnomes,  are  compelled  to  serve  him. 
The  whole  island  is  full  of  wonders,  but  only  such  as  the  fancy 
willingly  receives,  of  sounds  and  songs,  of  merry  helpers  and  co- 
mical tormentors;  and  Prospero  shows  his  great  human  wisdom 
particularly  in  the  manner  with  which  he,  as  the  spiritual  centre, 
knows  how  to  conduct  his  intercourse  with  friends  and  foes.  First, 
with  his  daughter.  Miranda  is  his  highest,  his  one,  his  all ;  never- 
theless there  is  visible  a  certain  elevation,  a  solemnity,  in  his  be- 
haviour towards  her, — peculiarities  which,  even  with  the  deepest 
love,  the  severely-tried  and   aged   man   easily  assumes.      Indeed, 


THE  TEMPEST.  221 

much  as  the  pure  sense  of  his  daughter  must  have  long  cheered 
him,  he  deems  it  good  to  relate  to  her  now  for  the  first  time  the 
history  of  his  earlier  sufferings,  when  he  has  mastery  over,  and  the 
power  to  punish,  his  adversaries.  That  his  narration  should  have 
the  effect  of  sending  Miranda  to  sleep  (at  least  his  repeated  inquiries 
as  to  whether  she  attends  show  that  he  fears  it)  has  given  occasion 
to  many  explanations,  into  the  worth  or  worthlessness  of  which  we 
shall  not  here  inquire.  Perhaps  the  following  idea  may  give  some 
light : — The  wonderful  acts  occasionally  like  the  music  upon  Jessica 
in  the  fifth  act  of  '  The  Merchant  of  Venice  :'  the  external  miracles  of 
Nature  scarcely  affect  Miranda  upon  an  island  where  Nature  herself 
has  hecome  a  wonder,  and  the  wonders  become  Nature.  But  for 
her,  even  on  that  account,  there  are  only  so  many  greater  wonders 
in  the  heart  and  life  of  man.  She  has  certainly  seen  untamed  wild- 
ness  and  perverseness  in  Caliban ;  but  he  appears  to  her  not  as  a 
man,  but  only  as  a  foolish  swearing  monster,  whom  she  does  not 
fear,  because  he  is  the  bondslave  of  her  powerful  father,  in  whose 
quiet  wisdom  she  continually  confides.  But  the  checkered  course 
of  the  world,  its  wild  passions,  are  to  her  wholly  strange ;  and  the 
relation  of  such  wonders  might  well  affect  her  in  the  manner  her 
father  fears."         *         *         *         * 

"  Towards  Ariel,  the  airy  spirit  thirsting  for  freedom,  Prospero 
is  strict  and  friendly,  praising  and  blaming  at  the  proper  time ;  for 
a  moment  angry,  but  only  when  he  thinks  he  perceives  ingratitude. 
Towards  Caliban  he  is  a  most  complete  Oriental  despot ;  and,  know- 
ing that  he  has  to  do  with  a  miscreated  being,  whom  only  '  stripes 
may  move,  not  kindness,'  he  treats  him  accordingly."       *         * 

"  Caliban,  who,  in  spite  of  his  imperfect,  brutish,  and  half-human 
nature,  as  the  son  of  a  witch,  is  something  marvellously  exciting, 
and  as  pretender  to  the  sovereignty  of  the  island  something  ridi- 
culously sublime,  has  been  considered  by  every  one  as  an  inimitable 
character  of  the  most  powerful  poetic  fancy ;  and  the  more  the  cha- 
racter is  investigated,  the  more  is  our  attention  rewarded.  He  is 
the  son  of  a  witch,  Sycorax,  who,  though  long  since  dead,  continues 
to  work  even  from  the  grave.  *  *  *  *  In  Caliban  there  is  a 
curious  mixture  of  devil,  man,  and  beast,  descending  even  to  the 
fish  species.  He  desires  evil,  not  for  the  sake  of  evil,  or  from  mere 
wickedness,  but  because  it  is  piquant,  and  because  he  feels  himself 
oppressed.  He  is  convinced  that  gross  injustice  has  been  done  him, 
and  thus  he  does  not  rightly  feel  that  what  he  desires  may  be 
wicked.  He  knows  perfectly  well  how  powerful  Prospero  is, 
whose  art  may  perhaps  even  subdue  his  maternal  god  Setebos,  and 


222  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

that  he  himself  is  unfortunately  nothing  but  a  slave.  Neverthelesa, 
he  cannot  cease  to  curse,  and  certainly  with  the  gusto  of  a  virtuoso 
in  this  more  than  liberal  art.  Whatever  he  can  find  most  base  and 
disgusting  he  surrounds  almost  artistically  with  the  most  inharmo- 
nious murmuring  and  hissing  words,  and  then  wishes  them  to  fall 
upon  Prospero  and  his  lovely  daughter.  He  knows  very  well  that 
all  this  will  help  him  nothing,  but  that  at  night  he  will  have 
♦  cramps,'  and  '  side-stitches,'  and  be  '  pinched  by  urchins,'  but  still 
he  continues  to  pour  out  new  curses.  He  has  acquired  one  fixed 
idea — that  the  island  belonged  to  his  mother,  and,  consequently, 
now  to  himself,  the  crown  prince.  The  greatest  horrors  are  plea- 
sant to  him,  for  he  feels  them  only  as  jests  which  break  the  mono- 
tony of  his  slavery.  He  laments  that  he  had  been  prevented  from 
completing  a  frightful  sin, — '  would  it  had  been  done,'  &c. ;  and 
the  thought  of  a  murder  gives  him  a  real  enjoyment,  perhaps  chiefly 
on  account  of  the  noise  and  confusion  that  it  would  produce. 

"  Recognising  all  this,  yet  our  feelings  towards  him  never  rise 
to  a  thorough  hatred.  We  find  him  only  laughably  horrible,  and 
as  a  marvellous  tiiough  at  bottom  a  feeble  monster  highly  in- 
teresting, for  we  foresee  from  the  first  that  none  of  his  threats  will 
be  fulfilled.  Caliban  could  scarcely  at  any  time  have  been  made 
out  more  in  detail,  but  we  are  well  enabled  to  seize  upon  the  idea 
of  his  inner  physiognomy  from  the  naked  sketch  of  his  external 
form.  He  is,  with  all  his  foolish  rage  and  wickedness,  not  entirely 
vulgar ;  and  though  he  allows  himself  to  be  imposed  upon,  even  by 
his  miserable  comrades,  (perhaps  only  because  they  are  men,  and,  if 
ugly,  yet  handsomer  than  himself,)  he  everywhere  shows  more  pru- 
dence, which  is  only  checked  because  he  considers  himself  more 
powerful  than  he  really  is.  Indeed,  he  stands  far  higher  than  Trin- 
culo  and  Stephano."         *         *         *         * 

"  Opposed  to  him  stands  Ariel,  by  no  means  an  ethereal,  feature- 
less angel,  but  as  a  real  airy  and  frolicsome  spirit,  agreeable  and 
open,  but  also  capricious,  roguish,  and,  with  his  other  qualities, 
somewhat  mischievous.  He  is  thankful  to  Prospero  for  his  release 
from  the  most  confined  of  all  confined  situations,  but  his  gratitude 
is  not  a  natural  virtue  (we  might  almost  add  not  an  airy  virtue) ; 
therefore  he  must  (like  man)  be  sometimes  reminded  of  his  debt, 
and  held  in  check.  Only  the  promise  of  his  freedom  in  two  days 
restores  him  again  to  his  amiability,  and  he  then  finds  pleasure  in 
executing  the  plans  of  his  master  with  a  delightful  activity. 

"  We  noticed  in  passing  '  the  featureless  angel,'  and  it  requires 
no  further  indication  where  to  find  such  beings ;   for  no  one  will 


THE  TEMPEST.  223 

deny  that  these  immortal  winged  children  (so  charming  in  many 
old  German  pictures),  with  their  somewhat  dull  immortal  harps, 
and,  if  possible,  their  still  more  dull  and  immortal  anthems,  cause 
a  not  less  immortal  tediousness  in  the  works  of  many  poets.  Shak- 
spere  did  not  fall  into  this  error,  and  it  is  in  the  highest  degree 
attractive  to  observe  the  various  and  safe  modes  in  which  he  ma- 
nages the  marvellous.  In  the  storm  he  achieves  his  object  by  the 
simplest  means,  while,  as  has  been  already  indicated,  he  represents 
Nature  herself,  and  certainly  justly,  as  the  greatest  miracle.  When 
he  has  once  in  his  own  gentle  way  led  us  to  believe  that  Prospero, 
through  his  high  art,  is  able  to  overrule  Nature — and  how  willingly 
do  we  believe  in  these  higher  powers  of  man  ! — how  completely  na- 
tural and,  to  a  certain  degree,  only  pleasant  trifles,  are  all  the  wonders 
which  we  see  playing  around  us !  These  higher  powers,  also,  are 
not  confined  to  Prospero  alone  ;  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  have,  with- 
out any  enchanted  wand  or  any  prolix  instruction,  full  superiority 
over  the  wonders  of  Nature,  and  they  allow  them  to  pass  around 
them  merely  as  a  delightful  drama ;  for  the  highest  wonder  is  in 
their  own  breasts, — love,  the  pure  human,  and  even  on  that  account 
holy,  love. 

"  Even  the  pure  mind  and  the  firm  heart,  as  they  axe  shown  in 
old  Gonzalo,  are  armed  with  an  almost  similar  power.  With  our 
poet,  a  truly  moral  man  is  always  amiable,  powerful,  agreeable, 
and  quietly  wards  off  the  snares  laid  for  him.  This  old  Gonzalo  is 
so  entirely  occupied  with  his  duty,  in  which  alone  he  finds  his  plea- 
sure, that  he  scarcely  notices  the  gnat-stings  of  wit  with  which  his 
opponents  persecute  him ;  or,  if  he  observes,  easily  and  firmly  repels 
them.  What  wit  indeed  has  he  to  fear,  who,  in  a  sinking  ship,  has 
power  remaining  to  sustain  himself  and  others  with  genuine  hu- 
mour ?  Shakspere  seems  scarcely  to  recognise  a  powerless  virtue, 
and  he  depicts  it  only  in  cases  of  need ;  so  everything  closes  satis- 
factorily. The  pure  poetry  of  nature  and  genius  inspires  us ;  and 
when  we  hear  Prospero  recite  his  far  too  modest  epilogue,  after 
laying  down  his  enchanted  wand,  we  have  no  wish  to  turn  our 
minds  to  any  frivolous  thoughts,  for  the  magic  we  have  experienced 
was  too  charming  and  too  mighty  not  to  be  enduring." 


END  OF  THE  COMEDIES. 


HISTORIES. 


Vol.  IV. 


[The  Comedies,  and  the  Tragedies,  of  Shakspere  may  be  advan- 
tageously read  according  to  an  arrangement  which  endeavours 
to  place  them  in  the  order  in  which  they  may  be  supposed  to 
have  been  written — the  reader  being  aware  that  such  an  ar- 
rangement depends  very  much  upon  conjecture,  though  not 
wholly  so.  But  it  would  be  injurious  to  the  interest  of  the 
Historical  Plays  if  they  were  printed  in  such  an  order.  The 
'  Henry  VI.'  was  undoubtedly  written  before  the  '  Henry  IV.,' 
but  it  would  naturally  be  read  in  the  order  of  the  events.  We 
therefore  commence  this  Series  with  the  earliest  play  accord- 
ing to  the  historical  era.] 


KING   JOHN. 


Q  2 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


King  John. 

Prince  Henry,  his  son  ;  afterwards  King  Henry  HI. 

Arthur,  Duke  of  Bretagne,  son  of  Geffrey,  late  Duke  of 

Bretagne,  the  elder  brother  of  King  John. 
William  Mareshall,  Earl  of  Pembroke. 
Geffrey  Fitz-Peter,   Earl  of  Essex,  chief  Justiciary  of 

England. 
William  Longsword,  Earl  of  Salisbury. 
Robert  Bigot,  Earl  of  Norfolk. 
Hubert  de  Burgh,  Chamberlain  to  the  King. 
Robert  Faulconbridge,  son  of  sir  Robert  Faulconbridge. 
Philip  Faulconbridge,    his   half-brother,  bastard  son  to 

King  Ricbard  I. 
James  Gurney,  servant  to  Lady  Faulconbridge. 
Peter  of  Pomfret,  a  prophet. 
Philip,  King  of  France. 
Lewis,  the  Dauphin. 
Archduke  of  Austria. 
Cardinal  Pandulph,  the  Pope's  legate. 
Melun,  a  French  lord. 
Chatillon,  ambassador  from  France  to  King  John. 

Elinor,  the  widow  of  King  Henry  H,,  and  mother  of  King 

John. 
Constance,  mother  to  Arthur. 
Blanch,  daughter  to  Alphonso,  King  of  Castile,  and  niece  to 

King  John. 
Lady  Faulconbridge,  mother  to  the  Bastard  and  Robert 

Faulconbridge. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Citizens  of  Angiers,  Sheriff,  Heralds,  Officers, 
Soldiers,  Messengers,  and  other  Attendants. 


INTKODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


STATE  OF  THE  TEXT,  AND  CHRONOLOGY,  OF  KING  JOHN. 

The  '  King  John,'  of  Shakspere,  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  col- 
lection of  his  plays,  in  1623.  We  have  followed  the  text  of  this 
edition  almost  literally ;  and  in  nearly  every  case  where  we  have 
found  it  necessary  to  deviate  from  that  text  (the  exceptions  being 
those  passages  which  are  undoubted  corrections  of  merely  typo- 
graphical errors)  we  have  stated  a  reason  for  the  deviation.  Ma- 
lone  has  observed  that  " '  King  John'  is  the  only  one  of  our  poet's 
uncontested  plays  that  is  not  entered  in  the  books  of  the  Stationers* 
Company." 

'  King  John'  is  one  of  the  plays  of  Shakspere  enumerated  by 
Francis  Meres,  in  1598.  We  have  carefully  considered  the  rea- 
sons which  have  led  Malone  to  fix  the  date  of  its  composition  as 
1596,  and  Chalmers  as  1598 ;  and  we  cannot  avoid  regarding  them 
as  far  from  satisfactory. 

There  can  be  no  doubt,  as  we  shall  have  to  show  in  detail,  that 
Shakspere's  '  King  John'  is  founded  on  a  former  play.  That  play, 
which  consists  of  two  Parts,  is  entitled  '  The  Troublesome  Raigne  of 
John  King  of  England,  with  the  Discoverie  of  King  Richard  Corde- 
lion's  ba^e  son,  vulgarly  named  the  Bastard  Fauconbridge ;  also  the 
death  of  King  John  at  Swinstead  Abbey.' — This  play  was  first  printed 
in  1591.    The  first  edition  has  no  author's  name  in  the  title-page; — - 


230  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

the  second,  of  161 1,  has,  "  Written  by  W.  Sh. ;"— and  the  third,  of 
1622,  gives  the  name  of  "William  Shakspeare."     We  think  there 
can  be  little  hesitation  in  affirming  that  the  attempt  to  fix  this  play 
upon  Shakspere  was  fraudulent;  yet  Steevens,  in  his  valuable  col- 
lection of  "Twenty  of  the  Plays"  that  were  printed  in  quarto, 
says,  "The  author  (meaning  Shakspere)  seems  to  have  been  so 
thoroughly  dissatisfied  with  this  play  as  to  have  written  it  almost 
entirely  anew."     Steevens  afterwards  receded  from  this  opinion. 
Coleridge,  too,  in  the  classification  which  he  attempted  in  1802, 
speaks  of  the  old  '  King  John'  as  one  of  Shakspere's  "  transition- 
works — not  his,  yet  of  him."     The  German  critics  agree  in  giving 
the  original  authorship  to  Shakspere.     Tieck  holds  that  the  play 
first  printed  in  the  folio  of  1G23  is  amongst  the  poet's  latest  works — 
not  produced  before  1611;  and  that  production,  he  considers,  called 
forth  a  new  edition  of  the  older  play,  which  he  determines  to  have 
been  one  of  the  earliest  works  of  Shakspere.     Ulrici  holds  that 
'  The  Troublesome  Reign  of  King  John  '  was  written  very  soon 
after  the  defeat  of  the  Spanish  Armada,  which  is  shown  by  its  zeal 
against  Catholicism,  which  he  describes  as  fanatical,  by  its  glowing 
patriotism  and  warlike  feelings ;  and  he  also  assigns  it  for  the  most 
part  to  Shakspere.     But  he  believes  that  the  poet  here  wrought 
upon  even  an  older  production,  or  that  it  was  written  in  companion- 
ship with  some  other  dramatic  author.     In  the  comic  scenes,  parti- 
cularly those  between  Faulconbridge  and  the  monks  and  nuns,  he 
can  discover  little  of  Shakspere's  "  facetious  grace,"  but  can  trace 
only  rudeness  and  vulgarity.     He  suflFered,  however,  says  Ulrici, 
the  scenes  to  remain,  because  they  suited  the  humour  of  the  people. 
Ulrici  perceives,  further,  a  marked  difi"erence  in  the  style  of  this 
old  play  and  the  undoubted  works  of  our  poet.     In  the  greater 
portion,  he  maintains,  the  language  and  characterisation  are  worthy 
of  the   great   master.     Still  it  is  a  youthful   labour — imperfect, 
feeble,  essentially  crude.     He  considers  that  the  notice  of  Meres 
applies  to  this  elder  performance.     It  is  a  transition  to  the  '  Henry 
VI.,'  in  which  Shakspere  is  more  himself.     Horn  is  more  decided. 
In  this  old  play  Shakspere,  in  his  opinion,  manifested  his  knowledge 
of  the  relations  between  poetry  and  history,  and  in  his  youthful 
hand  wielded  the  magic  wand  which  was  to  become  so  potent  in  his 
riper  years.     We  must,  for  our  own  parts,  hold  to  the  opinion  that 
the  old  '  King  John'  was  not  either  "  his,  or  of  him."     Perhaps  the 
undoubted  '  King  John,'  and  '  The  Troublesome  Reign,'  had  much 
in  common  with  an  older  play—  the  '  Kynge  Johan'  of  Bale,  or  one 
still  nearer  to  the  first  days  of  the  legitimate  drama.     The  date. 


KING  JOHN.  231 

then,  of  this  older  play  of  '  King  John,'  1591,  and  the  mention  of 
Shakspere's  play,  by  Meres,  in  1598,  allow  us  a  range  of  seven 
years  for  the  period  of  the  production  of  this,  the  first  in  the  order 
of  history  of  Shakspere's  historical  plays. 

Shakspere's  son,  Hammet,  died  in  August,  1596,  at  the  age  of 
twelve.  Hence  the  inspiration,  according  to  Malone,  of  the  deep 
pathos  of  the  grief  of  Constance  on  the  probable  death  of  Arthur. 
We  doubt  this.  The  dramatic  poetry  of  Shakspere  was  built  upon 
deeper  and  broader  foundations  than  his  own  personal  feelings  and 
experiences.  In  the  Sonnets,  indeed,  we  have,  in  some  particulars, 
a  key  to  as  much  of  the  character  as  he  chose  to  disclose  of  the  one 
man,  Shakspere ;  but  in  the  plays  his  sense  of  individuality  is  en- 
tirely swallowed  up  in  the  perfectly  distinct  individuality  of  the 
manifold  characters  which  he  has  painted.  From  the  first  to  the 
last  of  his  plays,  as  far  as  we  can  discover,  we  have  no  "  moods  of 
his  own  mind," — nothing  of  that  quality  which  gives  so  deep  an  in- 
terest to  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth  and  Byron, — and  which  Byron, 
with  all  his  genius,  could  not  throw  aside  in  dramatic  composition. 
We  are,  for  this  reason,  not  disposed  to  regard  the  opinion  of  Ma- 
lone upon  this  point  as  of  much  importance.  The  conjecture  is, 
however,  recommended  by  its  accordance  with  our  sympathies; 
and  it  stands,  therefore,  upon  a  different  ground  from  that  absurd 
notion  that  Shakspere  drew  Lear's  "  dog-hearted  daughters"  with 
such  irresistible  truth,  because  he  himself  had.  felt  the  sharp  sting 
of  "  filial  ingratitude." 

If  the  domestic  history  of  the  poet  will  help  us  little  in  fixing  a 
precise  date  for  the  composition  of '  King  John,'  we  apprehend  that 
the  public  history  of  his  times  will  not  assist  us  in  attaining  this 
object  much  more  conclusively.  A  great  armament  was  sent 
against  Spain  in  1596,  under  the  command  of  Essex  and  Lord 
Howard.  "  The  fleet,"  says  Southey,*  "  consisted  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  sail ;  seventeen  of  these  were  of  the  navy  royal,  eighteen 
men  of  war,  and  six  store-ships,  supplied  by  the  state ;  the  rest  were 
pinnaces,  victuallers,  and  transports  :  the  force  was,  1000  gentlemen 
volunteers,  6368  troops,  and  6772  seamen,  exclusive  of  the  Dutch. 
There  were  no  hired  troops  in  any  of  the  queen's  ships ;  all  were 
gentlemen  volunteers,  chosen  by  the  commanders."  Essex,  in  a 
letter  to  Bacon,  speaking  of  the  difficulty  of  his  command,  with  re- 
ference to  the  nature  of  his  force,  describes  his  followers  as  "  the 
most  tyrones,    and   almost   all  voluntaries."      "  In   numbers   and 

*  Naval  History,  vol.  iv.,  p.  39. 


232 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


strength,"  continues  Southey,  "  the  armament  was  superior  to  any 
that  this  country  had  sent  forth  since  the  introduction  of  cannon." 
This  expedition  was  directed,  as  the  reader  of  English  history 
knows,  against  Cadiz.  It  left  Plymouth  on  the  3rd  of  June,  1596 ; 
and  returned  on  the  8th  of  August ;  having  eflfected  its  principal 
object,  the  destruction  of  the  Spanish  fleet.  It  is  to  this  great 
armament  that  Malone  thinks  Shakspere  alludes  in  the  following 
lines  in  the  second  act,  where  Chatillon  describes  to  King  Philip 
the  expected  approach  of  King  John  : — 

"  All  the  unsettled  humours  of  the  land — 
Rash,  inconsiderate,  fiery  voluntaries, 
With  ladies'  faces,  and  fierce  dragons'  spleens, — 
Have  sold  their  fortunes  at  their  native  homes, 
Bearing  their  birthrights  proudly  on  their  hacks, 
To  make  a  hazard  of  new  fortunes  here. 
In  brief,  a  braver  choice  of  dauntless  spirits. 
Than  now  the  English  bottoms  have  waft  o'er. 
Did  never  float  upon  the  swelling  tide, 
To  do  offence  and  scath  in  Christendom." 

The  supposed  coincidence  is,  a  great  armament,  principally  com- 
posed of  voluntaries.  But  does  Shakspere  speak  of  these  volun- 
taries in  a  manner  that  would  have  been  agreeable  to  an  English 
audience;  or  that,  however  just  it  might  be,  was  in  accordance 
with  the  public  recognition  of  the  conduct  of  the  army  at  Cadiz  ? 
The  "unsettled  humours  of  the  land" — the  "rash,  inconsiderate, 
fiery  voluntaries  " — the  "  birthrights  on  their  backs  " — the  "  oflfence 
and  scath  in  Christendom," — are  somewhat  opposed  to  the  senti- 
ment expressed  in  the  public  prayer  of  thanksgiving,  written  by 
Burleigh,  in  which  the  moderation  of  the  troops  in  the  hour  of  vic- 
tory was  solemnly  recognised.  "War  in  those  days,"  says  Southey, 
"  was  conducted  in  such  a  spirit,  that  for  the  troops  not  to  have 
committed,  and  with  the  sanction  of  their  leaders,  any  outrage 
upon  humanity,  was  deemed  a  point  of  special  honour  to  the  com- 
manders, and  calling  for  an  especial  expression  of  gratitude  to  the 
Almighty."  But  the  narrative  of  this  expedition  given  in  Hak- 
luyt's  '  Voyages,'  by  Dr.  Marbeck,  who  attended  the  Lord  High 
Admiral,  is  not  equally  honourable  to  the  "  voluntaries,"  as  regards 
their  respect  for  property.  He  speaks  of  the  "  great  pillage  of  the 
common  soldiers  " — "  the  goodly  furniture  that  was  debased  by  the 
baser  people " — and  "  the  intemperate  disorder  of  some  of  the 
rasher  sort."  Shakspere  might  have  known  of  this, — but  would 
he  go  out  of  his  way  to  reprobate  it  ?  If  he  had  written  this  play 
a  few  years  later  than  1596,  he  might  have  kept  the  expedition  in 


KING  JOHN.  233 

his  eye,  and  have  described  its  "  voluntaries,"  without  offence  to 
the  popular  or  the  courtly  feeling.  If  he  had  written  it  earlier 
than  1596,  he  might  have  described  "  voluntaries  "  in  general,  from 
the  many  narratives  of  reckless  military  adventure  with  which  he 
would  be  familiar. 

There  is  another  allusion,  according  to  Johnson,  which  fixes 
this  date  to  1596,  or  to  the  later  date  of  1605,  which  sets  aside  the 
evidence  of  Meres  altogether,  unless  it  be  supposed  that  he  assigned 
the  old  'King  John'  to  Shakspere.  Pandulph  thus  denounces 
John : — 

"  And  meritorious  shall  that  hand  be  call'd, 
Canonized,  and  worshipp'd  as  a  saint, 
That  takes  away  by  any  secret  course 
Thy  hateful  life." 

The  pope  published  a  bull  against  Elizabeth  in  1596; — and  in  1605 
the  perpetrators  of  the  Gunpowder  treason  were  canonized.  We 
have,  fortunately,  a  proof  that  Shakspere,  in  this  case,  abstained 
from  any  allusion  to  the  history  of  his  own  times.  In  the  old  play 
of  '  King  John '  he  found  the  following  passage  : — 

"  I,  Pandulph,"  &c.,  "  pronounce  thee  accursed,  discharging 
every  of  thy  subjects  of  all  duty  and  fealty  that  they  do  owe  to 
thee,  and  pardon  and  forgiveness  of  sin  to  those  or  them  what- 
soever which  shall  carry  arms  against  thee,  or  murder  thee." 

Chalmers  carries  the  passion  of  mixing  up  Shakspere's  incidents 
and  expressions  with  passing  events  to  a  greater  extent  than  Ma- 
lone  or  Johnson.  According  to  him,  the  siege  of  Anglers  is  a  type 
of  the  loss  and  recapture  of  Amiens  in  1597;  the  altercations 
between  the  Bastard  and  Austria  were  to  conduce  to  the  unpopu- 
larity of  the  Archduke  Albert ;  and  the  concluding  exhortation, — 

"  Nought  shall  make  us  rue, 
If  England  to  itself  do  rest  but  true," 

had  allusion  to  the  differences  amongst  the  leading  men  of  the 
Court  of  Elizabeth  arising  out  of  the  ambition  of  Essex.* 

For  the  purpose  of  fixing  an  exact  date  for  the  composition  of 
this  play,  we  apprehend  that  our  readers  will  agree  with  us  that 
evidence  such  as  this  is  not  to  be  received  with  an  implicit  belief. 
Indeed,  looking  broadly  at  all  which  has  been  written  upon  the 
chronology  of  Shakspere's  plays,  with  reference  to  this  particular 
species  of  evidence,  namely,  the  allusion  to  passing  events,  we  fear 

*  Supplemental  Apology,  p.  356. 


234  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

that,  at  the  best,  a  great  deal  of  labour  has  been  bestowed  for  a 
very  unsatisfactory  result.  Tlie  attempt,  however,  has  been  praise- 
worthy ;  and  it  has  had  the  incidental  good  of  evolving  many  cu- 
rious points  connected  with  our  history  and  manners,  that  present 
themselves  more  forcibly  to  the  mind  in  an  isolated  shape  than 
when  forming  a  portion  of  any  large  historical  narration.  Yet  we 
are  anxious  to  guard  against  one  misapprehension  which  may  have 
presented  itself  to  the  minds  of  some  of  our  readers,  as  it  did  to  our 
own  minds  when  we  first  bestowed  attention  upon  the  large  collec- 
tion of  facts,  or  conjectures,  that  have  regard  to  the  chronological 
order  of  our  poet's  plays.  Properly  to  understand  the  principle 
upon  which  Shakspere  worked,  we  must  never  for  a  moment  suffer 
ourselves  to  believe  that  he  was  of  that  class  of  vulgar  artists  who 
are  perpetually  on  the  look-out  for  some  temporary  allusion  (utterly 
worthless  except  in  its  relation  to  the  excitement  which  is  produced 
by  passing  events),  for  the  mean  purpose  of  endeavouring  to  "  split 
the  ears  of  the  groundlings."  If  we  should  take  literally  what  has 
been  told  us  as  regards  this  play,  without  examining  the  passages 
upon  which  such  opinions  are  founded, — that  it  had  allusions,  for 
instance,  to  the  expedition  to  Cadiz,  to  the  bull  of  the  pope  against 
Elizabeth,  and  to  the  factions  of  Essex,' — we  might  believe  that  the 
great  poet,  who,  in  his  "  Histories,"  sought 

"  To  raise  our  ancient  sovereigns  from  their  hearse. 
Make  kings  his  subjects,  by  exchanging  verse; 
Eulive  their  pale  trunks,  that  the  present  age 
Joys  in  their  joys,  and  trembles  at  their  rage,''* 

was  one  of  those  waiters  upon  events  who  seized  upon  a  fleeting 
popularity,  by  presenting  a  mirror  of  the  pas/  in  which  a  distorted 
present  might  be  seen.  But,  rightly  considered,  the  allusions  of 
Shakspere  to  the  passages  of  his  own  times  are  so  few  and  so 
obscure,  that  they  are  utterly  insuflScient  to  abate  one  jot  of  his 
great  merit,  that  "he  was  for  all  time."  He  was,  indeed,  in  deal- 
ing with  the  spirit  of  the  past,  delighted,  as  Wordsworth  has  beau- 
tifully said  in  delineating  his  character  of  the  poet,  "  to  contemplate 
similar  volitions  and  passions  as  manifested  in  the  goings  on  of  the 
universe,  and  habitually  impelled  to  create  them  where  he  does  not 
find  them."t  His  past  was,  therefore,  wherever  it  could  be  inter- 
fused with  the  permanent  and  universal,  a  reflex  of  the  present. 

*  On  worthy  Master  Shakespeare  aud  his  Poems,  by  J.  M.  S.     From  the  folio 
uf 1632. 

f  Observations  prefixed  to  the  second  edition  of  Lyrical  Ballads. 


KING  JOHN.  235 

Thus,  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  and  in  the  age  of  Victoria,  his 
patriotism  is  an  abiding  and  unchanging  feeling ;  and  has  as  little 
to  do  with  the  mutations  of  the  world  as  any  other  of  the  great  ele- 
ments of  human  thought  with  which  he  deals.  When  the  Bastard 
exclaims, — 

"  This  England  never  did,  nor  never  shall, 
Lie  at  the  proud  foot  of  a  conqueror, 
But  when  it  lirst  did  help  to  wound  itself. 
Come  the  three  corners  of  the  world  in  arms, 
And  we  shall  shock  them," — 

we  feel  such  lines  had  a  peculiar  propriety  when  they  were  uttered 
before  an  audience  that  might  have  been  trembling  at  the  present 
threats  of  a  Spanish  invasion,  had  they  not  been  roused  to  defiance 
by  the  "  lion-port"  of  their  queen,  and  by  the  mightier  power  of 
that  spirit  of  intellectual  superiority  which  directed  her  councils, 
and,  what  was  even  more  important,  had  entered  into  the  spirit  of 
her  people's  literature.  But  these  noble  lines  were  just  as  appro- 
priate, dramatically,  four  hundred  years  before  they  were  written, 
as  they  are  appropriate  in  their  influence  upon  the  spirit  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years  after  they  were  written.  Frederick  Schlegel 
has  said  of  Shakspere,  "  The  feeling  by  which  he  seems  to  have 
been  most  connected  with  ordinary  men  is  that  of  nationality." 
It  is  true  that  the  nationality  of  Shakspere  is  always  hearty  and 
genial ;  and  even  in  the  nationality  of  prejudice  there  are  to  be 
found  very  many  of  the  qualities  that  make  up  the  nationality  of 
reflection.  For  this  reason,  therefore,  the  nationality  of  Shakspere 
may  constitute  a  link  between  him  and  "  ordinary  men,"  who  have 
not  yet  come  to  understand,  for  example,  his  large  toleration,  which 
would  seem,  upon  the  surface,  to  be  the  antagonist  principle  of 
nationality.  The  time  may  arrive  when  true  toleration  and  true 
nationality  may  shake  hands.  Coleridge  has,  in  a  few  words, 
traced  the  real  course  which  the  nationality  of  Shakspere  may 
assist  in  working  out,  by  the  reconciliation  of  these  seeming  oppo- 
sites : — "  Patriotism  is  equal  to  the  sense  of  individuality  reflected 
from  every  other  individual.  There  may  come  a  higher  virtue  in 
both — ^just  cosmopolitism.  But  this  latter  is  not  possible  but  by 
antecedence  of  the  former."  * 

There  is  one  other  point  connected  with  Shakspere's  supposed 
subservience  to  passing  events  which  we  cannot  dismiss  without  an 
expression  of  something  more  than  a  simple  dissent.     In  reading 

*  Literary  Remains,  vol.  ii.,  p.  101. 


236  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

the  grand  scene  of  the  fourth  act,  between  John  and  Hubert,  where 
John  says, — 

"It  is  the  curse  of  kings  to  be  attended 
By  slaves,  that  take  their  humours  for  a  warrant 
To  break  within  the  bloody  house  of  life," — 

had  we  not  a  commentator  at  our  elbow,  we  should  see  nothing  but 
the  exquisite  skill  of  the  poet  in  exhibiting  the  cowardly  meanness 
of  John  in  shrinking  from  his  own  "  warrant "  when  its  execution 
had  proved  to  be  dangerous.  This,  forsooth,  according  to  War- 
burton,  "  plainly  hints  at  Davison's  case,  in  the  affair  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots ;"  and  Malone  thinks  "  it  is  extremely  probable 
that  our  author  meant  to  pay  his  court  to  Elizabeth  by  this  covert 
apology  for  her  conduct  to  Mary."  Apology  ?  If  Shakspere  had 
been  the  idiot  that  these  critics  would  represent  him  to  have  been, 
Elizabeth  would  very  soon  have  told  him  to  keep  to  his  stage,  and 
not  meddle  with  matters  out  of  his  sphere ;  — for,  unquestionably, 
the  excuse  which  John  attempts  to  make,  could  it  have  been  in- 
terpreted into  an  excuse  for  Elizabeth,  would  have  had  precisely 
the  same  effect  with  regard  to  Elizabeth  which  it  produces  with 
regard  to  John — it  would  have  made  men  despise  as  well  as  hate 
the  one  as  the  other.  As  an  example  of  the  utter  worthlessness  of 
this  sort  of  conjecture,  we  may  add  that  Douce  says,  "  May  it  not 
rather  allude  to  the  death  of  Essex  ?"  *  Mr.  Courtenay,  in  his 
*  Shakspeare's  Historical  Plays  considered  Historically,' — which  we 
have  noticed  in  the  Illustrations  to  Act  I., — agrees  with  Warburton 
and  Malone  in  their  construction  of  this  passage.  Mr.  Courtenay 
is  not,  however,  a  blind  follower  of  the  opinions  of  other  critics, 
but  has  theories  of  his  own  upon  such  matters.  One  of  these  con- 
jectures upon  Shakspere's  omission  of  the  event  of  the  signature  of 
Magna  Charta  is  at  least  amusing : — "  How  shall  we  account  for 
Shakspere's  omission  of  an  incident  so  essential  in  '  the  life  and 
reign  of  King  John  ?'  It  had  occurred  to  me,  especially  when 
considering  the  omission  of  all  reference  to  popular  topics,  that,  as 
Shakspere  was  a  decided  courtier,  he  might  not  wish  to  remind 
Queen  Elizabeth,  who  set  Magna  Charta  at  nought  in  its  most 
interesting  particular,  of  the  solemn  undertakings  of  her  ancestors." 
Mr.  Courtenay  subsequently  says  that  no  great  stress  was  laid  upon 
Magna  Charta,  even  by  constitutional  writers,  before  the  days  of 
Coke ;  but  that,  nevertheless,  "  Magna  Charta  ought  to  haYC  been 
the  prominent  feature  of  the  play."     He  says  this  upon  Coleridge's 

*  Illustrations,  i.,  406. 


KING  JOHN.  237 

definition  of  an  historical  play,  which  is,  at  the  best,  not  to  under- 
stand Coleridge.  Colley  Gibber,  in  1 744,  altered  '  King  John,' 
and  he  says  in  his  dedication  that  he  endeavoured  "  to  make  his 
play  more  like  one  than  what  he  found  it  in  Shakspere."  He  gave 
us  some  magnificent  scenes  between  John  and  the  pope's  nuncio, 
full  of  the  most  orthodox  denunciations  of  Rome  and  the  Pretender. 
He  obtained  room  for  these  by  the  slight  sacrifice  of  Constance  and 
the  Bastard.  We  have  no  doubt  that,  upon  the  same  principle,  an 
ingenious  adapter,  into  whom  the  true  spirit  of  '  Historical  Plays 
considered  historically'  should  be  infused,  might  give  us  a  new 
'  King  John,'  founded  upon  Shakspere's,  with  Magna  Charta  at 
full  length, — and  if  Arthur  and  Hubert  were  sacrificed  for  this 
end,  as  well  as  Constance  and  Faulconbridge,  the  lovers  of  poetry 
might  still  turn  to  the  obsolete  old  dramatist, — but  the  student  of 
history  would  be  satisfied  by  dramatic  evidence,  as  well  as  by  the 
authority  of  his  primer,  that 

"  Magna  Charta  we  gain'd  from  John, 
Which  Harry  the  Third  put  his  seal  upon." 

The  end  and  object  of  the  drama,  and  of  the  Shaksperian  drama 
especially,  is  to  maintain  that  "  law  of  unity  which  has  its  founda- 
tions, not  in  the  factitious  necessity  of  custom,  but  in  Nature  itself 
— the  unity  of  feeling."  *  In  Shakspere's  '  King  John '  this  object 
is  attained  as  completely  as  in  '  Macbeth.'  The  history  at  once 
directs  and  subserves  the  plot.  We  have  shown  this  fully  in  our 
Supplementary  Notice ;  and  we  think,  therefore,  that  the  omission 
of  Magna  Charta  in  '  King  John '  may  find  another  solution  than 
that  which  Mr.  Courtenay's  theory  supplies. 


SOURCES  OF  THE  '  HISTORY'  OF  KING  JOHN. 

In  the  Historical  Illustrations  which  we  have  subjoined  to  each 
act  we  have  followed  out  the  real  course  of  events  in  the  life  of 
King  John,  as  far  as  appeared  to  us  necessary  for  exhibiting  the 
dramatic  truth  of  the  poet,  as  sustained  by,  or  as  deviating  from, 
the  historic  truth  of  the  chroniclers.  But  to  understand  the  Shak- 
sperian drama  from  this  example, — to  see  the  propriety  of  what  it 
adopted,  and  what  it  laid  aside, — we  must  look  into  less  authentic 
materials  of  history  than  even  those  very  imperfect  materials  which 
the  poet  found  in  the  annalists  with  whom  he  was  familiar.     It  is 

*  Coleridge's  Literary  Remains,  vol.  ii.,  p.  77. 


238  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

upon  the  conventional  "history"  of  the  stage  that  Shakspere  built 
his  play.  It  is  impossible  now,  except  on  very  general  principles, 
to  determine  why  a  poet,  who  had  the  authentic  materials  of  history 
before  him,  and  possessed  beyond  all  men  the  power  of  moulding 
those  materials,  with  reference  to  a  dramatic  action,  into  the  most 
complete  and  beautiful  forms,  should  have  subjected  himself,  in 
the  full  vigour  and  maturity  of  his  intellect,  to  a  general  adherence 
to  the  course  of  that  conventional  dramatic  history.  But  so  it  is.  The 
*  King  John  '  of  Shakspere  is  not  the  '  King  John  '  of  the  historians 
whom  Shakspere  had  unquestionably  studied ;  it  is  not  the  '  King 
John'  of  his  own  imagination,  casting  off  the  trammels  which  a 
rigid  adoption  of  the  facts  of  those  historians  Would  have  imposed 
upon  him  ;  but  it  is  the  '  King  John,'  in  the  conduct  of  the  story,  in 
the  juxtaposition  of  the  characters,  and  in  the  catastrophe, — in  the 
historical  truth,  and  in  the  historical  error, — of  the  play  which 
preceded  him  some  few  years.  This,  unquestionably,  was  not  an 
accident.  It  was  not  what,  in  the  vulgar  sense  of  the  word,  is 
called  a  plagiarism.  It  was  a  submission  of  his  own  original 
powers  of  seizing  upon  the  feelings  and  understanding  of  his 
audience,  to  the  stronger  power  of  habit  in  the  same  audience. 
The  history  of  John  had  been  familiar  to  them  for  almost  half  a 
century.  The  familiarity  had  grown  out  of  the  rudest  days  of  the 
drama,  and  had  been  established  in  the  period  of  its  comparative 
refinement  which  immediately  preceded  Shakspere.  The  old  play 
of  '  The  Troublesome  Reign '  was,  in  all  likelihood,  a  vigorous  graft 
upon  the  trunk  of  an  older  play,  which  "  occupies  an  intermediate 
place  between  moralities  and  historical  plays," — that  of  '  Kynge 
Johan,'  by  John  Bale,  written  probably  in  the  reign  of  Edward  VI. 
Shakspere,  then,  had  to  choose  between  forty  years  of  stage  tra- 
dition and  the  employment  of  new  materials.  He  took,  upon 
principle,  what  he  found  ready  to  his  hand.  But  none  of  the  trans- 
formations of  classical  or  oriental  fable,  in  which  a  new  life  is 
transfused  into  an  old  body,  can  equal  tliis  astonishing  example  of 
the  life-conferring  power  of  a  genius  such  as  Shakspere's.  Who- 
ever really  wishes  thoroughly  to  understand  the  resources  which 
Shakspere  possessed,  in  the  creation  of  characters,  in  the  conduct  of 
a  story,  and  the  employment  of  language,  will  do  well,  again  and 
again,  to  compare  the  old  play  of  '  The  Troublesome  Reign '  and 
the  '  King  John '  of  our  dramatist. 

Bale's  "pageant"  of  '  Kynge  Johan  '  haa  been  published  by  the 
Camden  Society,  under  the  judicious  editorship  of  Mr.  J.  P.  Collier. 
This  performance,  which  is  in  two  Parts,  has  been  printed  from  the 


KING  JOHN.  239 

original  manuscript  in  the  library  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire. 
Supposing  it  to  be  written  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, it  presents  a  more  remarkable  example  even  than  '  Howleglas,' 
or  '  Hick  Scorner '  (of  which  an  account  is  given  in  Percy's  agree- 
able '  Essay  on  the  Origin  of  the  English  Stage'),*  of  the  extremely 
low  state  of  the  drama  only  forty  years  before  the  time  of  Shak- 
spere.  Here  is  a  play  written  by  a  bishop;  and  yet  the  dirty 
ribaldry  which  is  put  into  the  mouths  of  some  of  the  characters  is 
beyond  all  description,  and  quite  impossible  to  be  exhibited  by  any 
example  in  these  pages.  We  say  nothing  of  the  almost  utter 
absence  of  any  poetical  feeling, — of  the  dull  monotony  of  the  ver- 
sification,— of  the  tediousness  of  the  dialogue, — of  the  inartificial 
conduct  of  the  story.  These  matters  were  not  greatly  amended  till 
a  very  short  period  before  Shakspere  came  to  "  reform  them  alto- 
gether." Our  object  in  mentioning  this  play  is  to  show  that  the 
'  King  John '  upon  which  Shakspere  built  was,  in  some  degree, 
constructed  upon  the  '  Kynge  Johan '  of  Bale ;  and  that  a  tradi- 
tionary '  King  John '  had  thus  possessed  the  stage  for  nearly  half  a  • 
century  before  the  period  when  Shakspere  wrote  his  '  King  John.' 
There  might,  without  injury  to  this  theory,  have  been  an  interme- 
diate play.  We  avail  ourselves  of  an  extract  from  Mr.  Collier's 
Introduction  to  the  play  of  Bale  : — 

"  The  design  of  the  two  plays  of  '  Kynge  Johan  '  was  to  promote 
and  confirm  the  Reformation,  of  which,  after  his  conversion,  Bale 
was  one  of  the  most  strenuous  and  unscrupulous  supporters.  This 
design  he  executed  in  a  manner  until  then,  I  apprehend,  unknown. 
He  took  some  of  the  leading  and  popular  events  of  the  reign  of 
King  John,  his  disputes  with  the  pope,  the  suffering  of  his  kingdom 
under  the  interdict,  his  subsequent  submission  to  Rome,  and  his 
imputed  death  by  poison  from  the  hands  of  a  monk  of  Swinstead 
Abbey,  and  applied  them  to  the  circumstances  of  the  country  in 
the  latter  part  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VHI.  *  *  *  *  This  early 
application  of  historical  events,  of  itself,  is  a  singular  circumstance, 
but  it  is  the  more  remarkable  when  we  recollect  that  we  have  no 
drama  in  our  language  of  that  date  in  which  personages  connected 
with,  and  engaged  in,  our  public  affairs  are  introduced.  In 
'  Kynge  Johan '  we  have  not  only  the  monarch  himself,  who  figures 
very  prominently  until  his  death,  but  Pope  Innocent,  Cardinal 
Pandulphus,  Stephen  Langton,  Simon  of  Swynsett  (or  Swinstead), 
and  a  monk  called  Raymundus;  besides  abstract  impersonations, 
such  as  England,  who  is  stated  to  be  a  widow.  Imperial  Majesty, 
who  is  supposed  to  take  the  reins  of  government  after  the  death  of 

*  Reliques  of  English  Poetry,  vol.  i. 


240  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

King  John,  Nobility,  Clergy,  Civil  Order,  Treason,  Verity,  and 
Sedition,  who  may  be  said  to  be  the  Vice,  or  Jester,  of  the  piece. 
Thus  we  have  many  of  the  elements  of  historical  plays,  such  as 
they  were  acted  at  our  public  theatres  forty  or  fifty  years  after- 
wards, as  well  as  some  of  the  ordinary  materials  of  the  old  moralities, 
which  were  gradually  exploded  by  the  introduction  of  real  or  ima- 
ginary characters  on  the  scene.  Bale's  play,  therefore,  occupies  an 
intermediate  place  between  moralities  and  historical  plays,  and  it  is 
the  only  known  existing  specimen  of  that  species  of  composition  of 
so  early  a  date." 

That  the  '  Kynge  Johan'  of  the  furious  Protestant  bishop  was 
known  to  the  writer  of  the  'King  John'  of  1591,  we  have  little 
doubt  Our  space  will  not  allow  us  to  point  out  the  internal  evi- 
dences of  this ;  but  one  minute  but  remarkable  similarity  may  be 
mentioned.  When  John  arrives  at  Swinstead  Abbey,  the  monks,  in 
both  plays,  invite  him  to  their  treacherous  repast  by  the  cry  of 
"Wassail."  In  the  play  of  Bale  we  have  no  incidents  whatever 
beyond  the  contests  between  John  and  the  pope, — the  surrender  of 
the  crown  to  Pandulph, — and  the  poisoning  of  John  by  a  monk  at 
Swinstead  Abbey.  The  action  goes  on  very  haltingly  ; — but  not  so 
the  wordy  war  of  the  speakers.  A  vocabulary  of  choice  terms  of 
abuse,  familiarly  used  in  the  times  of  the  Reformation,  might  be 
constructed  out  of  this  curious  performance.  Here  the  play  of 
1591  is  wonderfully  reformed ; — and  we  have  a  diversified  action, 
in  which  the  story  of  Arthur  and  Constance,  and  the  wars  and  truces 
in  Anjou,  are  brought  to  relieve  the  exhibition  of  papal  domination 
and  monkish  treachery.  The  intolerance  of  Bale  against  the 
Romish  church  is  the  most  fierce  and  rampant  exhibition  of  passion 
that  ever  assumed  the  ill-assorted  garb  of  religious  zeal.  In  the 
John  of  1591  we  have  none  of  this  violence ;  but  the  writer  has  ex- 
hibited a  scene  of  ribaldry,  in  the  incident  of  Faulconbridge  hunting 
out  the  "  angels  "  of  the  monks ;  for  he  makes  him  find  a  nun  con- 
cealed in  a  holy  man's  chest.  This,  no  doubt,  would  be  a  popular 
scene.  Shakspere  has  not  a  word  of  it.  Mr.  Campbell,  to  our  sur- 
prise, thinks  that  Shakspere  might  have  retained  "  that  scene  in  the 
old  play  where  Faulconbridge,  in  fulfilling  King  John's  injunction 
to  plunder  religious  houses,  finds  a  young  smooth-skinned  nun  in  a 
chest  where  the  abbot's  treasures  were  supposed  to  be  deposited."  * 
When  did  ever  Shakspere  lend  his  authority  to  fix  a  stigma  upon 
large  classes  of  mankind,  in  deference  to  popular  prejudice  ?  One 
of  the  most  remarkable  characteristics  of  Shakspere's  '  John,'  as 
opposed  to  the  grossness  of  Bale  and  the  ribaldry  of  his  immediate 

*  Remarks  on  Life  and  History  of  Shakspeare,  prefixed  to  Moxon's  edition,  1838. 


KING  JOHN. 


241 


predecessor,  is  the  utter  absence  of  all  invective  or  sarcasm  against 
the  Romish  church,  apart  from  the  attempt  of  the  pope  to  extort  a 
base  submission  from  the  English  king.  Here,  indeed,  we  have  his 
nationality  in  full  power ; — but  how  different  is  that  from  fostering 
hatreds  between  two  classes  of  one  people  !* 

It  may  amuse  such  of  our  readers  as  have  not  access  to  the  play  of 
Bale,  or  to  the  '  King  John'  of  1591,  to  see  an  example  of  the  differ- 
ent modes  in  which  the  two  writers  treat  the  same  subject — the  sur- 
render of  the  crown  to  Pandulph  : — 


THE  '  KYNGE  JOHAN  '  OF  BALE. 
"  P.  This  ontward  remorse  that  ye  show 

here  evydent 
Ys  a  grett  Ijkelyhood  and  token  of  amend- 
ment. 
How  say  ye,  Kynge  Johan,  can  ye  fynd  now 

in  yowr  hart 
To  obaye  Holy  Cliyrch  and  geve  ower  yowr 

froward  part .' 
K.  J.  Were  yt  so  possyble  to  hold  the  en- 

myes  backe, 
That  my  swete  Yngland  perysh  not  in  this 

sheppewracke. 
P.  Possyble  quoth  he  !  yea,  they  shuld  go 

bake  in  dede, 
And  ther  gret  armyse  to  some  other  quarters 

leade. 
Or  elles  they  have  not  so  many  good  bless- 

yngs  now. 
But  as  many  cursyngs  they   shall  have,   I 

make  God  avowe. 
I  promyse  yow,  sur,  ye  shall  have  specyall 

faver 
Yf  ye  wyll  submyt  yowr  sylfe  to  Holy  Chyrch 

liere. 

K.  J.  I  have  cast  in  my  mynde  the  great 

displeasures  of  warre, 
The  dayngers,  the  losses,  the  decayes,  both 

nere  and  farre ; 
The    burnynge    of   townes,   the   throwynge 

down  of  buyldynges, 
Destructyon  of  come  and  cattell  with  other 

thynges ; 
Defylynge    of   maydes,     and    shedynge    of 

Christen  blood, 
With  such  lyke   outrages,  neythar  honest, 

true,  nor  good. 
These  thynges  consydered,  I  am  compelled 

thys  houre 
To  resigne  up  here  both  crowne  and  regall 

poure. 

K.  J.  Here  I  submyt  me  to  Pope  Innocent 
the  thred, 
Dyssyering  mercy  of  hys  holy  fatherhed. 
P.  Geve  up  the  crowne  than,  yt  shal  be 
the  better  for  ye : 
He  wyll  unto  yow  the  more  favorable  be." 

*  This  point  will  be  more  fully  noticed  iu  '  William  Shakspere :  a  Biography/ 

Vol.  IV.  li 


THE  '  KIXG  JOHN'  OF  1591. 
"  Pandulph.  John,  now  I  see  thy  hearty 
penitence, 
I  rew  and  pitty  thy  distrest  estate : 
One  way  is  left  to  reconcile  thy  selfe. 
And  onely  one,  which  I  shall  shew  to  thee. 
Thou  must  surrender  to  the  sea  of  Rome 
Thy  crowne  and  diadem,  then  shall  the  pope 
Defend  thee  from  th'  invasion  of  thy  foes. 
And     where    his     holinesse     hath    kindled 

Frannce, 
And  set  thy  subiects  hearts  at  warre  with 

thee. 
Then  shall  he  curse  thy  foes,  and  beate  them 

downe, 
That  seeke  the  discontentment  of  the  king. 
John.  From  bad  to  worse,  or  I  must  loose 
my  realme. 
Or  giue  my  crowne  for  penance  vnto  Rome  : 
A  miserie  more  piercing  than  the  darts 
That  breake  from  burning  exhalations  power. 
What,  shall  1  giue  my  crowne  with  this  right 

hand  ? 
No :  with  this  hand  defend  thy  crowne  and 

thee. 
What  newes  with  thee  ? 

******* 
K.  J.  How  now,  lord  cardinal,  what 's  your 
best  aduise  i 
These  mutinies  must  be  allaid  in  time. 
By  policy  or  headstrong  rage  at  least. 
O  John,  these  troubles  tyre  thy  wearied soule. 
And  like  to  Luna  in  a  sad  eclipse. 
So  are    thy   thoughts   and  passions  for  this 

newes. 
Well  may  it  be,  when  kings  are  grieued  so. 
The  vulgar  sort  worke  princes  ouerthrowe. 
Card.  K.  John,  for   not  effecting  of  thy 
plighted  vow. 
This  strange  annoyance  happens  to  thy  land : 
But  yet  be  reconciled  vnto  the  cliurch. 
And  nothing  shall  be  grieuous  to  thy  state." 


242 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


We  would  willingly  furnish  several  similar  parallels  between  the 
*  King  John'  of  1591,  and  the  '  King  John'  of  Shakspere,  if  our 
space  would  permit,  and  if  the  general  reader  would  not  be  likely 
to  weary  of  such  minute  criticism.  But  we  may,  without  risk, 
select  two  specimens.  The  first  exhibits  the  different  mode  in 
which  the  two  writers  treat  the  character  of  the  Bastard.  In  the 
play  of  1591  he  is  a  bold,  mouthing  bully,  who  talks  in  "  Ercles' 
vein,"  and  somewhat  reminds  one  of  "  Ancient  Pistol."  There  is 
not  a  particle  in  this  character  of  the  irrepressible  gaiety — the  happy 
mixture  of  fun  and  sarcasm — the  laughing  words  accompanying 
the  stem  deeds — which  distinguish  the  Bastard  of  Shakspere.  We 
purposely  have  selected  a  short  parallel  extract ;  but  the  passages 
furnish  a  key  to  the  principle  upon  which  a  dull  character  is  made 
brilliant.  Our  poet  has  let  in  the  sunlight  of  prodigious  animal 
spirits,  without  any  great  intellectual  refinement,  (how  different 
from  Mercutio !)  upon  the  heavy  clod  that  he  found  ready  to  his 
hand: — 


THE  '  KING  JOHN"  OF  1591. 

"  Lj/m.  Me  thinks  that  Kichaids  pride  and 

Richards  fall 
Should  be  a  president  t'  alTright  you  all. 
Bast.  What  words  are  these  ?  how  do  my 

sinew  s  shake  ? 
My  fathers  foe  clad  in  my  fathers  spoyle ! 
A  thousand  furies  kindle  with  reuenge 
This  heart  that  choller  keepes  a  consistorie, 
Searing  my  inwards  with  a  brand  of  hate: 
How  dotli  Alecto  whisper  in  mine  eares, — 
Delay  not,  Philip,  kill  the  villaine  straight; 
Disrobe  him  of  the  matchlesse  monument 
Thy  fathers  triumph  ore  the  sauages ! 
Base    lieardgroom,  coward,   peasant,  worse 

than  a  threshing  slaue, 
What  mak'st   thou   with   the   trophie  of  a 

king  ?  " 


SHAKSPERES  •  KING  JOHN.' 

"  Aust.  Peace ! 
Bast.  Hear  the  crier. 

Aust.  What  the  devil  art  thou  ? 

Bast.  One  that  will  play   the  devil,  sir, 
with  you. 
An  'a  may  catch  your  hide  and  you  alone. 
You  are  the  hare  of  whom  the  proverb  goes. 
Whose  valour  plucks  dead  lions  by  the  beard. 
I'll  smoke  your  skin-coat,  an  I  catcli  you 

right ; 
Sirrah,  look  to  't;  i'  faith,  I  will,  i'  faith. 
Blanch.  O,  well  did  he  become  that  liou'a 
robe. 
That  did  disrobe  the  lion  of  that  robe ! 

Bast.  It  lies  as  sightly  on  the  back  of  him, 
As  great  Alcides'  shoes  upon  an  ass : — 
But,  ass,  I'll  take  that  burthen  from  your 

back; 
Or  lay  on  that  shall  make  your  shoulders 
crack." 


The  second  extract  we  shall  make  is  for  the  purpose  of  exhibit- 
ing the  modes  in  which  a  writer  of  ordinary  powers,  and  one  of 
surpassing  grace  and  tenderness,  as  well  as  of  matchless  energy,  has 
dealt  with  the  same  passion  under  the  same  circumstances.  The 
situation  in  each  play  is  where  Arthur  exhorts  his  mother  to  be  con- 
tent, after  the  marriage  between  Lewis  and  Blanch,  and  the  con- 
sequent peace  between  John  and  Philip  : — 


KING  JOHN. 


243 


THE  «  KING  JOHN'  OF  1591. 

"  Art.  Madam,  good  cheeie,  these  droop- 
ing languishments 
Adde  no  redress  to  salue  our  awkward  haps : 
If  heaiien  haue  concluded  these  clients, 
To  small  auaile  is  bitter  pensiueness: 
Seasons   will  change,   and    so    our  present 

greefe 
May  change  with  them,  and  all  to  our  releefe. 
Const.  Ah  boy,  thy  yeares  I  see  are  far  too 

greene 
To  look  into  the  bottom  of  these  cares  : 
But  I,   who    see  tiie   pojse   that  weigheth 

downe 
Tliy  weale,  my  wish,  and  all   tlie  willing 

meanes 
Wherewith  thy  fortune  and  thy  fame  should 

mount, — 
What  ioy,  wliat  ease,  what  rest  can  lodge  in 

me. 
With  wliom  all  hope  and  hap  doe  disagree  ? 
Art.  Yet  ladies  teares,  and  cares,  and  so- 
lemn shewes, 
Rather  than  helpes,  heape  vp  more   worke 

for  woes. 
Const.  If  any  power  w  ill  heare  a  widowes 

plaint. 
That  from  a  wounded  soule  implores  reuenge. 
Send  fell  contagion  to  infect  this  clime. 
This   cursed    countrey,   where  the   traitors 

breath. 
Whose  periurie  (as  proud  Briareus) 
Beleaguers  all  the  skie  with  mis-beleefe. 
He  promist,  Artl\ur,  and  he  sware  it  too. 
To  fence  thy  right,  and  check  thy  fo-mans 

pride  ; 
But  now,  black-spotted  periure  as  he  is. 
He  takes  a  truce  with  Elinors  damned  brat. 
And  marries  Lewis  to  her  louely  neece. 
Sharing  thy  fortune,  and  thy  birthdayes  gift 
Between  these  louers  :  ill  betide  the  match  ! 
And  as  they  shoulder  thee  from  out  thine 

owne. 
And  triumph  in  a  widowes  tearfull  cares. 
So  heauens  crosse    them    with  a  thriftless 

course ! 
Is  all  the  blood  y spilt  on  either  part, 
Closing  the  cranies  of  the  thirstie  earth, 
Growne  to  a  loue-game  and  a  bridall  feast  ?  '' 


SIIAKSPERE'S  «  KING  JOHN.' 

"Art.  I  do  beseech  you,  madam,  be  con- 
tent. 
Const.  If  thou,  that  bidd'st  me  be  content, 
wert  grim. 
Ugly,  and  sland'rous  to  thy  mother's  womb. 
Full  of  unpleasing  blots  and  sightless  stains. 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious, 
Patch'd  with   foul  moles  and  eye-offending 

marks, 
I  would  not  care,  I  then  would  be  content ; 
For  then  I  should  not  love  thee  ;  no,  nor  thou 
Become  thy  great  birth,  nor  deserve  a  crown. 
But  thou  art  fair ;  and  at  thy  birth,  dear  boy. 
Nature    and  fortune  join'd   to   make   thee 

great : 
Of  Nature's  gift  thou  mayst  with  lilies  boast. 
And  with  the  half-blown  rose:  but  for- 
tune, Ot 
She  is  corrupted,  chang'd,  and  won  from  thee ; 
She  adulterates  hourly  with  thy  uncle  John ; 
And  with  her  golden  hand  hath  pluck'd  on 

France 
To  tread  down  fair  respect  of  sovereignty. 
And  made  his  majesty  the  bawd  to  theirs. 
France  is  a  bawd  to  fortune,  and  king  John ; 
That  strumpet  fortune,  that  usurping  John  : — 
Tell  me,  thou  fellow,  is  not  France  forsworn  f 
Envenom  him  with  words ;  or  get  thee  gone. 
And  leave  those  woes  alone,  which  I  alone 
Am  bound  to  under-bear. 

Sal.  Pardon  me,  madam, 

I  may  not  go  without  you  to  the  kings. 
Const.  Thou  mayst,  thou  shalt ;  I  w  ill  not 
go  with  thee  : 
I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  he  proud  : 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his   owner 

stoop. 
To  me,  and  to  the  state  of  my  great  grief, 
Let  kings  zissemble ;  for  my  grief's  so  great. 
That  no  supporter  but  the  huge  firm  earth 
Can  hold  it  up :  here  I  and  sorrows  sit ; 
Here  is  my  throne,  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it." 


COSTUME, 

The  authorities  for  the  costume  of  the  historical  play  of  '  King 
John'  are  chiefly  the  monumental  effigies  and  seals  of  the  principal 
sovereigns  and  nobles  therein  mentioned.  Illuminated  MSS.  of  this 
exact  period  are  unknown  to  us.  All  that  we  have  seen  of  the 
twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  appear  to  be  either  of  an  earlier  or 
later  date  than  the  reign  of  John.  The  nearest  to  his  time,  appa- 
rently, is  one  in  the  Sloane  Collection,  Brit.  Mus.,  marked  1975. 

R2 


244 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


Fortunately,  however,  there  are  few  personages  in  the  play  beneath 
the  rank  of  those  for  whose  habits  we  have  the  most  unquestionable 
models  in  the  authorities  above  alluded  to,  and  written  descriptions 
or  allusions  will  furnish  us  with  the  most  essential  part  of  the  inform- 
ation required.  The  enamelled  cup  said  to  have  been  presented 
by  King  John  to  the  Corporation  of  Lynn,  and  from  the  figures  on 
which  the  civil  costume  of  his  reign  has  hitherto  been  designed,  is 
now,  by  a  critical  examination  of  those  very  figures,  and  a  compa- 
rison of  their  dress  with  that  depicted  in  MSS,  of  at  least  a  century 
later,  proved  to  be  of  the  time  of  Edward  II.  or  III,  We  subjoin  a 
group  in  which  the  dress  of  the  burghers  and  artificers  is  collected 
from  the  authorities  nearest  to  the  period. 


The  efiigy  of  King  John  in  Worcester  cathedral,  which,  by  the 
examination  of  the  body  of  the  monarch,  was  proved  to  present  a 
fac-simile  of  the  royal  robes  in  which  he  was  interred,  affords  us  a 
fine  specimen  of  the  royal  costume  of  the  period.  A  full  robe  or 
super-tunic  of  crimson  damask,  embroidered  with  gold,  and  descend- 
ing to  the  mid  leg,  is  girdled  round  the  waist  with  a  golden  belt 
studded  with  jewels,  having  a  long  end  pendent  in  front.  An  under- 
tunic  of  cloth  of  gold  descends  to  the  ankles,  and  a  mantle  of  the 
same  magnificent  stuff,  lined  with  green  silk,  depends  from  his 
shoulders ;  the  hose  are  red,  the  shoes  black,  over  which  are  fastened 
gilt  spurs  by  straps  of  silk,  or  cloth,  of  a  light-blue  colour,  striped 
with  green  and  yellow  or  gold.  The  collar  and  sleeves  of  the  super- 
tunic  have  borders  of  gold  studded  with  jewels.  The  backs  of  the 
gloves  were  also  jewelled. 


KING  JOHN.  245 

A  kneeling  effigy  of  Philip  Augustus,  engraved  in  Montfaucon, 
shows  the  similarity  of  fashion  existing  at  the  same  time  in  France 
and  England.  The  nobles,  when  unarmed,  appear  to  have  been  at- 
tired in  the  same  manner,  viz.  in  the  tunic,  super-tunic,  and  mantle, 
with  hose,  short  boots,  or  shoes,  of  materials  more  or  less  rich  ac- 
cording to  the  means  or  fancy  of  the  wearer.  Cloth,  silk,  velvet, 
and  gold  and  silver  tissues,  with  occasionally  furs  of  considerable 
value,  are  mentioned  in  various  documents  of  the  period.  A  gar- 
ment called  a  bliaus  (from  whence  probably  the  modem  French 
blouse),  appears  to  have  been  a  sort  of  super-tunic  or  surcoat  in 
vogue  about  this  time ;  and  in  winter  it  is  said  to  have  been  lined 
with  fur.  The  common  Norman  mantle  used  for  travelling,  or  out- 
of-door  exercise,  had  a  capuchon  to  it,  and  was  called  the  capa.  A 
curious  mistake  has  been  made  by  Mr.  Strutt  respecting  this  gar- 
ment. In  his  '  Horda  Angel  Cynan,'  vol.  ii.  p.  67,  he  states  that, 
"  when  King  John  made  Thomas  Sturmey  a  knight,  he  sent  a  man- 
damus before  to  his  sheriffs  at  Hantshire  to  make  the  following 
preparations  : — "  A  scarlet  robe,  certain  close  garments  of  fine  linen, 
and  another  robe  of  green,  or  burnet,  with  a  cap  and  plume  of 
featfiers,  SfC.^  "  The  words  in  the  mandamus  are  "  capa  ad  pluua,"  a 
capa,  or  cloak,  for  rainy  weather.  (Vide  '  Excerpta  Historica.' 
London  :   Bentley,  1833.    p.  393.) 

The  capuchon,  or  hood,  with  which  this  garment  was  furnished, 
appears  to  have  been  the  usual  covering  for  the  head :  but  hats  and 
caps,  the  former  of  the  shape  of  the  classical  Petasus,  and  the  latter 
sometimes  of  the  Phrygian  form,  and  sometimes  flat  and  round  like 
the  Scotch  bonnet,  are  occasionally  met  with  during  the  twelfth 
century.  The  beaux,  however,  during  John's  reign,  curled  and 
crisped  their  hair  with  irons,  and  bound  only  a  slight  fillet  round 
the  head,  seldom  wearing  caps,  in  order  that  their  locks  might  be 
seen  and  admired.  The  beard  was  closely  shaven,  but  John  and  the 
nobles  of  his  party  are  said  to  have  worn  both  beard  and  moustache 
out  of  contempt  for  the  discontented  Barons.  The  fashion  of  gar- 
tering up  the  long  hose,  or  Norman  chausses,  sandal-wise  prevailed 
amongst  all  classes  ;  and  when,  on  the  legs  of  persons  of  rank,  these 
bandages  are  seen  of  gold  stufi",  the  effect  is  very  gorgeous  and 
picturesque. 

The  dress  of  the  ladies  may  best  be  understood  from  an  examina- 
tion of  the  effigies  of  Eleanor,  Queen  of  Henry  II.,  and  of  Isabella, 
Queen  of  King  John,  and  the  figure  of  Blanch  of  Castile  on  her 
great  seal.  Although  these  personages  are  represented  in  what  may 
be  called  royal  costume,  the  general  dress  differed  nothing  in  form. 


246  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

however  it  might  in  material.  It  consisted  of  one  long  full  robe  or 
gown,  girdled  round  the  waist,  and  high  in  the  neck,  with  long 
tight  sleeves  to  the  wrist  (in  the  Sloane  MS.  above  mentioned  the 
hanging  cuffs  in  fashion  about  forty  years  earlier  appear  upon  one 
figure);  tlie  collar  sometimes  fastened  with  a  brooch;  the  head 
bound  by  a  band  or  fillet  of  jewels,  and  covered  with  the  wimple 
or  veil.  To  the  girdle  was  appended,  occasionally,  a  small  pouch 
or  aulmoniere.  The  capa  was  used  in  travelling,  and  in  winter 
pelisses  (pelices,  pelisons)  richly  furred  [whence  the  name]  were 
worn  under  it. 

King  John  orders  a  grey  pelisson  with  nine  bars  of  fur  to  be 
made  for  the  Queen.  Short  boots,  as  well  as  shoes,  were  worn  by 
the  ladies.  The  King  orders  four  pair  of  women's  boots,  one  of 
them  to  he  fretatus  de  giris  (embroidered  with  circles),  but  the  robe, 
or  gown,  was  worn  so  long  that  little  more  than  the  tips  of  the  toes 
are  seen  in  illuminations  or  effigies  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries,  and  the  colour  is  generally  black,  though  there  can  be  no 
doubt  they  were  occasionally  of  cloth  of  gold  or  silver  richly  em- 
broidered. 

Gloves  do  not  appear  to  have  been  generally  worn  by  females ; 
but,  as  marks  of  nobility,  when  they  were  worn  they  were  jewelled 
on  the  back. 

The  mantle  and  robe  or  tunic,  of  the  effigy  of  Queen  Eleanor,  are 
embroidered  all  over  with  golden  crescents.  This  may  have  been 
some  family  badge,  as  the  crescent  and  star  are  seen  on  the  great 
seal  of  Richard  I.,  and  that  monarch  is  said  to  have  possessed  a 
mantle  nearly  covered  with  half-moons  and  orbs  of  shining  silver. 

The  armour  of  the  time  consisted  of  a  hauberk  and  chausses  made 
of  leather,  covered  with  iron  rings  set  up  edgewise  in  regular  rows, 
and  firmly  stitched  upon  it,  or  with  small  overlapping  scales  of 
metal  like  the  lorica  squamata  of  the  Romans. 

The  hauberk  had  a  capuchon  attached  to  it,  which  could  be  pulled 
over  the  heeid  or  thrown  back  at  pleasure.  Under  this  was  some- 
times worn  a  close  iron  skull-cap,  and  at  others  the  hood  itself  was 
surmounted  by  a  "  chapel  de  fer,"  or  a  large  cylindrical  helmet, 
flattened  at  top,  the  face  being  defended  by  a  perforated  plate  or 
grating,  called  the  "  aventaile"  (avant  taille),  fastened  by  screws  or 
hinges  to  the  helmet.  A  variety  of  specimens  of  this  early  vizored 
head-piece  may  be  seen  on  the  seals  of  the  Counts  of  Flanders  in 
'  Olivarius  Vredius's  History ;'  and  the  seal  of  Prince  Louis  of 
France  (one  of  the  personages  of  this  play)  exhibits  a  large  and  most 
clumsy  helmet  of  this  description.     The  seal  of  King  John  presents 


KING  JOHN.  247 

us  with  a  figure  of  the  monarch  wearing  over  his  armour  the  mili- 
tary surcoat  as  yet  undistinguished  by  armorial  blazonry.  On  his 
head  is  either  a  cylindrical  helmet,  without  the  aventaile,  or  a  cap  of 
cloth  or  fur.  It  is  difficult,  from  the  state  of  the  impressions,  to 
decide  which.  He  bears  the  knightly  shield,  assuming  at  this  period 
the  triangular  or  heater  shape,  but  exceedingly  curved  or  embowed, 
and  emblazoned  with  the  three  lions,  or  leopards,  passant  regardant, 
in  pale,  which  are  first  seen  on  the  shield  of  his  brother,  Richard  I. 

The  spur  worn  at  this  period  was  the  goad  or  pryck  spur,  without 
a  rowel.  The  principal  weapons  of  the  knights  were  the  lance,  the 
sword,  and  the  battle-axe.  The  shape  of  the  sword  may  be  best 
ascertained  from  the  effigy  of  King  John,  who  holds  one  in  his 
hand;  the  pommel  is  diamond-shaped,  and  has  an  oval  cavity  in  the 
centre  for  a  jewel. 

The  common  soldiery  fought  with  bills,  long  and  cross-bows, 
slings,  clubs,  and  a  variety  of  rude  but  terrific  weapons,  such  as 
scythes  fastened  to  poles  (the  falcastrum),  and  a  sort  of  spear,  with 
a  hook  on  one  side,  called  the  guisarme.  The  arbalast,  or  cross- 
bow, is  said  to  have  been  invented  in  the  previous  reign,  but  Wace 
mentions  it  as  having  been  known  to  the  Normans  before  the  Con- 
quest. Engines  of  war,  called  the  mangonell  and  the  petraria,  for 
throwing  heavy  stones,  are  mentioned  by  Guliel.  Britto  in  his 
'  Phillippeis,'  1.  7  :— 

"  Interea  grossos  petraria  mittit  ab  intus 
Assldue  lapides  mangoneUusque  miiiores." 

And  in  the  close  rolls  of  John  is  an  order,  dated  2nd  April,  1208,  to 
the  Bailiff  of  Porchester,  to  cause  machines  for  flinging  stones, 
called  petrarise  and  mangonelli,  to  be  made  for  the  King's  service, 
and  to  let  Drogo  de  Dieppe  and  his  companions  have  iron  and  other 
things  necessary  for  making  of  them.  Philip  sent  to  his  son  Louis 
a  military  engine,  called  the  malvoisine  (bad  neighbour),  to  batter 
the  walls  of  Dover  Castle. 

The  costume  of  the  following  personages  of  the  drama  will  be 
found  in  their  portraits,  which  are  introduced  into  the  Historical 
Illustration  accompanying  each  act: — King  John,  Queen  Elinor, 
King  Philip,  Prince  Lewis,  Blanch  of  Castile,  Salisbury,  Pembroke, 
Henry  III. 


248 


KING  JOHN. 


[Act  I. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I. — Northampton.     A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  John,  Queen  Elinor,  Pembroke,  Essex,  Salis- 
bury, and  others,  with  Chatillon. 

Kivg  John.  Now  saj,  Chatillon,  what  would  France  with 


Chat.  Thus,  after  greeting,  speaks  the  king  of  France, 
In  my  behaviour,"  to  the  majesty. 
The  borrow'd  majesty  of  England  here. 

*  Behaviour,   Haviour,  behaviour,  is  the  manner  of  having,  the  conduct.    Where, 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  249 

Eli.  A  strange  beginning  ; — ^borrow'd  majesty  ! 

K.  John.  Silence,  good  mother ;  hear  the  embassy. 

Chat.  Philip  of  France,  in  right  and  true  behalf 
Of  thy  deceased  brother  Geffrey's  son, 
Arthur  Plantagenet,  lays  most  lawful  claim 
To  this  fair  island,  and  the  territories ; 
To  Ireland,  Poictiers,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine: 
Desiring  thee  to  lay  aside  the  sword. 
Which  sways  usurpingly  these  several  titles ; 
And  put  the  same  into  young  Arthur's  hand. 
Thy  nephew  and  right  royal  sovereign. 

K.  John.  What  follows  if  we  disallow  of  this? 

Chat.  The  proud  control  of  fierce  and  bloody  war. 
To  enforce  these  rights  so  forcibly  withheld. 

K.  John.  Here  have  we  war  for  war,  and  blood  for  blood, 
Controlment  for  controlment :  so  answer  France. 

Chat.  Then  take  my  king's  defiance  from  my  mouth. 
The  farthest  limit  of  my  embassy. 

K.  John.  Bear  mine  to  him,  and  so  depart  in  peace : 
Be  thou  as  lightning  in  the  eyes  of  France  ; 
For  ere  thou  canst  report  I  will  be  there. 
The  thunder  of  my  cannon  shall  be  heard  : ' 
So,  hence  !     Be  thou  the  trumpet  of  our  wrath. 
And  sullen  presage  of  your  own  decay. 
An  honourable  conduct  let  him  have  : — 
Pembroke,  look  to  't :  Farewell,  Chatillon. 

[Exeunt  Chatillon  and  Pembroke. 

Eli.  What  now,  my  son  ?  have  I  not  ever  said. 
How  that  ambitious  Constance  would  not  cease. 
Till  she  had  kindled  France,  and  all  the  world. 
Upon  the  right  and  party  of  her  son  ? 
This  might  have  been  prevented,  and  made  whole. 
With  very  easy  arguments  of  love ; 

then,  is  the  difficulty  which  this  expression  lias  raised  up?  The  king  of  France 
speaks,  iu  the  conduct  of  his  ambassador,  to  "the  borrow'd  majesty  of  England;"' — 
a  necessary  explanation  of  the  speech  of  Chatillon,  which  John  would  have  resented 
upon  the  speaker  himself,  had  he  not  in  his  "behaviour"  expressed  the  intentions  of 
his  sovereign. 


250  KING  JOHN.  [Act  I. 

Which  now  the  manage  ■  of  two  kingdoms  must 
With  fearful  bloody  issue  arbitrate. 

K.  John.  Our  strong  possession,  and  our  right,  for  us. 

Eli,  Your  strong  possession  much  more  than  your  right ; 
Or  else  it  must  go  wrong  with  you  and  me : 
So  much  my  conscience  whispers  in  your  ear ; 
Which  none  but  Heaven,  and  you,  and  I,  shall  hear. 

Enter  the  Sheriff  of  Northamptonshire,  who  whispers  Essex. 

Essex.  My  liege,  here  is  the  strangest  controversy. 
Come  from  the  country  to  be  judg'd  by  you. 
That  e'er  I  heard  :  Shall  I  produce  the  men  ? 

K.  John.  Let  them  approach.  [Exit  Sheriff. 

Our  abbeys,  and  our  priories,  shall  pay 

Re-enter  Sheriff,  with  Robert  Faulconbridge,  and  Philip, 
his  bastard  Brother. 

This  expedition's  charge. — What  men  are  you? 

Bast.  Your  faithful  subject  I,  a  gentleman. 
Born  in  Northamptonshire  ;  and  eldest  son. 
As  I  suppose,  to  Robert  Faulconbridge ; 
A  soldier,  by  the  honour-giving  hand 
Of  Coeur-de-lion  knighted  in  the  field." 

K.  John.  What  art  thou  ? 

Rob.  The  son  and  heir  to  that  same  Faulconbridge. 

K.  John.  Is  that  the  elder,  and  art  thou  the  heir  ? 
You  came  not  of  one  mother  then,  it  seems. 

Bast.  Most  certain  of  one  mother,  mighty  king, 
That  is  well  known :  and,  as  I  think,  one  father  : 
But,  for  the  certain  knowledge  of  that  truth, 
I  put  you  o'er  to  Heaven,  and  to  my  mother. 
Of  that  I  doubt,  as  all  men's  children  may. 

Eli.  Out  on  thee,  rude  man !  thou  dost  shame  thy  mother. 
And  wound  her  honour,  with  this  difl&dencc. 

*  Manage  has,  in  Sbakspere,  the  same  meaning  as  management  and  managery, — 
which,  applied  to  a  state,  is  equivalent  to  government.  Prospero  says  of  An- 
thonio  : — 

"  He  whom  next  thyself 
Of  all  the  world  I  lov'd,  and  to  him  [)ut 
The  manage  of  my  state." 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  251 

Bast.  1,  madam  ?  no,  I  have  no  reason  for  it ; 
That  is  my  brother's  plea,  and  none  of  mine ; 
The  which  if  he  can  prove,  'a  pops  me  out 
At  least  from  fair  five  hundred  pound  a-year  : 
Heaven  guard  my  mother's  honour,  and  my  land  ! 

K.  John.  A  good  blunt  felloAV : — Why,  being  younger  born. 
Doth  he  lay  claim  to  thine  inheritance  ? 

Bast.  I  know  not  why,  except  to  get  the  land. 
But  once  he  slander'd  me  with  bastardy : 
But  wher '  I  be  as  true  begot,  or  no. 
That  still  I  lay  upon  my  mother's  head ; 
But,  that  I  am  as  well  begot,  my  liege, 
(Fair  fall  the  bones  that  took  the  pains  for  me !) 
Compare  our  faces,  and  be  judge  yourself. 
If  old  sir  Robert  did  beget  us  both. 
And  were  our  father,  and  this  son,  like  him ; — 

0  old  sir  Robert,  father,  on  my  knee 

1  give  Heaven  thanks  I  was  not  like  to  thee. 

K.  John.  Why,  what  a  madcap  hath  Heaven  lent  us  here ! 

Eli.  He  hath  a  trick  ^  of  Coeur-de-lion's  face ; 
The  accent  of  his  tongue  affecteth  him  : 
Do  you  not  read  some  tokens  of  my  son 
In  the  large  composition  of  this  man  ? 

K.  John.  Mine  eye  hath  well  examined  his  parts. 
And  finds  them  perfect  Richard.     Sirrah,  speak. 
What  doth  move  you  to  claim  your  brother's  land? 

Bast.  Because  he  hath  a  half-face,  like  my  father ; 

*  Wher.  This  in  the  ox\gvaa\.  \s  where ;  it  is  sometimes  u;W.  The  word,  how- 
ever spelt,  has  the  meaning  of  whether,  but  does  not  appear  to  have  been  written  as 
a  contraction  either  by  Shakspere  or  his  contemporaries. 

'•  Trick,  here  and  elsewhere  in  Shakspere,  means  peculiarity.  Gloster  remembers 
the  "trick"  of  Lear's  voice  ; — Helen,  thinking  of  Bertram,  speaks 

"  Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favour;" — 

Falstaflf  notes  the  "villanous  trick"  of  the  prince's  eye.  In  all  these  cases /ricii 
seems  to  imply  habitual  manner.  In  this  view  it  is  not  difficult  to  trace  up  the 
expression  to  the  same  common  source  as  trick  in  its  ordinary  acceptation;  as,  ha- 
bitual manner,  artificial  habit,  artifice,  entanglement ;  from  tricare.  Wordsworth 
has  the  Shaksperean  use  of  "  trick ''  in  '  The  Excursion '  (book  i.)  : — 

"  Her  infant  babe 
Had  from  its  mother  caught  the  trick  of  grief, 
And  sigh'd  among  its  playthings." 


252  KING  JOHN.  [Act  I. 

With  that  half-face*  would  he  have  all  my  laud  : 
A  half-fac'd  groat'  five  hundred  pound  a-year ! 

Rob.  My  gracious  liege,  when  that  my  father  liv'd, 
Your  brother  did  employ  my  father  much  : — 

Bast.  Well,  sir,  by  this  you  cannot  get  my  land : 
Your  tale  must  be  how  he  employ'd  my  mother. 

Rob.  And  once  despatch'd  him  in  an  embassy 
To  Germany,  there,  with  the  emperor. 
To  treat  of  high  affairs  touching  that  time  : 
Th'  advantage  of  his  absence  took  the  king. 
And  in  the  mean  time  sojourn'd  at  my  father's ; 
Where  how  he  did  prevail,  I  shame  to  speak : 
But  truth  is  truth ;  large  lengths  of  seas  and  shores 
Between  my  father  and  my  mother  lay, — 
As  I  have  heard  my  father  speak  himself, — 
When  this  same  lusty  gentleman  was  got. 
Upon  his  death-bed  he  by  will  bequeath'd 
His  lands  to  me ;  and  took  it,  on  his  death. 
That  this,  my  mother's  son,  was  none  of  his  ; 
And,  if  he  were,  he  came  into  the  world 
Full  fourteen  weeks  before  the  course  of  time. 
Then,  good  my  liege,  let  me  have  what  is  mine. 
My  father's  land,  as  was  my  father's  will. 

K.  John.  Sirrah,  your  brother  is  legitimate ; 
Your  father's  wife  did  after  wedlock  bear  him : 
And,  if  she  did  play  false,  the  fault  was  hers ; 
Which  fault  lies  on  the  hazards  of  all  husbands 
That  marry  wives.     Tell  me,  how  if  my  brother. 
Who,  as  you  say,  took  pains  to  get  this  son. 
Had  of  your  father  claira'd  this  son  for  his? 
In  sooth,  good  friend,  your  father  might  have  kept 
This  calf,  bred  from  his  cow,  from  all  the  world ; 
In  sooth,  he  might :  then,  if  he  were  my  brother's. 
My  brother  might  not  claim  him ;  nor  your  father. 
Being  none  of  his,  refuse  him  :  This  concludes : 
My  mother's  son  did  get  your  father's  heir ; 
Your  father's  heir  must  have  your  father's  land. 

"   That  half-face  is  a  correction  by  Theobald,   wliich  appears  just,  iLe  first  folio 
giving  "half  that  face."     For  an  explanation  oi  half -fact,  see  Illustrations. 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  253 

Rob.  Shall  then  my  father's  will  be  of  no  force. 
To  dispossess  that  child  which  is  not  his  ? 

Bast.  Of  no  more  force  to  dispossess  me,  sir. 
Than  was  his  will  to  get  me,  as  I  think. 

Eli.  Whether  hadst  thou  rather  be  a  Faulconbridge, 
And  like  thy  brother,  to  enjoy  thy  land ; 
Or  the  reputed  son  of  Coeur-de-lion, 
Lord  of  thy  presence,*  and  no  land  beside  ? 

Bast.  Madam,  an  if  my  brother  had  my  shape. 
And  I  had  his,  sir  Robert  his,^  like  him ; 
And  if  my  legs  were  two  such  riding-rods  ; 
My  arms  such  eel-skins  stuff 'd;  my  face  so  thin. 
That  in  mine  ear  I  durst  not  stick  a  rose. 
Lest  men  should  say.  Look,  where  three-farthings  goes ;  * 
And,  to  his  shape,'^  were  heir  to  all  this  land, 
'Would  I  might  never  stir  from  off  this  place, 
I  would  give  it  every  foot  to  have  this  face ; 
It  would  not  be  sir  Nob'*  in  any  case. 

Eli.  I  like  thee  well :  Wilt  thou  forsake  thy  fortune. 
Bequeath  thy  land  to  him,  and  follow  me  ? 
I  am  a  soldier,  and  now  bound  to  France. 

Bast.  Brother,  take  you  my  land,  I  '11  take  my  chance  : 
Your  face  hath  got  five  hundred  pound  a-year ; 
Yet  sell  your  face  for  five  pence,  and  't  is  dear. 
Madam,  I  '11  follow  you  unto  the  death. 

Eli.  Nay,  I  would  have  you  go  before  me  thither. 

Bast.  Our  country  manners  give  our  betters  way. 

'  Presence  may  here  mean  "  priority  of  place,"  preseance.     As  the  son  of  Coeur- 
de-lion,  Faulconbridge  would  take  rank  without  his  land.     Warburton  judged  it 
meant  "master  of  thyself."     If  this  interpretation  be  correct,  the  passage  may  have 
suggested  the  lines  in  Sir  Henry  Wotton's  song  on  a  '  Happy  Life,' — 
"  Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 
And,  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all." 
We  are  inclined  to  receive  it  in  the  sense  of  the  man's  whole  carriage  and  appear- 
ance— "  a  goodly  presence." 

^  Sir  Robert  his.  This  is  the  old  form  of  the  genitive,  such  as  all  who  have 
looked  into  a  legal  instrument  know.  Faulconbridge  says,  "  If  I  had  his  shape — 
sir  Robert's  shape — as  he  has." 

^   To  his  shape — in  addition  to  his  shape. 

^  We  have  given  the  text  of  the  folio — "/^  would  not  be  sir  Nob," — not"/ 
would  not  be."  "  This  face,"  he  says,  "  would  not  be  sir  Nob,"  Nob  is  now,  and 
was  in  Shakspere's  time,  a  cant  word  for  the  head. 


254  KING  JOHN.  [Act  I. 

K.  John.  What  is  thy  name? 

Bast.  Philip,  my  liege ;  so  is  my  name  begun ; 
Philip,  good  old  sir  Robert's  wife's  eldest  son. 

K.  John.  From  henceforth  bear  liis  name  whose  form  thou 
bearest : 
Kneel  thou  down  Philip,  but  arise  more  great ; 
Arise  sir  Richard,  and  Plantagenct.' 

Bast.    Brother,  by   the    mother's   side,   give   me    your 
hand; 
My  father  gave  me  honour,  yours  gave  land  : 
Now  blessed  be  the  hour,  by  night  or  day. 
When  I  was  got,  sir  Robert  was  away. 

Eli.  The  very  spirit  of  Plantagenet ! 
I  am  thy  grandame,  Richard ;  call  me  so. 

Ba^t.  Madam,  by  chance,  but  not  by  truth :  What  though? 
Something  about,  a  little  from  the  right. 

In  at  the  window,*  or  else  o'er  the  hatch ; 
Who  dares  not  stir  by  day  must  walk  by  night; 

And  have  is  have,  however  men  do  catch : 
Near  or  far  off,  well  won  is  still  well  shot ; 
And  I  am  I,  howe'er  I  was  begot. 

K.  John.  Go,  Faulconbridge ;  now  hast  thou  thy  desire, 
A  landless  knight  makes  thee  a  landed  squire. — 
Come,  madam,  and  come,  Richard ;  we  must  speed 
For  France,  for  France ;  for  it  is  more  than  need. 

Bast.  Brother,  adieu  ;  Good  fortune  come  to  thee ! 
For  thou  wast  got  i'  the  way  of  honesty. 

[^Exeunt  all  but  the  Bastard. 
A  foot  of  honour  better  than  I  was ; 
But  many  a  many  foot  of  land  the  worse. 
Well,  now  can  I  make  any  Joan  a  lady. 
Good  den,**  sir  Richard, — God-a-mcrcy,  fellow  ; 
And  if  his  name  be  George,  I  '11  call  him  Peter : 
For  new-made  honour  doth  forget  men's  names ; 
'T  is  too  respective,  and  too  sociable, 

■  In  at  the  window,  &c.  These  were  proverbial  expressions,  which,  by  analogy 
with  irregular  modes  of  entering  a  house,  had  reference  to  cases  such  as  that  of 
Faulconbridge's,  which  he  gently  terms  "  a  little  from  die  right." 

•>  Good  den — good  evening— ^root/  e'en.     (Siee  Note  to  '  Romeo  and  Juliet.') 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  255 

For  your  conversion."     Now  your  traveller. 
He  and  his  toothpick'  at  my  worship's  mess. 
And  when  my  knightly  stomach  is  suffic'd. 
Why  then  I  suck  my  teeth,  and  catechise 

My  picked  man  of  countries  :  ^ My  dear  sir, 

(Thus,  leaning  on  my  elbow,  I  begin,) 

I  shall  beseech  you — That  is  question  now ; 

And  then  comes  answer  like  an  Absey ''  book : 

O,  sir,  says  answer,  at  your  best  command ; 

At  your  employment ;  at  your  service,  sir : 

No,  sir,  says  question,  I,  sweet  sir,  at  yours : 

And  so,  ere  answer  knows  what  question  would. 

Saving  in  dialogue  of  compliment ; 

And  talking  of  the  Alps  and  Apennines, 

The  Pyrenean,  and  the  river  Po, 

It  draws  toward  supper  in  conclusion  so. 

But  this  is  worshipful  society. 

And  fits  the  mounting  spirit  like  myself: 

For  he  is  but  a  bastard  to  the  time. 

That  doth  not  smack  "^  of  observation  ; 

(And  so  am  I,  whether  I  smack,  or  no;) 

And  not  alone  in  habit  and  device. 

Exterior  form,  outward  accoutrement ; 

But  from  the  inward  motion  to  deliver 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  poison  for  the  age's  tooth : 

Which,  though  I  will  not  practise  to  deceive. 

Yet  to  avoid  deceit  I  mean  to  learn ; 

For  it  shall  strew  the  footsteps  of  my  rising. — 

*  Conversion.  This  is  the  reading  of  the  folio,  but  was  altered,  by  Pope,  to  con- 
versing. The  Bastard,  whose  "  new-made  honour  "  is  a  conversion, — a  change  of 
condition, — would  say  that  to  remember  men's  names  (opposed,  by  implication,  to 
forget)  is  too  respective  (punctilious,  discriminating)  and  too  sociable  for  one  of  his 
newly  attained  rank. 

''  Picked  man  of  countries.  "  The  travelled  fool,"  "  the  pert,  conceited,  talking 
spark,"  of  the  modem  fable,  is  the  old  "  picked  man  of  countries."  "To  pick'' 
is  the  same  as  "  to  trim."  l§teeveus  says  it  is  a  metaphor  derived  from  the  action 
of  birds  in  picking  their  feathers.  "  He  is  too  picked,  too  spruce,  too  affected," 
occurs  in  '  Love's  Labour  's  Lost,'  Act  V. 

•^  Absetj  book,  the  common  name  for  the  first,  or  A,  B,  C,  book.  The  Catechism 
was  generally  included  in  tliese  books  ;  and  thus  the  reference  in  the  text  to 
"question"  and  "answer." 

''  Smack.     The  original  has  smoke. 


256  KING  JOHN.  [Act  I. 

But  who  comes  in  such  haste,  in  riding  robes  ? 
What  woman-post  is  this  ?  hath  she  no  husband. 
That  will  take  pains  to  blow  a  horn  before  her  ? 

Enter  Lady  Faulconbridge  and  James  Gurney. 

O  me  !  it  is  my  mother  : — How  now,  good  lady  ? 
What  brings  you  here  to  court  so  hastily  ? 

Lady  F.  Where  is  that  slave,  thy  brother?  where  is  he? 
That  holds  in  chase  mine  honour  up  and  down? 

Bast.  My  brother  Robert  ?  old  sir  Robert's  son  ? 
Colbrand  the  giant,'  that  same  mighty  man? 
Is  it  sir  Robert's  son  that  you  seek  so? 

Lady  F.  Sir  Robert's  son  !     Ay,  thou  unreverend  »boy. 
Sir  Robert's  son :   Why  scorn'st  thou  at  sir  Robert  ? 
He  is  sir  Robert's  son ;  and  so  art  thou. 

Bast.  James  Gurney,  wilt  thou  give  us  leave  a  while  ? 

Gur.  Good  leave,  good  Philip, 

Bast.  Philip  ? — sparrow ! " — James, 

There  's  toys  abroad ;  anon  I  '11  tell  thee  more.  [Exit  Gurn. 
Madam,  I  was  not  old  sir  Robert's  son ; 
Sir  Robert  might  have  eat  his  part  in  me 
Upon  Good-Friday,  and  ne'er  broke  his  fast : 
Sir  Robert  could  do  well ;  Marry — to  confess — 
Could  he  get  me  ?     Sir  Robert  could  not  do  it ; 
We  know  his  handiwork : — Therefore,  good  mother. 
To  whom  am  I  beholden  for  these  limbs  ? 
Sir  Robert  never  holp  to  make  this  leg. 

Lady  F.  Hast  thou  conspired  with  thy  brother  too. 
That  for  thine  own  gain  shouldst  defend  mine  honour? 
What  means  this  scorn,  thou  most  untoward  knave  ? 

Bast.  Knight,  knight,  good  mother, — Basilisco-like :  ^ 

»  Philip  ?— sparrow  !  The  sparrow  was  called  Philip, — perhaps  from  his  note, 
out  of  which  Cat.ullus,  in  his  elegy  on  Lesbia's  sparrow,  formed  a  verb,  pipiUibat. 
When  Gurney  calls  the  bastard  "  good  Philip,'"  the  new  "  Sir  Richard ''  tosses  off 
the  name  with  contempt — "  sparrow  !"'  He  then  puts  aside  James,  with  "  anon  I  '11 
tell  thee  more.'' 

•>  Basilisco-like.  Basilisco  is  a  character  in  a  play  of  Shakspere's  time,  '  Soliman 
and  Perseda,'  from  which  Tyrwhitt  quotes  a  passage  which  may  have  suggested  the 
words  of  the  Bastard.  The  oaths  of  Basilisco  became  proverbial.  Basilisco  is  men- 
tioned by  Nash,  in  1596. 


•aM.v  Stiijid 


I 


aSivxp  Am  o;  uoissajSsuBjj  Am  (noq;) 
aqs  ?nq  i  uoiss3jSsui3jj  jaq  uopaBd  o;  ua. 

•0:!J  ,.'8DtI3jgO  IB3] 

•aSjBqo  Aui  o;  uoissaj 
0}  sjB9ddB  qoiqii  'idoo  pjo  aq^  jo  Sujp- 

:  UTS  nooq  p-ei 

*:foS8q  9ra  pi^qe 

f  ui3[  iCtn  ( 

jpAi  !^ou  :^spTp  not 

j  laq^jBj  Xui  lOJ  £ 

'jaq^jota  /to  'X 

a'pUBq  S^pi'BIfOI'JJ  tUC 

90I0J  pgqo: 

— 'asodsip  siq  ;b  q 
:  ^{joj  inoiC  :^ou  s'bai 
'qiji'Ba  no  aS; 

'UI'bS'B  !^9S  0%  J  919 

•90U9j9p  Xin  qs^d 

'90U9JJO 

•paq  sjju'Bqsnq 

p^Olipgg  S'BA 
:  I9qqBJ  Ji\[%  S-BAl  UOT|-9p-ir 

•jTA9p  9q;  h 

1 9SptiqiioopB^  -B  JpsXqq 

^  laqqora  ^qi  s'bav  ox| 

f  laqq'Bj  tCui  aiou3[  e 

: 9uoS  s 

f  pu-B^  /in  put 

f  UOS  S  JIO( 

•igppoqs  ifiu  uo  qi 


258  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 


ILLUSTRATIONS     OF     ACT     L 


'  Scene  I. — "  The  thunder  of  my  cannon  shall  he  heard.'''' 

We  have  the  same  anachronism  in  *  Hamlet '  and  in  '  Macbeth,'  It  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  tell  our  readers  that  gunpowder  was  invented  about  a  century  later 
than  the  time  of  John,  and  that  the  first  battle-field  in  which  cannon  were  Jised  is 
commonly  supposed  to  have  been  that  of  Cressy.  And  yet  the  dramatic  poet  could 
not  have  well  avoided  this  literal  violation  of  propriety,  both  here  and  in  the  second 
act,  when  he  talks  of  "  bullets  wrapp'd  in  fire."  He  uses  terms  which  were  fami- 
liar to  his  audience,  to  present  a  particular  image  to  their  senses.  Had  he,  instead 
of  cannon,  spoken  of  the  mangonell  and  the  petraria, — the  stone-flinging  machines 
of  the  time  of  John, — he  would  have  addressed  himself  to  the  very  few  who  might 
have  appreciated  his  exactness ;  but  his  words  would  have  fallen  dead  upon  the 
ears  of  the  many.  We  have  other  anachronisms  in  this  play,  which  we  may  aa 
well  dismiss  at  once,  in  connexion  with  the  assertion  of  the  principle  upon  which 
they  are  to  be  defended.  In  Act  I.  we  have  the  "half-faced  groat"  of  Henry  VII. 
and  the  "  three-farthing  rose  "  of  Elizabeth.  The  mention  of  these  coins  conveys  a 
peculiar  image,  which  must  have  been  rejected  if  the  poet  had  been  bound  by  the 
same  rules  that  govern  an  antiquary.  So  in  the  fifth  act,  where  the  Dauphin  says 
he  has  "  the  best  cards  for  the  game,"  the  poet  liad  to  choose  between  the  adoption 
of  an  allusion  full  of  spirit  and  perfectly  intelligible,  and  the  substitution  of  some 
prosaic  and  feeble  form  of  speech  that  might  have  had  the  poor  merit  of  not  antici- 
pating the  use  of  playing  cards  in  Europe  by  about  a  century  and  a  half.  We  are 
not  aware  of  any  other  passage  in  this  play  which  has  afforded  "the  learned"  an 
opportunity  (which  they  have  not  lost  in  speaking  of  these  passages)  of  propounding 
the  necessity  of  constructing  a  work  of  art  upon  the  same  principles  of  exactness 
that  go  to  produce  a  perfect  Chronological  Table. 

*  Scene  I. — "  A  soldier,  by  the  honour-giving  hand 

Of  Cceur-de-lion  knighted  in  the  field" 

St.  Palaye,  in  his  *  Memoirs  of  Chivalry,'  says,  "  In  warfare  there  was  scarcely 
any  important  event  which  was  not  preceded  or  followed  by  a  creation  of  knights. 
*  *  *  *  Knighthood  was  conferred,  on  such  occasions,  in  a  manner  at  once 
expeditious  and  military.  The  soldier  presented  his  sword,  either  by  the  cross  or 
the  guard,  to  the  prince  or  the  general  from  whom  he  was  to  receive  the  accolade — 
this  was  all  the  ceremonial."*  It  was  in  this  manner, — in  the  absence  of  those  pro- 
cessions and  banquets  that  accompanied  the  investiture  of  knightliood  during  peace, 
— that  four  hundred  and  sixty-seven  French  gentlemen  were  made  knights  at  the 
battle  of  Rosbecq,  in  1382 ;  and  five  hundred  before  the  battle  of  Azincour,  in 
1415.t  Our  English  chroniclers  tell  us  that,  m  1339,  the  armies  of  Edward  III. 
and  Philip  of  France,  having  approached  near  to  each  other,  arranged  themselves  in 
order  of  battle,  and  fourteen  gentlemen  were  knighted ;  but  the  armies  separated 
without  coming  to  an  engagement,  and  a  hare  happening  to  jmss  between  the  two 
hosts,  some  merriment  was  ])roduced,  and  the  knights  were  called  the  knights  of  the 

•  St.  Palaye,  ed.  Paris,  1759,  vol.  i.  f  Ibid. 


KING  JOHN. 


259 


hare.*  This  is  an  example  of  the  custom  of  knighting  before  a  battle.  At  a  later 
period  we  have  an  instance  of  knighting  after  a  fight.  Henry  VIII.,  after  the  battle 
of  Spurs,  in  1514,  made  Sir  John  Pechye  banneret  and  John  Carr6  knight,  both  of 
them  having  done  great  service  in  the  eiicounter.f  When  the  "honour- giving 
hand "  of  the  first  Richard  created  Robert  Faulconbridge  a  knight  "  in  the  field," 
we  are  not  told  by  the  poet  whether  it  was  for  the  encouragement  of  valour  or  for 
the  reward  of  service.  But  in  '  Cymbeliue'  we  have  an  example  of  the  bestowing 
of  the  honour  as  the  guerdon  of  bravery.  The  king,  after  the  battle  with  the 
Romans,  commands  Belarius,  Guiderius,  and  Arviragus,  thus : — 

"  Bow  your  knees  : 
Arise  my  kniglits  o'  the  battle ;  I  create  you 
Companions  to  our  person." 

^  Scene  I.—"  A  half-facd  groat:' 

The  half-face  is  the  profile ; — and  the  allusion  had  probably  become  proverbial, 
for  it  occurs  also  in  a  play, '  The  Downfal  of  Robert  Earl  of  Huntington,'  1601, — 

"  You  half-fac'd  groat,  you  thick -cheek'd  chitty-face." 

The  profile  of  the  sovereign  is  given  in  one  or  two  of  our  early  coins ;  but 
Henry  VII,  was  the  first  king  who  made  an  extensive  issue  of  coins  with  the  half- 
face.     The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  "  half-faced  groat"  of  Henry  VII. 


*  Scene  I. — "  Look,  where  three-farthings  goes.'''' 

The  three-farthing  silver  piece  of  Elizabeth  was,  as  the  value  may  import, 
extremely  thin ; — and  thus  the  allusion  of  Faulconbridge,  "  my  face  so  thin." 
"  It  was  once  the  fashion,"  says  Burton  ('  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  '),  "  to  stick 
real  flowers  in  the  ear;"  and  thus  the  thin  face  and  the  rose  in  the  ear,  taken  toge- 
ther, were  to  be  avoided — 

"  Lest  men  should  say,  Look,  where  three-farthings  goes;" — 

for  the  three-farthing  piece  was  not  only  thin,  and  therefore  might  be  associated 
with  the  '•  thin  face,"  but  it  bore  a  rose  which  assimilated  with  the  rose  in  the  ear. 
This  coin  was  called  the  "  three-fartliing  rose,"  and  the  following  is  a  copy  of 
it:— 


% 


*  Baker's  Chronicle. 


t  Ibid. 


S2 


260  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 

*  Scene  I. — "  Ariutir  Richard,  and  Plantagenet.'" 

Shaks])ere,  with  poetical  propriety,  confers  upon  the  Bastard  the  surname  by 
which  the  royal  house  of  Anjou  was  popularly  known.  Plantagenet  was  not  the 
family  name  of  that  house,  though  it  had  been  bestowed  u{)on  an  ancestor  of  John 
from  the  broom  in  his  bonnet — the  Planta  genista, 

"  Scene  I. —  "  Now  gour  traveller, 

He  and  his  toothpick.'''' 

One  of  the  characterisfics  of  the  "picked  man  of  countries"  was  the  use  of  a 
toothpick;  while  the  Englishman  who  adhered  to  his  own  customs  would  "suck" 
his  teeth.  It  is  unnecessary  to  cite  |)assages  to  show  that  the  toothpick  was  con- 
sidered a  foreign  frivolity.  Gascoigne,  Ben  Jotison,  Overbury,  and  Shirley,  have 
each  allusions  to  the  practice. 

?  Scene  I. — "  Colbrand  the  giants 
In  Drayton's  '  Polyolbion,'  the  twelfth  song,  we  have  a  long  and  sonorous  descrip- 
tion of  the  great  battle  between  Colbrand  the  Danish  giant  and  Guy  of  Warwick  ; 
of  which  the  following  extract  will  furnish  an  adequate  notion : — 
"  But  after,  wheu  the  Danes,  who  never  wearied  were, 
Came  with  intent  to  make  a  general  conquest  here, 
They  brought  with  them  a  man  deem'd  of  so  wondrous  might. 
As  was  not  to  be  match 'd  by  any  mortal  wight  : 
For  one  could  scarcely  bear  his  ax  into  the  field  ; 
Which  as  a  little  wand  the  Dane  would  lightly  wield  : 
And  (to  enforce  that  strength)  of  such  a  dauntless  spirit, 
A  man  (in  their  conceit)  of  so  exceeding  merit. 
That  to  the  English  oft  they  offer'd  him  (in  pride) 
The  ending  of  the  war  by  combat  to  decide. 

•  ••••• 

Then  Colebrond  for  the  Danes  came  forth  in  ireful  red; 

Before  him  (from  the  camp)  an  ensign  first  display'd 

Amidst  a  guard  of  gleaves :  then  sumptuously  array'd 

Were  twenty  gallant  youths,  that  to  the  warlike  sound 

Of  Danish  brazen  drums,  with  many  a  lofty  bound. 

Come  with  their  country's  march,  as  they  to  Mars  should  dance. 

Thus,  forward  to  the  fight,  both  champions  them  advance  : 

And  each,  without  respect,  doth  resolutely  choose 

The  weapon  that  he  brought,  nor  doth  his  foes  refuse. 

The  Dane  prepares  his  ax,  that  pond'rous  was  to  feel. 

Whose  squares  were  laid  with  plates,  and  riveted  with  steel. 

And  armed  down  along  with  pikes,  whose  hardcn'd  points 

(Forc'd  with  the  weapon's  weight)  had  power  to  tear  the  joints 

Of  cuirass  or  of  mail,  or  whatsoe'er  they  took ; 

Which  caus'd  him  at  the  knight  disdainfully  to  look. 

•  ••••• 

Tlien  with  such  eager  blows  each  other  they  pursue. 
As  every  offer  made  should  threaten  imminent  death ; 
Until,  through  heat  and  toil  both  hardly  drawing  breath. 
They  desperately  do  close.     Look,  how  two  boars,  being  set 
Together  side  to  side,  their  threat'ning  tusks  do  whet. 
And  with  their  gnashing  teeth  their  angry  foam  do  bite, 
Whilst  still  they  should'ring  seek  each  other  where  to  smite; 
Thus  stood  those  ireful  knights ;  till,  flying  back,  at  length 
The  palmer,  of  the  two  the  first  recovering  strength. 
Upon  the  left  arm  lent  great  Colebrond  such  a  wound, 
That  whilst  his  weapon's  point  fell  well-near  to  the  ground. 
And  slowly  he  it  rais'd,  the  valiant  Guy  again 
Sent  through  his  cloven  scalp  his  blade  into  his  brain. 
When  downward  went  his  head,  and  up  his  heels  he  threw, 
As  wanting  hands  to  bid  his  countrymen  adieu." 


KING  JOHN.  261 

The  legends  of  Sir  Guy  were  well  known  in  Shakspere's  time;  and  the  fierce 
encounter  between  this  redoubted  champion  and  "  Colbrande,"  who  fought 

"  On  foote,  for  horse  might  heave  him  none," 

had  been  recited  round  many  a  hearth,  from  the  old  "  histories."  A  curious  spe- 
cimen of  the  legends  of  Sir  Guy  and  Sir  Bevis,  from  a  black-letter  quarto  of  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  is  given  in  Capell's  'School  of  Shakespeare.' 

^  Scene  I. — "  The  awless  lion  could  not  wage  the  fight. 

Nor  keep  his  princely  heart  from  Richard's  hand.''^ 

The  reputation  for  indomitable  courage,  and  prodigious  physical  strength,  of 
Richard  I,,  transferred  this  slory  from  romance  to  history.  Rastall  gives  it  in  his 
'  Chronicle  :'  "  It  is  sayd  that  a  lyon  was  put  to  Kynge  Richarde,  beynge  in  prison, 
to  have  devoured  him,  and  when  the  lyon  was  gapynge,  he  put  his  arme  in  his 
mouthe,  and  pulled  the  lyon  by  the  harte  so  hard,  that  he  slew  the  lyon,  and  there- 
fore some  say  he  is  called  Rycharde  Cure  de  Lyon ;  but  some  say  he  is  called 
Cure  de  Lyon  because  of  his  boldenesse  and  hardy  stomake."  Our  readers  may 
compare  this  with  the  following  extract  from  the  old  metrical  romance  of  '  Richard 
Coeur-de-Lion  :* — 

"  The  poet  tells  us  that  Richard,  in  his  return  from  the  Holy  Land,  having 
been  discovered  in  the  habit  of  '  a  palmer  in  Almayne,'  and  apprehended  as  a  spy, 
was  by  the  King  thrown  into  prison.  Wardrewe,  the  King's  son,  hearing  of 
Richard's  great  strength,  desires  the  jailor  to  let  him  have  a  sight  of  his  prisoners. 
Richard  being  the  foremost,  Wardrewe  asks  him,  '  if  he  dare  stand  a  buffet  from 
his  liand?'  and  that  on  the  morrow  he  shall  return  him  another.  Richard  consents, 
and  receives  a  blow  that  staggers  him.  On  the  morrow,  having  previously  waxed 
his  hands,  he  waited  his  antagonist's  arrival.  Wardrewe  accordingly,  proceeds  the 
story,  'held  forth  as  a  trewe  man,'  and  Richard  gave  him  such  a  blow  on  the  cheek, 
as  broke  his  jaw-bone  and  killed  him  on  the  spot.  The  King,  to  revenge  the  death 
of  his  son,  orders,  by  the  advice  of  one  Eldrede,  that  a  lion  kept  purposely  from 
food  shall  be  turned  loose  upon  Richard.  But  the  King's  daughter,  having  fallen 
in  love  with  him,  tells  him  of  her  father's  resolution,  and  at  his  request  procures 
him  forty  ells  of  white  silk  '  kerchers ;'  and  here  the  description  of  the  combat 
begms  :  — 

■  The  kever-chefes  he  toke  on  honde, 

And  aboute  his  arme  he  wonde; 

And  thought  in  that  ylke  while. 

To  flee  the  lyon  with  some  gyle  : 

And  syngle  in  a  kyxtyll  he  stode, 

And  abode  the  lyon  fyers  and  wode. 

With  that  came  the  jaylere, 

And  other  men  that  wyth  him  were. 

And  the  lyon  tliem  amonge ; 

His  pawes  were  stiffe  and  stionge. 

The  chambre  dore  they  undone. 

And  the  lyon  to  them  is  gone. 

Kycharde  sayd,  Helpe,  Lorde  Jesu  ! 

The  lyon  made  to  him  venu, 

And  wolde  hym  have  all  to  rente  : 

Kynge  Rycharde  besyde  hym  glente. 

The  lyon  on  the  breste  hym  spurned. 

That  aboute  he  tourned. 

The  lyon  was  ongry  and  megre. 

And  bette  liis  tayle  to  be  egre ; 


Percy's  '  Reliques,'  vol.  iii.,  Introduction. 


262 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 


He  loked  aboute  as  he  were  madde ; 
Abrode  he  all  his  pawes  spradde. 
He  cryed  lowde,  and  yaned  wyde. 
Kynge  Kycbarde  bethought  hym  that  tyde 
Wliat  hym  was  beste,  and  to  hym  sterte. 
In  at  the  throte  his  honde  be  gerte, 
And  hente  out  the  herte  with  his  honde. 
Lounge,  and  all  that  he  there  fonde. 
Tlie  lyon  fell  deed  to  the  grounde : 
Rycharde  felte  no  wera  ne  wounde. 
He  fell  on  his  knees  on  that  place, 
And  thanked  Jesu  of  his  grace.' " 


[King  John.] 
HISTORICAL    ILLUSTRATION. 


It  would  appear  scarcely  necessary  to  entreat  the  reader  to  bear  in  mind, — before 
we  place  in  apposition  the  events  which  these  scenes  bring  before  us,  and  the  facts 
of  history,  properly  so  called, — that  the  'Histories'  of  Shakspere  are  Dramatic 
Poems.  And  yet,  unless  this  circumstance  be  watchfully  regarded,  we  shall  fall 
into  the  error  of  setting  up  one  form  of  truth  in  contradiction  to,  and  not  in  illus- 
tration of,  another  form  of  truth.  It  appears  to  us  a  worse  than  useless  employment 
to  be  running  parallels  between  the  poet  and  the  chronicler,  for  the  purpose  of 
showing  that  for  the  literal  facts  of  history  the  poet  is  not  so  safe  a  teacher  as  the 
chronicler ;  and  yet  we  hare  had  offered  to  us  a  series  of  laborious  essays,  diat 
undertakes  to  solve  these  two  problems, — "  What   were  Shakspere's  authorities 


KING  JOHN.  283 

for  his  history,  and  how  far  has  he  departed  from  them  ?  An'l  whether  the  plays 
may  be  given  to  our  youth  as  properly  historical."*  The  writer  of  these  essays 
decides  the  latter  question  in  the  negative,  and  maintains  that  these  pieces  are 
"quite  unsuitable  as  a  medium  of  instruction  to  the  English  youth;"  and  his  great 
object  is,  therefore,  to  contradict,  by  a  body  of  minute  proofs,  the  assertion  of  A. 
W.  Schlegel,  with  regard  to  these  plays,  that  "  the  principal  traits  in  every  event, 
are  given  with  so  much  correctness,  their  apparent  causes  and  their  secret  motives 
are  given  with  so  much  penetration,  that  we  may  therein  study  history,  so  to  speak, 
after  nature,  without  fearing  that  such  lively  images  should  ever  be  effaced  from 
our  minds."  Schlegel  appears  to  us  to  have  hit  the  true  cause  why  the  youth  of 
England  have  been  said  to  take  their  history  from  Shakspere.  The  "  lively  images" 
of  the  poet  present  a  general  truth  much  more  completely  than  the  tedious  narra- 
tives of  the  annalist.  The  ten  English  "  histories  "  of  Shakspere — ^"the  magnificent 
draxn&tic  epopee,  of  which  the  separate  pieces  are  different  cantos" — stand  in  the 
same  relation  to  the  contemporary  historians  of  the  events  they  deal  with  as  a  land- 
scape does  to  a  map.  Mr.  Courtenay  says,  "  Let  it  be  well  understood  that,  if  in 
any  case  I  derogate  from  Shakspere  as  an  historian,  it  is  as  an  historian  only.''  Now, 
in  the  sense  in  which  Mr.  Courtenay  uses  the  word  "historian," — by  which  he 
means  one  who  describes  past  events  with  the  most  accurate  observances  of  time  and 
place,  and  with  the  most  diligent  balancing  of  conflicting  testimony — Shakspere 
ihas  no  pretensions  to  be  regarded.  The  principle,  therefore,  of  viewing  Shakspere "s 
history  through  another  medium  than  that  of  his  art,  and  pronouncing,  ujjon  this 
view,  that  his  historical  plays  cannot  be  given  to  our  youth  as  ''properly  historical," 
is  nearly  as  absurd  as  it  would  be  to  derogate  from  the  merits  of  Mr.  Turner's 
beautiful  drawings  of  coast  scenery,  by  maintaining  and  proving  that  the  draughts- 
man had  not  accurately  laid  down  the  relative  positions  of  each  bay  and  promon- 
tory. It  would  not  be,  to  our  minds,  a  greater  mistake  to  confound  the  respective 
labours  of  the  landscape-painter  and  the  hydrographer,  than  to  subject  the  poet  to 
the  same  laws  which  should  govern  the  chronicler.  There  may  be,  in  the  poet,  a 
higher  truth  than  the  literal,  evolved  in  spite  of,  or  rather  in  combination  with,  his 
minute  violations  of  accuracy ;  we  may  in  the  poet  better  study  history,  "  so  to 
speak,  after  nature,"  than  in  the  annalist, — because  the  poet  masses  and  generalizes 
his  facts,  subjecting  them,  in  the  order  in  which  he  presents  them  to  the  mind,  as 
well  as  in  the  elaboration  which  he  bestows  upon  them,  to  the  laws  of  his  art,  which 
has  a  clearer  sense  of  fitness  and  proportion  than  the  laws  of  a  dry  chronology. 
But,  at  any  rate,  the  structure  of  an  historical  drama  and  of  an  historical  narrative 
are  so  essentially  difitrent,  that  the  offices  of  the  poet  and  the  historian  must  never 
be  confounded.  It  is  not  to  derogate  from  the  poet  to  say  that  he  is  not  an  his- 
torian ; — it  will  be  to  elevate  Shakspere  when  we  compare  his  poetical  truth  with 
the  truth  of  history.     We  have  no  wish  that  he  had  been  more  exact  and  literal. 

The  moving  cause  of  the  main  action  in  the  play  of '  King  John  '  is  put  before  us 
in  the  very  first  lines.  Chatillon,  the  ambassador  of  France,  thus  demands  of  John 
the  resignation  of  his  crown  : — 

•'  Philip  of  France,  in  right  and  true  behalf 
Of  thy  deceased  brother  Geffrey's  son, 
Arthur  Plantagenet,  lays  most  lawful  claim 
To  this  fair  island,  and  the  territories; 
To  Ireland,  Poictiers,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine." 

In  the  year  1190,  when  Arthur  was  only  two  years  old,  his  uncle,  Richard  Coeur- 
de-Lion,  contracted  him  in  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  Tancred  King  of  Sicily. 
The  good-will  of  Richard  towards  Arthur,  on  this  occasion,  might  be  in  part  secured 

*  Shakspeare's  Historical  Plays  considered  Historically.   By  the  Right  Hon.  T.  P.  Courtenay. 


264 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 


by  a  dowry  of  twenty  thousand  golden  onde  y/hich  the  Sicilian  King  paid  in  advance 
to  him;  but,  at  any  rate,  the  infant  Duke  of  Britanny  was  recognised  in  this  deed, 
by  Richard,  as  "  our  most  dear  nephew,  and  heir,  if  by  chance  we  should  die  with- 
out issue."*  When  Richard  did  die,  without  issue,  in  1 199,  Arthur,  and  his  mother 
Constance,  who  was  really  the  duchess  regnant  of  Brittany,  were  on  friendly  terms 
with  him,  although  in  1197  Richard  had  wasted  Brittany  with  fire  and  sword;  but 
John  produced  a  testament  by  which  Richard  gave  him  the  crown.  The  adherents 
of  John,  however,  did  not  rely  upon  this  instrument;  and,  if  we  may  credit  Matthew 
Paris,  John  took  the  brightest  gem  of  the  house  of  Anjou,  the  crown  of  England, 
upon  the  principle  of  election.  His  claim  was  recognised  also  in  Normandy. 
Maine,  Touraine,  and  Anjou,  on  the  other  hand,  declared  for  Arthur ;  and  at  An- 
giers  the  young  prince  was  proclaimed  King  of  England.  As  Duke  of  Brittany 
Arthur  held  his  dominion  as  a  vassal  of  France  ; — but  Constance,  who  knew  the 
value  of  a  powerful  protector  for  her  son,  ofl'ered  to  Philip  Augustus  of  France  that 
Arthur  should  do  homage  not  only  for  Brittany,  but  also  for  Normandy,  Maine, 
Anjou,  Touraine,  and  Poitou.  Philip  encouraged  the  pretensions  of  Arthur  to  the 
provinces  for  which  he  had  oflered  homage,  and  he  met  his  young  vassal  at  Mans, 
where  he  received  his  oath,  bestowed  on  him  knighthood,  and  took  him  with  him  to 
Paris. 

We  may  assume  this  point  of  the  history  of  Arthur  as  determining  the  period 
when  Shakspere's  play  of '  King  John '  commences.  - 

The  hostility  of  Elinor  to  Constance  is  manifested  in  the  first  scene : — 

"  What  now,  my  son  ?  have  I  not  ever  said, 
How  that  ambitious  Constance  would  not  cease. 
Till  she  had  kindled  France,  and  all  the  world, 
Upon  the  right  and  party  of  her  son  ?" 


[Queen  Elinor."; 
S«e  Darn,  Histoire  de  Breta^e,  tome  i.,  p.  381. 


KING  JOHN.  265 

Holinshed  assigns  the  reason  for  this  enmity  : — "  Surely  Queen  Elinor,  the  King's 
mother,  was  sore  against  her  nephew  Arthur,  rather  moved  thereto  by  envy  con- 
ceived against  his  mother,  than  upon  any  just  occasion  given  in  the  behalf  of  the 
child ;  for  that  she  saw  if  he  were  king  how  his  mother  Constance  would  look  to 
bear  most  rule  within  the  realm  of  England,  till  her  son  should  come  to  lawful  age 
to  govern  of  himself." 

Philip  the  Bastard,  whose  character  inftises  so  much  life  and  spirit  into  these 
scenes,  is  thus  noticed  in  Holinshed  ;  nor  is  there  any  other  mention  of  him  : — 
"  The  same  year  also  (the  first  of  John),  Philip,  bastard  son  to  King  Richard,  to 
whom  his  father  had  given  the  castle  and  honour  of  Coynack,  killed  the  Viscount 
of  Lymoges,  in  revenge  of  his  father's  death,  who  was  slain  (as  ye  have  heard)  in 
besieging  the  castle  of  Chalus  Cheverell." 


266  KING  JOHN.  [Act  II. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I. — France.     Before  the  Walls  o/*  Anglers. 

Enter  on  one  side,  the  Archduke  of  Austria,  and  Forces ; 
on  the  other,  Philip,  King  0/ France,  and  Forces;  Lewis, 
Constance,  Arthur,  and  Attendants. 

Lew.  Before  Anglers  well  met,  brave  Austria. 
Arthur,  that  great  fore-runner  of  thy  blood, 
Richard,  that  robb'd  the  Hon  of  his  heart. 
And  fought  the  holy  wars  In  Palestine, 
By  this  brave  duke  came  early  to  his  grave : 
And,  for  amends  to  his  posterity. 
At  our  Importance  "  hither  is  he  come. 
To  spread  his  colours,  boy.  In  thy  behalf; 
And  to  rebuke  the  usurpation 
Of  thy  unnatural  uncle,  English  John  ; 
Embrace  him,  love  him,  give  him  welcome  hither. 

Arth.  God  shall  forgive  you  Coeur-de-llon's  death. 
The  rather,  that  you  give  his  oifsprlng  life. 
Shadowing  their  right  under  your  wings  of  war  : 
I  give  you  welcome  with  a  powerless  hand. 
But  with  a  heart  full  of  unstained  love  : 
Welcome  before  the  gates  of  Anglers,  duke. 

Lew.  A  noble  boy  !     Who  would  not  do  thee  right  ? 

Aust.  Upon  thy  cheek  lay  I  this  zealous  kiss, 
As  seal  to  this  indenture  of  my  love  ; 
That  to  my  home  I  will  no  more  return. 
Till  Anglers,  and  the  right  thou  hast  in  France, 
Together  with  that  pale,  that  white-fac'd  shore. 
Whose  foot  spurns  back  the  ocean's  roaring  tides. 
And  coops  from  other  lands  her  Islanders, 
Even  till  that  England,  hedg'd  in  with  the  main, 

"  Importance,  iraportuuity. 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  267 

That  water-walled  bulwark,  still  secure 
And  confident  from  foreign  purposes. 
Even  till  that  utmost  corner  of  the  west 
Salute  thee  for  her  king :  till  then,  fair  boy. 
Will  I  not  think  of  home,  but  follow  arras. 

Const,  O,  take  his  mother's  thanks,  a  widow's  thanks. 
Till  your  strong  hand  shall  help  to  give  him  strength. 
To  make  a  more  requital  to  your  love. 

Aust.  The  peace  of  heaven  is  theirs  that  lift  their  swords 
In  such  a  just  and  charitable  war. 

K.  Phi.  Well  then,  to  work  ;  our  cannon  shall  be  bent 
Against  the  brows  of  this  resistinor  town. 
Call  for  our  chiefest  men  of  discipline. 
To  cull  the  plots  of  best  advantages : 
We  '11  lay  before  this  town  our  royal  bones. 
Wade  to  the  market-place  in  Frenchmen's  blood. 
But  we  will  make  it  subject  to  this  boy. 

Const.  Stay  for  an  answer  to  your  embassy. 
Lest  unadvis'd  you  stain  your  swords  with  blood  : 
My  lord  Chatillon  may  from  England  bring 
That  right  in  peace,  which  here  we  urge  in  war ; 
And  then  we  shall  repent  each  drop  of  blood 
That  hot  rash  haste  so  indirectly  shed. 

E?iter  Chatillon. 

K.  Phi.  A  wonder,  lady  ! — lo,  upon  thy  wish. 
Our  messenger  Chatillon  is  arriv'd. — 
What  England  says,  say  briefly,  gentle  lord. 
We  coldly  pause  for  thee ;  Chatillon,  speak. 

Chat.  Then  turn  your  forces  from  this  paltry  siege. 
And  stir  them  up  against  a  mightier  task. 
England,  impatient  of  your  just  demands. 
Hath  put  himself  in  arms ;  the  adverse  winds. 
Whose  leisure  I  have  stay'd,  have  given  him  time 
To  land  his  legions  all  as  soon  as  I : 
His  marches  are  expedient  *  to  this  town, 

*  Expedient.  The  word  properly  means,  "  that  disengages  itself  from  all  entan- 
glements." To  set  at  liberty  the  foot  which  was  held  fast  is  exped-ire.  Shakspere 
always  uses  this  word  in  strict  accordance  with  its  derivation ;  as,  in  truth,  he  does 
most  words  that  may  be  called  learned. 


268  KING  JOHN.  [Act  II. 

His  forces  strong,  liis  soldiers  confident. 

With  him  along  is  come  the  mother-queen. 

An  Ate,  stirring  him  to  blood  and  strife ; 

With  her  her  niece,  the  lady  Blanch  of  Spain ; 

With  them  a  bastard  of  the  king's  deceas'd  : 

And  all  the  unsettled  humours  of  the  land, — 

Rash,  inconsiderate,  fiery  voluntaries. 

With  ladies'  faces,  and  fierce  dragons'  spleens, — 

Have  sold  their  fortunes  at  their  native  homes. 

Bearing  their  birthrights  proudly  on  their  backs. 

To  make  a  hazard  of  new  fortunes  here. 

In  brief,  a  braver  choice  of  dauntless  spirits. 

Than  now  the  English  bottoms  '  have  waft  o'er. 

Did  never  float  upon  the  swelling  tide. 

To  do  oifence  and  scath  in  Christendom. 

The  interruption  of  their  churlish  drums  [Drums  beat. 

Cuts  off  more  circumstance  :  they  are  at  hand 

To  parley,  or  to  fight ;  therefore,  prepare. 

K.  Phi.  How  much  unlook'd-for  is  this  expedition ! 

Aust.  By  how  much  unexpected,  by  so  much 
We  must  awake  endeavour  for  defence ; 
For  courage  mounteth  with  occasion  : 
Let  them  be  welcome  then,  we  are  prepar'd. 

Enter  King  John,  Elinor,  Blanch,  the  Bastard,  Pembroke, 
a7id  Forces. 

K.  John.  Peace  be  to  France  ;  if  France  in  peace  permit 
Our  just  and  lineal  entrance  to  our  oWn  ! 
If  not,  bleed  France,  and  peace  ascend  to  heaven ! 
Whiles  we,  God's  wrathful  agent,  do  correct 
Their  proud  contempt  that  beat  his  peace  to  heaven. 

K.  Phi.  Peace  be  to  England ;  if  that  war  return 
From  France  to  England,  there  to  live  in  peace ! 
England  we  love  ;  and,  for  that  England's  sake. 
With  burthen  of  our  armour  here  we  sweat : 
This  toil  of  ours  should  be  a  work  of  thine ; 
But  thou  from  loving  England  art  so  far. 
That  thou  hast  under-wrought  his  lawful  king. 
Cut  off  the  sequence  of  posterity. 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  269 

Outfaced  infant  state,  and  done  a  rape 
Upon  the  maiden  virtue  of  the  crown. 
Look  here  upon  thy  brother  Geffrey's  face  ; — 
These  eyes,  these  brows,  were  moulded  out  of  his  : 
This  little  abstract  doth  contain  that  large. 
Which  died  in  Geffrey  ;  and  the  hand  of  time 
Shall  draw  this  brief  into  as  huge  a  volume. 
That  Geffrey  was  thy  elder  brother  born. 
And  this  his  son ;  England  was  Geffrey's  right. 
And  this  is  Geffrey's,*  in  the  name  of  God. 
How  comes  it,  then,  that  thou  art  call'd  a  king. 
When  living  blood  doth  in  these  temples  beat. 
Which  owe  the  crown  that  thou  o'ermasterest  ? 

K.  John.  From  whom  hast  thou   this  great   commission, 
France, 
To  draw  my  answer  from  thy  articles  ? 

K.   Phi.    From    that    supernal    judge    that    stirs    good 
thoughts 
In  any  breast  of  strong  authority. 
To  look  into  the  blots  and  stains  of  right. 
That  judge  hath  made  me  guardian  to  this  boy : 
Under  whose  warrant,  I  impeach  thy  wrong  ; 
And,  by  whose  help,  I  mean  to  chastise  it. 

K.  John.  Alack,  thou  dost  usurp  authority. 

K.  Phi.  Excuse  ;  it  is  to  beat  usurping  down. 

Eli.  Who  is  it  thou  dost  call  usurper,  France  ? 

Const.  Let  me  make  answer ; — thy  usurping  son. 

Eli.  Out,  insolent !  thy  bastard  shall  be  king ; 
That  thou  mayst  be  a  queen,  and  check  the  world ! 

Const.  My  bed  was  ever  to  thy  son  as  true, 

»  ^tul  this  is  Geffrey's.  We  have  restored  the  punctuation  of  the  original, — 
"  And  this  is  Gefifrey's,  in  the  name  of  Grod." 
Perhaps  we  should  read,  according  to  Monck  Mason,  "  And  his  is  Geffirey's."  In 
either  case,  it  appears  to  us  that  King  Philip  makes  a  solemn  asseveration  that  this 
(Arthur)  is  Geffrey's  son  and  successor,  or  that  "  Geffirey's  right "  is  his  (Arthur's) 
in  the  name  of  God ;  asserting  the  principle  of  legitimacy,  by  divine  ordinance. 
As  the  sentence  is  commonly  given, 

"  In  the  name  of  God, 
How  comes  it  then,"  &c., 
Philip  is  only  employing  an  unmeaning  oath. 


270  KING  JOHN.  [Act  II. 

As  thine  was  to  thy  husband :  and  this  boy 

Liker  in  feature  to  his  father  Geffrey, 

Than  thou  and  John,  in  manners  being  as  like 

As  rain  to  water,  or  devil  to  his  dam. 

My  boy  a  bastard  l  By  my  soul,  I  think. 

His  father  never  was  so  true  begot ; 

It  cannot  be,  an  if  thou  wert  his  mother. 

Eli.  There 's  a  good  mother,  boy,  that  biota  thy  father. 

Const.  There's  a  good  grandame,  boy,  that  would  blot 
thee. 

Aust.  Peace ! 

Bast.  Hear  the  crier. 

Aust.  What  the  devil  art  thou? 

Bast.  One  that  will  play  the  devil,  sir,  with  you. 
An  'a  may  catch  your  hide  and  you  alone. 
You  are  the  hare  of  whom  the  proverb  goes. 
Whose  valour  plucks  dead  lions  by  the  beard. 
I  '11  smoke  your  skin-coat,  an  I  catch  you  right ; 
Sirrah,  look  to 't ;  i'  faith,  I  will,  i'  faith. 

Blanch.  O,  well  did  he  become  that  lion's  robe. 
That  did  disrobe  the  lion  of  that  robe ! 

Bast.  It  lies  as  sightly  on  the  back  of  him. 
As  great  Alcides'  shoes  *  upon  an  ass  : — 
But,  ass,  I  '11  take  that  burthen  from  your  back ; 
Or  lay  on  that  shall  make  your  shoulders  crack. 

Aust.  What  cracker  is  this  same,  that  deafs  our  ears 
With  this  abundance  of  superfluous  breath  ? 
King, — Lewis,*  determine  what  we  shall  do  straight. 

Lew.  Women  and  fools,  break  off  your  conference. 
King  John,  this  is  the  very  sum  of  all, — 
England  and  Ireland,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine, 
In  right  of  Arthur  do  I  claim  of  thee  : 
Wilt  thou  resign  them,  and  lay  down  thy  arms  ? 

K.  John.  My  life  as  soon : — I  do  defy  thee,  France. 
Arthur  of  Bretagne,  yield  thee  to  my  hand ; 

'  King, — Lewis.  We  have  here  restored  the  original  reading.  Austria  is  iinpa- 
tieiit  of  the  "  superfluous  breatli "  of  the  Bastard,  and  appeals  to  Philip  and  f  he 
Dauphin — "  King, — Lewis,  determine.*'  *'  King"  is  usually  omitted,  and  the  line 
given  to  Philip. 


Scene  I.J  KING  JOHN.  271 

And,  out  of  my  dear  love,  I  '11  give  thee  more 
Than  e'er  the  coward  hand  of  France  can  win  : 
Submit  thee,  boy. 

Eli.  Come  to  thy  grandame,  child. 

Const.  Do,  child,  go  to  it'  grandame,  child ; 
Give  grandame  kingdom,  and  it'  grandame  will 
Give  it  a  plum,  a  cherry,  and  a  fig : 
There 's  a  good  grandame. 

Arth.  Good  my  mother,  peace ! 

I  would  that  I  were  low  laid  in  my  grave  ; 
I  am  not  worth  this  coil  that 's  made  for  me. 

Eli.  His  mother  shames  him  so,  poor  boy,  he  weeps. 

Const.  Now  shame  upon  you,  wher  she  does,  or  no ! 
His  grandame's  wrongs,  and  not  his  mother's  shames. 
Draw  those  heaven-moving  pearls  from  his  poor  eyes. 
Which  Heaven  shall  take  in  nature  of  a  fee  ; 
Ay,  with  these  crystal  beads  Heaven  shall  be  brib'd 
To  do  him  justice,  and  revenge  on  you. 

Eli.  Thou  monstrous  slanderer  of  heaven  and  earth ! 

Const.  Thou  monstrous  injurer  of  heaven  and  earth ! 
Call  not  me  slanderer ;  thou,  and  thine,  usurp 
The  dominations,  royalties,  and  rights 
Of  this  oppressed  boy  :  This  is  thy  eldest  son's  son, 
Infortunate  in  nothing  but  in  thee ; 
Thy  sins  are  visited  in  this  poor  child ; 
The  canon  of  the  law  is  laid  on  him. 
Being  but  the  second  generation 
Removed  from  thy  sin-conceiving  womb. 

K.  John.  Bedlam,  have  done. 

Const.  I  have  but  this  to  say, — • 

That  he 's  not  only  plagued  for  her  sin. 
But  God  hath  made  her  sin  and  her  the  plague 
On  this  removed  issue,  plagued  for  her. 
And  with  her  plague,  her  sin ;  his  injury 
Her  injury, — the  beadle  to  her  sin  ; 
All  punish'd  in  the  person  of  this  child. 
And  all  for  her ;  A  plague  upon  her  ! 

Eli.  Thou  unadvised  scold,  I  can  produce 
A  will,  that  bars  the  title  of  thy  son. 


272  KING  JOHN.  [AcTir. 

Const.  Ay,  who  doubts  that  ?  a  will !   a  wicked  will ; 
A  woman's  will ;  a  canker'd  grandame's  will ! 

K.  Phi.  Peace,  lady ;  pause,  or  be  more  temperate  : 
It  ill  beseems  this  presence,  to  cry  aim' 
To  these  ill-tuned  repetitions. 
Some  trumpet  summon  hither  to  the  walls 
These  men  of  Angiers ;  let  us  hear  them  speak. 
Whose  title  they  admit,  Arthur's  or  John's. 

Trumpet  sounds.  Enter  Citizens  upon  the  Walls. 

Cit.  Who  is  it  that  hath  warn'd  us  to  the  walls  ? 

K.  Phi.  'T  is  France  for  England. 

K.  John.  England,  for  itself: 

You  men  of  Angiers,  and  my  loving  subjects  ! 

K.  Phi.  You  loving  men  of  Angiers,  Arthur's  subjects. 
Our  trumpet  call'd  you  to  this  gentle  parle — 

K.  John.  For  our  advantage ; — Therefore,  hear  us  first. 
These  flags  of  France,  that  are  advanced  here 
Before  the  eye  and  prospect  of  your  town. 
Have  hither  march'd  to  your  endamagement : 
The  cannons  have  their  bowels  full  of  wrath ; 
And  ready  mounted  are  they,  to  spit  forth 
Their  iron  indignation  'gainst  your  walls  : 
All  preparation  for  a  bloody  siege 
And  merciless  proceeding,  by  these  French, 
Confronts  ^  your  city's  eyes,  your  winking  gates  ; 
And  but  for  our  approach,  those  sleeping  stones. 
That  as  a  waist  do  girdle  you  about. 
By  the  compulsion  of  their  ordnance 
By  this  time  from  their  fixed  beds  of  lime 
Had  been  dishabited,  and  wide  havoc  made 
For  bloody  power  to  rush  upon  your  peace. 
But,  on  the  sight  of  us,  your  lawful  king. 
Who  painfully,  with  much  expedient  march. 
Have  brought  a  countercheck  before  your  gates, 

*  To  cry  aim.     See  note  in  '  Two  Grentlemen  of  Verona,'  Act  III.,  Scene  1. 

*  Confront*  your  city's  eyes.  The  original  edition  has  comfort  your  city's  eyes, 
which  is,  in  part,  a  misprint,  although  comfort  might  be  used  by  John  in  irony. 
The  later  editions  read  confront,  after  Rowe.  Preparation  is  here  the  nominative, 
and  therefore  we  use  confronts. 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  273 

To  save  unscratcli'd  your  city's  threaten'd  cheeks, — 

Behold,  the  French,  amaz'd,  vouchsafe  a  parle : 

And  now,  instead  of  bullets  wrapp'd  in  fire. 

To  make  a  shaking  fever  in  your  walls. 

They  shoot  but  calm  words,  folded  up  in  smoke. 

To  make  a  faithless  error  in  your  ears : 

Which  trust  accordingly,  kind  citizens. 

And  let  us  in.     Your  king,*  whose  labour'd  spirits 

Forwearied  ^  in  this  action  of  swift  speed. 

Craves  harbourage  within  your  city  walls. 

K.  Phi.  When  I  have  said,  make  answer  to  us  both. 
Lo,  in  this  right  hand,  whose  protection 
Is  most  divinely  vow'd  upon  the  right 
Of  him  it  holds,  stands  young  Plantagenet, 
Son  to  the  elder  brother  of  this  man. 
And  king  o'er  him,  and  all  that  he  enjoys  : 
For  this  down-trodden  equity,  we  tread 
In  warlike  march  these  greens  before  your  town  j 
Being  no  further  enemy  to  you. 
Than  the  constraint  of  hospitable  zeal, 
In  the  relief  of  this  oppressed  child. 
Religiously  provokes.     Be  pleased  then 
To  pay  that  duty,  which  you  truly  owe. 
To  him  that  owes  '^  it, — namely,  this  young  prince  : 
And  then  our  arms,  like  to  a  muzzled  bear. 
Save  in  aspect,  have  all  offence  seal'd  up  ; 
Our  cannons'  malice  vainly  shall  be  spent 
Against  th'  invulnerable  clouds  of  heaven  ; 
And,  with  a  blessed  and  unvex'd  retire. 
With  unhack'd  swords,  and  helmets  all  unbruis'd. 
We  will  bear  home  that  lusty  blood  again, 

*   Your  king,  &c.     We  have  here  restored  the  old  reading,  in  which  "  j'our  king" 
is  the  nominative  to  "  craves."     In  all  the  modern  editions  we  read — 
"  And  let  us  in,  your  king  ;  whose  labour'd  spirits, 
Forwearied  in  this  action  of  swift  speed, 
Crave  harbourage,"  &c. 
^  It  is  to  be  observed  that  "forweary"  and  "weary"  are  the  same;  and  that 
"forwearied"  may  be  used,  not  as  a  participle  requiring  an  auxiliary  verb,  but  as 
a  verb  neuter.     "Our  spirits  wearied  in   this  action"  would  be  correct,  even  in 
modern  construction. 
■^  Ckves — owns. 
Vol.  IV.  T 


274  KING  JOHN.  [Act  II. 

Which  here  we  came  to  spout  against  your  town, 
And  leave  your  children,  wives,  and  you,  in  peace. 
But  if  you  fondly  pass  our  profFcr'd  offer, 
'T  is  not  the  rounder  '  of  your  old-fac'd  walls 
Can  hide  you  from  our  messengers  of  war. 
Though  all  these  English,  and  their  discipline. 
Were  harbour'd  in  their  rude  circumference. 
Then,  tell  us,  shall  your  city  call  us  lord. 
In  that  behalf  which  we  have  challeng'd  it  ? 
Or  shall  we  give  the  signal  to  our  rage. 
And  stalk  in  blood  to  our  possession  ? 

Cit.  In  brief,  we  are  the  king  of  England's  subjects  ; 
For  him,  and  in  his  right,  we  hold  this  town. 

K.  John.  Acknowledge  then  the  king,  and  let  me  in. 

Cit.  That  can  we  not :  but  he  that  proves  the  king. 
To  him  will  we  prove  loyal ;  till  that  time. 
Have  we  ramm'd  up  our  gates  against  the  world. 

K.  John.  Doth  not  the  crown  of  England  prove  the  king  ? 
And  if  not  that,  I  bring  you  witnesses. 
Twice  fifteen  thousand  hearts  of  England's  breed, — r 

Bast.  Bastards,  and  else. 

K.  John.  To  verify  our  title  with  their  lives. 

K.  Phi.  As  many,  and  as  well-born  bloods  as  those, — 

Bast.  Some  bastards  too. 

K.  Phi.  Stand  in  his  face,  to  contradict  his  claim. 

Cit.  Till  you  compound  whose  right  is  worthiest. 
We,  for  the  worthiest,  hold  the  right  from  both. 

K.  John.  Then  God  forgive  the  sin  of  all  those  souls. 
That  to  their  everlasting  residence. 
Before  the  dew  of  evening  fall,  shall  fleet. 
In  dreadful  trial  of  our  kingdom's  king ! 

K.  Phi.  Amen,  Amen ! — Mount,  chevaliers !  to  arms ! 

Bast.  St.  George,'  that  swindg'd  the  dragon,  and  e'er  since 
Sits  on  his  horseback  ^  at  mine  hostess'  door, 

»  Rounder.  This  is  the  English  of  the  original.  The  modem  editions  have 
turned  the  word  into  the  French  roundure. 

*  Siti  on  his  horseback.  Shakspere  might  have  found  an  example  for  the  expres- 
sion in  North's  '  Plutarch,' — one  of  his  favourite  books :  "  He  commanded  his  cap- 
tains to  set  out  their  bands  to  the  field,  and  he  himself  took  his  horseback.'' 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  275 

Teach  us  some  fence ! — Sirrah,  were  I  at  home. 
At  your  den,  sirrah,  [to  Austria]  with  your  lioness, 
I  'd  set  an  ox-head  to  your  lion's  hide. 
And  make  a  monster  of  you. 

Aust.  Peace  ;  no  more. 

Bast.  O,  tremble ;  for  you  hear  the  lion  roar. 

K.  John.  Up  higher  to  the  plain ;  where  we  '11  set  forth. 
In  best  appointment,  all  our  regiments. 

Bast.  Speed  then,  to  take  advantage  of  the  field. 

K.  Phi.  It  shall  be  so ; — [to  Lewis]  and  at  the  other  hill 
Command  the  rest  to  stand. — God,  and  our  right !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  same. 

Alarums  and  Excursions ;  then  a  Retreat.     Enter  a  French 
Herald,  with  Trumpets,  to  the  Gates. 

F.  Her.  You  men  of  Angiers,  open  wide  your  gates. 
And  let  young  Arthur,  duke  of  Bretagne,  in ; 
Who,  by  the  hand  of  France,  this  day  hath  made 
Much  work  for  tears  in  many  an  English  mother. 
Whose  sons  lie  scatter'd  on  the  bleeding  ground ; 
Many  a  widow's  husband  groveling  lies. 
Coldly  embracing  the  discolour'd  earth ; 
And  victory,  with  little  loss,  doth  play 
Upon  the  dancing  banners  of  the  French ; 
Who  are  at  hand,  triumphantly  display'd. 
To  enter  conquerors,  and  to  proclaim 
Arthur  of  Bretagne,  England's  king,  and  yours ! 

Enter  an  English  Herald,  with  Trumpets. 

E.  Her.  Rejoice,  you  men  of  Angiers,  ring  your  bells ; 
King  John,  your  king  and  England's,  doth  approach. 
Commander  of  this  hot  malicious  day ! 
Their  armours,  that  march'd  hence  so  silver-bright. 
Hither  return  all  gilt  with  Frenchmen's  blood ; 
There  stuck  no  plume  in  any  English  crest. 
That  is  removed  by  a  staif  of  France ; 
Our  colours  do  return  in  those  same  hands 
That  did  display  them  when  we  first  march'd  forth ; 

T  2 


276  KING  JOHN.  [Act  II. 

And,  like  a  jolly  troop  of  huntsmen,*  come 
Our  lusty  English,  all  with  purpled  hands. 
Dyed  in  the  dying  slaughter  of  their  foes  : 
Open  your  gates,  and  give  the  victors  way. 

Hubert.'^  Heralds,  from  off  our  towers  we  might  behold. 
From  first  to  last,  the  onset  and  retire 
Of  both  your  armies ;  whose  equality 
Ey  our  best  eyes  cannot  be  censured  : 
Blood  hath  bought  blood,  and  blows  have  answer'd  blows ; 
Strength  match'd  with  strength,  and  power  confronted  power : 
Both  are  alike ;  and  both  alike  we  like. 
One  must  prove  greatest :  while  they  weigh  so  even. 
We  hold  our  town  for  neither ;  yet  for  both. 

Enter,  at  one  side,  King  John,  with  his  Power,  Elinor, 
Blanch,  and  the  Bastard ;  at  the  other.  King  Philip, 
Lewis,  Austria,  and  Forces. 

K.  John.  France,  hast  thou  yet  more  blood  to  cast  away? 
Say,  shall  the  current  of  our  right  roam  on,** 
Whose  passage,  vex'd  with  thy  impediment. 
Shall  leave  his  native  channel,  and  o'erswell 
With  course  disturb'd  even  thy  confining  shores. 
Unless  thou  let  his  silver  water  keep 
A  peaceful  progress  to  the  ocean? 

K.  Phi.  England,  thou  hast  not  sav'd  one  drop  of  blood. 
In  this  hot  trial,  more  than  we  of  France ; 
Rather,  lost  more  :  And  by  this  hand  I  swear, 

■  Hubert.  Without  any  assigned  reason  the  name  of  this  speaker  has  been  altered 
by  the  modem  editors  to  Citizen.  The  folio  distinctly  gives  this,  and  all  the  subse- 
quent speeches  of  the  same  person,  to  the  end  of  tbe  act,  to  Hubert.  The  proposi- 
tion to  the  kings  to  reconcile  their  differences  by  the  marriage  of  Lewis  and  Blanch 
would  appear  necessarily  to  come  from  some  person  in  authority ;  and  it  would 
seem  to  have  been  Sliakspere's  intention  to  make  that  person  Hubert  de  Burgh,  who 
occupies  so  conspicuous  a  place  in  the  remainder  of  the  play.  In  the  third  act 
John  says  to  Hubert, 

"  thy  voluntary  oath 
Lives  in  this  bosom." 
It  might  be  his  "  voluntary  oath ''  as  a  citizen  of  Angiers,  to  John,  which  called  for 
this  expression.     We,  tlierefore,  retain  the  name  as  in  the  original. 

''  Roam  on.  The  editor  of  the  second  folio  substituted  run,  which  reading  has 
been  continued.  Neither  the  poetry  nor  the  sense  appear  to  have  gained  by  the  fan- 
cied improvement. 


Scene  II.J  KING  JOHN.  277 

That  sways  the  earth  this  climate  overlooks. 

Before  we  will  lay  down  our  just-borne  arms. 

We  '11  put  thee  down,  'gainst  whom  these  arms  we  bear. 

Or  add  a  royal  number  to  the  dead ; 

Gracing  the  scroll,  that  tells  of  this  war's  loss. 

With  slaughter  coupled  to  the  name  of  kings. 

Bast.  Ha,  majesty !  how  high  thy  glory  towers. 
When  the  rich  blood  of  kings  is  set  on  fire ! 
O,  now  doth  death  line  his  dead  chaps  with  steel ; 
The  swords  of  soldiers  are  his  teeth,  his  fangs ; 
And  now  he  feasts,  mousing*  the  flesh  of  men. 
In  undetermin'd  differences  of  kings. 
Why  stand  these  royal  fronts  amazed  thus? 
Cry,  havoc,  kings !  back  to  the  stained  field. 
You  equal  potents,  fiery -kindled  spirits  ! 
Then  let  confusion  of  one  part  confirm 
The  other's  peace ;  till  then,  bloAVS,  blood,  and  death ! 

K.  John.  Whose  party  do  the  townsmen  yet  admit  ? 

K.  Phi.  Speak,  citizens,  for  England ;  who 's  your  king  ? 

Hubert.  The  king  of  England,  when  we  know  the  king. 

K.  Phi.  Know  him  in  us,  that  here  hold  up  his  right. 

K.  John.  In  us,  that  are  our  own  great  deputy. 
And  bear  possession  of  our  person  here ; 
Lord  of  our  presence,  Angiers,  and  of  you. 

Hubert.  A  greater  power  than  we  denies  all  this ; 
And,  till  it  be  undoubted,  we  do  lock 
Our  former  scruple  in  our  strong-barr'd  gates. 
Kings,  of  our  fear ;  ^  until  our  fears,  resolv'd. 
Be  by  some  certain  king  purg'd  and  depos'd. 


*  Mousing.  This  figurative  and  characteristic  expression  in  the  original  was  ren- 
dered by  Pope  into  the  prosaic  mmtthing,  which  has  ever  since  usurped  its  place. 
We  restore  the  reading. 

''  Kings,  of  our  fear.  The  change  of  this  passage  is  amongst  the  most  remarkable 
of  the  examples  which  this  play  furnishes  of  the  unsatisfactory  nature  of  conjectural 
emendation.  Warburton  and  Johnson,  disregarding  the  original,  say,  "  Kings  are 
our  fears."  Malone  adopts  Tyrwhitt's  conjecture — "  King'd  of  our  fears ;" — and 
so  the  passage  runs  in  all  modem  editions.  If  the  safe  rule  of  endeavouring  to 
understand  the  existing  text,  in  preference  to  guessing  what  the  author  ought  to 
have  written,  had  been  adopted  in  this  and  hundreds  of  other  cases,  we  should  have 
been  spared  volumes  of  commentary.     The  two  kings  peremptorily  demand  the 


278  KING  JOHN.  [Act  II. 

Bast.  By  heaven,  these  scroyles*  of  Angiers  flout  you, 
kings ; 
And  stand  securely  on  their  battlements. 
As  in  a  theatre,  whence  they  gape  and  point 
At  your  industrious  scenes  and  acts  of  death. 
Your  royal  presences  be  rul'd  by  me ; 
Do  like  the  mutines  of  Jerusalem,' 
Be  friends  a  while,  and  both  conjointly  bend 
Your  sharpest  deeds  of  malice  on  this  town : 
By  east  and  west  let  France  and  England  mount 
Their  battering  cannon  charged  to  the  mouths ; 
Till  their  soul-fearing ''  clamours  have  brawl'd  down 

citizens  of  Angiers  to  acknowledge  the  respective  rights  of  each, — England  for  him- 
self, France  for  Arthur.     The  citizens,  by  the  mouth  of  Hubert,  answer, 

"  A  greater  power  than  we  denies  all  (his." 
Their  quarrel  is  undecided — the  arbitrement  of  Heaven  is  wanting. 
"  And,  till  it  be  undoubted,  we  do  lock 
Our  former  scruple  in  our  strong-barr'd  gates, 
Kings,  of  our  fear ;" — 
on  account  cf  oiu  fear,  or  through  our  fear,  or  hy  our  fear,  we  hold  oar  former  scruple, 
kings, 

"  until  our  fears,  resolv'd, 
Be  by  some  certain  king  purg'd  and  depos'd." 
Through  and  by  had  the  same  meaning,  for  examples  of  which  see  Tooke's  '  Diver- 
sions of  Purley '  (vol.  i.  p.  379);  and  so  had  by  and  of — as,  "  he  was  tempted  o/"  the 
devil,"  in  our  translation  of  the  Bible ;  and  as  in  Gower, — 
"  But  that  arte  couth  thei  not  fynde 
Cy  which  Ulisses  was  deceived." 
•  Scroyles;  from  Les  Escrouelleg,  the  king's  evil. 

•>  Soul-fearing.  To  fear  is  often  used  by  the  old  writers  in  the  sense  of  to  maAe 
afraid.  Thus,  in  Sir  Thomas  Elyot's  '  Governor,'  "  the  good  husband  "  setteth  up 
"  shailes  to  fear  away  birds."  In  North's  'Plutarch,'  Pyrrhus,  "thinking  to  fear" 
Fabricius,  suddenly  produces  an  elephant.  Shakspere  has  several  examples :  An- 
tony says, 

"  Thou  canst  not /ear  us,  Pompey,  with  thy  sails." 

Angelo,  in  '  Measure  for  Measure,'  would  not 

"  Make  a  scarecrow  of  the  law. 
Setting  it  up  to  fear  the  birds  of  prey." 
But  this  active  sense  of  the  verbyirar  is  not  its  exclusive  meaning  in  Shakapere;  and 
in  '  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  '  he  exhibits  its  common  use  as  well  in  the  neuter  as 
in  the  active  acceptation  : — 

"  Pet.  Now,  for  my  life,  Hortensio /ear*  big  widow. 
ffid.  Then  never  trust  me  if  I  be  afeard. 
Pet,  You  are  very  sensible,  and  yet  you  miss  my  sense : 
I  meant  Hortensio  is  afeard  of  you." 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  279 

The  flinty  ribs  of  this  contemptuous  city  : 

I  'd  play  incessantly  upon  these  jades. 

Even  till  unfenced  desolation 

Leave  them  as  naked  as  the  vulgar  air. 

That  done,  dissever  your  united  strengths. 

And  part  your  mingled  colours  once  again ; 

Turn  face  to  face,  and  bloody  point  to  point : 

Then,  in  a  moment,  fortune  shall  cull  forth 

Out  of  one  side  her  happy  minion ; 

To  whom  in  favour  she  shall  give  the  day. 

And  kiss  him  with  a  glorious  victory. 

How  like  you  this  wild  counsel,  mighty  states? 

Smacks  it  not  something  of  the  policy  ? 

K.  John.  Now,  by  the  sky  that  hangs  above  our  heads, 
I  like  it  well ; — France,  shall  we  knit  our  powers. 
And  lay  this  Angiers  even  with  the  ground ; 
Then,  after,  fight  who  shall  be  king  of  it? 

Bast.  An  if  thou  hast  the  mettle  of  a  king. 
Being  wrong' d,  as  we  are,  by  this  peevish  town. 
Turn  thou  the  mouth  of  thy  artillery. 
As  we  will  ours,  against  these  saucy  walls  : 
And  when  that  we  have  dash'd  them  to  the  ground. 
Why,  then  defy  each  other  :  and,  pell-mell. 
Make  work  upon  ourselves,  for  heaven,  or  hell, 

K.  Phi.  Let  it  be  so : — Say,  where  will  you  assault  ? 

K.  John.  We  from  the  west  will  send  destruction 
Into  this  city's  bosom. 

Aust.  I  from  the  north. 

K.  Phi.  Our  thunder  from  the  south. 

Shall  rain  their  drift  of  bullets  on  this  town. 

Bast.  O  prudent  discipline  !     From  north  to  south ; 
Austria  and  France  shoot  in  each  other's  mouth  :         [Aside. 
I  '11  stir  them  to  it : — Come,  away,  away ! 

Hubert.  Hear  us,  great  kings :  vouchsafe  a  while  to  stay. 
And  I  shall  show  you  peace,  and  fair-fac'd  league ; 
Win  you  this  city  without  stroke  or  wound ; 
Rescue  those  breathing  lives  to  die  in  beds. 
That  here  come  sacrifices  for  the  field  : 
Persever  not,  but  hear  me,  mighty  kings. 


280  KING  JOHN.  [Act  II. 

K.  John.  Speak  on,  with  favour;  we  are  bent  to  hear. 

Hubert.  That  daughter  there  of  Spain,  the  lady  Blanch, 
Is  near  to  England ;  Look  upon  the  years 
Of  Lewis  the  Dauphin,  and  that  lovely  maid : 
If  lusty  love  should  go  in  quest  of  beauty. 
Where  should  he  find  it  fairer  than  in  Blanch  ? 
If  zealous  love  should  go  in  search  of  virtue. 
Where  should  he  find  it  purer  than  in  Blanch? 
If  love  ambitious  sought  a  match  of  birth. 
Whose  veins  bound  richer  blood  than  lady  Blanch  ? 
Such  as  she  is,  in  beauty,  virtue,  birth. 
Is  the  young  Dauphin  every  way  complete ; 
If  not  complete  of,*  say,  he  is  not  she ; 
And  she  again  wants  nothing,  to  name  want. 
If  want  it  be  not,  that  she  is  not  he : 
He  is  the  half  part  of  a  blessed  man. 
Left  to  be  finished  by  such  a  ^  she ; 
And  she  a  fair  divided  excellence. 
Whose  fulness  of  perfection  lies  in  him, 
O,  two  such  silver  currents,  when  they  join. 
Do  glorify  the  banks  that  bound  them  in : 
And  two  such  shores  to  two  such  streams  made  one. 
Two  such  controlling  bounds  shall  you  be,  kings. 
To  these  two  princes,  if  you  marry  them. 
This  union  shall  do  more  than  battery  can. 
To  our  fast-closed  gates ;  for,  at  this  match. 
With  swifter  spleen  than  powder  can  enforce. 
The  mouth  of  passage  shall  we  fling  wide  ope, 
And  give  you  entrance ;  but,  without  this  match. 
The  sea  enraged  is  not  half  so  deaf. 
Lions  more  confident,  mountains  and  rocks 
More  free  from  motion,  no,  not  death  himself 
In  mortal  fury  half  so  peremptory. 
As  we  to  keep  this  city. 

■  Complete  of.     So  the  original.     Hanlner  changed  this  reading  to, 
'*  If  not  complete,  O  say,  he  is  not  she," 
which  is  to  substitute  the  language  of  the  eighteenth  century  for  that  of  the  six- 
teenth. 

I>  A.     The  original  reads  a«^vidently  a  misprint. 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  281 

Bast.  Here  's  a  stay/ 

That  shakes  the  rotten  carcase  of  old  death 
Out  of  his  rags !     Here  's  a  large  mouth,  indeed. 
That  spits  forth  death,  and  mountains,  rocks,  and  seas  ; 
Talks  as  familiarly  of  roaring  lions. 
As  maids  of  thirteen  do  of  puppy-dogs ! 
What  cannoneer  begot  this  lusty  blood  ? 
He  speaks  plain  cannon,  fire,  and  smoke,  and  bounce ; 
He  gives  the  bastinado  with  his  tongue ; 
Our  ears  are  cudgell'd ;  not  a  word  of  his. 
But  buffets  better  than  a  fist  of  France  : 
Zounds !  I  was  never  so  bethump'd  with  words. 
Since  I  first  call'd  my  brother'^s  father,  dad. 

Eli.  Son,  list  to  this  conjunction,  make  this  match ; 
Give  with  our  niece  a  dowry  large  enough : 
For  by  this  knot  thou  shalt  so  surely  tie 
Thy  now  unsur'd  assurance  to  the  crown. 
That  yon  green  boy  shall  have  no  sun  to  ripe 
The  bloom  that  promiseth  a  mighty  fruit. 
I  see  a  yielding  in  the  looks  of  France ; 
Mark,  how  they  whisper :  urge  them,  while  their  souls 
Are  capable  of  this  ambition ; 
Lest  zeal,  now  melted,*'  by  the  windy  breath 
Of  soft  petitions,  pity,  and  remorse. 
Cool  and  congeal  again  to  what  it  was. 

^  Here '«  a  stay.  This  little  word  has  produced  large  criticism.  Johnson  would 
Tea.djlaw;  another  emendator,  Becket,  would  give  us  say.  Malone  and  Steevens 
have  two  pages  to  prove,  what  requires  no  proof,  that  stay  means  interruption. 

^  Zeal,  now  melted.  There  is  great  confusion  in  what  the  commentators  say  on 
this  image.  Johnson  thinks  Shakspere  means  to  represent  zeal,  in  its  highest  degree, 
as  congealed  by  a  frost;  Steevens  thinks  "  the  poet  means  to  compare  zeal  to  metal 
in  a  state  of  fusion,  and  not  to  dissolving  ice  ;"  Malone  afiSrms  that  "  Shakspere 
does  not  say  that  zeal,  when  congealed,  exerts  its  utmost  power ;  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, that  when  it  is  congealed  or  frozen  it  ceases  to  exert  itself  at  all."  All  this 
discordance  appears  to  us  to  be  produced  by  not  limiting  the  image  by  the  poet's 
own  words.  The  "zeal"  of  the  King  of  France  and  of  Lewis  is  "now  melted" — 
whether  that  melting  represent  metal  in  a  state  of  fusion,  or  dissolving  ice :  it  has 
lost  its  compactness,  its  cohesion ;  but 

"  the  windy  breath 
Of  soft  petitions,'' — 
the  pleading  of  Constance  and  Arthur, — the  pity  and  remorse  of  Philip  for  their 
lot, — may  "cool  and  congeal "  it  "again  to  what  it  was;" — may  make  it  again  solid 
and  entire. 


282  KING  JOHN.  [Act  II. 

Hubert.  Why  answer  not  the  double  majesties 
This  friendly  treaty  of  our  threaten'd  town  ? 

K.  Phi.  Speak  England  first,  that  hath  been  forward  first 
To  speak  unto  this  city :  What  say  you  ? 

K.  John.  If  that  the  Dauphin  there,  thy  princely  son. 
Can  in  this  book  of  beauty  read,  I  love. 
Her  dowry  shall  weigh  equal  with  a  queen : 
For  Anjou,  and  fair  Touraine,  Maine,  Poictiers, 
And  all  that  we  upon  this  side  the  sea 
(Except  this  city  now  by  us  besieg'd) 
Find  liable  to  our  crown  and  dignity. 
Shall  gild  her  bridal  bed ;  and  make  her  rich 
In  titles,  honours,  and  promotions. 
As  she  in  beauty,  education,  blood. 
Holds  hand  with  any  princess  of  the  world. 

K.  Phi.  What  sayst  thou,  boy?  look  in  the  lady's  face. 

Lew.  I  do,  my  lord,  and  in  her  eye  I  find 
A  wonder,  or  a  wondrous  miracle. 
The  shadow  of  myself  form'd  in  her  eye ; 
Which,  being  but  the  shadow  of  your  son. 
Becomes  a  sun,  and  makes  your  son  a  shadow  : 
I  do  protest,  I  never  lov'd  myself. 
Till  now  infixed  I  beheld  myself. 
Drawn  in  the  flattering  table  of  her  eye. 

[Whispers  with  Blanch. 

Bast.  Drawn  in  the  flattering  table  of  her  eye ! — 

Hang'd  in  the  frowning  wrinkle  of  her  brow ! — 
And  quarter'd  in  her  heart  I — he  doth  espy 

Himself  love's  traitor :  This  is  pity  now. 
That  hang'd,  and  drawn,  and  quarter'd,  there  should  be. 
In  such  a  love,  so  vile  a  lout  as  he. 

Blanch.  My  uncle's  will,  in  this  respect,  is  mine. 
If  he  see  aught  in  you,  that  makes  him  like. 
That  anything  he  sees,  which  moves  his  liking, 
I  can  with  ease  translate  it  to  my  will ; 
Or,  if  you  will,  to  speak  more  properly, 
I  will  enforce  it  easily  to  my  love. 
Further  I  will  not  flatter  you,  my  lord. 
That  "all  I  see  in  you  is  worthy  love. 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  283 

Than  this, — that  nothing  do  I  see  in  you. 

Though  churlish  thoughts  themselves  should  be  your  judge. 

That  I  can  find  should  merit  any  hate. 

K.  John.  What  say  these  young  ones?     What  say  you, 
my  niece  ? 

Blanch.  That  she  is  bound  in  honour  still  to  do 
What  you  in  wisdom  still*  vouchsafe  to  say, 

K.  John.  Speak  then,  prince  Dauphin ;  can  you  love  this 
lady? 

Lew.  Nay,  ask  me  if  I  can  refrain  from  love ; 
For  I  do  love  her  most  unfeignedly. 

K.  John.  Then  do  I  give  Volquessen,  Touraine,  Maine, 
Poictiers,  and  Anjou,  these  five  provinces. 
With  her  to  thee ;  and  this  addition  more. 
Full  thirty  thousand  marks  of  English  coin. 
Philip  of  France,  if  thou  be  pleas'd  withal. 
Command  thy  son  and  daughter  to  join  hands. 

K.  Phi.  It  likes  us  well.  Young  princes,  close  your  hands. 

Aust.  And  your  lips  too ;  for  I  am  well  assur'd 
That  I  did  so,  when  I  was  first  assur'd.^ 

K.  Phi.  Now,  citizens  of  Anglers,  ope  your  gates. 
Let  in  that  amity  which  you  have  made ; 
For  at  saint  Mary's  chapel,  presently. 
The  rites  of  marriage  shall  be  solemniz'd. 
Is  not  the  lady  Constance  in  this  troop? 
I  know  she  is  not ;  for  this  match,  made  up. 
Her  presence  would  have  interrupted  much : 
Where  is  she  and  her  son  ?  tell  me,  who  knows. 

Lew.  She  is  sad  and  passionate*^  at  your  highness'  tent." 

K.  Phi.  And,  by  my  faith,  this  league,  that  we  have  made. 
Will  give  her  sadness  very  little  cure. 
Brother  of  England,  how  may  we  content 
This  widow  lady  ?     In  her  right  we  came ; 
Which  we,  God  knows,  have  turn'd  another  way. 
To  our  own  vantage. 

*  Still  vouchsafe  to  say.    This  is  the  reading  of  the  original.     In  modem  editions 
we  have  shall  instead  of  still,  which  reading  is  certainly  not  called  for. 
^  First  assur'd — aflSanced. 
'  Passionate — given  up  to  grief.  • 


284  KING  JOHN,  [Act  II. 

K.  John.  We  will  heal  up  all. 

For  we  '11  create  young  Arthur  duke  of  Bretagne, 
And  earl  of  Richmond  ;  and  this  rich  fair  town 
We'  make  him  lord  of. — Call  the  lady  Constance ; 
Some  speedy  messenger  bid  her  repair 
To  our  solemnity  : — I  trust  we  shall. 
If  not  fill  up  the  measure  of  her  will. 
Yet  in  some  measure  satisfy  her  so. 
That  we  shall  stop  her  exclamation. 
Go  we,  as  well  as  haste  will  suffer  us. 
To  this  unlook'd-for,  unprepared  pomp. 

\^Exeunt  all  but  the  Bastard. — The  Citizens  retire 
from  the  walls. 

Bast.  Mad  world !  mad  kings  !  mad  composition ! 
John,  to  stop  Arthur's  title  in  the  whole. 
Hath  willingly  departed  with  a  part : 
And  France,  whose  armour  conscience  buckled  on. 
Whom  zeal  and  charity  brought  to  the  field 
As  God's  own  soldier,  rounded  in  the  ear 
With  that  same  purpose-changer,  that  sly  devil ; 
That  broker  that  still  breaks  the  pate  of  faith ; 
That  daily  break-vow ;  he  that  wins  of  all. 
Of  kings,  of  beggars,  old  men,  young  men,  maids, — 
Who  having  no  external  thing  to  lose 
But  the  word  maid,  cheats  the  poor  maid  of  that ; 
That  smooth-fac'd  gentleman,  tickling  commodity,*" 
Commodity,  the  bias  of  the  world  ;  '^ 
The  world,  who  of  itself  is  peised**  well. 
Made  to  run  even ;  upon  even  ground ; 
Till  this  advantage,  this  vile  drawing  bias. 
This  sway  of  motion,  this  commodity, 

'  We.    So  the  original.    Some  editions  incorrectly  read  We  'II. 

*   Commodity — interest. 

*=  Bias  of  the  world.  The  allusion  to  the  bias  in  a  bowl  is  very  happily  kept  up. 
The  world  is  of  itself  well-balanced — fit  to  run  even;  but  the  bias  interest,  the  sway 
of  motion, 

Makes  it  take  head  from  all  indifferency." 

In  '  Cupid's  Whirligig'  (1607)  we  have,  "O,  the  world  is  like  a  bias  bowl,  and  it 
runs  all  on  the  rich  men's  sides." 
^  Peised — poised. 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  285 

Makes  it  take  head  from  all  indiiferency. 

From  all  direction,  purpose,  course,  intent  : 

And  this  same  bias,  this  commodity. 

This  bawd,  this  broker,  this  all-changing  word, 

Clapp'd  on  the  outward  eye  of  fickle  France, 

Hath  drawn  him  from  his  own  determin'd  aid. 

From  a  resolv'd  and  honourable  war. 

To  a  most  base  and  vile-concluded  peace. — 

And  why  rail  I  on  this  commodity? 

But  for  because  he  hath  not  woo'd  me  yet  : 

Not  that  I  have  the  power  to  clutch  my  hand. 

When  his  fair  angels  would  salute  my  palm ; 

But  for  my  hand,  as  unattempted  yet. 

Like  a  poor  beggar,  raileth  on  the  rich. 

Well,  whiles  I  am  a  beggar,  I  will  rail. 

And  say, — there  is  no  sin  but  to  be  rich ; 

And  being  rich,  my  virtue  then  shall  be. 

To  say, — there  is  no  vice  but  beggary : 

Since  kings  break  faith  upon  commodity. 

Gain,  be  my  lord !  for  I  will  worship  thee !  \_Exit. 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    ACT    IL 


'  Scene  I. —         "  A  braver  choice  of  dauntlas  tpirits. 

Than  now  the  English  bottoms  have  waft  o^er. 
Did  never  float  upon  the  swelling  tide.'''' 

The  troops  of  William  the  Conqueror  are  said  to  have  been  borne  to  the  invasion 
of  England  upon  several  thousand  barks.  Henry  II.  embarked  his  forces  for  the 
conquest  of  Ireland  in  four  hundred  vessels.  In  both  these  periods  the  craft  must 
have  been  mere  boats.  But  when  Richard  carried  his  soldiers  to  the  Holy  Land, 
his  armament  consisted  of  many  large  ships.  "  The  whole  fleet  set  sail  for  Acre. 
As  a  rapid  current  carried  it  through  the  straits  of  Messina,  it  presented  a  beautiful 
and  imposing  appearance,  that  called  forth  the  involuntary  admiration  of  the  people 
of  either  shore, — the  Sicilians  saying  that  so  gallant  an  armament  had  never  before 
been  seen  there,  and  never  would  be  seen  again.  The  size  and  beauty  of  the  ships 
seem  to  have  excited  this  admiration  not  less  than  their  number.  The  flag  of  Eng- 
land  floated  over  fifty-three  galleys,  thirteen  dromones,  '  mighty  great  ships  with 
triple  sails,'  one  hundred  carikes  or  busses,  and  many  smaller  craft."*  This  bril- 
liant navy  for  the  most  ]}art  consisted  of  merchant-vessels,  collected  from  all  the 
ports  of  the  kingdom,  each  of  which  was  bound,  when  required  by  the  king,  to  fur- 
nish him  with  a  certain  number.  John  had  a  few  galleys  of  his  own.  The  first 
great  naval  victory  of  England,  that  of  the  Damme,  or  of  the  Sluys,  was  won  in  the 
reign  of  John,  in  1213. 

*  Scene  I. — "  At  great  Alcidei  shoes  upon  an  ass." 
The  ass  was  to  wear  the  shoes,  and  not  to  bear  them  upon  his  back,  as  Theobald 
supposed,  and  therefore  would  read  shows.     The  "shoes  of  Hercules"  were  as  com- 
monly alluded  (o  in  our  old  poets  as  the  ex  pede  Herculem  was  a  familiar  allusion 
of  the  learned. 

•  Scene  I. — "  St.  George,  that  tw'indg'd^''  &c. 
How  exceedingly  characteristic  is  this  speech  of  the  Bastard !     "  Saint  George  " 
*  Pictorial  History  of  England,  vol.  i.  p.  494. 


KING  JOHN.  287 

was  the  great  war-cry  of  Richard ; — but  the  universal  humorist  lets  down  the  dig- 
nity of  the  champion  in  a  moment,  by  an  sissociation  with  the  hostess's  sign.  The 
author  of '  Waverley '  employs  this  device  precisely  with  the  same  poetical  effect, 
when  Galium  Beg  compares  Waverley  with  his  target  to  "  the  bra'  Highlander  tat 's 
painted  on  the  board  afore  the  mickle  change-house  they  ca'  Luckie  Middlemass's." 
— We  give  a  serious  portrait  of  St.  George,  from  an  old  illumination,  that  the  painters 
may  go  right,  in  future,  who  desire  to  make  the  saint 

"  Sit  on  his  horseback  at  mine  hostess'  door." 

*  Scene  II. — "  And,  tike  a  jolly  troop  of  huntsmen,  come 
Our  lusty  English,  all  with  purpled  hands.'''' 
The  old  English  custom  of  the  principal  men  of  the  hunt  "  taking  assay  of  the 
deer"  furnished  this  image,  and  the  correspondent  one  in  '  Julius  Caesar :' — 
"  Pardon  me,  Julius  :  here  wast  thou  bay'd,  brave  hart; 
Here  didst  thou  fall,  and  here  thy  hunters  stand, 
Sign'd  in  thy  spoil,  and  crimson'd  in  thy  lethe." 
Old  Turberville  gives  us  the  details  of  this  custom  :  "  Our  order  is,  that  the 
prince,  or  chief,  if  so  please  them,  do  alight,  and  take  assay  of  the  deer,  with  a  sharp 
knife,  the  which  is  done  in  this  manner  : — the  deer  being  laid  upon  his  back,  the 
prince,  chief,  or  such  as  they  do  appoint,   comes  to  it,  and  the  chief  huntsman, 
kneeling  if  it  be  to  a  prince,  doth  hold  the  deer  by  the  fore-foot,  while  the  prince, 
or  chief,  do  cut  a  slit  drawn  along  the  brisket  of  the  deer."     It  would  not  be  easy 
to  effect  this  operation  without  the  "  purpled  hands,"  and  Johnson's  suggestion  that 
it  was  "  one  of  the  savage  practices  of  the  chase  for  all  to  stain  their  hands  in  the 
blood  of  the  deer,  as  a  trophy,"  is  uncalled  for. 

'  Scene  II. — "  7'^^  mutines  o/'/erK«a&w2." 
The  union  of  the  various  factions  in  Jerusalem,  when  besieged  by  Titus,  is  here 
alluded  to.     Malone  gives  a  particular  passage  from  the  '  Latter  Times  of  the  Jews' 
Commonwealth,'  translated  from  the  Hebrew  of  Joseph  Ben  Gorion,  which  he  thinks 
suggested  the  passage  to  our  poet. 

•  Scene  II. — "  She  is  sad  and  passionate  at  your  highness'  tent."' 
The  following  representation  of  tents  is  from  illuminations  in  Royal  MS.   16, 
G.  6, '  L'Histoire  des  Roys  de  France.' 


288  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II 


[I'hilip,  King  of  France.] 

HISTORICAL    ILLUSTRATION. 


The  events  of  nearly  two  years  are  crowded  into  the  rapid  movements  of  this  act. 
And  yet,  except  in  one  circumstance,  the  general  historical  truth  is  to  be  found  in 
the  poet.  That  circumstance  is  the  bringing  of  Austria  upon  the  scene,  with  the 
assertion  that-=— 

"  Richard,  that  robb'd  tlie  lion  of  his  heart, 
And  fought  the  holy  wars  in  Palestine, 
By  this  brave  duke  came  early  to  his  grave." 

Leopold,  the  brutal  and  crafty  gaoler  of  the  Lion-heart,  died  some  five  years  before 
Richard  fell  by  a  wound  from  a  cross-bow,  before  the  castle  of  the  Viscount  Ly- 
moges ;  one  of  his  vassals  in  Limousin — 

"  An  arblnster  with  a  quarrel  him  shot, 
As  he  about  the  castell  went  to  spie."* 

In  the  third  act  Constance  exclaims,  "  O,  Lymoges,  O,  Austria,"  making  the  two 
enemies  of  Richard  as  one.  In  the  old  play  of '  King  John '  we  have  the  same  con- 
fusion of  dates  and  persons ;  for  there  "  the  Bastard  chaseth  Lymoges  the  Austrich 
duke,  and  maketh  him  leave  the  lyon's  skin."  It  was  unquestionably  a  principle 
with  Shakspere  not  to  disturb  the  conventional  opinions  of  his  audience  by  greatly 
changing  the  plots  with  which  they  were  familiar.  He  knew  full  well,  from  his 
chronicles,  that  the  injuries  which  Austria  had  heaped  upon  Richard  could  no 
longer  be  revenged  by  Richard's  son, — and  that  the  quarrel  of  Faulconbridge  was 
with  a  meaner  enemy,  the  Viscount  Lymoges.  But  he  adopted  the  conduct  of  the 
story  in  the  old  play ;  for  he  would  have  lost  much  by  sacrificing  the  '•  lion's  skin  " 
of  the  subtle  Duke  to  an  historical  fact  with  which  his  audience  was  not  familiar. 
We  have  adverted  to  this  principle  more  at  length  in  the  Introductory  Notice. 

•  Ilardyng's  Chronicle. 


KING  JOHN.  289 

With  the  exception,  then,  of  this  positive  violation  of  accuracy,  we  have,  in  this  act, 
a  vivid  dramatic  picture  ol"  the  general  aspect  of  affairs  in  the  contest  between  John 
and  Philip.  We  have  not,  indeed,  the  exhibition  of  the  slow  course  of  those  perpe- 
tually shifting  manoeuvres  which  marked  the  policy  of  the  wily  King  of  France 
towards  the  unhappy  boy  whom  he  one  day  protected  and  another  day  abandoned  ; 
we  Imve  the  fair  promises  kept  and  broken  in  the  space  of  a  few  hours.  Let  us, 
however,  very  briefly  trace  the  real  course  of  events. 

Philip  of  France  had  been  twenty  years  upon  the  throne  when  John  leapt  into  the 
dominion  of  Richard,  to  whom  he  had  been  a  rebel  and  a  traitor,  when  the  hero  of 
the  Holy  Land  was  waging  the  mistaken  fight  of  chivalry  and  of  Christendom. 
Philip  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  examples  that  history  presents  of  the  con- 
stant opposition  that  is  carried  on,  and  for  the  most  part  successfully,  of  cunning 
against  force.  Surrounded  as  Philip  was  by  turbulent  allies  and  fierce  enemies,  he 
perpetually  reminds  us,  in  his  windings  and  doublings,  of  his  even  more  crafty 
successor,  Louis  XI.  Arthur  was  a  puppet  in  the  hands  of  Philip,  to  be  set  up  or 
knocked  down  as  Philip  desired  to  bully  or  to  cajole  John  out  of  the  territories  of 
the  house  of  Anjou.  In  the  possession  of  Arthur's  person  he  had  a  hostage  whom 
he  might  put  forward  as  an  ally,  or  degrade  as  a  prisoner  ;— and,  in  the  same  spirit, 
when  he  seized  upon  a  fortress  in  the  name  of  Arthur,  he  demolished  it,  that  he 
might  lose  no  opportunity  of  destroying  a  barrier  to  the  extension  of  his  own  fron- 
tier. The  peace  which  Shakspere  represents,  and  correctly,  as  being  established  by 
the  marriage  of  Blanch  and  Lewis,  was  one  of  several  truces  and  treaties  of  amity 
that  took  place  in  the  two  or  three  first  years  of  John's  reign.  The  treaty  of  the 
22nd  May,  in  the  year  1200,  between  these  two  kings,  agreed  that,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Blanch's  dowry,  John  should  remain  in  possession  of  all  the  dominions  of  his 
brother  Richard ; — for  Arthur  was  to  hold  even  his  own  Brittany  as  a  vassal  of 
John.  It  is  afi&rmed  that  by  a  secret  article  of  this  treaty  Philip  was  to  inherit  the 
continental  dominions  thus  confirmed  to  John,  if  he,  John,  died  without  children. 

At  the  time  of  the  treaty  of  1200,  Constance,  the  mother  of  Arthur,  was  alive. 
As  we  have  said,  she  was  reigning  Duchess  of  Brittany,  in  her  own  right.  If  we 
may  judge  of  her  character  from  the  chroniclers,  she  was  weak  and  selfish—  deserting 
the  bed  of  her  second  husband,  and  marrying  the  Lord  Guy  de  Touars,  at  a  time 
when  the  fortune,  and  perhaps  the  life,  of  her  son,  by  Geffrey,  depended  upon  the 
singleness  of  her  affection  for  him.  But  it  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  speak  upon 
these  points ;  and  there  is,  at  any  rate,  little  doubt  that  her  second  husband  treated 
her  with  neglect  and  cruelty. 

The  surpassing  beauty  of  the  maternal  love  of  the  Constance  of  Shakspere  will,  it 
is  probable,  destroy  all  other  associations  with  the  character  of  Constance.  We  have 
no  record  that  Constance  was  not  a  most  devoted  mother  to  her  eldest  born ;  and  in 
that  age,  when  divorces  were  as  common  amongst  the  royal  and  the  noble  as  other 
breaches  of  faith,  we  are  not  entitled  to  believe  that  her  third  marriage  was  incom- 
patible with  her  passionate  love  for  the  heir  of  so  many  hopes, — her  heartbreaking 
devotion  to  her  betrayed  and  forsaken  son, — and  her  natural  belief  that 

"  Since  the  birth  of  Cain,  the  first  male  child. 
To  him  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire, 
There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  born." 

The  fate  of  Constance  was  not  altogether  inconsistent  with  Sbakspere's  delineation 
of  the  heartbroken  mother.  She  died  in  1201.  But  Arthur  was  not  then  John's 
captive, — although  all  his  high  hopes  were  limited  to  Brittany. 

The  treaty  of  marriage  between  Lewis  and  Blanch  is  thus  described  by  Holiu- 
shed  : — 

"  So  King  John  returned  back  (from  York)  and  sailed  again  into  Normandy, 
Vol.  IV.  U 


290 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 


because  the  variance  still  depended  between  him  and  the  King  of  France.  Finally, 
upon  the  Ascension-day  in  tliis  second  year  of  his  reign,  they  came  eftsoons  to  a 
communication  betwixt  tlie  towns  of  Vernon  and  Lisle  Dandelie,  where,  finally, 
they  concluded  an  agreement,  with  a  marriage  to  be  had  betwixt  Lewis,  the  son  of 
King  Philip,  and  the  lady  Blanch,  daughter  to  Alfonso  King  of  Castile,  the  eighth 
of  that  name,  and  niece  to  King  John  by  bis  sister  Eleanor."  'i  he  terms  of  the 
treaty  are,  in  several  resj)ect8,  accurately  described  by  Shakspere — the  dowry  of 
tliirty  thousand  marks — the  resignation  by  John  of  certain  ]X)8session8 — the  retention 
of  Angiers — and  the  bestowal  of  Brittany  and  the  earldom  of  Richmond  ujxjn 
Arthur. — John,  however,  retained  much  of  what  the  poet  has  recited  as  l)eing  aban- 
doned by  him.  "The  lady  Blfinch"  was  not  personally  consenting  to  this  treaty, 
for  it  was  stipulated  tliat  "  the  foresaid  Blanch  should  be  conveyed  into  France  to 
her  husband  witli  all  speed." 


[Blanch  of  Castile.] 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  291 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  \,— The  same.     The  French  King'*  Tent. 

Enter  Constance,  Arthur,  and  Salisbury. 

Const.  Gone  to  be  married  !  gone  to  swear  a  peace  ! 
False  blood  to  false  blood  join'd  !  Gone  to  be  friends  ! 
Shall  Lewis  have  Blanch  ?  and  Blanch  those  provinces  ? 
It  is  not  so  ;  thou  hast  misspoke,  misheard ; 
Be  well  advis'd,  tell  o'er  thy  tale  again : 
It  cannot  be ;  thou  dost  but  say,  't  is  so  : 
I  trust  I  may  not  trust  thee ;  for  thy  word 
Is  but  the  vain  breath  of  a  common  man  : 
Believe  me,  I  do  not  believe  thee,  man ; 
I  have  a  king's  oath  to  the  contrary. 
Thou  shalt  be  punish'd  for  thus  frighting  me. 
For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears  ; 
Oppress'd  with  wrongs,  and  therefore  full  of  fears ; 
A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears ; 
A  woman,  naturally  born  to  fears  ; 
And  though  thou  now  confess  thou  didst  but  jest 
With  my  vex'd  spirits,  I  cannot  take  a  truce. 
But  they  will  quake  and  tremble  all  this  day. 
What  dost  thou  mean  by  shaking  of  thy  h  ead? 
Why  dost  thou  look  so  sadly  on  my  son  ? 
What  means  that  hand  upon  that  breast  of  thine  ? 
Why  holds  thine  eye  that  lamentable  rheum. 
Like  a  proud  river  peering  o'er  his  bounds  ? 
Be  these  sad  signs  confirmers  of  thy  words  ? 
Then  speak  again  ;  not  all  thy  former  tale. 
But  this  one  word,  whether  thy  tale  be  true. 

Sal.  As  true,  as,  I  believe,  you  think  them  false 
That  give  you  cause  to  prove  my  saying  true. 

Const.  O,  if  thou  teach  me  to  believe  this  sorrow. 
Teach  thou  this  sorrow  how  to  make  me  die ; 

U  2 


292  KING  JOHN.  [Act  III. 

And  let  belief  and  life  encounter  so, 

As  doth  the  fury  of  two  desperate  men. 

Which,  in  the  very  meeting,  fall,  and  die. — 

Lewis  marry  Blanch !     O,  boy,  then  where  art  thou  ? 

France  friend  with  England  !  what  becomes  of  me  ? — 

Fellow,  be  gone  :  I  cannot  brook  thy  sight ; 

This  news  hath  made  thee  a  most  ugly  man. 

Sal.  What  other  harm  have  I,  good  lady,  done. 
But  spoke  the  harm  that  is  by  others  done  ? 

Const.  Which  harm  within  itself  so  heinous  is. 
As  it  makes  harmful  all  that  speak  of  it. 

Arth.  I  do  beseech  you,  madam,  be  content. 

Const.  If  thou,  that  bidd'st  me  be  content,  wert  grim. 
Ugly,  and  sland'rous  to  thy  mother's  womb. 
Full  of  un pleasing  blots  and  sightless  '  stains. 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious,^ 
Patch'd  with  foul  moles  and  eye-olFending  marks, 
I  would  not  care,  I  then  would  be  content ; 
For  then  I  should  not  love  thee ;  no,  nor  thou 
Become  thy  great  birth,  nor  deserve  a  crown. 
But  thou  art  fair ;  and  at  thy  birth,  dear  boy. 
Nature  and  Fortune  join'd  to  make  thee  great  : 
Of  Nature's  gifts  thou  mayst  with  lilies  boast. 
And  with  the  half-blown  rose  :  but  Fortune,  O  ! 
She  is  corrupted,  chang'd,  and  won  from  thee  ; 
She  adulterates  hourly  with  thy  uncle  John ; 
And  with  her  golden  hand  hath  pluck'd  on  France 
To  tread  down  fair  respect  of  sovereignty. 
And  made  his  majesty  the  bawd  to  theirs. 
France  is  a  bawd  to  Fortune,  and  king  John ; 
That  strumpet  Fortune,  that  usurping  John  : — 
Tell  me,  thou  fellow,  is  not  France  forsworn  ? 
Envenom  him  with  words  ;  or  get  thee  gone. 
And  leave  those  woes  alone,  which  I  alone 
Am  bound  to  under-bear. 

Sal.  Pardon  me,  madam, 

I  may  not  go  without  you  to  the  kings. 

■  SightUs* — the  opposite  of  sightly. 
•'  Prodigious.     Preternatural. 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  293 

Const.  Thou  mayst,  thou  shalt,  I  will  not  go  with  thee : 
I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud  : 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  owner  stoop.* 
To  me,  and  to  the  state  of  my  great  grief. 
Let  kings  assemble  ;  for  my  grief 's  so  great 
That  no  supporter  but  the  huge  firm  earth 
Can  hold  it  up :  here  I  and  sorrows  sit ; 
Here  is  my  throne,  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it. 

\^She  throws  herself  on  the  ground. 

Enter  King  John,  King  Philip,  Lewis,  Blanch,  Elinor, 
Bastard,  Austria,  and  Attendants. 

K.  Phi.  'T  is  true,  fair  daughter ;  and  this  blessed  day 
Ever  in  France  shall  be  kept  festival : 
To  solemnize  this  day,  the  glorious  sun 
Stays  in  his  course,  and  plays  the  alchymist ; 
Turning,  with  splendour  of  his  precious  eye. 
The  meagre  cloddy  earth  to  glittering  gold : 
The  yearly  course  that  brings  this  day  about 
Shall  never  see  it  but  a  holiday. 

Const.  A  wicked  day,  and  not  a  holyday  ! —  [Rising. 

What  hath  this  day  deserv'd  ?  what  hath  it  done. 
That  it  in  golden  letters  should  be  set. 
Among  the  high  tides,  in  the  kalendar  ? 

*  Stoop.    What  is  called  an  "  emendation"  by  Hanmer  still  holds  its  place  in 
all  the  editions  except  Malone's  :  it  is, 

"  For  grief  is  proud  and  makes  his  owner  slout." 
The  meaning  of  the  passage  appears  to  us  briefly  thus  :  Constance  refuses  to  go  with 
Salisbury  to  the  kings — she  will  instruct  her  sorrows  to  be  proud ;  for  grief  is  proud 
in  spirit,  even  while  it  bows  down  the  body  of  its  owner.     The  commentators  sub- 
stituted the  ridiculous  word  "  stout  "  because  they  received  stoop  in  the  sense  of 
submission.     Constance  continues  the  fine  image  throughout  her  speech : — 
"  To  me,  and  to  the  state  of  my  great  grief, 
Let  kings  assemble ;" 
here  grief  is  "  proud." 

"  Here  I  and  sorrows  sit ;" 
here  grief  "  makes  his  owner  stoop,"  and  leaves  the  physical  power  "  no  supporter 
but  the  huge  firm  earth."  A  valued  friend,  for  whose  opinion  we  have  the  highest 
regard,  has  no  doubt  that  stoop  is  the  word,  but  that  the  meaning  is,  makes  its 
owner  stoop  to  it — to  grief.  He  thinks  that  the  and  joins  and  assimilates  the  two 
clauses  of  the  sentence,  instead  of  contrasting  and  separating  them.  At  any  rate,  we 
cannot  but  choose  to  abide  by  the  restoration. 


294  KING  JOHN.  [Act  III. 

Nay,  rather,  turn  this  day  out  of  the  week ; 
This  clay  of  shame,  oppression,  perjury  : 
Or,  if  it  must  stand  still,  let  wives  with  child 
Pray  that  their  burthens  may  not  fall  this  day. 
Lest  that  their  hopes  prodigiously  be  cross'd  : 
But  on  '  this  day  let  seamen  fear  no  wrack ; 
No  bargains  break,  that  arc  not  this  day  made  : 
This  day,  all  things  begun  come  to  ill  end ; 
Yea,  faith  itself  to  hollow  falsehood  change ! 

K.  Phi.  By  heaven,  lady,  you  shall  have  no  cause 
To  curse  the  fair  proceedings  of  this  day. 
Have  I  not  pawn'd  to  you  my  majesty  ? 

Const.  You  have  beguil'd  me  with  a  counterfeit. 
Resembling  majesty ;  which,  being  touch'd,  and  tried. 
Proves  valueless  :  You  are  forsworn,  forsworn  ; 
You  came  in  arms  to  spill  mine  enemies'  blood. 
But  now  in  arms  you  strengthen  it  with  yours  : 
The  grappling  vigour  and  rough  frown  of  war 
Is  cold,  in  amity  and  painted  peace. 
And  our  oppression  hath  made  up  this  league  : — 
Arm,  arm,  you  heavens,  against  these  perjur'd  kings ! 
A  widow  cries ;  be  husband  to  me,  heavens ! 
Let  not  the  hours  of  this  ungodly  day 
Wear  out  the  day  ^  in  peace ;  but,  ere  sunset. 
Set  armed  discord  'twixt  these  perjur'd  kings ! 
Hear  me,  O,  hear  me  ! 

Atist.  Lady  Constance,  peace. 

Const.  War  !  war !  no  peace !  peace  is  to  me  a  war. 
O  Lymoges  !  O  Austria !  thou  dost  shame 
That  bloody  spoil :  Thou  slave,  thou  wretch,  thou  coward  ; 
Thou  little  valiant,  great  in  villainy  ! 
Thou  ever  strong  upon  the  stronger  side  ! 
Thou  Fortune's  champion,  that  dost  never  fight 
But  when  her  humorous  ladyship  is  by 
To  teach  thee  safety  !  thou  art  perjur'd  too. 
And  sooth'st  up  greatness.     What  a  fool  art  thou, 
A  ramping  fool ;  to  brag,  and  stamp,  and  swear, 

•  But «« — except  on. 
''  Day.     The  original  has  days. 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  295 

Upon  my  party !     Thou  cold-blooded  slave. 
Hast  thou  not  spoke  like  thunder  on  my  side? 
Been  sworn  my  soldier?     Bidding  me  depend 
Upon  thy  stars,  thy  fortune,  and  thy  strength  ? 
And  dost  thou  now  fall  over  to  my  foes  ? 
Thou  wear  a  lion's  hide  !  doff  it  for  shame. 
And  hang  a  calf 's-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

Aust.  O,  that  a  man  should  speak  those  words  to  me  ! 

Bast.  And  hang  a  calf 's-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

Aust.  Thou  dar'st  not  say  so,  villain,  for  thy  life. 

Bast.  And  hang  a  calf 's-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

K  John.  We  like  not  this  ;  thou  dost  forget  thyself. 

Enter  Pandulph. 

K.  Phi.  Here  comes  the  holy  legate  of  the  pope. 

Pand.  Hail,  you  anointed  deputies  of  heaven ! — 
To  thee,  king  John,  my  holy  errand  is. 
I,  Pandulph,  of  fair  Milan  cardinal. 
And  from  pope  Innocent  the  legate  here. 
Do,  in  his  name,  religiously  demand. 
Why  thou  against  the  church,  our  holy  mother. 
So  wilfully  dost  spurn  ;  and,  force  perforce. 
Keep  Stephen  Langton,  chosen  archbishop 
Of  Canterbury,  from  that  holy  see  ? 
This,  in  our  'foresaid  holy  iather's  name. 
Pope  Innocent,  I  do  demand  of  thee. 

K.  John.  What  earthly  *  name  to  interrogatories 
Can  task  t\Q  free  breath  of  a  sacred  king  ? 
Thou  canst  not,  cardinal,  devise  a  name 
So  slight,  unworthy,  and  ridiculous. 
To  charge  me  to  an  answer,  as  the  pope. 
Tell  him  this  tale  ',  and  from  the  mouth  of  England 
Add  thus  much  more, — That  no  Italian  priest 
Shall  tithe  or  toll  in  our  dominions ; 
But  as  we  under  heaven  are  supreme  head. 
So,  under  him,  that  great  supremacy. 
Where  we  do  reign,  we  will  alone  uphold. 
Without  the  assistance  of  a  mortal  hand  : 

*  Earthly.     In  the  original,  earthy. 


296  KING  JOHN.  [Act  III. 

So  tell  the  pope  ;  all  reverence  set  apart. 
To  him,  and  his  usurp'd  authority. 

K.  Phi.  Brother  of  England,  you  blaspheme  in  this. 

K.  John.  Though  you,  and  all  the  kings  of  Christendom, 
Are  led  so  grossly  by  this  meddling  priest. 
Dreading  the  curse  that  money  may  buy  out  j 
And,  by  the  merit  of  vile  gold,  dross,  dust. 
Purchase  corrupted  pardon  of  a  man. 
Who,  in  that  sale,  sells  pardon  from  himself; 
Though  you,  and  all  the  rest,  so  grossly  led. 
This  juggling  witchcraft  with  revenue  cherish  ; 
Yet  I,  alone,  alone  do  me  oppose 
Against  the  pope,  and  count  his  friends  my  foes. 

Pand.  Then  by  the  lawful  power  that  I  have. 
Thou  shalt  stand  curs'd,  and  excommunicate  : 
And  blessed  shall  he  be  that  doth  revolt 
From  his  allegiance  to  an  heretic; 
And  meritorious  shall  that  hand  be  call'd. 
Canonized,  and  worshipp'd  as  a  saint. 
That  takes  away  by  any  secret  course 
Thy  hateful  life. 

Const.  O,  lawful  let  it  be. 

That  I  have  room  with  Rome  ■  to  curse  a  while ! 
Good  father  cardinal,  cry  thou,  amen, 
To  my  keen  curses  :  for,  without  my  wrong. 
There  is  no  tongue  hath  power  to  curse  him  right. 

Pand.  There 's  law  and  warrant,  lady,  for  my  curse. 

Const.  And  for  mine  too ;  when  law  can  do  no  right. 
Let  it  be  lawful  that  law  bar  no  wrong ; 
Law  cannot  give  my  child  his  kingdom  here ; 
For  he  that  holds  his  kingdom  holds  the  law  : 
Therefore,  since  law  itself  is  perfect  wrong. 
How  can  the  law  forbid  my  tongue  to  curse  ? 

Pand.  Philip  of  France,  on  peril  of  a  curse. 
Let  go  the  hand  of  that  arch-heretic ; 
And  raise  the  power  of  France  upon  his  head. 
Unless  he  do  submit  himself  to  Rome. 

■  Room  with  Rome.     Rome  was  formerly  pronounced  room, — and  Shakspere  in- 
dulges in  a  play  upon  words,  even  when  the  utterer  is  strongly  moved. 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  297 

Eli.  Look'st  thou  pale,  France  ?  do  not  let  go  thy  hand. 

Const.  Look  to  that,  devil !  lest  that  France  repent. 
And,  by  disjoining  hands,  hell  lose  a  soul. 

Aust.  King  Philip,  listen  to  the  cardinal. 

Bast.  And  hang  a  calf  s-skin  on  his  recreant  limbs. 

Aust.  Well,  ruffian,  I  must  pocket  up  these  wrongs. 
Because 

Bast.  Your  breeches  best  may  carry  them. 

K.  John.  Philip,  what  say'st  thou  to  the  cardinal  ? 

Const.  What  should  he  say,  but  as  the  cardinal  ? 

Lew.  Bethink  you,  father ;  for  the  difference 
Is,  purchase  of  a  heavy  curse  from  Rome, 
Or  the  light  loss  of  England  for  a  friend  : 
Forego  the  easier. 

Blanch.  That 's  the  curse  of  Rome. 

Const.  O  Lewis,  stand  fast ;  the  devil  tempts  thee  here. 
In  likeness  of  a  new  untrimmed  bride. 

Blanch.  The  lady  Constance  speaks  not  from  her  faith. 
But  from  her  need. 

Const.  O,  if  thou  grant  my  need. 

Which  only  lives  but  by  the  death  of  faith. 
That  need  must  needs  infer  this  principle, — 
That  faith  would  live  again  by  death  of  need ; 
O,  then,  tread  down  my  need,  and  faith  mounts  up ; 
Keep  my  need  up,  and  faith  is  trodden  down. 

K.  John.  The  king  is  mov'd,  and  answers  not  to  this. 

Const.  O,  be  remov'd  from  him,  and  answer  well. 

Aust.  Do  so,  king  Philip ;  hang  no  more  in  doubt. 

Bast.  Hang  nothing  but  a  calf 's-skin,  most  sweet  lout. 

K.  Phi.  I  am  perplex'd,  and  know  not  what  to  say. 

Pand.  What  canst  thou  say,  but  will  perplex  thee  more. 
If  thou  stand  excommunicate,  and  curs'd  ? 

K.  Phi.  Good  reverend  father,  make  my  person  yours. 
And  tell  me  how  you  would  bestow  yourself. 
This  royal  hand  and  mine  are  newly  knit : 
And  the  conjunction  of  our  inward  souls 
Married  in  league,  coupled  and  link'd  together 
With  all  religious  strength  of  sacred  vows. 
The  latest  breath  that  gave  the  sound  of  words 


298  KING  JOHN.  [Act  IU. 

Was  deep-sworn  faith,  peace,  amity,  true  love. 

Between  our  kingdoms,  and  our  royal  selves  ; 

And  even  before  this  truce,  but  new  before, — 

No  longer  than  we  well  could  wash  our  hands. 

To  clap  this  royal  bargain  up  of  peace, — 

Heaven  knows,  they  were  besmear'd  and  overstain'd 

With  slaughter's  pencil ;  where  revenge  did  paint 

The  fearful  difference  of  incensed  kings  : 

And  shall  these  hands,  so  lately  purg'd  of  blood. 

So  newly  join'd  in  love,  so  strong  in  both. 

Unyoke  this  seizure,  and  this  kind  regreet  ? 

Play  fast  and  loose  with  faith  ?  so  jest  with  heaven. 

Make  such  unconstant  children  of  ourselves. 

As  now  again  to  snatch  our  palm  from  palm  ; 

Unswear  faith  sworn  ;  and  on  the  marriage-bed 

Of  smiling  peace  to  march  a  bloody  host^ 

And  make  a  riot  on  the  gentle  brow 

Of  true  sincerity  ?     O,  holy  sir. 

My  reverend  father,  let  it  not  be  so  : 

Out  of  your  grace,  devise,  ordain,  impose 

Some  gentle  order;  and  then  we  shall  be  bless'd 

To  do  your  pleasure,  and  continue  friends. 

Pand.  All  form  is  formless,  order  orderless. 
Save  what  is  opposite  to  England's  love. 
Therefore,  to  arms  !  be  champion  of  our  church  ! 
Or  let  the  church,  our  mother,  breathe  her  curse, 
A  mother's  curse,  on  her  revolting  son. 
France,  thou  mayst  hold  a  serpent  by  the  tongue, 
A  chased  lion  *  by  the  mortal  paw, 

*  A  chased  lion.  We  have  ventured  here  upon  a  slight  change.  The  original 
reads,  "  a  cased  lion,"  which  is  supposed  to  mean  a  lion  in  a  cage.  The  image  is, 
strictly  taken,  weakened,  if  not  destroyed,  by  this  epithet ;  for  the  paw  of  a  confined 
lion  is  often  held  with  impunity.  And  yet  cased  may  mean  irritated  by  confine- 
ment. Some  would  read  "  chafed."  The  very  pardonable  insertion  of  an  h  pre- 
sents us  a  noble  picture  of  a  hunted  lion  at  bay.  The  emendation,  though  proposed 
by  one  of  the  first  editors,  has  not  been  adopted.  It  is  enforced  by  Z.  Jackson,  who, 
in  a  volume  entitled  '  Shakspere's  Genius  Justified'  (1819),  has  attempted  to  ex- 
plain and  correct  many  doubtful  passages,  ujjon  the  principle  that  the  greater  num- 
ber of  them  were  the  results  of  typographical  errors.  The  editor  has  been  informed 
that  Coleridge  had  a  high  opinion  of  tliis  book,  and  considered  that  many  of  the 
conjectures  were  ingenious  and  went  near  to  the  true  reading.  We  scarcely  think 
tliis  opinion  is  borne  out,  except  by  a  few  happy  instances. 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  299 

A  fasting  tiger  safer  by  the  tooth. 

Than  keep  in  peace  that  hand  which  thou  dost  hold. 

K.  Phi.  I  may  disjoin  my  hand,  but  not  my  faith. 

Pand.  So  mak'st  thou  faith  an  enemy  to  faith  j 
And,  like  a  civil  war,  sett'st  oath  to  oath. 
Thy  tongue  against  thy  tongue.     O,  let  thy  vow 
First  made  to  heaven,  first  be  to  heaven  perform'd  ; 
That  is,  to  be  the  champion  of  our  church! 
What  since  thou  swor'st  is  sworn  against  thyself. 
And  may  not  be  performed  by  thyself: 
For  that  which  thou  hast  sworn  to  do  amiss. 
Is  not  amiss  when  it  is  truly  done  ; 
And  being  not  done,  where  doing  tends  to  ill. 
The  truth  is  then  most  done  not  doing  it  : 
The  better  act  of  purposes  mistook 
Is,  to  mistake  again;   though  indirect. 
Yet  indirection  thereby  grows  direct. 
And  falsehood  falsehood  cures ;  as  fire  cools  fire. 
Within  the  scorched  veins  of  one  new  burn'd. 
It  is  religion  that  doth  make  vows  kept ; 
But  thou  hast  sworn  against  religion 
By  what  thou  swear'st  against  the  thing  thou  swear'st ; 
And  mak'st  an  oath  the  surety  for  thy  truth 
Against  an  oath :  The  truth  thou  art  unsure 
To  swear,  swears  only  *  not  to  be  forsworn  ; 
Else,  what  a  mockery  should  it  be  to  swear ! 
But  thou  dost  swear  only  to  be  forsworn ; 
And  most  forsworn,  to  keep  what  thou  dost  swear. 
Therefore,  thy  later  vows,  against  thy  firsts 
Is  in  thyself  rebellion  to  thyself  : 

*  Swears  only.  The  entire  speech  of  Pandulph  is  full  of  verbal  subtleties,  which 
render  the  intricate  reasoning  more  intricate.  The  poet  unquestionably  meant  to 
produce  this  effect.      We  have  restored  the  reading  of  one  of  the  most  difficult 


"  The  truth  thou  art  unsure 
"  To  swear,  swears  only  not  to  be  forsworn." 
All  the  modem  editions  read  swear.  The  meaning  seems  to  be  this  ; — The  truth — 
that  is,  tlie  troth,  for  wViich  you  have  made  an  oath  the  surety,  against  thy  former 
oath  to  heaven — this  troth,  which  it  was  unsure  to  swear — which  you  violate  your 
surety  in  swearing — has  only  been  sworn — swears  only — not  to  be  forsworn ;  but  it 
is  sworn  against  a  former  oath,  which  is  more  binding,  because  it  was  an  oath  to 
religion — to  the  principle  upon  which  all  oaths  are  made. 


300  KING  JOHN.  [Act  III. 

And  better  conquest  never  canst  thou  make. 
Than  arm  thy  constant  and  thy  nobler  parts 
Against  these  giddy  loose  suggestions  : 
Upon  which  better  part  our  prayers  come  in. 
If  thou  vouchsafe  them :  but,  if  not,  then  know. 
The  peril  of  our  curses  light  on  thee 
So  heavy,  as  thou  shalt  not  shake  them  off. 
But,  in  despair,  die  under  their  black  weight. 

Aust.  Rebellion,  flat  rebellion  ! 

Bast.  Will 't  not  be  ? 

Will  not  a  calfs-skin  stop  that  mouth  of  thine  ? 

Lew.  Father,  to  arms  ! 

Blanch.  Upon  thy  wedding-day  ? 

Against  the  blood  that  thou  hast  married  ? 
What,  shall  our  feast  be  kept  with  slaughter'd  men  ? 
Shall  braying  trumpets,  and  loud  churlish  drums. 
Clamours  of  hell,  be  measures  ■  to  our  pomp  ? 
O  husband,  hear  me  ! — ah,  alack,  how  new 
Is  husband  in  my  mouth  ! — even  for  that  name. 
Which  till  this  time  my  tongue  did  ne'er  pronounce. 
Upon  my  knee  I  beg,  go  not  to  arms 
Against  mine  uncle. 

Const.  O,  upon  my  knee. 

Made  hard  with  kneeling,  I  do  pray  to  thee. 
Thou  virtuous  Dauphin,  alter  not  the  doom 
Fore-thought  by  heaven. 

Blanch.  Now  shall  I  see  thy  love.     What  motive  may 
Be  stronger  with  thee  than  the  name  of  wife  ? 

Const.  That  which  upholdeth  him  that  thee  upholds. 
His  honour  :  O,  thine  honour,  Lewis,  thine  honour ! 

Lew.  I  muse  your  majesty  doth  seem  so  cold. 
When  such  profound  respects  do  pull  you  on. 

Pand.  I  will  denounce  a  curse  upon  his  head. 

K.  Phi.  Thou  shalt  not  need : — England,  I  will  fall  from 
thee. 

Const.  O  fair  return  of  banish'd  majesty  ! 

Eli.  O  foul  revolt  of  French  inconstancy  ! 

K.  John.   France,  thou  shalt  rue  this  hour  within  this 
hour. 

■  Meaturtt — solemu  dauces. 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  301 

Bast.  Old  Time  the  clock-setter,  that  bald  sexton.  Time, 
Is  it  as  he  will  ?  well  then,  France  shall  rue. 

Blanch.  The  sun 's  o'ercast  with  blood  :  Fair  day  adieu ! 
Which  is  the  side  that  I  must  go  withal  ? 
I  am  with  both :  each  army  hath  a  hand  j 
And,  in  their  rage,  I  having  hold  of  both. 
They  whirl  asunder,  and  dismember  me. 
Husband,  I  cannot  pray  that  thou  mayst  win  ; 
Uncle,  I  needs  must  pray  that  thou  mayst  lose  ; 
Father,  I  may  not  wish  the  fortune  thine ; 
Grandame,  I  will  not  wish  thy  wishes  thrive  : 
Whoever  wins,  on  that  side  shall  I  lose ; 
Assured  loss,  before  the  match  be  play'd. 

Lew.  Lady,  with  me ;  with  me  thy  fortune  lies. 

Blanch.  There  where  my  fortune  lives,  there  my  life  dies. 

K.  John.  Cousin,  go  draw  our  puissance  together. — 

[Exit  Bastard. 
France,  I  am  burn'd  up  with  inflaming  wrath  ; 
A  rage  whose  heat  hath  this  condition. 
That  nothing  can  allay,  nothing  but  blood. 
The  blood,  and  dearest-valued  blood,  of  France. 

K.  Phi.  Thy  rage  shall  burn  thee  up,  and  thou  shalt  turn 
To  ashes,  ere  our  blood  shall  quench  that  fire  : 
Look  to  thyself,  thou  art  in  jeopardy. 

K.  John.  No  more  than  he  that  threats. — To  arms  let 's 
hie !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  n. —  The  same.     Plains  near  Angiers. 

Alarums ;   Excursions.     Enter  the  Bastard,  with  Austria'* 

Head. 
Bast.  Now,  by  my  life,  this  day  grows  wondrous  hot ; 
Some  airy  devil  hovers  in  the  sky. 
And  pours  down  mischief.     Austria's  head,  lie  there ; 
While  Philip  breathes. 

Enter  King  John,  Arthur,  and  Hubert. 

K.  John.  Hubert,  keep  this  boy  : — Philip,  make  up  : 
My  mother  is  assailed  in  our  tent. 
And  ta'en,  I  fear. 


302  KING  JOHN.  [Act  III. 

Bast.  My  lord,  I  rescued  her ; 

Her  highness  is  in  safety,  fear  you  not : 
But  on,  my  liege ;  for  very  little  pains 
Will  bring  this  labour  to  a  happy  end.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  111.— The  same. 

Alarums;  Excursions;  Retreat.    jEwfer  King  John, Elinor, 
Arthur,  the  Bastard,  Hubert,  and  Lords. 

K.  John.  So  shall  it  be  j  your  grace  shall  stay  behind, 

[To  Elinor. 
So  strongly  guarded. — Cousin,  look  not  sad :     [7b  Arthur. 
Thy  grandame  loves  thee  ;  and  thy  uncle  will 
As  dear  be  to  thee  as  thy  father  was. 

Arth.  O,  this  will  make  my  mother  die  with  grief. 

K.  John.  Cousin,  [to  the  Bastard]  away  for  England ;  haste 
before  : 
And,  ere  our  coming,  see  thou  shake  the  bags 
Of  hoarding  abbots ;  imprisoned  angels 
Set  thou*  at  liberty :  the  fat  ribs  of  peace 
Must  by  the  hungry  now  be  fed  upon : 
Use  our  commission  in  his  utmost  force. 

Bast.  Bell,  book,  and  candle  shall  not  drive  me  back," 
When  gold  and  silver  becks  me  to  come  on. 
I  leave  your  highness  : — Grandame,  I  will  pray 
(If  ever  I  remember  to  be  holy) 
For  your  fair  safety ;  so  I  kiss  your  hand. 

Eli.  Farewell,  gentle  cousin. 

K.  John.  Coz,  farewell.  [£a:e<  Bastard. 

Eli.  Come  hither,  little  kinsman  ;  hark,  a  word. 

[She  takes  Arthur  aside. 

K.  John.  Come  hither,  Hubert.     O  my  gentle  Hubert, 
We  owe  thee  much  j  within  this  wall  of  flesh 
There  is  a  soul  counts  thee  her  creditor. 
And  with  advantage  means  to  pay  thy  love : 
And,  my  good  friend,  thy  voluntary  oath 
Lives  in  this  bosom,  dearly  cherished. 
Give  me  thy  hand.     I  had  a  thing  to  say, — 

"   Thou  18  not  ill  the  original. 


Scene  III.]  KING  JOHN.  303 

But  I  will  fit  it  with  some  better  tune." 
By  heaven,  Hubert,  I  am  almost  asham'd 
To  say  what  good  respect  I  have  of  thee. 

Hub.  I  am  much  bounden  to  your  majesty. 

K.  John.  Good  friend,  thou  hast  no  cause  to  say  so  yet  : 
But  thou  shalt  have :  and  creep  time  ne'er  so  slow. 
Yet  it  shall  come  for  me  to  do  thee  good. 
I  had  a  thing  to  say, — But  let  it  go  : 
The  sun  is  in  the  heaven,  and  the  proud  day. 
Attended  with  the  pleasures  of  the  world. 
Is  all  too  wanton  and  too  full  of  gawds. 
To  give  me  audience  : — If  the  midnight  bell 
Did,  with  his  iron  tongue  and  brazen  mouth, 
Sound  on  ^  into  the  drowsy  race  of  night ; 
If  this  same  were  a  churchyard  where  we  stand. 
And  thou  possessed  with  a  thousand  wrongs ; 
Or  if  that  surly  spirit,  melancholy. 
Had  bak'd  thy  blood,  and  made  it  heavy,  thick, 

»  Better  tune.  The  old  copy  reads  tune.  Pope  corrected  this  to  time.  We  are 
by  110  means  sure  that  the  change  was  called  for.  Tlie  "  tune  "  with  which  John 
expresses  his  willingness  "  to  fit "  the  thing  he  had  to  say  is  a  bribe  ; — he  now  only 
gives  flattery  and  a  promise.  "  The  time"  for  saying  "  the  thing"  is  discussed  in 
the  subsequent  portion  of  John's  speech. 

^  Sound  an.  So  the  original.  But  on  and  one  were  often  spelt  alike  ;  and  there- 
fore the  passage  must  be  determined  by  other  principles  than  that  of  fidelity  to  the 
text.     Which  is  the  more  poetical, 

"  Sound  on  into  the  drowsy  race  of  night," 
or  "  sound  one  ?  "  Shakspere,  it  appears  to  us,  has  made  the  idea  of  time  precise 
enough  by  the  "  midnight  bell ;"  and  the  addition  of  "  one  "  is  either  a  contradic- 
tion or  a  pleonasm,  to  which  form  of  words  he  was  not  given.  "  The  midnight 
bell"  sounding  "  on,  into"  (or  unto,  for  the  words  were  used  convertibly)  the 
drowsy  march,  race,  of  night,  seems  to  us  far  more  poetical  than  precisely  determin- 
ing the  hour,  which  was  already  determined  by  the  word  "  midnight."  But  was 
the  "  midnight  bell "  the  bell  of  a  clock?  Was  it  not  rather  the  bell  which  called 
the  monks  to  their  "  morning  lauds,"  and  wliich,  according  to  the  regulations  of 
Dunstan,  was  ordinarily  to  be  rung  before  every  office?  In  Dunstan's  '  Concord  of 
Rules,'  quoted  by  Fosbrooke,  the  hours  for  the  first  services  of  the  day  are  thus  stated : 
"  Mattins  and  Lauds,  midnight. 
Prime,  6  a.m."' 
It  is  added,  "  if  the  ofiice  of  Lauds  be  finished  by  daybreak,  as  is  fit,  let  them  begin 
Prime  without  ringing ;  if  not,  let  them  wait  for  daylight,  and,  ringing  the  bell, 
assemble  for  Prime."  It  must,  however,  be  noticed,  that  when  Bernardo  describes 
the  appearance  of  the  Gliost,  in  '  Hamlet,'  he  marks  the  time  by  "  the  bell  then 
beating  one."  In  this  instance  the  word  is  spelt  one  (uot  o«)  both  in  the  early  quartos 
and  in  the  folio  of  1623. 


304  KING  JOHN.  [Act  III. 

(Which,  else,  runs  tickling  up  and  down  the  veins. 
Making  that  idiot,  laughter,  keep  men's  eyes. 
And  strain  their  cheeks  to  idle  merriment, 
A  passion  hateful  to  my  purposes ;) 
Or  if  that  thou  couldst  see  me  without  eyes. 
Hear  me  without  thine  ears,  and  make  reply 
Without  a  tongue,  using  conceit  alone. 
Without  eyes,  ears,  and  harmful  sound  of  words  ; 
Then,  in  despite  of  brooded  watchful  day, 
I  would  into  thy  bosom  pour  my  thoughts : 
But  ah,  I  will  not : — Yet  I  love  thee  well ; 
And,  by  my  troth,  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well. 

Hub.  So  well,  that  what  you  bid  me  undertake. 
Though  that  my  death  were  adjunct  to  my  act. 
By  heaven,  I  would  do  it. 

K.  John.  Do  not  I  know  thou  wouldst? 

Good  Hubert,  Hubert,  Hubert,  throw  thine  eye 
On  yon  young  boy :  I  '11  tell  thee  what,  my  friend. 
He  is  a  very  serpent  in  my  way ; 
And  wheresoe'er  this  foot  of  mine  doth  tread 
He  lies  before  me :  Dost  thou  understand  me  ? 
Thou  art  his  keeper. 

Hub.  And  I  '11  keep  him  so. 

That  he  shall  not  oifend  your  majesty. 

K.  John.  Death. 

Hub.  My  lord  ? 

K.  John.  A  grave. 

Hub.  He  shall  not  live. 

K.  John.  Enough. 

I  could  be  merry  now :  Hubert,  I  love  thee. 
Well,  I  '11  not  say  what  I  intend  for  thee : 

Remember. Madam,  fare  you  well  : 

I  '11  send  those  powers  o'er  to  your  majesty. 

Eli.  My  blessing  go  with  thee  ! 

K.  John.  For  England,  cousin,  go: 

Hubert  shall  be  your  man,  attend  on  you 
With  all  true  duty. — On  toward  Calais,  ho !  [Exeunt. 


Scene  IV.]  KING  JOHN.  30^ 

SCENE  lY.—The  same.     The  French  KingV  Tent. 

Enter  King  Philip,  Lewis,  Pandulph,  and  Attendants. 

K.  Phi.  So,  bj  a  roaring  tempest  on  the  flood, 
A  whole  armado  of  convicted  *  sail 
Is  scatter'd  and  disjoin'd  from  fellowship. 

Pand.  Courage  and  comfort !  all  shall  yet  go  well. 

K.  Phi.  What  can  go  well,  when  we  have  run  so  ill  ? 
Are  we  not  beaten?  Is  not  Anglers  lost? 
Arthur  ta'en  prisoner?  divers  dear  friends  slain? 
And  bloody  England  into  England  gone, 
O'erbearing  interruption,  spite  of  France  ? 

Lew.  What  he  hath  w^on  that  hath  he  fortified : 
So  hot  a  speed  with  such  advice  dispos'd. 
Such  temperate  order  in  so  fierce  a  cause. 
Doth  want  example  :  Who  hath  read,  or  heard. 
Of  any  kindred  action  like  to  this  ? 

K.  Phi.  Well  could  I  bear  that  England  had  this  praise,    - 
So  we  could  find  some  pattern  of  our  shame. 

Enter  Constance. 

Look,  who  comes  here !  a  grave  unto  a  soul ; 
Holding  the  eternal  spirit,  against  her  will. 
In  the  vile  prison  of  afflicted  breath : — 
I  prithee,  lady,  go  away  with  me. 

Const.  Lo,  now !  now  see  the  issue  of  your  peace ! 

K.  Phi.  Patience,  good  lady  !  comfort,  gentle  Constance  ! 

Const.  No,  I  defy  all  counsel,  all  redress. 

But  that  which  ends  all  counsel,  true  redress. 

Death,  death,  O  amiable  lovely  death ! 

Thou  odoriferous  stench  !  sound  rottenness ! 

Arise  forth  from  the  couch  of  lasting  night. 

Thou  hate  and  terror  to  prosperity. 

And  I  will  kiss  thy  detestable  bones  ; 

And  put  my  eyeballs  in  thy  vaulty  brows ; 

And  ring  these  fingers  with  thy  household  worms ; 

And  stop  this  gap  of  breath  with  fulsome  dust, 

*  Convicted — overpowered. 
Vol.  IV.  X 


306  KING  JOHN.  [Act  III. 

And  be  a  carrion  monster  like  thyself: 

Come,  grin  on  me ;  and  I  will  think  thou  smil'st. 

And  buss  thee  as  thy  wife !  Misery's  love, 

O,  come  to  me ! 

K.  Phi.  O  fair  affliction,  peace ! 

Const.  No,  no,  I  will  not,  having  breath  to  cry : — 
O,  that  my  tongue  were  in  the  thunder's  mouth ! 
Then  with  a  passion  would  I  shake  the  world ; 
And  rouse  from  sleep  that  fell  anatomy. 
Which  cannot  hear  a  lady's  feeble  voice. 
Which  scorns  a  mother's  '  invocation. 

Pand.  Lady,  you  utter  madness,  and  not  sorrow. 

Const.  Thou  art  not  ^  holy  to  belie  me  so ; 
I  am  not  mad :  this  hair  I  tear  is  mine ; 
My  name  is  Constance ;  I  was  Geffrey's  wife ; 
Young  Arthur  is  my  son,  and  he  is  lost  : 
I  am  not  mad ; — I  would  to  heaven  I  were ! 
For  then,  't  is  like  I  should  forget  myself: 
O,  if  I  could,  what  grief  should  I  forget ! — 
Preach  some  philosophy  to  make  me  mad. 
And  thou  shalt  be  canoniz'd,  cardinal ; 
For,  being  not  mad  but  sensible  of  grief. 
My  reasonable  part  produces  reason 
How  I  may  be  deliver'd  of  these  woes. 
And  teaches  me  to  kill  or  hang  myself: 
If  I  were  mad,  I  should  forget  my  son ; 
Or  madly  think  a  babe  of  clouts  were  he : 
I  am  not  mad ;  too  well,  too  well  I  feel 
The  different  plague  of  each  calamity. 

K.  Phi.  Bind  up  those  tresses  :  O,  what  love  I  note 
In  the  fair  multitude  of  those  her  hairs  ! 
Where  but  by  chance  a  silver  drop  hath  fallen, 

*  The  reading  of  the  original,  which  has  been  constantly  followed,  is  modem — 
trite,  common.     Thus,  in  '  As  You  Like  It,' — 

"  Full  of  wise  saws  and  modem  instances." 
This  is  the  only  explanation  we  can  give  if  we  retain  the  word  modern.     But  the 
sentence  is  weak,  and  a  slight  change  would  make  it  powerful.     We  may  read  ."  a 
mother's  invocation "  with   little  violence  to  the  text :  moder't  (the  old  spelling) 
might  have  been  easily  mistaken  for  modern. 

^  Not  is  wanting  in  the  original. 


Scene  IV.]  KING  JOHN.  307 

Even  to  that  drop  ten  thousand  wiry  friends  ■ 
Do  glue  themselves  in  sociable  grief; 
Like  true,  inseparable,  faithful  loves. 
Sticking  together  in  calamity. 
Const.  To  England,  if  you  will. 
K.  Phi.  Bind  up  your  hairs. 

Const.  Yes,  that  I  will ;  And  wherefore  will  I  do  it  ? 
I  tore  them  from  their  bonds ;  and  cried  aloud, 
O  that  these  hands  could  so  redeem  my  son. 
As  they  have  given  these  hairs  their  liberty ! 
But  now  I  envy  at  their  liberty. 
And  will  again  commit  them  to  their  bonds 
Because  my  poor  child  is  a  prisoner. 
And,  father  cardinal,  I  have  heard  you  say. 
That  we  shall  see  and  know  our  friends  in  heaven : 
If  that  be  true,  I  shall  see  my  boy  again; 
For,  since  the  birth  of  Cain,  the  first  male  child. 
To  him  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire. 
There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  bom. 
But  now  will  canker  sorrow  eat  my  bud. 
And  chase  the  native  beauty  from  his  cheek. 
And  he  will  look  as  hollow  as  a  ghost ; 
As  dim  and  meagre  as  an  ague's  fit ; 
And  so  he  '11  die ;  and,  rising  so  again. 
When  I  shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  heaven 
I  shall  not  know  him :  therefore  never,  never 
Must  I  behold  my  pretty  Arthur  more. 

Pand.  You  hold  too  heinous  a  respect  of  grief. 
Const.  He  talks  to  me  that  never  had  a  son. 
K.  Phi.  You  are  as  fond  of  grief  as  of  your  child. 
Const.  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child. 

Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me. 

Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words. 

Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 

Stuifs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form ; 

Then,  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief. 

Fare  you  well :  had  you  such  a  loss  as  I, 

I  could  give  better  comfort  than  you  do. — 

"   Friends.    In  the  original,  fiendt. 

X2 


308  KING  JOHN.  [Act  III. 

I  will  not  keep  this  form  upon  my  head, 

[Tearing  oj^ her  head-dress. 
When  there  is  such  disorder  in  my  wit. 
O  Lord !  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son ! 
My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world ! 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrows'  cure !  [Exit. 

K.  Phi.  I  fear  some  outrage,  and  I  '11  follow  her.       [Exit. 

Lew.  There  's  nothing  in  this  world  can  make  me  joy  : 
Life  is  as  tedious  as  a  twice-told  tale. 
Vexing  the  dull  ear  of  a  drowsy  man ; 
And  bitter  shame  hath  spoil'd  the  sweet  world's  taste,* 
That  it  yields  nought  but  shame  and  bitterness. 

Pand.  Before  the  curing  of  a  strong  disease. 
Even  in  the  instant  of  repair  and  health. 
The  fit  is  strongest ;  evils,  that  take  leave. 
On  their  departure  most  of  all  show  evil  : 
What  have  you  lost  by  losing  of  this  day  ? 

Lew.  All  days  of  glory,  joy,  and  happiness. 

Pand.  If  you  had  won  it,  certainly,  you  had. 
No,  no ;  when  fortune  means  to  men  most  good. 
She  looks  upon  them  with  a  threatening  eye. 
'T  is  strange  to  think  how  much  king  John  hath  lost 
In  this  which  he  accounts  so  clearly  won : 
Are  not  you  griev'd  that  Arthur  is  his  prisoner? 

Lew.  As  heartily  as  he  is  glad  he  hath  him. 

Pand.  Your  mind  is  all  as  youthful  as  your  blood. 
Now  hear  me  speak,  with  a  prophetic  spirit ; 
For  even  the  breath  of  what  I  mean  to  speak 
Shall  blow  each  dust,  each  straw,  each  little  rub. 
Out  of  the  path  which  shall  directly  lead 
Thy  foot  to  England's  throne ;  and,  therefore,  mark. 
John  hath  seiz'd  Arthur ;  and  it  cannot  be. 
That,  whiles  warm  life  plays  in  that  infant's  veins. 
The  misplac'd  John  should  entertain  an  hour. 
One  minute,  nay,  one  quiet  breath  of  rest : 
A  sceptre,  snatch'd  with  an  unruly  hand. 
Must  be  as  boisterously  maintain'd  as  gain'd : 

•  Swtet  world's  tatte.     Pope  made  thiB  correction  from  the  "  sweet  word's  fasfe  "' 
of  (be  original. 


Scene  IV.]  KING  JOHN.  309 

And  he  that  stands  upon  a  slippery  place 
Makes  nice  of  no  vile  hold  to  stay  him  up  : 
That  John  may  stand  then  Arthur  needs  must  fall ; 
So  be  it,  for  it  cannot  be  but  so. 

Lew.  But  what  shall  I  gain  by  young  Arthur's  fall? 

Pand.  You,  in  the  right  of  lady  Blanch  your  wife. 
May  then  make  all  the  claim  that  Arthur  did. 

Lew.  And  lose  it,  life  and  all,  as  Arthur  did. 

Pand.  How  green  you  are,  and  fresh  in  this  old  world ! 
John  lays  you  plots ;  the  times  conspire  with  you  : 
For  he  that  steeps  his  safety  in  true  blood 
Shall  find  but  bloody  safety,  and  untrue. 
This  act,  so  evilly  born,  shall  cool  the  hearts 
Of  all  his  people,  and  freeze  up  their  zeal. 
That  none  so  small  advantage  shall  step  forth 
To  check  his  reign,  but  they  will  cherish  it ; 
No  natural  exhalation  in  the  sky, 
No  scope  of  nature,*  no  distemper'd  day. 
No  common  wind,  no  customed  event. 
But  they  will  pluck  away  his  natural  cause. 
And  call  them  meteors,  prodigies,  and  signs. 
Abortives,  presages,  and  tongues  of  heaven. 
Plainly  denouncing  vengeance  upon  John. 

Lew.  May  be,  he  will  not  touch  young  Arthur's  life. 
But  hold  himself  safe  in  his  prisonment. 

Pand.  O,  sir,  when  he  shall  hear  of  your  approach. 
If  that  young  Arthur  be  not  gone  already. 
Even  at  that  news  he  dies :  and  then  the  hearts 
Of  all  his  people  shall  revolt  from  him. 
And  kiss  the  lips  of  unacquainted  change  ; 
And  pick  strong  matter  of  revolt,  and  wrath. 
Out  of  the  bloody  fingers'  ends  of  John. 
Methinks,  I  see  this  hurly  all  on  foot ; 
And,  O,  what  better  matter  breeds  for  you, 

*  No  scope  of  nature.  The  modern  editions  all  read,  contrary  to  the  original, 
scape  (escape)  of  nature.  The  scope  of  nature — the  ordinary  course  of  nature — 
appears  to  us  to  convey  the  poet's  meaning  much  better.  An  escape  of  nature  is  a 
prodigy  ; — Shakspere  says,  the  commonest  things  will  be  called  "  abortives."  A 
scope  is  what  is  seen — according  to  its  derivation — as  a  phenomenon  is  what  appears. 
They  are  the  same  thing. 


310  KING  JOHN.  [Act  III. 

Than  I  have  nam'd ! — The  bastard  Faulconbridge 
Is  now  in  England,  ransacking  the  church. 
Offending  charity  :  If  but  a  dozen  French 
Were  there  in  arms,  they  would  be  as  a  call ' 
To  train  ten  thousand  English  to  their  side ; 
Or,  as  a  little  snow,  tumbled  about. 
Anon  becomes  a  mountain.     O  noble  dauphin. 
Go  with  me  to  the  king :  'T  is  wonderful 
What  may  be  wrought  out  of  their  discontent. 
Now  that  their  souls  are  topfull  of  offence. 
For  England  go ;  I  will  whet  on  the  king. 

Lew.  Strong  reasons  make  strange  **  actions  :  Let  us  go ; 
If  you  say  ay,  the  king  will  not  say  no.  [Exeunt. 

•  A  call.  The  caged  birds  which  lure  the  wild  ones  to  the  net  are  termed  by 
fowlers  "  ca/Z-birds."  The  image  in  tlie  text  is  more  probably  derived  from  a  term 
of  falconry. 

*  Strange.  So  the  reading  of  the  first  folio.  It  has  been  generally  altered  into 
strong.  The  old  reading  restored  gives  us  a  deep  observation  instead  of  an  epigram- 
matic one.  Strong  reasons  make — that  is,  justify — a  large  deviation  from  common 
courses. 


KING  JOHN.  311 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    ACT    IIL 


'  SIcENE  III. — •'  BeU,  book,  and  candle  shall  not  drive  me  back" 

[     The  fonn  of  excommunication  in  the  Romish  church  was  familiar  to  Chaucer : — 

"  For  clerkes  say  we  sliallin  be  fain 
For  their  livelod  to  sweve  and  swinke. 
And  then  right  nought  us  geve  again, 
Neither  to  eat  ne  yet  to  drinke ; 
Thei  move  by  law,  as  that  thei  sain. 
Us  curse  and  dampne  to  hellis  brinke  ; 
And  thus  thei  puttin  us  to  pain 
With  candles  queiut  and  bellis  clinke." 

In  another  passage  of  the  same  poem, '  The  Manciple's  Tale,'  we  have  the  "  clerkes," 
who 

"  Christis  people  proudly  curse   ' 
With  brode  boke  and  braying  bell." 

But  the  most  minute  and  altogether  curious  description  of  the  ceremony  of  ex- 
communication is  in  Bishop  Bale's  *  Kynge  Johan,'  which  we  have  described  in 
our  Introductory  Notice.  In  that  "  pageant "  Pandulph  denounces  John  in  the 
following  fashion : — 

«<  For  as  moch  as  kyng  Johan  doth  holy  church  so  handle, 
Here  I  do  curse  hym  wyth  crosse,  boke,  bell,  and  candle. 
Lyke  as  this  same  roode  turneth  now  from  me  his  face. 
So  God  I  requyre  to  sequester  hym  of  his  grace. 
As  this  boke  doth  speare  by  my  worke  mannuall, 
I  wyll  God  to  close  uppe  from  hym  his  benefyttes  all. 
As  this  burnyng  flame  goth  from  this  candle  in  syght, 
I  wyll  God  to  put  hym  from  his  eternall  lyght. 
I  take  hym  from  Crist,  and  after  the  sownd  of  this  bell, 
Both  body  and  sowle  I  geve  hym  to  the  devyll  of  hell. 
I  take  from  hym  baptym,  with  the  other  sacramentes 
And  sufferages  of  the  churche,  bothe  amber  days  and  lentes. 
Here  I  take  from  hym  bothe  penonce  and  confessyon. 
Masse  of  the  wondes,  with  sensyng  and  processyon. 
Here  I  take  from  hym  holy  water  and  holy  brede. 
And  never  wyll  them  to  stande  hym  in  any  sted." 

In  Fox  we  have  the  ceremony  of  excommunication  minutely  detailed  ; — the  bishop, 
and  clergy,  and  all  the  several  sorts  of  friars  in  the  cathedral, — the  cross  borne 
before  them  with  three  wax  tapers  lighted,  and  the  eager  populace  assembled.  A 
priest,  all  in  white,  mounts  the  pulpit,  and  then  begins  the  denunciation.  Those 
who  are  curious  as  to  this  formula  may  consult  Fox  or  Strype ;  and  they  will 
agree  with  Corporal  Trim  that  the  "  soldiers  in  Flanders"  swore  nothing  like  this. 
The  climax  of  the  cursing  was  when  each  taper  was  extinguished,  with  the  pious 
prayer  that  the  souls  of  the  "  malefactors  and  schismatics''  might  be  given  "  over 
utterly  to  the  power  of  the  fiend,  as  this  candle  is  now  quenched  and  put  out." 
Henry  VIII.,  in  1533,  abolished  the  General  Sentence  or  Curse  which  was  read  in 
the  churches  four  times  a  year. 


312  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IIL 

HISTORICAL    ILLUSTRATION. 


After  the  peace  of  1200  Arthur  remained  under  the  care  of  King  Philip,  in  fear, 
as  it  is  said,  of  the  treachery  of  John.  But  tlie  peace  was  broken  within  two  years. 
John,  whose  passions  were  ever  his  betrayers,  seized  upon  the  wife  of  the  Count  de 
la  Marciie,  Isabella  of  Angouleme,  and  married  her,  although  his  wife  Avisa,  to 
whom  he  had  been  married  ten  years,  was  living.  The  injured  Count  headed  an 
insurrection  in  Aquitaine  ;  which  Philip  secretly  encouraged.  John  was,  however, 
courteously  entertained  by  his  crafty  rival  in  Paris.  But,  upon  his  return  to  Eng- 
land, Piiilip  openly  succoured  the  insurgents ;  once  more  brought  tlie  unhappy 
Arthur  ujion  tlie  scene,  and  made  him  raise  the  banner  of  war  against  liis  power- 
ful uncle.  With  a  small  force  he  marched  against  the  town  of  Mirebeau,  near 
Poictiers,  where  his  grandmother  Elinor  was  stationed,  as  "  Regent  of  those  j)arts." 
Some  of  the  chroniclers  affirm  that  Elinor  was  captured;  but,  says  Holinshed, 
"  others  write  far  more  truly,  that  she  was  not  taken,  but  escaped  into  a  tower, 
within  the  which  she  was  straitly  besieged."  John,  who  was  in  Normandy,  being 
apprised  of  the  danger  of  his  mother,  "  used  such  diligence  that  he  was  upon  bis 
enemies'  necks  ere  they  could  understand  anything  of  his  coming.''  On  the  night 
of  the  31st  July,  1202,  John  obtained  possession  of  the  town  by  treachery,  and 
Arthur  was  taken  in  his  bed.  The  Count  de  la  Marche,  and  the  other  leaders,  were 
captured,  and  were  treated  witli  extreme  cruelty  and  indignity.  Arthur  was  con- 
veyed to  the  castle  of  Falaise.  Tlie  interdict  of  John,  by  Rome,  for  refusing  to 
admit  Stephen  Langton  to  the  arclibishopric  of  Canterbury,  did  not  take  place  till 
five  years  after  these  events. 


[Cwtle  of  Falaise.] 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  313 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — Northampton,     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Hubert  and  Two  Attendants. 

Hub.  Heat  me  these  irons  hot ;  and  look  thou  stand 
Within  the  arras  :  when  I  strike  mj  foot 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  ground,  rush  forth. 
And  bind  the  boy,  which  you  shall  find  with  me. 
Fast  to  the  chair :  be  heedfid :  hence,  and  watch. 

1  Attend.  I  hope  your  warrant  will  bear  out  the  deed. 

Hub.  Uncleanly  scruples !  Fear  not  you  :  look  to 't. — 

\^Exeunt  Attendants. 
Young  lad,  come  forth ;  I  have  to  say  with  you. 

Enter  Arthur. 

Arth.  Good  morrow,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Good  morrow,  little  prince. 

Arth.  As  little  prince  (having  so  great  a  title 
To  be  more  prince)  as  may  be. — You  are  sad. 

Hub.  Indeed,  I  have  been  merrier. 

Arth.  Mercy  on  me ! 

Methinks,  nobody  should  be  sad  but  I  : 
Yet,  I  remember,  when  I  was  in  France, 
Young  gentlemen  would  be  as  sad  as  night. 
Only  for  wantonness.     By  my  Christendom," 
So  I  were  out  of  prison,  and  kept  sheep, 
I  should  be  as  merry  as  the  day  is  long ; 
And  so  I  would  be  here,  but  that  I  doubt 

*  Christendom.  Arthur  prettily  asseverates  by  the  baptismal  office — by  his  christ- 
ening. The  word  is  used  in  this  sense  in  '  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well;'  and  it  ia 
found  in  Gower : — 

"  A  light,  as  though  it  was  a  sonne 
From  heaven,  into  the  place  come, 
Where  that  he  toke  his  christendome.''' 


314  KING  JOHN.  [Act  IV. 

My  uncle  practises  more  harm  to  me : 

He  is  afraid  of  me,  and  I  of  him  : 

Is  it  my  fault  that  I  was  Geffrey's  son  ? 

No,  indeed  is  't  not ;  And  I  would  to  heaven 

I  were  your  son,  so  you  would  love  me,  Hubert. 

Hub.  If  I  talk  to  him,  with  his  innocent  prate 
He  will  awake  my  mercy,  which  lies  dead  : 
Therefore  I  will  be  sudden,  and  despatch.  [Aside. 

Artk.  Are  you  sick,  Hubert  ?  you  look  pale  to-day  : 
In  sooth,  I  would  you  were  a  little  sick. 
That  I  might  sit  all  night,  and  watch  with  you  : 
I  warrant  I  love  you  more  than  you  do  me. 

Hub.  His  words  do  take  possession  of  my  bosom. — 
Read  here,  young  Arthur.     [Showing  a  paper.]     How  now, 
foolish  rheum  !  [Aside. 

Turning  dispiteous  torture  out  of  door ! 
I  must  be  brief;  lest  resolution  drop 
Out  at  mine  eyes,  in  tender  womanish  tears. 
Can  you  not  read  it  ?  is  it  not  fair  writ  ? 

Artk.  Too  fairly,  Hubert,  for  so  foul  effect: 
Must  you  with  hot  irons  burn  out  both  mine  eyes  ? 

Hub.  Young  boy,  I  must. 

Arth.  And  will  you  ? 

Hub.  And  I  will. 

Arth.  Have  you  the  heart?  When  your  head  did  but  ache, 
I  knit  my  hand-kercher  about  your  brows," 
(The  best  I  had,  a  princess  wrought  it  me,) 
And  I  did  never  ask  it  you  again  : 
And  with  my  hand  at  midnight  held  your  head ; 
And,  like  the  watchful  minutes  to  the  hour. 
Still  and  anon  cheer'd  up  the  heavy  time ; 
Saying,  What  lack  you  ?  and.  Where  lies  your  grief? 
Or,  What  good  love  may  I  perform  for' you  ? 
Many  a  poor  man's  son  would  have  lain  still. 
And  ne'er  have  spoke  a  loving  word  to  you  ; 
But  you  at  your  sick  service  had  a  prince. 

»  Hand-kercher.  The  spelling  of  the  original  is  thas.  In  'Othello'  we  have 
handkerchiefe  in  the  folio  of  1623  ;  but  handkercher  in  the  quarto.  The  words  were 
used  indifferently  in  Shakspere's  day. 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  315 

Nay,  you  may  think  my  love  was  crafty  love. 

And  call  it  cunning ;  do,  an  if  you  will : 

If  heaven  be  pleas'd  that  you  must  use  me  ill. 

Why,  then  you  must. — Will  you  put  out  mine  eyes  ? 

These  eyes,  that  never  did,  nor  never  shall. 

So  much  as  frown  on  you  ? 

Hub.  I  have  sworn  to  do  it ; 

And  with  hot  irons  must  I  burn  them  out. 

Arth.  Ah,  none,  but  in  this  iron  age,  would  do  it ! 
The  iron  of  itself,  though  heat  *  red-hot. 
Approaching  near  these  eyes,  would  drink  my  tears. 
And  quench  his  fiery  indignation. 
Even  in  the  matter  of  mine  innocence  ; 
Nay,  after  that,  consume  away  in  rust. 
But  for  containing  fire  to  harm  mine  eye. 
Are  you  more  stubborn-hard  than  hammer'd  iron  ? 
An  if  an  angel  should  have  come  to  me. 
And  told  me,  Hubert  should  put  out  mine  eyes, 
I  would  not  have  belie v'd  him.'*    No  tongue  but  Hubert's — 

Hub.   Come  forth.  [Stamps. 

Re-enter  Attendants,  with  Cords,  Irons,  &c. 

Do  as  I  bid  you  do. 

Arth.  O,  save  me,  Hubert,  save  me  !  my  eyes  are  out. 
Even  with  the  fierce  looks  of  these  bloody  men. 

Hub.  Give  me  the  iron,  I  say,  and  bind  him  here. 

Arth.  Alas,  what  need  you  be  so  boist'rous-rough  ? 
I  will  not  struggle,  I  will  stand  stone-still. 

■  Heat,  used  as  a  participle,  as  in  our  translation  of  the  Bible  :  "  He  commanded 
that  they  should  heat  the  furnace  one  seven  times  more  than  it  was  wont  to  be  heat." 
— (Daniel.) 

^  I  would  not  have  heliev'd  him.  So  the  reading  of  the  original.  In  all  the  modem 
editions  we  have 

"  I  would  not  have  heliev'd  no  tongue  but  Hubert's." 

The  double  negative  is  quite  justifiable  here ;  but  the  rejection  of  him  weakens  the 
line;  and,  as  usual,  may  be  traced  to  the  ear  of  Steevens,  which  regarded  what  he 
called  a  redundant  syllable  as  a  foul  weed  in  the  garden  of  poetry.  Shakspere 
made  abundant  work  for  his  unsparing  hoe.  As  we  have  pointed  the  passage, 
Arthur  begins  a  fresh  sentence,  which  is  interrupted  by  Hubert  stamping.  He  is 
about  to  say,  "  No  tongue  but  Hubert's"  would  have  made  me  believe  it. 


316  KING  JOHN.  [Act  IV. 

For  heaven  sake,  Hubert,  let  me  not  be  bound  ! 

Nay,  hear  me,  Hubert !  drive  these  men  away. 

And  I  will  sit  as  quiet  as  a  lamb  ; 

I  will  not  stir,  nor  wince,  nor  speak  a  word. 

Nor  look  upon  the  iron  angerly  : 

Thrust  but  these  men  away,  and  I  '11  forgive  you. 

Whatever  torment  you  do  put  me  to. 

Hub.  Go,  stand  within  ;  let  me  alone  with  him. 

I  Attend.  I  am  best  pleas'd  to  be  from  such  a  deed. 

\^Exeunt  Attendants. 

Arth.  Alas !  I  then  have  chid  away  my  friend ; 
He  hath  a  stern  look,  but  a  gentle  heart : — 
Let  him  come  back,  that  his  compassion  may 
Give  life  to  yours. 

Hub.  Come,  boy,  prepare  yourself. 

Arth.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Hub.  None,  but  to  lose  your  eyes. 

Arth.  O  heaven  ! — that  there  were  but  a  mote  in  yours, 
A  grain,  a  dust,  a  gnat,  a  wandering  hair. 
Any  annoyance  in  that  precious  sense ! 
Then,  feeling  what  small  things  are  boist'rous  there. 
Your  vile  intent  must  needs  seem  horrible. 

Hub.  Is  this  your  promise  ?  go  to,  hold  your  tongue. 

Arth.  Hubert,  the  utterance  of  a  brace  of  tongues 
Must  needs  want  pleading  for  a  pair  of  eyes : 
Let  me  not  hold  my  tongue ;  let  me  not,  Hubert ! 
Or,  Hubert,  if  you  will,  cut  out  my  tongue. 
So  I  may  keep  mine  eyes.     O,  spare  mine  eyes ; 
Though  to  no  use,  but  still  to  look  on  you  ! 
Lo,  by  my  troth,  the  instrument  is  cold. 
And  would  not  harm  me. 

Hub.  I  can  heat  it,  boy. 

Arth.  No,  in  good  sooth  ;  the  fire  is  dead  with  grief. 
Being  create  for  comfort,  to  be  us'd 
In  undeserv'd  extremes  :  See  else  yourself; 
There  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal ;  ' 

•  In  this  burning  coal.     Dr.  Grey,  whose  remarks  are  generally  just  as  well  as 
learned,  would  read 

"  There  is  no  malice  burniag  in  this  coal." 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  317 

The  breath  of  heaven  hath  blown  his  spirit  out. 
And  strew'd  repentant  ashes  on  his  head. 

Hub.  But  with  my  breath  I  can  revive  it,  boy. 

Arth.  And  if  you  do,  you  will  but  make  it  blush. 
And  glow  with  shame  of  your  proceedings,  Hubert : 
Nay,  it,  perchance,  will  sparkle  in  your  eyes ; 
And,  like  a  dog  that  is  compell'd  to  fight. 
Snatch  at  his  master  that  doth  tarre  "  him  on. 
All  things  that  you  should  use  to  do  me  wrong 
Deny  their  office  :  only  you  do  lack 
That  mercy  which  fierce  fire  and  iron  extends. 
Creatures  of  note  for  mercy -lacking  uses. 

Hub.  Well,  see  to  live ;  I  will  not  touch  thine  eyes 
For  all  the  treasure  that  thine  uncle  owes : 
Yet  am  I  sworn,  and  I  did  purpose,  boy. 
With  this  same  very  iron  to  burn  them  out. 

Arth.  O,  now  you  look  like  Hubert !  all  this  while 
You  were  disguised. 

Hub.  Peace  :  no  more.     Adieu ; 

Your  uncle  must  not  know  but  you  are  dead : 
I  '11  fill  these  dogged  spies  with  false  reports. 
And,  pretty  child,  sleep  doubtless,  and  secure. 
That  Hubert,  for  the  wealth  of  all  the  world. 
Will  not  ofiend  thee. 

Arth.  O  heaven  ! — I  thank  you,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Silence  ;  no  more  :  Go  closely  in  with  me. 
Much  danger  do  I  undergo  for  thee.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  n. — The  same.     A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  John,  crowned;   Pembroke,  Salisbury,  and 
other  Lords.      The  King  takes  his  State. 

K.  John.  Here  once  again  we  sit,  once  again  crown'd. 
And  look'd  upon,  I  hope,  with  cheerful  ejQS. 

Pern.  This  once  again,  but  that  your  highness  pleas'd. 
Was  once  superfluous :  you  were  crown'd  before. 
And  that  high  royalty  was  ne'er  pluck'd  off; 

"  Tarrt,     Tooke   derives  this  from   a  Saxon  word,  meaning  to  exasperate. 
Others  think  that  it  hai  only  reference  to  the  custom  of  exciting  terriers— /arner*. 


318  KING  JOHN.  [Act  IV. 

The  faiths  of  men  ne'er  stained  with  revolt ; 
Fresh  expectation  troubled  not  the  land. 
With  any  long'd-for  change,  or  better  state. 

Sal.  Therefore,  to  be  possess'd  with  double  pomp. 
To  guard  a  title  '  that  was  rich  before. 
To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily. 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet. 
To  smooth  the  ice,  or  add  another  hue 
Unto  the  rainbow,  or  with  taper-light 
To  seek  the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven  to  garnish. 
Is  wasteful,  and  ridiculous  excess. 

Pern.  But  that  your  royal  pleasure  must  be  done. 
This  act  is  as  an  ancient  tale  new  told  ; 
And,  in  the  last  repeating,  troublesome. 
Being  urged  at  a  time  unseasonable. 

Sal.  In  this,  the  antique  and  well-noted  face 
Of  plain  old  form  is  much  disfigured ; 
And,  like  a  shifted  wind  unto  a  sail. 
It  makes  the  course  of  thoughts  to  fetch  about ; 
Startles  and  frights  consideration ; 
Makes  sound  opinion  sick,  and  truth  suspected. 
For  putting  on  so  new  a  fashion'd  robe. 

Pern.  When  workmen  strive  to  do  better  than  well. 
They  do  confound  their  skill  in  covetousness  : 
And,  oftentimes,  excusing  of  a  fault 
Doth  make  the  fault  the  worse  by  the  excuse  ; 
As  patches,  set  upon  a  little  breach. 
Discredit  more  in  hiding  of  the  fault. 
Than  did  the  fault  before  it  was  so  patch'd. 

Sal.  To  this  effect,  before  you  were  new-crown'd. 
We  breath'd  our  counsel :  but  it  pleas'd  your  highness 
To  overbear  it ;  and  we  are  all  well  pleas'd, 

•  Guard  a  title.     The  guard  is  the  border  or  edging  of  a  garment — the  boundary 
— the  defence  against  injury.     The  manner  in  which  Shakspere  uses  the  word  in 
Ijove's  Labour 's  Lost '  explains  it  here  : — 

"  Oh,  rhymes  are  guards  on  wanton  Cupid's  hose." 
The  edgings  were  generally  ornamented,  and  became  smart  trimmings.    In  the  pas- 
sage before  us  the  same  meaning  is  preserved  : — 

"  To  guard  a  title  that  was  rich  before." 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  319 

Since  all  and  every  part  of  what  we  would, 
Dotli  make  a  stand  at  what  your  highness  will. 

K.  John.  Some  reasons  of  this  double  coronation 
I  have  possess'd  you  withj  and  think  them  strong ; 
And  more,  more  strong  (when  lesser  is  my  fear"), 
I  shall  indue  you  with :  Meantime,  but  ask 
What  you  would  have  reform'd  that  is  not  well. 
And  well  shall  you  perceive  how  willingly 
I  will  both  hear  and  grant  you  your  requests. 

Pern.  Then  I,  (as  one  that  am  the  tongue  of  these. 
To  sound  the  purposes  of  all  their  hearts,) 
Both  for  myself  and  them,  (but,  chief  of  all. 
Your  safety,  for  the  which  myself  and  them 
Bend  their  best  studies,)  heartily  request 
Th'  enfranchisement  of  Arthur ;  whose  restraint 
Doth  move  the  murmuring  lips  of  discontent 
To  break  into  this  dangerous  argument, — 
If  what  in  rest  you  have  "^  in  right  you  hold. 
Why,  then,  your  fears  (which,  as  they  say,  attend 
The  steps  of  wrong)  should  move  you  to  mew  up 
Your  tender  kinsman,  and  to  choke  his  days 
With  barbarous  ignorance,  and  deny  his  youth 
The  rich  advantage  of  good  exercise  ? 
That  the  time's  enemies  may  not  have  this 
To  grace  occasions,  let  it  be  our  suit, 

*  When  lesser  is  my /ear.  The  folio  reads,  "then  lesser  is  my  fear." 
^  If  what  in  rest  you  have.  Steevens  would  read  lores/, — violence.  This  is  pure 
nonsense.  But  neither  does  rest  mean  quiet,  as  Malone,  Douce,  and  others  agree. 
The  whole  scene  shows  that  John  did  not  hold  his  power  in  perfect  tranquillity. 
Hest  is,  we  take  it,  here  employed  to  mean  a  fixed  position.  To  "set  up  a  rest"  is 
a  term  with  which  every  reader  of  our  old  dramatic  poets  must  be  familiar.  Some 
have  thought  that  the  expression  was  derived  from  the  manner  of  fixing  the  harque- 
buss — a  gun  so  heavy  that  the  soldier,  taking  up  his  position,  fixed  a  rest  in  the 
ground  to  enable  him  to  level  his  piece.  But,  from  a  number  of  examples  given  by 
Reed  in  his  edition  of  Dodsley"s  '  Old  Plays,'  we  find  the  same  expression  constantly 
used  in  the  game  of  Primero,  in  which  game,  as  far  as  we  may  judge,  the  term 
seems  to  imply  that  the  player,  at  a  particular  point  of  the  game,  makes  a  decided 
stand  upon  the  chances  he  fancies  he  has  secured.  In  a  tale  told  of  Henry  VIII. 
(quoted  by  Reed),  we  have  "  The  King,  55  eldest  hand,  sets  up  all  rests,  and  dis- 
carded flush."  The  King  was  satisfied  with  his  position,  and  "  threw  his  55  on  the 
board  open,  with  great  laughter,  supposing  the  game  (as  it  was)  in  a  manner  sure." 
The  analogy  in  the  speech  of  Pembroke  is  pretty  close : — 

"  If  what  in  }-est  you  have  in  right  you  hold." 


320  KING  JOHN.  [Act  IV. 

That  you  have  bid  us  ask  his  liberty  ; 
Which  for  our  goods  we  do  no  further  ask. 
Than  whereupon  our  weal,  on  you  depending. 
Counts  it  your  weal  he  have  his  liberty. 

K.  John.  Let  it  be  so  ;  I  do  commit  his  youth 
Enter  Hubert. 
To  your  direction. — Hubert,  what  news  with  you  ? 

Pern.  This  is  the  man  should  do  the  bloody  deed ; 
He  show'd  his  warrant  to  a  friend  of  mine : 
The  image  of  a  wicked  heinous  fault 
Lives  in  his  eye  ;  that  close  aspect  of  his 
Does  show  the  mood  of  a  much-troubled  breast ; 
And  I  do  fearfully  believe  't  is  done 
What  we  so  fear'd  he  had  a  charge  to  do. 

Sal.  The  colour  of  the  king  doth  come  and  go 
Between  his  purpose  and  his  conscience. 
Like  heralds  'twixt  two  dreadful  battles  set : 
His  passion  is  so  ripe  it  needs  must  break. 

Pern.  And,  when  it  breaks,  I  fear  will  issue  thence 
The  foul  corruption  of  a  sweet  child's  death. 

K.  John.  We  cannot  hold  mortality's  strong  hand  : — 
Good  lords,  although  my  will  to  give  is  living. 
The  suit  which  you  demand  is  gone  and  dead : 
He  tells  us,  Arthur  is  deceas'd  to-night. 

Sal.  Indeed  we  fear'd  his  sickness  was  past  cure. 

Pern.  Indeed  we  heard  how  near  his  death  he  was. 
Before  the  child  himself  felt  he  was  sick  : 
This  must  be  answer'd,  either  here,  or  hence. 

K.  John.  Why  do  you  bend  such  solemn  brows  on  me  ? 
Think  you  I  bear  the  shears  of  destiny  ? 
Have  I  commandment  on  the  pulse  of  life  ? 

Sal. '  It  is  apparent  foul-play ;  and  't  is  shame 
That  greatness  should  so  grossly  offer  it : 
So  thrive  it  in  your  game  !  and  so  farewell. 

Pern.  Stay  yet,  lord  Salisbury  ;  I  '11  go  with  thee. 
And  find  the  inheritance  of  this  poor  child. 
His  little  kingdom  of  a  forced  grave. 
That  blood,  which  ow'd  the  breadth  of  all  this  isle. 
Three  foot  of  it  doth  hold.     Bad  world  the  while ! 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  321 

This  must  not  be  thus  borne  :  this  will  break  out 

To  all  our  sorrows,  and  ere  long,  I  doubt.       [Exeunt  Lords. 

K.  John.  They  burn  in  indignation.     I  repent. 
There  is  no  sure  foundation  set  on  blood  ; 
No  certain  life  achiev'd  by  others'  death. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

A  fearful  eye  thou  hast.     Where  is  that  blood. 

That  I  have  seen  inhabit  in  those  cheeks  ? 

So  foul  a  sky  clears  not  without  a  storm  : 

Pour  down  thy  weather  : — How  goes  all  in  France  ? 

Mess.  From  France  to  England. — Never  such  a  power. 
For  any  foreign  preparation. 
Was  levied  in  the  body  of  a  land ! 
The  copy  of  your  speed  is  learn'd  by  them  ; 
For,  when  you  should  be  told  they  do  prepare. 
The  tidings  come,  that  they  are  all  arriv'd. 

K.  John.  O,  where  hath  our  intelligence  been  drunk  ? 
Where  hath  it  slept  ?     Where  is  my  mother's  care. 
That  such  an  army  could  be  drawn  in  France, 
And  she  not  hear  of  it  ? 

Mess.  My  liege,  her  ear 

Is  stopp'd  with  dust ;  the  first  of  April,  died 
Your  noble  mother  :  And,  as  I  hear,  my  lord. 
The  lady  Constance  in  a  frenzy  died 
Three  days  before  :  but  this  from  rumour's  tongue 
I  idly  heard  ;  if  true,  or  false,  I  know  not. 

K.  John.  Withhold  thy  speed,  dreadful  occasion  ! 
O,  make  a  league  with  me,  till  I  have  pleas'd 
My  discontented  peers  ! — What !  mother  dead  ? 
How  wildly  then  walks  my  estate  in  France ! — 
Under  whose  conduct  came  those  powers  of  France, 
That  thou  for  truth  giv'st  out  are  landed  here  ? 

Mess.  Under  the  dauphin. 

Enter  the  Bastard  and  Peter  ©/"Pomfret. 
K.  John.  Thou  hast  made  me  giddy 

With  these  ill  tidings. — Now,  what  says  the  world 
To  your  proceedings  ?  do  not  seek  to  stuff 

My  head  with  more  ill  news,  for  it  is  full. 
Vol.  IV.  Y 


322  KING  JOHN.  [Act  IV. 

Bast.  But,  if  you  be  afeard  to  hear  the  worst. 
Then  let  the  worst,  unheard,  fall  on  your  head. 

K.  John.  Bear  with  me,  cousin  ;  for  I  was  amaz'd 
Under  tlie  tide :  but  now  I  breathe  again 
Aloft  the  flood ;  and  can  give  audience 
To  any  tongue,  speak  it  of  what  it  will. 

Bast.  How  I  have  sped  among  the  clergymen. 
The  sums  I  have  collected  shall  express. 
But,  as  I  travell'd  hither  through  the  land, 
I  find  the  people  strangely  fantasied ; 
Possess'd  with  rumours,  full  of  idle  dreams; 
Not  knowing  what  they  fear,  but  full  of  fear : 
And  here  's  a  prophet,  that  I  brought  with  me 
From  forth  the  streets  of  Pomfret,  whom  I  found 
With  many  hundreds  treading  on  his  heels ; 
To  whom  he  sung,  in  rude  harsh-sounding  rhymes. 
That,  ere  the  next  Ascension-day  at  noon. 
Your  highness  should  deliver  up  your  crown. 

K.  John.  Thou  idle  dreamer,  wherefore  didst  thou  so  ? 

Peter.  Foreknowing  that  the  truth  will  fall  out  so. 

K.  John.  Hubert,  away  with  him  ;  imprison  him ; 
And  on  that  day  at  noon,  whereon,  he  says, 
I  shall  yield  up  my  crown,  let  him  be  hang'd : 
Deliver  him  to  safety,  and  return. 
For  I  must  use  thee. — O  my  gentle  cousin, 

[Exit  Hubert,  tcith  Peter. 
Hear'st  thou  the  news  abroad,  who  are  arriv'd  ? 

Bast.  The  French,  my  lord  ;  men's  mouths  are  full  of  it : 
Besides,  I  met  lord  Bigot,  and  lord  Salisbury, 
(With  eyes  as  red  as  new-enkindled  fire,) 
And  others  more,  going  to  seek  the  grave 
Of  Arthur,  who,  they  say,  is  kill'd  to-night 
On  your  suggestion. 

K.  John.  Gentle  kinsman,  go. 

And  thrust  thyself  into  their  companies  : 
I  have  a  way  to  win  their  loves  again ; 
Bring  them  before  me. 

Bast.  I  will  seek  them  out. 

K.  John.  Nay,  but  make  haste  :  the  better  foot  before. 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  323 

O,  let  me  have  no  subject  enemies. 

When  adverse  foreigners  affright  my  towns 

With  dreadful  pomp  of  stout  invasion ! 

Be  Mercury,  set  feathers  to  thy  heels ; 

And  fly,  like  thought,  from  them  to  me  again. 

Bast.  The  spirit  of  the  time  shall  teach  me  speed.    [Exit. 

K.  John.  Spoke  like  a  spriteful  noble  gentleman. 
Go  after  him ;  for  he,  perhaps,  shall  need 
Some  messenger  betwixt  me  and  the  peers ; 
And  be  thou  he. 

Mess.  With  all  my  heart,  my  liege.  [Exit. 

K.  John.  My  mother  dead ! 

Re-enter  Hubert. 

Hub.  My  lord,  they  say  five  moons  were  seen  to-night : 
Four  fixed  ;  and  the  fifth  did  whirl  about 
The  other  four,  in  wondrous  motion. 

K.  John.  Five  moons? 

Hub.  Old  men,  and  beldams,  in  the  streets 

Do  prophesy  upon  it  dangerously  : 
Young  Arthur's  death  is  common  in  their  mouths : 
And  when  they  talk  of  him,  they  shake  their  heads. 
And  whisper  one  another  in  the  ear ; 
And  he  that  speaks  doth  gripe  the  hearer's  wrist ; 
Whilst  he  that  hears  makes  fearful  action. 
With  wrinkled  brows,  with  nods,  with  rolling  eyes. 
I  saw  a  smith  stand  with  his  hammer,  thus. 
The  whilst  his  iron  did  on  the  anvil  cool. 
With  open  mouth  swallowing  a  tailor's  news ; 
Who,  with  his  shears  and  measure  in  his  hand. 
Standing  on  slippers,  (which  his  nimble  haste 
Had  falsely  thrust  upon  contrary  feet,)* 

*  Contrary  feet .  In  '  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona'  we  have  given  a  short  note 
on  the  right  and  left  shoe.  The  fashion  of  Shakspere's  time  is  now  well  understood 
through  a  similar  fashion  in  our  own ; — but  half  a  century  ago  this  passage  was 
adjudged  to  be  one  of  the  many  proofs  of  Shakspere's  ignorance  or  carelessness. 
Johnson  says,  with  ludicrous  solemnity,  "  Shakspere  seems  to  have  confounded  the 
man's  shoes  with  his  gloves.  He  that  is  frighted  or  hurried  may  put  his  hand  into 
the  wrong  glove,  but  either  shoe  will  equally  admit  either  foot.  The  author  seems 
to  be  disturbed  by  the  disorder  which  he  describes." 

Y2 


324  KING  JOHN.  [Act  IV. 

Told  of  a  many  thousand  warlike  French, 
That  were  embatteled  and  rank'd  in  Kent : 
Another  lean  unwash'd  artificer 
Cuts  off  his  tale,  and  talks  of  Arthur's  death. 

K.John.  Why  seek'st  thou  to  possess  me  with  these  fears  ? 
Why  urgest  thou  so  oft  young  Arthur's  death? 
Thy  hand  hath  murther'd  him :  I  had  a  mighty  cause 
To  wish  him  dead,  but  thou  hadst  none  to  kill  him. 

Hub.  None  had,"  my  lord!    why,  did  you  not  provoke 
me? 

K.  John.  It  is  the  curse  of  kings  to  be  attended 
By  slaves  that  take  their  humours  for  a  warrant 
To  break  within  the  bloody  house  of  life ; 
And,  on  the  winking  of  authority. 
To  understand  a  law ;  to  know  the  meaning 
Of  dangerous  majesty,  when,  perchance,  it  frowns 
More  upon  humour  than  advis'd  respect. 

Hub.  Here  is  your  hand  and  seal  for  what  I  did. 

K.  John.  O,  when  the  last  account  'twixt  heaven  and  earth 
Is  to  be  made,  then  shall  this  hand  and  seal 
Witness  against  us  to  damnation ! 
How  oft  the  sight  of  means  to  do  ill  deeds 
Makes  ill  deeds  done !  ^  Hadst  not  thou  been  by, 
A  felloAv  by  the  hand  of  nature  mark'd. 
Quoted,  and  sign'd,  to  do  a  deed  of  shame. 
This  murther  had  not  come  into  my  mind  : 
But,  taking  note  of  thy  abhorr'd  aspect. 
Finding  thee  fit  for  blcfody  villainy. 
Apt,  liable,  to  be  employ'd  in  danger, 
I  faintly  broke  with  thee  of  Arthur's  death  ; 
And  thou,  to  be  endeared  to  a  king. 
Made  it  no  conscience  to  destroy  a  prince. 

Hub.  My  lord, — 

K.  John.  Hadst  thou  but  shook  thy  head,  or  made  a  pause. 
When  I  spake  darkly  what  I  purposed. 
Or  turn'd  an  eye  of  doubt  upon  my  face, 

"  None  had.     The  original  gives  no  had.     The  contirnon  reading  is  had  none. 
'•  We  have  ventured  upon  a  transposition.     The  original  is  "  makes  deeds  ill 
done;" — but  this  might  apply  to  good  deeds  unsiiilfuliy  performed. 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  325 

As  bid  *  me  tell  my  tale  in  express  words. 

Deep  shame  had  struck  me  dumb,  made  me  break  off. 

And  those  thy  fears  might  have  wrought  fears  in  me  ; 

But  thou  didst  understand  me  by  my  signs. 

And  didst  in  signs  again  parley  with  sin ; 

Yea,  without  stop,  didst  let  thy  heart  consent. 

And,  consequently,  thy  rude  hand  to  act 

The  deed,  which  both  our  tongues  held  vile  to  name. 

Out  of  my  sight,  and  never  see  me  more ! 

My  nobles  leave  me ;  and  my  state  is  brav'd. 

Even  at  my  gates,  with  ranks  of  foreign  powers : 

Nay,  in  the  body  of  this  fleshly  land. 

This  kingdom,  this  confine  of  blood  and  breath. 

Hostility  and  civil  tumult  reigns 

Between  my  conscience  and  my  cousin's  death. 

Hub.  Arm  you  against  your  other  enemies, 
I  '11  make  a  peace  between  your  soul  and  you. 
Young  Arthur  is  alive :  This  hand  of  mine 
Is  yet  a  maiden  and  an  innocent  hand. 
Not  painted  with  the  crimson  spots  of  blood. 
Within  this  bosom  never  enter'd  yet 
The  dreadful  motion  of  a  murtherous  thought ; 
And  you  have  slander'd  nature  in  my  form. 
Which,  howsoever  rude  exteriorly. 
Is  yet  the  cover  of  a  fairer  mind 
Than  to  be  butcher  of  an  innocent  child. 

K.  John.  Doth  Arthur  live  ?  O,  haste  thee  to  the  peers. 
Throw  this  report  on  their  incensed  rage. 
And  make  them  tame  to  their  obedience  ! 
Forgive  the  comment  that  my  passion  made 
Upon  thy  feature ;  for  my  rage  was  blind. 
And  foul  imaginary  eyes  of  blood 
Presented  thee  more  hideous  than  thou  art. 
O,  answer  not ;  but  to  my  closet  bring 
The  angry  lords,  with  all  expedient  haste  : 
I  conjure  thee  but  slowly  ;  run  more  fast.  [Exeunt. 

"  As  bid — elliptically  for  as  to  bid. 


326  KING  JOHN.  [Act  IV. 

SCENE  III.— The  same.     Before  the  Castle. 

Enter  Arthur,  on  the  Walls. 

Arth.  The  wall  is  high ;  and  yet  will  I  leap  down  : — 
Good  ground,  be  pitiful,  and  hurt  me  not ! — 
There  's  few,  or  none,  do  know  me ;  if  they  did. 
This  ship-boy's  semblance  hath  disguis'd  me  quite. 
I  am  afraid ;  and  yet  I  '11  venture  it. 
If  I  get  down,  and  do  not  break  my  limbs, 
I  '11  find  a  thousand  shifts  to  get  away  : 

As  good  to  die  and  go,  as  die  and  stay.  [^Leaps  down. 

O  me !  my  uncle's  spirit  is  in  these  stones  : — 
Heaven  take  my  soul,  and  England  keep  my  bones !     [Dies. 

Enter  Pembroke,  Salisbury,  and  Bigot. 

Sal.  Lords,  I  will  meet  him  at  Saint  Edmund's-Bury ; 
It  is  our  safety,  and  we  must  embrace 
This  gentle  offer  of  the  perilous  time. 

Pern.  Who  brought  that  letter  from  the  cardinal  ? 

Sal.  The  count  Melun,  a  noble  lord  of  France ; 
Whose  private  with  me,  of  the  dauphin's  love. 
Is  much  more  general  than  these  lines  import. 

Big.  To-morrow  morning  let  us  meet  him  then. 

Sal.  Or  rather  then  set  forward  :  for  't  will  be 
Two  long  days'  journey,  lords,  or  e'er  we  meet.' 

Enter  the  Bastard. 

Bast.  Once  more  to-day  well  met,  distemper'd  lords  ! 
The  king,  by  me,  requests  your  presence  straight. 

Sal.  The  king  hath  dispossess'd  himself  of  us . 
We  will  not  line  his  thin  bestained  cloak 
With  our  pure  honours,  nor  attend  the  foot 
That  leaves  the  print  of  blood  where'er  it  walks  : 
Return,  and  tell  him  so ;  we  know  the  worst. 

Ba^t.  Whate'er  you  think,  good  words,    I   think,  were 
best. 

"  Or  e'er  we  meet — before  we  meet.    So  in  Ecclesiastes,  "  or  ever  the  silver  cord 
be  loosed." 


Scene  III.]  KING  JOHN.  327 

Sal.  Our  griefs,  and  not  our  manners,  reason  now. 

Bast.  But  there  is  little  reason  in  your  grief; 
Therefore,  't  were  reason  you  had  manners  now. 

Pern.  Sir,  sir,  impatience  hath  his  privilege. 

Bast.  'T  is  true ;  to  hurt  his  master,  no  man's  else.* 

Sal.  This  is  the  prison :  What  is  he  lies  here  ? 

[Seeing  Arthur. 

Pern.    O   death,   made    proud    with    pure   and   princely 
beauty ! 
The  earth  had  not  a  hole  to  hide  this  deed. 

Sal.  Murther,  as  hating  what  himself  hath  done. 
Doth  lay  it  open,  to  urge  on  revenge. 

Big.  Or,  when  he  doom'd  this  beauty  to  a  grave. 
Found  it  too  precious-princely  for  a  grave. 

Sal.  Sir  Richard,  what  think  you  ?    You  have  beheld,^ 
Or  have  you  read,  or  heard  ?  or  could  you  think  ? 
Or  do  you  almost  think,  although  you  see. 
That  you  do  see  ?  could  thought,  without  this  object. 
Form  such  another?     This  is  the  very  top. 
The  height,  the  crest,  or  crest  unto  the  crest. 
Of  murther's  arms  :  this  is  the  bloodiest  shame. 
The  wildest  savagery,  the  vilest  stroke. 
That  ever  wall-ey'd  wrath,  or  staring  rage. 
Presented  to  the  tears  of  soft  remorse. 

Pern.  All  murthers  past  do  stand  excus'd  in  this  : 
And  this  so  sole,  and  so  unmatchable. 
Shall  give  a  holiness,  a  purity. 
To  the  yet-unbegotten  sin  of  times ; 
And  prove  a  deadly  bloodshed  but  a  jest, 
Exampled  by  this  heinous  spectacle. 

Bast.  It  is  a  damned  and  a  bloody  work ; 
The  graceless  action  of  a  heavy  hand. 
If  that  it  be  the  work  of  any  hand. 

Sal.  If  that  it  be  the  work  of  any  hand  ? — 


»  No  mans  else.    So  the  origioal.     The  modem  reading  is  tw  man  else. 

^  You  have  beheld.  The  third  folio  gives  the  reading  which  is  generally  adopted, 
of  "  Have  you  beheld?"'  We  retain  that  of  the  original,  which  appears  to  mean — 
You  see — or  have  you  only  read,  or  heard?  Your  senses  must  be  so  startled  that 
you  may  doubt  "  you  have  beheld."' 


328  KING  JOHN.  [Act  IV. 

We  had  a  kind  of  light  what  would  ensue  : 
It  is  the  shameful  work  of  Hubert's  hand ; 
The  practice,  and  the  purpose,  of  the  king : — 
From  whose  obedience  I  forbid  my  soul. 
Kneeling  before  this  ruin  of  sweet  life. 
And  breathing  to  his  breathless  excellence 
The  incense  of  a  vow,  a  holy  vow. 
Never  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  the  world. 
Never  to  be  infected  with  delight. 
Nor  conversant  with  ease  and  idleness. 
Till  I  have  set  a  glory  to  this  hand. 
By  giving  it  the  worship  of  revenge. 

Pem.,  Big.  Our  souls  religiously  confirm  thy  words. 

Enter  Hubert. 

Hub.  Lords,  I  am  hot  with  haste  in  seeking  you : 
Arthur  doth  live ;  the  king  hath  sent  for  you. 

Sal.  O,  he  is  bold,  and  blushes  not  at  death : — 
Avaunt,  thou  hateful  villain,  get  thee  gone ! 

Hub.  I  am  no  villain. 

Sal.  Must  I  rob  the  law  ?     [Drawing  his  sword. 

Bast.  Your  sword  is  bright,  sir ;  put  it  up  again. 

Sal.  Not  till  I  sheathe  it  in  a  murtherer's  skin. 

Hub.  Stand  back,  lord  Salisbury,  stand  back,  I  say ; 
By  heaven,  I  think,  my  sword  's  as  sharp  as  yours : 
I  would  not  have  you,  lord,  forget  yourself. 
Nor  tempt  the  danger  of  my  true  defence ; 
Lest  I,  by  marking  of  your  rage,  forget 
Your  worth,  your  greatness,  and  nobility. 

Big.  Out,  dunghill !  dar'st  thou  brave  a  nobleman  ? 

Hub.  Not  for  my  life :  but  yet  I  dare  defend 
My  innocent  life  against  an  emperor. 

Sal.  Thou  art  a  murtherer. 

Hub.  Do  not  prove  me  so ; 

Yet,  I  am  none :  Whose  tongue  soe'er  speaks  false. 
Not  truly  speaks ;  who  speaks  not  truly,  lies. 

Pem.  Cut  him  to  pieces. 

Bast.  Keep  the  peace,  I  say. 

Sal.  Stand  by,  or  I  shall  gall  you,  Faulconbridge. 


ScENB  III.]  KING  JOHN.  329 

Bast.  Thou  wert  better  gall  the  devil,  Salisbury : 
If  thou  but  frown  on  me,  or  stir  thy  foot. 
Or  teach  thy  hasty  spleen  to  do  me  shame, 
I  '11  strike  thee  dead.     Put  up  thy  sword  betime ; 
Or  I  '11  so  maul  you  and  your  toasting-iron. 
That  you  shall  think  the  devil  is  come  from  hell. 

Big.  What  wilt  thou  do,  renowned  Faulconbridge  ? 
Second  a  villain  and  a  murtherer  ? 

Hub.  Lord  Bigot,  I  am  none. 

Big.  Who  kill'd  this  prince  ? 

Hub.  'T  is  not  an  hour  since  I  left  him  well  : 
I  honour'd  him,  I  lov'd  him ;  and  will  weep 
My  date  of  life  out,  for  his  sweet  life's  loss. 

Sal.  Trust  not  those  cunning  waters  of  his  eyes. 
For  villainy  is  not  without  such  rheum ; 
And  he,  long  traded  in  it,  makes  it  seem 
Like  rivers  of  remorse  and  innocency. 
Away,  with  me,  all  you  whose  souls  abhor 
Th'  uncleanly  savours  of  a  slaughter-house ; 
For  I  am  stifled  with  this  smell  of  sin. 

Big.  Away,  toward  Bury,  to  the  dauphin  there ! 

Pern.  There,  tell  the  king,  he  may  inquire  us  out. 

[Exeunt  Lords. 

Bast.  Here  's   a   good   world ! — Knew   you   of  this   fair 
work? 
Beyond  the  infinite  and  boundless  reach 
Of  mercy,  if  thou  didst  this  deed  of  death. 
Art  thou  damn'd,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Do  but  hear  me,  sir. 

Bast.  Ha !  I  '11  tell  thee  what ; 
Thou  'rt  damn'd  as  black — nay,  nothing  is  so  black ; 
Thou  art  more  deep  damn'd  than  prince  Lucifer : 
There  is  not  yet  so  ugly  a  fiend  of  hell 
As  thou  shalt  be,  if  thou  didst  kill  this  child. 

Hub.  Upon  my  soul, — 

Bast.  If  thou  didst  but  consent 

To  this  most  cruel  act,  do  but  despair. 
And,  if  thou  want'st  a  cord,  the  smallest  thread 
That  ever  spider  twisted  from  her  womb 


330  KING  JOHN.  [Act  IV. 

Will  serve  to  strangle  thee ;  a  rush  will  be 

A  beam  to  hang  thee  on ;  or^  wouldst  thou  drown  thyself. 

Put  but  a  little  water  in  a  spoon. 

And  it  shall  be,  as  all  the  ocean. 

Enough  to  stifle  such  a  villain  up. — 

I  do  suspect  thee  very  grievously. 

Hub.  If  I  in  act,  consent,  or  sin  of  thought. 
Be  guilty  of  the  stealing  that  sweet  breath 
Which  was  embounded  in  this  beauteous  clay. 
Let  hell  want  pains  enough  to  torture  me ! 
I  left  him  well. 

Bast.  Go,  bear  him  in  thine  arms. — 

I  am  amaz'd,  methinks ;  and  lose  my  way 
Among  the  thorns  and  dangers  of  this  world. — 
How  easy  dost  thou  take  all  England  up ! 
From  forth  this  morsel  of  dead  royalty. 
The  life,  the  right,  and  truth  of  all  this  realm 
Is  fled  to  heaven ;  and  England  now  is  left 
To  tug  and  scamble,  and  to  part  by  the  teeth 
The  unow'd  interest  of  proud-swelling  state. 
Now,  for  the  bare-pick'd  bone  of  majesty 
Doth  dogged  war  bristle  his  angry  crest. 
And  snarleth  in  the  gentle  eyes  of  peace : 
Now  powers  from  home,  and  discontents  at  home. 
Meet  in  one  line ;  and  vast  confusion  waits. 
As  doth  a  raven  on  a  sick-fallen  beast. 
The  imminent  decay  of  wrested  pomp. 
Now  happy  he  whose  cloak  and  cincture  can 
Hold  out  this  tempest.     Bear  away  that  child. 
And  follow  me  with  speed ;  I  '11  to  the  king : 
A  thousand  businesses  are  brief  in  hand, 
And  heaven  itself  doth  frown  upon  the  land.  [Exeunt. 


KING  JOHN. 


HISTORICAL   ILLUSTRATION   OF   ACT   IV. 


331 


It  is  unquestionably  to  be  deplored  that  the  greatest  writers  of  imagination  have 
sometimes  embodied  events  not  only  unsupported  by  the  facts  of  history,  but  utterly 
opposed  to  them.  We  are  not  speaking  of  those  deviations  from  the  actual  suc- 
cession of  events, — those  omissions  of  minor  particulars, — those  groupings  of  cha- 
racters who  were  really  never  brought  together, — which  the  poet  knowingly  aban- 
dons himself  to,  that  he  may  accomplish  the  great  purposes  of  his  art,  the  first  of 
which,  in  a  drama  especially,  is  unity  of  action.  Such  a  licence  has  Shakspere 
taken  in  '  King  John,'  and  who  can  doubt  that,  poetically,  he  was  right?  But  there 
is  a  limit  even  to  the  mastery  of  the  poet,  when  he  is  dealing  with  the  broad  truths 
of  history  ;  for  the  poetical  truth  would  be  destroyed  if  the  historical  truth  were 
utterly  disregarded.  For  example,  if  the  grand  scenes  in  tliis  act,  between  Arthur 
and  Hubert,  and  between  Hubert  and  John,  were  entirely  contradicted  by  the  truth 
of  history,  there  would  be  an  abatement  even  of  the  irresistible  power  of  these 
matchless  scenes.  Had  the  proper  historians  led  us  to  believe  that  no  attempt  was 
made  to  deprive  Arthur  of  his  sight — that  his  death  was  not  the  result  of  the  dark 
suspicions  and  cowardly  fears  of  his  uncle — that  the  manner  of  his  death  was  so 
clear  that  he  who  held  him  captive  was  absolved  from  all  suspicion  of  treachery, — 
then  the  poet  would  indeed  have  left  an  impression  on  the  mind  which  even  the 
historical  truth  could  with  diflSculty  have  overcome,  but  he  would  not  have  left 
that  complete  and  overwhelming  impression  of  the  reality  of  his  scenes — he  could 
not  have  produced  our  implicit  belief  in  the  sad  story,  as  he  tells  it,  of  Arthur  of 
Brittany — he  could  not  have  rendered  it  impossible  for  amy  one  to  recur  to  that 
story  who  has  read  this  act  of  '  King  John,'  and  not  think  of  the  dark  prison  where 
the  iron  was  hot  and  the  executioner  ready,  but  where  nature,  speaking  in  words 
such  as  none  but  the  greatest  poet  of  nature  could  have  furnished,  made  the  fire  and 
the  iron  "  deny  their  office,"  and  the  executioner  leave  the  poor  boy,  for  a  while, 
to  "  sleep  doubtless  and  secure."  Fortunate  is  it  that  we  have  no  records  to  hold 
up  which  should  say  that  Shakspere  built  this  immortal  scene  upon  a  rotten  founda- 
tion. The  story,  as  told  by  Holinshed,  is  deeply  interesting ;  and  we  cannot  read  it 
without  feeling  how  skilfully  the  poet  has  followed  it : — 

"  It  is  said  that  King  John  caused  his  nephew  Arthur  to  be  brought  before  him 
at  Falaise,  and  there  went  about  to  persuade  him  all  that  he  could  to  forsake  his 
friendship  and  alliance  with  the  French  king,  and  to  lean  and  stick  to  liim  his 
natural  uncle.  But  Arthur,  like  one  that  wanted  good  counsel,  and  abounding 
too  much  in  his  own  wilful  opinion,  made  a  presumptuous  answer,  not  only  deny- 
ing so  to  do,  but  also  commanding  King  John  to  restore  unto  him  the  realms  of 
England,  with  all  those  other  lands  and  possessions  which  King  Richard  had  in  his 
hand  at  the  hour  of  his  death.  For  sith  the  same  appertaineth  to  him  by  right  of 
inheritance,  he  assured  him,  except  restitution  were  made  the  sooner,  he  should  not 
long  continue  quiet.  King  John,  being  sore  moved  by  such  words  thus  uttered  by 
his  nephew,  appointed  (as  before  is  said)  that  he  should  be  straitly  kept  in  prison, 
as  first  in  Falaise,  and  after  at  Roan,  within  the  new  castle  there. 

"  Shortly  after  King  John  coming  over  into  England  caused  himself  to  be  crowned 
again  at  Canterbury,  by  the  hands  of  Hubert,  the  archbishop  there,  on  the  fourteenth 


332  ILLUSTRATION  OF  ACT  IV. 

of  April,  aiid  then  went  back  again  into  Normandy,  where,  itntnediately  upon  his 
arrival,  a  rumour  waa  spread  through  all  France  of  the  death  of  his  nephew  Arthur. 
True  it  is  that  great  suit  was  made  to  have  Arthur  set  at  liberty,  as  well  by  the 
French  King  as  by  William  de  Miches,  a  valiant  baron  of  Poitou,  and  divers  other 
noblemen  of  the  Britains,  who,  when  they  could  not  prevail  in  their  suit,  they 
banded  themselves  together,  and  joining  in  confederacy  with  Robert  Earl  of  Alan- 
son,  the  Viscount  Beaumont,  William  de  Fulgiers,  and  other,  they  began  to  levy 
sharp  wars  against  King  John  in  divers  places,  insomuch  (as  it  was  thought)  that 
so  long  as  Arthur  lived  there  would  be  no  quiet  in  those  parts :  whereupon  it  waa 
reported  that  King  John,  tlirough  persuasion  of  his  counsellors,  appointed  certain 
persons  to  go  into  Falaise,  where  Arthur  was  kept  in  prison,  under  the  charge  of 
Hubert  de  Burgh,  and  there  to  put  out  the  young  gentleman's  eyes. 

"  But  through  such  resistance  as  he  made  against  one  of  the  tormentors  that 
came  to  execute  the  king's  command  (for  the  other  rather  forsook  their  prince  and 
country  than  they  would  consent  to  obey  the  king's  authority  therein),  and  such 
lamentable  words  as  he  uttered,  Hubert  de  Burgh  did  preserve  him  from  that  injury, 
not  doubting  but  rather  to  have  thanks  than  displeasure  at  the  king's  hands,  for 
delivering  him  of  such  infamy  as  would  have  redounded  unto  his  highness  if  the 
young  gentleman  had  been  so  cruelly  dealt  withal.  For  he  considered  that  King 
John  had  resolved  upon  this  point  only  in  his  heat  and  fury  (which  moveth  men  to 
undertake  many  an  inconvenient  enterprise,  unbeseeming  the  person  of  a  common 
man,  much  more  reproachful  to  a  prince,  all  men  in  that  mood  being  more  foolish 
and  furious,  and  prone  to  accomplish  the  perverse  conceits  of  their  ill-possessed 
hearts;  as  one  saith  right  well, — 


pronus  in  iram 

Stultorum  est  animus,  facile  excandescit  et  audet 
Omne  scelus,  quoties  concepta  bile  tumescit), 

and  that  afterwards,  upon  better  advisement,  he  would  both  repent  himself  so  to 
have  commanded,  and  give  them  small  thank  that  should  see  it  put  in  execution. 
Howbeit,  to  satisfy  his  mind  for  the  time,  and  to  stay  the  rage  of  the  Britains,  he 
caused  it  to  be  bruited  abroad  through  the  country  that  the  king's  commandment 
was  fulfilled,  and  that  Arthur  also,  through  sorrow  and  grief,  was  departed  out  of 
this  life.  For  the  space  of  fifteen  days  this  rumour  incessantly  ran  through  both 
the  realms  of  England  and  France,  and  there  was  ringing  for  him  through  towns  and 
villages  as  it  had  been  for  his  funerals.  It  was  also  bruited  that  his  body  was 
buried  in  the  monastery  of  Saint  Andrew's  of  the  Cisteaux  order. 

"  But  when  the  Britains  were  nothing  pacified,  but  rather  kindled  more  vehe- 
mently to  work  all  the  mischief  they  could  devise,  in  revenge  of  their  sovereign's 
death,  there  was  no  remedy  but  to  signify  abroad  again  that  Arthur  was  as  yet 
living,  and  in  health.  Now,  when  the  King  heard  the  truth  of  all  this  matter,  he 
was  nothing  displeased  for  that  his  commandment  was  not  executed,  sith  there  were 
divers  of  his  captains  which  uttered  in  plain  words  that  he  should  not  find  knights 
to  keep  his  castles  if  he  dealt  so  cruelly  with  his  nephew.  For  if  it  chanced  any  of 
them  to  be  taken  by  the  King  of  France,  or  other  their  adversaries,  they  should  be 
sure  to  taste  of  the  like  cup.  But  now,  touching  the  manner  in  very  deed  of  the 
end  of  this  Arthur,  writers  make  sundry  reports.  Nevertheless  certain  it  is,  that  in 
the  year  next  ensuing  he  was  removed  from  Falaise  unto  the  castle  or  tower  of 
Roan,  out  of  the  which  there  was  not  any  that  would  confess  that  ever  he  saw  him 
go  alive.  Some  have  written,  that,  as  he  assayed  to  have  escaped  out  of  prison,  and 
proving  to  climb  over  the  walls  of  the  castle,  he  fell  iiito  the  river  of  Seine,  and  so 
was  drowned.  Olher  write  that  through  very  grief  and  languor  he  pined  away 
and  died  of  natural  sickness.     But  some  aiBrm  that  King  John  secretly  caused  him 


KING  JOHN. 


333 


to  be  murdered  and  made  away,  so  as  it  is  not  thoroughly  agreed  upon  in  what 
sort  he  finished  his  days ;  but  verily  King  John  was  had  in  great  suspicion,  whether 
worthily  or  not  the  Lord  knoweth." 

Wisely  has  the  old  chronicler  said,  "  Verily  King  John  was  had  in  great  suspi- 
cion, whether  worthily  or  not  the  Lord  knoweth;"'  and  wisely  has  Shakspere  taken 
the  least  offensive  mode  of  Arthur's  death  which  was  to  be  found  noticed  in  the 
obscure  records  of  those  times.  It  is,  all  things  considered,  most  probable  that 
Arthur  perished  at  Rouen.  The  darkest  of  the  stories  connected  with  his  death  is 
that  which  makes  him,  on  the  night  of  the  3rd  April,  1203,  awakened  from  his 
sleep,  and  led  to  the  foot  of  the  castle  of  Rouen,  which  the  Seine  washed.  There, 
say  the  French  historians,  he  entered  a  boat,  in  which  sate  John,  and  Peter  de 
Maulac,  his  esquire.  Terror  took  possession  of  the  unhappy  boy,  and  he  threw 
himself  at  his  uncle's  feet; — but  John  came  to  do  or  to  witness  a  deed  of  horror, 
and  with  his  own  hand  he  slew  his  nephew,  and  the  deep  waters  of  the  river  received 
the  body  of  his  victim. 


[Castle  of  Rouen.j 


In  Act  III.  the  dramatic  action  exhibits  to  us  the  "holy  legate  of  the  pope" 
breaking  the  peace  between  John  and  Philip,  demanding  of  Joint 

"  Why  thou  against  the  church,  our  holy  mother, 
So  wilfully  dost  spurn  ;  and,  force  perforce, 
Keep  Stephen  Langton,  chosen  archbishop 
Of  Canterbury,  from  that  holy  see .-" 

The  great  quarrel  between  John  and  the  Pope,  with  reference  to  the  election  of  Ste- 
phen Langton,  did  not  take  place  till  1207,  about  six  years  after  Arthur  was  taken 
prisoner  at  Mirebeau.  Pandulph  was  not  sent  into  France  "  to  practise  with  the 
French  king  "  against  John  till  121 1 ;  and  tlie  invasion  of  England  by  the  Dauphin 
(which  is  suggested  by  Pandulph  as  likely  to  be  supported  by  the  indignation  of 


334 


ILLUSTRATION  OF  ACT  IV. 


the  English  on  the  death  of  Arthur)  did  not  take  place  till  1216,  the  year  of  John's 
death.  The  poet  has  leaped  over  all  those  barriers  of  time  which  would  have  im- 
peded the  direct  march  of  his  own  poetical  history.  Coleridge  has  well  explained 
the  principle  of  this : — "  The  history  of  our  ancient  kings, — the  events  of  their 
reigns  I  mean,— are  like  stars  in  the  sky; — whatever  the  real  interspaces  may  be, 
and  however  great,  they  seem  close  to  each  other.  The  stars — the  evenU — strike  us 
and  remain  in  our  eye,  little  modified  by  the  difference  of  dates.  An  historic  drama 
is,  therefore,  a  collection  of  events  borrowed  from  history,  but  connected  together,  in 
respect  of  cause  and  time,  poetically  and  by  dramatic  fiction."  Again :  "  The 
events  themselves  are  immaterial,  otherwise  than  as  tiie  clothing  and  manifestation 
of  the  spirit  that  is  working  within.  In  this  mode,  the  unity  resulting  from  succes- 
sion is  destroyed,  but  is  supplied  by  a  unity  of  a  higher  order,  which  connects  the 
events  by  reference  to  the  workers,  gives  a  reason  for  them  in  the  motives,  and  pre- 
Bents  men  in  their  causative  character."* 

The  reader  may,  perhaps,  be  pleased  with  an  example  of  the  manner  in  which 
Shakspere  follows  the  chronicles  when  the  historical  and  the  poetical  truth  are  in 
unison.  We  will  give  him  the  story  of  Peter  of  Pomfret,  and  the  incident  of  the 
five  moons,  from  Holinshed : — 

"  There  was  in  this  season  (1213,  An.  Reg.  15)  an  hermit  whose  name  was  Peter, 
dwelling  about  York,  a  man  in  great  reputation  with  the  common  people,  because 
that,  either  inspired  with  some  spirit  of  prophecy,  as  the  people^believed,  or  else  hav- 
ing some  notable  skill  in  art  magic,  he  was  accustomed  to  tell  what  should  follow 
after.  *  *  *  *  Xlijg  Peter,  about  the  first  of  January  last  past,  had  told  the 
King  that  at  the  feast  of  the  Ascension  it  should  come  to  pass  that  he  should  be 
cast  out  of  his  kingdom.  And  he  offered  himself  to  suffer  death  for  it,  if  his  words 
should  not  prove  true.     Hereupon  being  committed  to  prison  within  the  castle  of 


[Pomfret  Castle.] 
*  Literary  Remains,  vol,  ii.  pp.  160,  161. 


KING  JOHN. 


335 


Corfe,  when  the  day  by  him  prefixed  came,  without  any  other  notable  damage  unto 
King  John,  he  was,  by  the  King's  commandment,  drawn  from  the  said  castle  unto 
the  town  of  Warham,  and  there  hanged,  together  with  his  son.  *  *  *  *  Some 
thought  that  he  had  much  wrong  to  die,  because  the  matter  fell  out  even  as  he  had 
prophesied ;  for  the  day  before  Ascension-day  King  John  had  resigned  the  supe- 
riority of  his  kingdom  (as  they  took  the  matter)  unto  the  Pope,  and  had  done  to 
him  homage,  so  that  he  was  no  absolute  king  indeed,  as  authors  affirm.  One  cause, 
and  that  not  the  least  which  moved  King  John  the  sooner  to  agree  with  the  Pope, 
rose  through  the  words  of  the  said  hermit,  that  did  put  such  a  fear  of  some  great 
mishap  in  his  heart,  which  should  grow  through  the  disloyalty  of  his  people,  that  it 
made  him  yield  the  sooner." 

"  About  the  month  of  December  there  were  seen  in  the  province  of  York  five 
moons,  one  in  the  east,  the  second  in  the  west,  the  third  in  the  north,  the  fourth  in 
the  south,  and  the  fifth,  as  it  were,  set  in  the  middest  of  the  other,  having  many 
stars  about  it,  and  went  five  or  six  times  encompassing  the  other,  as  it  were  the 
space  of  one  hour,  and  shortly  after  vanished  away." 

We  subjoin  the  portraits  of  two  of  the  "angry  lords"  who  figure  in  this  act. 
Salisbury  and  Pembroke  are  especially  mentioned  by  Holinshed  as  having  revolted 
from  John,  and  joined  Lewis.  The  portrait  of  William  Longespee,  Earl  of  Salis- 
bury— the  son  of  Henry  II.  by  Rosamond  de  Clifford — is  from  his  effigy  in  Salis- 
bury Cathedral:  that  of  William  Marshall,  Earl  of  Pembroke — the  ^^ Rector  regis 
et  regni"  in  the  next  reign — is  from  his  effigy  in  the  Temple  church. 


[Earl  of  Salisbury.] 


[Earl  of  Pembroke.] 


336  KING  JOHN.  [Act  V. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  John,  Pandulph  with  the  Crown,  and  Attend- 
ants. 

K.  John.  Thus  have  I  yielded  up  into  your  hand 
The  circle  of  my  glory. 

Pand.  Take  again     [Giving  John  the  crown. 

From  this  my  hand,  as  holding  of  the  pope. 
Your  sovereign  greatness  and  authority. 

K.  John.  Now  keep  your  holy  word :  go  meet  the  French ; 
And  from  his  holiness  use  all  your  power 
To  stop  their  marches,  'fore  we  are  inflam'd. 
Our  discontented  counties  *  do  revolt ; 
Our  people  quarrel  with  obedience  ; 
Swearing  allegiance,  and  the  love  of  soul. 
To  stranger  blood,  to  foreign  royalty. 
This  inundation  of  mistemper'd  humour 
Rests  by  you  only  to  be  qualified. 
Then  pause  not ;  for  the  present  time 's  so  sick. 
That  present  medicine  must  be  minister'd. 
Or  overthrow  incurable  ensues. 

Pand.  It  was  my  breath  that  blew  this  tempest  up. 
Upon  your  stubborn  usage  of  the  pope ; 
But,  since  you  are  a  gentle  convertite,^ 
My  tongue  shall  hush  again  this  storm  of  war. 
And  make  fair  weather  in  your  blustering  land. 
On  this  Ascension-day,  remember  well. 
Upon  your  oath  of  service  to  the  pope. 
Go  I  to  make  the  French  lay  down  their  arms.  [Exit. 

K.  John.  Is  this  Ascension-day  ?     Did  not  the  prophet 

■  Counties — nobles.     The  reader  will  remember  the  County  Paris,  in  *  Romeo 
and  Juliet;'  and  County  Guy,  in  Sir  Walter  Scott's  ballad. 

*>  Converlite — convert ; — reclaimed  to  the  authority  of  "holy  church." 


Scene  I.]  KING  JOHN.  337 

Say,  that  before  Ascension-day  at  noon. 
My  crown  I  should  give  off?     Even  so  I  have : 
I  did  suppose  it  should  be  on  constraint ; 
But,  heaven  be  thank'd,  it  is  but  voluntary. 

Enter  the  Bastard. 

Bast.  All  Kent  hath  yielded  ;  nothing  there  holds  out 
But  Dover  castle  :  London  hath  receiv'd. 
Like  a  kind  host,  the  dauphin  and  his  powers : 
Your  nobles  will  not  hear  you,  but  are  gone 
To  offer  service  to  your  enemy  ; 
And  wild  amazement  hurries  up  and  down 
The  little  number  of  your  doubtful  friends. 

K.  John.  Would  not  my  lords  return  to  me  again. 
After  they  heard  young  Arthur  was  alive  ? 

Bast.  They  found  him  dead,  and  cast  into  the  streets ; 
An  empty  casket,  where  the  jewel  of  life 
By  some  damn'd  hand  was  robb'd  and  ta'en  away. 

K.  John.  That  villain  Hubert  told  me  he  did  live. 

Bast.  So,  on  my  soul,  he  did,  for  aught  he  knew. 
But  wherefore  do  you  droop  ?  why  look  you  sad  ? 
Be  great  in  act,  as  you  have  been  in  thought ; 
Let  not  the  world  see  fear,  and  sad  distrust. 
Govern  the  motion  of  a  kingly  eye : 
Be  stirring  as  the  time  ;  be  fire  with  fire ; 
Threaten  the  threat'ner,  and  outface  the  brow 
Of  bragging  horror :  so  shall  inferior  eyes. 
That  borrow  their  behaviours  from  the  great. 
Grow  great  by  your  example,  and  put  on 
The  dauntless  spirit  of  resolution. 
Away  ;  and  glister  like  the  god  of  war. 
When  he  intendeth  to  become  the  field  : 
Show  boldness  and  aspiring  confidence. 
What,  shall  they  seek  the  lion  in  his  den. 
And  fright  him  there  ?  and  make  him  tremble  there  ? 
O,  let  it  not  be  said ! — Forage,  and  run 
To  meet  displeasure  further  from  the  doors ; 
And  grapple  with  him,  ere  he  come  so  nigh. 

K.  John.  The  legate  of  the  pope  hath  been  with  me. 

Vol.  IV.  Z 


338  KING  JOHN.  [Act  V. 

And  I  have  made  a  happy  peace  with  him  ; 
And  he  hath  promis'd  to  dismiss  the  powers 
Led  by  the  dauphin. 

Bast.  O  inglorious  league  ! 

Shall  we,  upon  the  footing  of  our  land. 
Send  fair-play  orders,  and  make  compromise. 
Insinuation,  parley,  and  base  truce. 
To  arms  invasive  ?  shall  a  beardless  boy, 
A  cocker'd  silken  wanton,  brave  our  fields. 
And  flesh  his  spirit  in  a  warlike  soil. 
Mocking  the  air  with  colours  idly  spread. 
And  find  no  check  ?  Let  us,  my  liege,  to  arms  : 
Perchance,  the  cardinal  cannot  make  your  peace ; 
Or  if  he  do,  let  it  at  least  be  said. 
They  saw  we  had  a  purpose  of  defence. 

K.  John.  Have  thou  the  ordering  of  this  present  time. 

Bast.  Away  then,  with  good  courage  ;  yet  I  know. 
Our  party  may  well  meet  a  prouder  foe.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL— ^  Plaiti,  near  St.  Edmund's-Bury. 

Enter  in  arms,  Lewis,  Salisbury,  Melun,  Pembroke, 
Bigot,  and  Soldiers. 

Lew.  My  lord  Melun,  let  this  be  copied  out. 
And  keep  it  safe  for  our  remembrance  : 
Return  the  precedent  to  these  lords  again  ; 
That,  having  our  fair  order  written  down. 
Both  they^  and  we,  perusing  o'er  these  notes. 
May  know  wherefore  we  took  the  sacrament. 
And  keep  our  faiths  firm  and  inviolable. 

Sal.  Upon  our  sides  it  never  shall  be  broken. 
And,  noble  dauphin,  albeit  we  swear 
A  voluntary  zeal,  and  unurg'd  faith. 
To  your  proceedings ;  yet,  believe  me,  prince, 
I  am  not  glad  that  such  a  sore  of  time 
Should  seek  a  plaster  by  contemn'd  revolt. 
And  heal  the  inveterate  canker  of  <sih.e  wound 
By  making  many.     O,  it  grieves  my  soul. 
That  I  must  draw  this  metal  from  my  side 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  '339 

To  be  a  widow-maker  ;  O,  and  there. 

Where  honourable  rescue,  and  defence, 

Cries  out  upon  the  name  of  Salisbury : 

But  such  is  the  infection  of  the  time. 

That,  for  the  health  and  physic  of  our  right. 

We  cannot  deal  but  with  the  very  hand 

Of  stern  injustice  and  confused  wrong. — 

And  is 't  not  pity,  O  my  grieved  friends. 

That  we,  the  sons  and  children  of  this  isle. 

Were  born  to  see  so  sad  an  hour  as  this  : 

Wherein  we  step  after  a  stranger,*  march 

Upon  her  gentle  bosom,  and  fill  up 

Her  enemies'  ranks,  (I  must  withdraw  and  weep 

Upon  the  spot  of  this  enforced  cause,) 

To  grace  the  gentry  of  a  land  remote. 

And  follow  unacquainted  colours  here  ? 

What,  here  ? — O  nation,  that  thou  couldst  remove  ! 

That  Neptune's  arms,  who  clippeth  thee  about. 

Would  bear  thee  from  the  knowledge  of  thyself. 

And  grapple  thee  "^  unto  a  pagan  shore ; 

Where  these  two  christian  armies  might  combine 

The  blood  of  malice  in  a  vein  of  league. 

And  not  to-spend  •=  it  so  unneighbourly ! 

Lew.  A  noble  temper  dost  thou  show  in  this ; 
And  great  affections,  wrestling  in  thy  bosom. 
Do  make  an  earthquake  of  nobility. 
O,  what  a  noble  combat  hast  thou  *  fought 
Between  compulsion  and  a  brave  respect ! 
Let  me  wipe  off  this  honourable  dew. 
That  silverly  doth  progress  on  thy  cheeks: 

■  After  a  ttranger.  We  give  the  punctuation  of  the  original.  The  modem  edi- 
tions read 

"  Wherein  we  step  after  a  stranger  march 
Upon  her  gentle  bosom," 
making  ttranger  an  adjective. 

*"  Grapple  thee.     The  original  reads  "cn)>/)/e /Aee." 

'  To-»pend.  To,  in  the  original,  stands  as  the  sign  of  the  infinitive.  Steevens 
thinks  it  a  prefix,  in  combination  with  tpend ;  as  in  *  The  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor,' — 

"  And  fairy-like,  to-pinch  the  unclean  knight." 
^  Thou  is  wanting  in  the  original. 

Z2 


340  KING  JOHN.  [Act  V 

My  heart  hath  melted  at  a  lady's  tears. 

Being  an  ordinary  inundation  ; 

But  this  effusion  of  such  manly  drops, 

This  shower,  blown  up  by  tempest  of  the  soul. 

Startles  mine  eyes,  and  makes  me  more  amaz'd 

Than  had  I  seen  the  vaulty  top  of  heaven 

Figur'd  quite  o'er  with  burning  meteors. 

Lift  up  thy  brow,  renowned  Salisbury, 

And  with  a  great  heart  heave  away  this  storm  : 

Commend  these  waters  to  those  baby  eyes 

That  never  saw  the  giant  world  enrag'd  ; 

Nor  met  with  fortune  other  than  at  feasts. 

Full  warm  of  blood,  of  mirth,  of  gossiping. 

Come,  come  ;  for  thou  shalt  thrust  thy  hand  as  deep 

Into  the  purse  of  rich  prosperity 

As  Lewis  himself: — so,  nobles,  shall  you  all. 

That  knit  your  sinews  to  the  strength  of  mine. 

Enter  Pandulph,  attended. 

And  even  there,  methinks,  an  angel  spake  : 
Look,  where  the  holy  legate  comes  apace. 
To  give  us  warrant  from  the  hand  of  heaven ; 
And  on  our  actions  set  the  name  of  right. 
With  holy  breath. 

Pand.  Hail,  noble  prince  of  France ! 

The  next  is  this, — king  John  hath  reconcil'd 
Himself  to  Rome  ;  his  spirit  is  come  in. 
That  so  stood  out  against  the  holy  church. 
The  great  metropolis  and  see  of  Rome : 
Therefore  thy  threat'ning  colours  now  wind  up. 
And  tame  the  savage  spirit  of  wild  war ; 
That,  like  a  lion  foster'd  up  at  hand. 
It  may  lie  gently  at  the  foot  of  peace. 
And  be  no  further  harmful  than  in  show. 

Lew.  Your  grace  shall  pardon  me,  I  will  not  back  ; 
I  am  too  high-born  to  be  propertied. 
To  be  a  secondary  at  control. 
Or  useful  serving-man,  and  instrument. 
To  any  sovereign  state  throughout  the  world. 


Scene  II.]  KING  JOHN.  341 

Your  breath  first  kindled  the  dead  coal  of  wars 

Between  this  chastis'd  kingdom  and  myself. 

And  brought  in  matter  that  should  feed  this  fire ; 

And  now  't  is  far  too  huge  to  be  blown  out 

With  that  same  weak  wind  which  enkindled  it 

You  taught  me  how  to  know  the  face  of  right. 

Acquainted  me  with  interest  to  this  land. 

Yea,  thrust  this  enterprise  into  my  heart; 

And  come  you  now  to  tell  me,  John  hath  made 

His  peace  with  Rome  ?     What  is  that  peace  to  me  ? 

I,  by  the  honour  of  my  marriage-bed. 

After  young  Arthur,  claim  this  land  for  mine ; 

And,  now  it  is  half-conquer'd,  must  I  back 

Because  that  John  hath  made  his  peace  with  Rome  ? 

Am  I  Rome's  slave  ?    What  penny  hath  Rome  borne. 

What  men  provided,  what  munition  sent. 

To  underprop  this  action  ?  is 't  not  I 

That  undergo  this  charge  ?  who  else  but  I, 

And  such  as  to  my  claim  are  liable. 

Sweat  in  this  business,  and  maintain  this  war  ? 

Have  I  not  heard  these  islanders  shout  out, 

Vive  le  roy !  as  I  have  bank'd  their  towns  ?  * 

Have  I  not  here  the  best  cards  for  the  game,' 

To  win  this  easy  match  play'd  for  a  crown? 

And  shall  I  now  give  o'er  the  yielded  set  ? 

No,  no,  on  my  soul,  it  never  shall  be  said. 

Pand.  You  look  but  on  the  outside  of  this  work. 

Lew.  Outside  or  inside,  I  will  not  return 
Till  my  attempt  so  much  be  glorified 
As  to  my  ample  hope  was  promised 
Before  I  drew  this  gallant  head  of  war. 
And  cuU'd  these  fiery  spirits  from  the  world. 
To  outlook  conquest,  and  to  win  renown 
Even  in  the  jaws  of  danger  and  of  death. — [  Trumpet  sounds. 
What  lusty  trumpet  thus  doth  summon  us  ? 

"  Bank'd  their  toum*. — Probably  sail'd  along  their  baaks.     A  passage  in  the  old 
'  King  John '  appears  to  have  suggested  this — 

"  from  the  hollow  holes  of  Thamesis 
Echo  apace  replied  Five  k  roi." 


342  KING  JOHN.  [Act  V. 

Enter  the  Bastard,  attended. 

Bast.  According  to  the  fair  play  of  tlie  world. 

Let  me  have  audience.     I  am  sent  to  speak  : 

My  holy  lord  of  Milan,  from  the  king 

I  come,  to  learn  how  you  have  dealt  for  him  ; 

And,  as  you  answer,  I  do  know  the  scope 

And  warrant  limited  unto  my  tongue. 

Pand.  The  dauphin  is  too  wilful  opposite. 

And  will  not  temporize  with  my  entreaties ; 

He  flatly  says  he  '11  not  lay  down  his  arms. 

BaA't.  By  all  the  blood  that  ever  fury  breath'd. 

The  youth  says  well : — Now  hear  our  English  king ; 

For  thus  his  royalty  doth  speak  in  me. 

He  is  prepar'd  ;  and  reason  too,  he  should  : 

This  apish  and  unmannerly  approach. 

This  harness'd  masque,  and  unadvised  revel. 

This  unhair'd  "  sauciness,  and  boyish  troops. 

The  king  doth  smile  at ;  and  is  well  prepar'd 

To  whip  this  dwarfish  war,  these  pigmy  arms. 

From  out  the  circle  of  his  territories. 

That  hand,  which  had  the  strength,  even  at  your  door. 

To  cudgel  you,  and  make  you  take  the  hatch ; 

To  dive,  like  buckets,  in  concealed  wells ; 

To  crouch  in  litter  of  your  stable  planks ; 

To  lie,  like  pawns,  lock'd  up  in  chests  and  trunks ; 

To  hug  with  swine ;  to  seek  sweet  safety  out 

In  vaults  and  prisons  ;  and  to  thrill,  and  shake. 

Even  at  the  crying  of  your  nation's  crow. 

Thinking  this  voice  an  armed  Englishman ; — ■ 

Shall  that  victorious  hand  be  feebled  here. 

That  in  your  chambers  gave  you  chastisement  ? 

No :  Know,  the  gallant  monarch  is  in  arms  ; 

And  like  an  eagle  o'er  his  aiery  towers. 

To  souse  annoyance  that  comes  near  his  nest. — 

And  you  degenerate,  you  ingrate  revolts. 

You  bloody  Neros,  ripping  up  the  womb 

Of  your  dear  mother  England,  blush  for  shame  : 

'   Unhair'd— unheiudcd. 


Scene  III.]  KING  JOHN.  343 

For  your  own  ladies,  and  pale-visag'd  maids. 
Like  Amazons,  come  tripping  after  drums ; 
Their  thimbles  into  armed  gauntlets  change. 
Their  neelds  to  lances,  and  their  gentle  hearts 
To  fierce  and  bloody  inclination. 

Lew.  There  end  thy  brave,"  and  turn  thy  face  in  peace  ; 
We  grant  thou  canst  outscold  us  :  fare  thee  well ; 
We  hold  our  time  too  precious  to  be  spent 
With  such  a  brabbler. 

Pand.  Give  me  leave  to  speak. 

Bast.  No,  I  will  speak. 

Lew.  We  will  attend  to  neither  : — 

Strike  up  the  drums  ;  and  let  the  tongue  of  war 
Plead  for  our  interest,  and  our  being  here. 

Bast.  Indeed,  your  drums,  being  beaten,  will  cry  out ; 
And  so  shall  you,  being  beaten  :  Do  but  start 
An  echo  with  the  clamour  of  thy  drum. 
And  even  at  hand  a  drum  is  ready  brac'd. 
That  shall  reverberate  all  as  loud  as  thine ; 
Sound  but  another,  and  another  shall. 
As  loud  as  thine,  rattle  the  welkin's  ear. 
And  mock  the  deep-mouth'd  thunder  :  for  at  hand 
(Not  trusting  to  this  halting  legate  here. 
Whom  he  hath  us'd  rather  for  sport  than  need) 
Is  warlike  John ;  and  in  his  forehead  sits 
A  bare-ribb'd  death,  whose  office  is  this  day 
To  feast  upon  whole  thousands  of  the  French. 

Lew.  Strike  up  our  drums,  to  find  this  danger  out. 

Bast.  And  thou  shalt  find  it,  dauphin,  do  not  doubt. 

\^Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— The  same.     A  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarums.     Enter  King  John  and  Hubert. 

K.  John.  How  goes  the  day  with  us?    O,  tell  me,  Hubert. 
Hub.  Badly,  I  fear  :  How  fares  your  majesty  ? 

»  Brave — bravado. 


344  KING  JOHN.  [ActV. 

K.  John.  This  fever,  that  hath  troubled  me  so  long, 
Lies  heavy  on  me  ;  O,  my  heart  is  sick  ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  your  valiant  kinsman,  Faulconbridge, 
Desires  your  majesty  to  leave  the  field. 
And  send  him  word  by  me  which  way  you  go. 

K.  John.  Tell  him,  toward  Swinstead,  to  the  abbey  there. 

Mess.  Be  of  good  comfort ;  for  the  great  supply. 
That  was  expected  by  the  dauphin  here. 
Are  wrack'd  three  nights  ago  on  Goodwin  sands. 
This  news  was  brought  to  Richard  but  even  now  : 
The  French  fight  coldly,  and  retire  themselves. 

K.  John.  Ah  me  !  this  tyrant  fever  burns  me  up. 
And  will  not  let  me  welcome  this  good  news. 
Set  on  'toward  Swinstead  :  to  my  litter  straight ;  * 
Weakness  possesseth  me,  and  I  am  faint.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.^ — The  same.     Another  part  of  the  same. 

Enter  Salisbury,  Pembroke,  Bigot,  and  others. 

Sal.  I  did  not  think  the  king  so  stor'd  with  friends. 

Pern.  Up  once  again  ;  put  spirit  in  the  French  : 
If  they  miscarry,  we  miscarry  too. 

Sal.  That  misbegotten  devil,  Faulconbridge, 
In  spite  of  spite,  alone  upholds  the  day. 

Pern.  They  say,  king  John,  sore  sick,  hath  left  the  field. 

Enter  Melun,  wounded,  and  led  by  Soldiers. 

Mel.  Lead  me  to  the  revolts  of  England  here. 
Sal.  When  we  were  happy  we  had  other  names. 
Pern.  It  is  the  count  Melun. 
Sal.  Wounded  to  death. 

Mel.  Fly,  noble  English,  you  are  bought  and  sold ; 
Unthread  the  rude  eye  *  of  rebellion, 

"  Unthread  the  rude  eye,  Theobald  corrupted  this  passage  into  "  untread  the 
rude  way;"  he  turned,  by  an  easy  process,  the  poetry  into  prose.  Malone,  who 
agrees  in  the  restoration  of  the  passage,  says  Shakspere  "  was  evidently  thinking  of 
the  eye  of  a  needle,"  and  he  calls  this,  therefore,  an  humble  metaphor.     Nothing,  it 


Scene  IV.]  KING  JOHN.  345 

And  welcome  home  again  discarded  faith. 
Seek  out  king  John,  and  fall  before  his  feet ; 
For,  if  the  French  be  lords  of  this  loud  day. 
He  means  to  recompense  the  pains  you  take 
By  cutting  off  your  heads  :  Thus  hath  he  sworn. 
And  I  with  him,  and  many  more  with  me. 
Upon  the  altar  at  Saint  Edmund's-Bury ; 
Even  on  that  altar  where  we  swore  to  you 
Dear  amity  and  everlasting  love. 

Sal.  May  this  be  possible?  may  this  be  true? 

Mel.  Have  I  not  hideous  death  within  my  view. 
Retaining  but  a  quantity  of  life 
Which  bleeds  away,  even  as  a  form  of  wax 
Resolveth  from  his  figure  'gainst  the  fire  ? 
What  in  the  world  should  make  me  now  deceive. 
Since  I  must  lose  the  use  of  all  deceit  ? 
Why  should  I  then  be  false ;  since  it  is  true 
That  I  must  die  here,  and  live  hence  by  truth  ? 
I  say  again,  if  Lewis  do  win  the  day. 
He  is  forsworn  if  e'er  those  eyes  of  yours 
jBehold  another  day  break  in  the  east : 
But  even  this  night, — whose  black  contagious  breath 
Already  smokes  about  the  burning  crest 
Of  the  old,  feeble,  and  day -wearied  sun, — 
Even  this  ill  night,  your  breathing  shall  expire ; 
Paying  the  fine  of  rated  treachery. 
Even  with  a  treacherous  fine  of  all  your  lives. 
If  Lewis  by  your  assistance  win  the  day. 
Commend  me  to  one  Hubert,  with  your  king ; 
The  love  of  him, — and  this  respect  besides. 
For  that  my  grandsire  was  an  Englishman, — 
Awakes  my  conscience  to  confess  all  this. 

appears  to  us,  is  humble  in  poetry  that  conveys  an  image  forcibly  and  distinctly ; 
and  "the  eye  of  a  needle"  by  the  application  of  the  poet  may  become  dignified. 
But  the  word  thread,  perhaps  metaphorically,  is  used  to  convey  the  meaning  of 
passing  through  anything  intricate,  narrow,  difScult. 

"  They  would  not  thread  the  gates," 
in  *  Coriolanus,"  and 

"  One  gains  the  thickets  and  one  thrids  the  brake," 
in  Dryden,  have  each  the  same  meaning.     The  "  rude  eye  "  in  the  line  before  tis  is 
the  rough  and  dangerous  passage  of  "  rebellion." 


346  KING  JOHN.  [Act  V. 

In  lieu  whereof,  I  pray  you,  bear  me  hence 
From  forth  the  noise  and  rumour  of  the  field ; 
Where  I  may  think  the  remnant  of  my  thoughts 
In  peace,  and  part  this  body  and  my  soul 
With  contemplation  and  devout  desires. 

Sal.  We  do  believe  thee, — And  beshrew  my  soul 
But  I  do  love  the  favour  and  the  form 
Of  this  most  fair  occasion,  by  the  which 
We  will  untread  the  steps  of  damned  flight ; 
And,  like  a  bated  and  retired  flood. 
Leaving  our  rankness  and  irregular  course. 
Stoop  low  within  those  bounds  we  have  o'erlook'd. 
And  calmly  run  on  in  obedience. 
Even  to  our  ocean,  to  our  great  king  John. 
My  arm  shall  give  thee  help  to  bear  thee  hence ; 
For  I  do  see  the  cruel  pangs  of  death 
Right  in  thine  eye. — Away,  my  friends !     New  flight ; 
And  happiy^  newness,  that  intends  old  right. 

[Exeunt,  leading  o^Melun. 

SCENE  Y.—Tke  same.     The  French  Chmp. 

Enter  Lewis  and  his  Train. 

Lew.  The  sun  of  heaven,  methought,  was  loth  to  set. 
But  stay'd,  and  made  the  western  welkin  blush. 
When  the  English  measur'd*  backward  their  own  ground. 
In  faint  retire :  O,  bravely  came  we  off" 
When  with  a  volley  of  our  needless  shot. 
After  such  bloody  toil,  we  bid  good  night ; 
And  wound  our  tottering '^  colours  clearly  up. 
Last  in  the  field,  and  almost  lords  of  it ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Where  is  my  prince,  the  dauphin  ? 

Lew.  Here : — What  news  ? 

*  The  original  has  measure,  and  omits  the  article  before  English. 

^  Tottering.  Steevens  reads  tattered — Malone  tattering.  The  original  tottering 
was  the  same  as  tattering,  of  which  Capell  gives  an  example  in  his  '  School  of 
Shakspeare,'  p.  54.  But  tottering,  in  our  present  meaning  of  unsteady,  may  be 
received  without  difficulty. 


Scene  VI.]  KING  JOHN.  347 

Mess.  The  count  Melun  is  slain ;  the  English  lords. 
By  his  persuasion,  are  again  fallen  off: 
And  your  supply,  which  you  have  wish'd  so  long. 
Are  cast  away,  and  sunk,  on  Goodwin  sands. 

Lew.  Ah,  foul  shrewd  news ! — Beshrew  thy  very  heart ! 
I  did  not  think  to  be  so  sad  to-night 
As  this  hath  made  me. — Who  was  he  that  said. 
King  John  did  fly,  an  hour  or  two  before 
The  stumbling  night  did  part  our  weary  powers  ? 

Mess.  Whoever  spoke  it,  it  is  true,  my  lord. 

Lew.  Well ;  keep  good  quarter  and  good  care  to-night ; 
The  day  shall  not  be  up  so  soon  as  I, 
To  try  the  fair  adventure  of  to-morrow.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — An  open  Place  in  the  Neighbourhood  of  Swin- 
stead  Abbey. 

Enter  the  Bastard  and  Hubert,  meeting. 

Hub.  Who's  there?  speak,  ho!  speak  quickly,  or  I  shoot. 

Bast.  A  friend. — What  art  thou  ? 

Hub.  Of  the  part  of  England. 

Bast.  Whither  dost  thou  go? 

Hub.  What 's  that  to  thee? 

Why  may  I  not  demand  of  thine  afiairs. 
As  well  as  thou  of  mine  ? 

Bast.  Hubert,  I  think. 

Hub.  Thou  hast  a  perfect  thought : 
I  will,  upon  all  hazards,  well  believe 
Thou  art  my  friend,  that  know'st  my  tongue  so  well : 
Who  art  thou  ? 

Bast.  Who  thou  wilt :  an  if  thou  please. 

Thou  mayst  befriend  me  so  much  as  to  think 
I  come  one  way  of  the  Plantagenets. 

Hub.  Unkind  remembrance !  thou,  and  eyeless  night," 
Have  done  me  shame : — Brave  soldier,  pardon  me, 

^  Eyeki*  night.  The  original  reads  endless.  Sbakspere  has,  in  other  passages, 
applied  the  epithet  endless  to  night,  but  using  night  metaphorically.  Here,  where 
the  meaning  is  literal,  eyektt  may  be  preferred.  The  emendation  was  made  by 
Theobald. 


348  KING  JOHN.  [Act  V. 

That  any  accent,  breaking  from  thy  tongue. 
Should  'scape  the  true  acquaintance  of  mine  ear. 

Bast.  Come,  come ;  sans  compliment,  what  news  abroad  ? 

Hub.  Why,  here  walk  I,  in  the  black  brow  of  night. 
To  find  you  out. 

Bast.  Brief,  then  ;  and  what 's  the  news  ? 

Hub.  O,  my  sweet  sir,  news  fitting  to  the  night. 
Black,  fearful,  comfortless,  and  horrible. 

Bast.  Show  me  the  very  wound  of  this  ill  news ; 
I  am  no  woman,  I  '11  not  swoon  at  it. 

Hub.  The  king,  I  fear,  is  poison'd  by  a  monk : 
I  left  him  almost  speechless,  and  broke  out 
To  acquaint  you  with  this  evil ;  that  you  might 
The  better  arm  you  to  the  sudden  time. 
Than  if  you  had  at  leisure  known  of  this. 

Bast.  How  did  he  take  it?  who  did  taste  to  him? 

Hub.  A  monk,  I  tell  you ;  a  resolved  villain. 
Whose  bowels  suddenly  burst  out :  the  king 
Yet  speaks,  and,  peradventure,  may  recover. 

Bast.  Who  didst  thou  leave  to  tend  his  majesty  ? 

Hub.  Why,  know  you  not  ?  the  lords  are  all  come  back. 
And  brought  prince  Henry  in  their  company ; 
At  whose  request  the  king  hath  pardon'd  them. 
And  they  are  all  about  his  majesty. 

Bast.  Withhold  thine  indignation,  mighty  heaven. 
And  tempt  us  not  to  bear  above  our  power ! 
I  '11  tell  thee,  Hubert,  half  my  power  this  night. 
Passing  these  flats,  are  taken  by  the  tide. 
These  Lincoln  washes  have  devoured  them ; 
Myself,  well  mounted,  hardly  have  escap'd. 
Away,  before !  conduct  me  to  the  king ; 
I  doubt  he  will  be  dead,  or  e'er  I  come,  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  YIL—The  Orchard  of  Swinstead  Abbey. 

Enter  Prince  Henry,  Salisbury,  and  Bigot 

P.  Hen.  It  is  too  late ;  the  life  of  all  his  blood 
Is  touch'd  corruptibly ;  and  his  pure  brain 
(Which  some  suppose  the  soul's  frail  dwelling-house) 


Scene  VII.]  KING  JOHN.  349 

Doth,  by  the  idle  comments  that  it  makes. 
Foretell  the  ending  of  mortality. 

Enter  Pembroke. 

Pern.  His  highness  yet  doth  speak ;  and  holds  belief. 
That  being  brought  into  the  open  air 
It  would  allay  the  burning  quality 
Of  that  fell  poison  which  assaileth  him. 

P.  Hen.  Let  him  be  brought  into  the  orchard  here. — 
Doth  he  still  rage  ?  [Exit  Bigot. 

Pern.  He  is  more  patient 

Than  when  you  left  him ;  even  now  he  sung. 

P.  Hen.  O  vanity  of  sickness !  fierce  extremes. 
In  their  continuance,  will  not  feel  themselves. 
Death,  having  prey'd  upon  the  outward  parts. 
Leaves  them  invisible;'  and  his  siege  is  now 
Against  the  mind,  the  which  he  pricks  and  wounds 
With  many  legions  of  strange  fantasies ; 
Which,  in  their  throng  and  press  to  that  last  hold. 
Confound  themselves.    'T  is  strange,  that  death  should  sing. 
I  am  the  cygnet  to  this  pale  faint  swan. 
Who  chants  a  doleful  hymn  to  his  own  death ; 
And,  from  the  organ-pipe  of  frailty,  sings 
His  soul  and  body  to  their  lasting  rest. 

Sal.  Be  of  good  comfort,  prince ;  for  you  are  born 
To  set  a  form  upon  that  indigest,** 
Which  he  hath  left  so  shapeless  and  so  rude. 

Re-enter  Bigot  and  Attendants,  who  bring  in  King  John 
in  a  Chair. 

K.  John.  Ay,  marry,  now  my  soul  hath  elbow-room ; 
It  would  not  out  at  windows,  nor  at  doors. 

°  Invisible.  So  the  original.  The  modern  editors  read  insenaible.  The  question 
occupies  four  pages  of  discussion  in  the  commentators.  The  meaning  of  invisibk  is, 
we  take  it,  unlocked  at,  disregarded. 

*•  Indigest — disordered,  indigested,  state  of  affairs.  The  word  is  more  commonly 
used  as  an  adjective,  as  in  the  Sonnets : — 

"  To  make  of  monsters  and  things  indigest. 
Such  cherubins  as  your  sweet  self  resemble." 


350  KING  JOflN.  [Act  V. 

There  is  so  hot  a  summer  in  my  bosom. 
That  all  my  bowels  crumble  up  to  dust ; 
I  am  a  scribbled  form,  drawn  with  a  pen 
Upon  a  parchment ;  and  against  this  fire 
Do  I  shrink  up, 

P.  Hen.  How  fares  your  majesty? 

K.  John.  Poison'd, — ill  fare  ; — dead,  forsook,  cast  off: 
And  none  of  you  will  bid  t^e  winter  come. 
To  thrust  his  icy  fingers  in  my  maw ; 
Nor  let  my  kingdom's  rivers  take  their  course 
Through  my  bum'd  bosom ;  nor  entreat  the  north 
To  make  his  bleak  winds  kiss  my  parched  lips. 
And  comfort  me  with  cold  : — I  do  not  ask  you  much, 
I  beg  cold  comfort ;  and  you  are  so  strait. 
And  so  ingrateful,  you  deny  me  that. 

P.  Hen.  O,  that  there  were  some  virtue  in  my  tears. 
That  might  relieve  you  ! 

K.  John.  The  salt  in  them  is  hot. 

Within  me  is  a  hell ;  and  there  the  poison 
Is,  as  a  fiend,  confin'd  to  tyrannize 
On  unreprievable  condemned  blood. 

Enter  the  Bastard. 

Bast.  O,  I  am  scalded  with  my  violent  motion. 
And  spleen  of  speed  to  see  your  majesty. 

K.  John.  O  cousin,  thou  art  come  to  set  mine  eye  ; 
The  tackle  of  my  heart  is  crack'd  and  burnt ; 
And  all  the  shrouds,  wherewith  my  life  should  sail. 
Are  turned  to  one  thread,  one  little  hair : 
My  heart  hath  one  poor  string  to  stay  it  by. 
Which  holds  but  till  thy  news  be  uttered  ; 
And  then  all  this  thou  seest  is  but  a  clod. 
And  module  of  confounded  royalty. 

Bast.  The  dauphin  is  preparing  hitherward  ; 
Where,  heaven  he  knows  how  we  shall  answer  him  : 
For,  in  a  night,  the  best  part  of  my  power. 
As  I  upon  advantage  did  remove. 
Were  in  the  washes,  all  unwarily. 
Devoured  by  the  unexpected  flood.  [The  King  dies. 


Scene  VII.]  KING  JOHN.  351 

Sal.  You  breathe  these  dead  news  in  as  dead  an  ear. — 
My  liege !  my  lord  ! — But  now  a  king, — now  thus. 

P.  Hen.  Even  so  must  I  run  on,  and  even  so  stop. 
What  surety  of  the  world,  what  hope,  what  stay. 
When  this  was  now  a  king,  and  now  is  clay ! 

Bast.  Art  thou  gone  so  ?    I  do  but  stay  behind 
To  do  the  office  for  thee  of  revenge ; 
And  then  my  soul  shall  wait  on  thee  to  heaven. 
As  it  on  earth  hath  been  thy  servant  still. 
Now,  now,  you  stars,  that  move  in  your  right  spheres. 
Where  be  your  powers  ?  Show  now  your  mended  faiths  ; 
And  instantly  return  with  me  again. 
To  push  destruction,  and  perpetual  shame. 
Out  of  the  weak  door  of  our  fainting  land  : 
Straight  let  us  seek,  or  straight  we  shall  be  sought ; 
The  dauphin  rages  at  our  very  heels. 

Sal.  It  seems  you  know  not  then  so  much  as  we  : 
The  cardinal  Pandulph  is  within  at  rest. 
Who  half  an  hour  since  came  from  the  dauphin ; 
And  brings  from  him  such  offers  of  our  peace  * 

As  we  with  honour  and  respect  may  take. 
With  purpose  presently  to  leave  this  war. 

Bast.  He  will  the  rather  do  it,  when  he  sees 
Ourselves  well  sinewed  to  our  defence. 

Sal.  Nay,  it  is  in  a  manner  done  already ; 
For  many  carriages '  he  hath  despatch'd 
To  the  sea-side,  and  put  his  cause  and  quarrel 
To  the  disposing  of  the  cardinal. 
With  whom  yourself,  myself,  and  other  lords. 
If  you  think  meet,  this  afternoon  will  post 
To  consummate  this  business  happily. 

Bast.  Let  it  be  so  : — And  you,  my  noble  prince. 
With  other  princes  that  may  best  be  spar'd. 
Shall  wait  upon  your  father's  funeral. 

P.  Hen.  At  Worcester  must  his  body  be  interr'd  ; 
For  so  he  will'd  it. 

Bast.  Thither  shall  it  then. 

And  happily  may  your  sweet  self  put  on 
The  lineal  state  and  glory  of  the  land  ! 


352 


KING  JOHN. 


[Act  V, 


To  whom,  with  all  submission,  on  my  knee, 
I  do  bequeath  my  faithful  services 
And  true  subjection  everlastingly. 

Sal.  And  the  like  tender  of  our  love  we  make. 
To  rest  without  a  spot  for  evermore. 

P.  Hen.  I  have  a  kind  soul,  that  would  give  you  thanks. 
And  knows  not  how  to  do  it,  but  with  tears. 

Bast.  O,  let  us  pay  the  time  but  needful  woe. 
Since  it  hath  been  beforehand  with  our  griefs. — 
This  England  never  did,  nor  never  shall. 
Lie  at  the  proud  foot  of  a  conqueror. 
But  when  it  first  did  help  to  wound  itself. 
Now  these  her  princes  are  come  home  again. 
Come  the  three  corners  of  the  world  in  arms. 
And  we  shall  shock  them  :  Nought  shall  make  us  rue. 
If  England  to  itself  do  rest  but  true.  [Exevnt. 


[Monument  of  King  .Tohn  at  Worcester.] 


KING  JOHN. 


353 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   ACT   V. 


'  Scene  II. — "  Have  I  not  here  the  best  cardtfor  the  game  ?" 

There  is  a  general  notion  that  cards  were  invented  for  the  amusement  of  Charles  VI. 
of  France,  who  suffered  an  almost  constant  depression  of  spirits,  nearly  allied  to 
insanity.  This  opinion  was  derived  from  an  entry  in  an  account-book  of  the  trea- 
surer to  that  unhappy  king,  about  1393,  in  which  we  find  "  fifty-six  sols  of  Paris 
given  to  Jacquemin  Gringonneur,  painter,  for  three  packs  of  cards,  gilt  and  coloured, 
and  of  different  sorts,  for  the  diversion  of  his  majesty."  From  a  passage  discovered 
in  an  old  manuscript  copy  of  the  romance  of '  Renard  le  Contrefait,'  it  appears  that 
cards  were  known  in  France  about  1340 ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  they  were 
commonly  used  in  France  and  Spain  about  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
The  earliest  printed  cards  known  are  those  engraved  by  the  celebrated  artist  known 
as  "  the  Master  of  1466  ;"  and  parts  of  a  pack,  in  most  beautiful  preservation,  are 
in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Tiffin,  of  the  Strand,  who  has  kindly  permitted  us  to  copy 
the  following  specimens : — 


*  Scene  III. — "  To  my  litter  straight:' 

Holinshed  relates,  after  Matthew  Paris,  that  the  King  "was  not  able  lo  ride,  but 
was  fain  to  be  carried  in  a  litter,  presently  made  of  twigs,  with  a  couch  of  straw 
under  him,  without  any  bed  or  pillow."  Matthew  of  Westminster  informs  us  that 
John  was  conveyed  from  the  abbey  of  Swineshead,  "  in  leclic4  equestri,"' — the  horse- 
litter.  The  following  representation  of  one  form  of  this  litter  is  from  a  drawing  in 
the  MS.  '  History  of  the  Kings  of  France '  (Royal,  16  G.  6),  written  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  fourteenth  century.     In  the  original  the  drawing  appears  to 

Vol.  IV.  2  A 


354 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V 


represent  Queen  Crotilde,  who  in  her  last  illness  was  carried  to  Tours,  where  she 
died. 


'  Scene  VIL — "  Many  carriages." 

In  vol.  XX.  of  the  '  Archaeologia'  there  is  a  history  of  can-iages  in  England,  by  Mr. 
Markland,  illustrated  by  engravings — among  which  is  the  principal  figure  of  the 
following  engi'aving,  copied  from  a  very  valuable  MS.  formerly  in  the  Roxburgh 
Library,  entitled  '  Le  Roman  du  Roy  Meliadus,'  written  at  the  close  of  the  four- 
teenth century.  The  elegant  form  of  the  wheel  of  this  carriage  (similar  to  what,  in 
architecture,  is  called  a  Catherine  wheel)  deserves  particular  notice.  The  vehicles 
in  the  background  are  taken  from  a  curious  Saxon  MS.  in  the  British  Museum 
(Cottonian  Lib.  Claudius  B.  4),  in  which  many  varieties  of  wheel-carriages  are 
delineated. 


The  four-whoeied  car  in  which  the  standard  is  erected  is  copied  from  a  drawing 
in  an  early  '  MS.  History  of  the  Kings  of  France'  (Royal  MS.  16  G.  6,  Brit.  Mus.). 


KING  JOHN. 


355 


The  standard  there  represented  is  of  great  size,  indeed  so  large  that  only  some  con- 
trivance similar  to  that  adopted  could  have  rendered  it  available  in  the  field. 

The  famous  Battle  of  the  Standard,  fought  1138,  derived  its  name  from  one  of 
these  remarkable  standards  being  erected  by  the  English  army  ;  from  the  ceir  of 
which  the  Bishop  of  Durham,  previous  to  the  battle,  read  the  prayer  of  absolution. 


[Henry  III.] 
HISTORICAL    ILLUSTRATION. 


It  is  uuuecessary  for  us  to  do  more  than  refer  our  readers  to  Holinshed  for  an 
account  of  the  long-protracted  dispute  between  the  Pope  and  John,  which  ended  in 
the  mean  submission  which  Shakspere  has  so  strikingly  recorded  in  the  first  scene 
of  this  act.  The  chronicler  also  details  the  attempt  which  the  Pope  made  to  dis- 
suade the  French  king  from  the  invasion  of  England,  and  the  determination  of  the 
Dauphin  to  assert  what  he  called  his  right  to  the  throne.  These  narratives  are  too 
long,  and  have  too  little  of  dramatic  interest,  to  be  here  given  as  illustrations  of  the 
poet.  We  subjoin,  however,  Holinahed's  account,  which  he  gives  on  the  authority 
of  Matthew  Paris,  of  the  disclosures  of  Melun,  which  determined  the  revolted  lord* 
to  return  to  their  obedience  to  John.     But  the  story  is  very  apocryphal : — 

"  About  the  s^me  time  (1216,  An.  Reg.  18),  or  rather  in  the  year  last  past  as 
some  hold,  it  fortuned  that  the  Viscount  of  Melune,  a  Frenchman,  fell  sick  at  Lon- 
don, and,  perceiving  that  death  was  at  hand,  he  called  unto  him  certain  of  the 
English  barons,  which  remained  in  the  city,  upon  safeguard  thereof,  and  to  them 
made  this  protestation :  '  I  lament  (saith  he)  your  destruction  and  desolation  at 

2A  2 


356 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 


hand,  because  you  are  ignorant  of  tlie  perils  lianging  over  your  heads.  For  this 
understand,  that  Lewis,  and  with  him  sixteen  earls  and  barons  of  France,  have 
secretly  sworn  (if  it  shall  fortune  him  to  conquer  this  realm  of  England,  and  be 
crowned  king)  that  he  will  kill,  banish,  and  confine  all  those  of  the  English  nobility 
(which  now  do  sers'e  under  him,  and  persecute  their  own  kuig)  as  traitors  and  rebels, 
and  furtliermore  will  dispossess  all  their  lineage  of  such  inheritance  as  they  now 
hold  in  England.  And  because  (saith  he)  you  shall  not  have  doubt  hereof,  I, 
which  lie  here  at  the  point  of  death,  do  now  affirm  unto  you,  and  take  it  on  the 
peril  of  my  soul,  that  I  am  one  of  those  sixteen  that  have  sworn  to  perform  this 
thing.  Wherefore  I  advise  you  to  provide  for  your  own  safeties,  and  your  realm's 
which  you  now  destroy,  and  keep  this  thing  secret  which  I  have  uttered  unto  you.' 
After  this  speech  was  uttered  he  straiglitways  died."' 

The  "  Plain  near  St.  Edmunds-Bury,"  which  is  the  locality  of  the  second  scene 
and  of  the  subsequent  battle,  is  not  mentioned  in  the  chronicles,  nor  is  this  locality 
defined  in  the  original  edition  of  this  play.  The  modern  editors  have  introduced  it, 
most  probably  from  the  circumstance  of  tlie  Barons  and  the  Dauphin  having  inter- 
changeably swoni 

"  Upon  the  altar  at  St.  Edmund'sBury." 
We  subjoin  an  old  view  of  the  town  : — 


Matthew  Paris,  and  Matthew  of  Westminster,  liave  minutely  described  the  route 
taken  by  the  king  previous  to  his  death.  "  The  country  being  wasted  on  each 
hand,  the  king  passeth  forward  till  he  came  to  Wellestreme  Sands,  where,  in  passing 
the  washes,  he  lost  a  great  jiart  of  liis  army,  with  horses  and  carriages."  *  *  *  * 
"  Yet  the  king  himself,  and  a  few  others,  escaped  the  violence  of  the  waters,  by 
following  a  good  guide."  The  Long  Wash,  between  Lynn  and  Boston,  was  formerly 
a  morass,  intersected  by  roads  of  Roman  construction.  The  memory  of  the  precise 
spot  wliere  John  lost  his  baggage  is  still  preserved  in  the  name  of  a  comer  of  a  bank 
between  Cross  Keys  Wash  and  Lynn,  called  King's  Corner.  The  poet,  having 
another  dramatic  purpose  in  view,  did  not  take  that  version  of  the  king's  death 


KING  JOHN. 


357 


which  ascribed  his  last  illness  to  be  the  result  of  anguish  of  mind  occasioned 
by  this  loss ;  but  he  supposes  the  accident  to  have  befallen  the  forces  under  the 
Bastard: — 

"  Myself,  well  mounted,  hardly  have  escaped." 

The  death  of  John,  by  poison  administered  by  a  monk,  is  thus  described  by 
Holinshed,  upon  the  authority  of  Caxton  : — 

"  —  There  be  which  have  written  that  after  he  had  lost  his  army  he  came  to  the 
abbey  of  Swineshead,  in  Lincolnshire,  and  there,  understanding  the  cheapness  and 
plenty  of  com,  showed  himself  greatly  displeased  therewith ;  as  he,  that  for  the 
hatred  which  he  bare  to  the  English  people,  tliat  had  so  traitorously  revolted  from 
him  unto  his  adversary  Lewis,  wished  all  misery  to  light  upon  them,  and  tliere- 
upon  said  in  his  anger  tliat  he  would  cause  all  kind  of  grain  to  be  at  a  far  higher 
price  ere  many  days  should  pass.  Whereupon  a  monk  that  heard  him  speak  such 
words,  being  moved  with  zeal  for  the  oppression  of  his  country,  gave  the  king 
poison  in  a  cup  of  ale,  whereof  he  first  took  the  assay,  to  cause  the  king  not  to 
suspect  ihe  matter,  and  so  they  both  died  in  manner  at  one  time." 

The  attempt  of  Lewis  to  possess  himself  of  the  English  throne  was  maintained 
for  two  years ;  and  the  country  was  not  freed  from  •  the  French  till  after  "  peace 
was  concluded  on  the  eleventh  day  of  September  (1218),  not  far  from  Stanes.' 

We  have  given,  at  the  head  of  this  Illustration,  the  portrait  of  Heiury  III.  from 
his  great  seal ;  and  we  subjoin  that  of  the  Dauphin,  from  his  seal  engraved  in  the 
'  Archaeologia.' 


[Lewis,  Danphin  of  France.] 


358  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 


Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  preface  to  Shakspere,  speaking  of  the  division, 
by  the  players,  of  our  author's  works  into  comedies,  histories,  and 
tragedies,  thus  defines  what,  he  says,  was  the  notion  of  a  dramatic 
history  in  those  times :  "  History  was  a  series  of  actions,  with  no 
other  than  chronological  succession,  independent  on  each  other,  and 
without  any  tendency  to  introduce  and  regulate  the  conclusion." 
Again,  speaking  of  the  unities  of  the  critics,  he  says  of  Shakspere — 
"  His  histories,  being  neither  tragedies  nor  comedies,  are  not  sub- 
ject to  any  of  their  laws ;  nothing  more  is  necessary  to  all  the  praise 
which  they  expect,  than  that  the  changes  of  action  be  so  prepared 
as  to  be  understood,  that  the  incidents  be  various  and  aflfecting,  and 
the  characters  consistent,  natural,  and  distinct.  No  other  unity  is 
intended,  and,  therefore,  none  is  to  be  sought.  In  his  other  works 
he  has  well  enough  preserved  the  unity  of  action."  Taking  these 
observations  together,  as  a  general  definition  of  the  character  of 
Shakspere's  histories,  we  are  constrained  to  say  that  no  opinion  can 
be  farther  removed  from  the  truth.  So  far  from  the  "  unity  of 
action  "  not  being  regarded  in  Shakspere's  histories,  and  being  sub- 
servient to  the  "  chronological  succession,"  it  rides  over  that  suc- 
cession whenever  the  demands  of  the  scene  require  "  a  unity  of 
a  higher  order,  which  connects  the  events  by  reference  to  the 
workers,  gives  a  reason  for  them  in  the  motives,  and  presents  men 
in  their  causative  character."*  It  is  this  principle  which  in  Shak- 
spere has  given  offence,  as  we  have  shown,  to  those  who  have  not 
formed  a  higher  notion  of  an  historical  play  than  that  the  series  of 
actions  should  be  the  transcript  of  a  chronicle,  somewhat  elevated, 
and  somewhat  modified,  by  the  poetical  form,  but  "  without  any 
tendency  to  introduce  and  regulate  the  conclusion." 

The  great  connecting  link  that  binds  together  all  the  series  of 
actions  in  the  '  King  John '  of  Shakspere, — which  does  not  hold 
any  actions,  or  series  of  actions,  which  arise  out  of  other  causes, — 
is  the  fate  of  Arthur.  From  the  first  to  the  last  scene,  the  hard 
struggles  and  the  cruel  end  of  the  young  Duke  of  Brittany  either 

*  Coleridge's  Literary  Remains,  vol.  ii.  p.  160. 


KING  JOHN.  359 

lead  to  the  action,  or  form  a  portion  of  it,  or  are  the  direct  causes 
of  an  ulterior  consequence.  We  must  entreat  the  indulgence  of 
our  readers  whilst  we  endeavour  to  establish  this  principle  some- 
what in  detail. 

In  the  whole  range  of  the  Shaksperian  drama  there  is  no  opening 
scene  which  more  perfectly  exhibits  the  effect  which  is  produced 
by  coming  at  once,  and  without  the  slightest  preparation,  to  the 
main  business  of  the  piece  : — 

"  Now  say,  Chatillon,  what  would  France  with  us?' 

In  three  more  lines  the  phrase  "  borrow'd  majesty  "  at  once 
explains  the  position  of  John ;  and  immediately  afterwards  we  come 
to  the  formal  assertion  by  France  of  the  "  most  lawful  claim  "  of 
"  Arthur  Plantagenet" — 

"  To  this  fair  island,  and  the  territories ; 

To  Ireland,  Poictiers,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine." 

As  rapid  as  the  lightning  of  which  John  speaks  is  a  defiance  given 
and  returned.  The  ambassador  is  commanded  to  "  depart  in  peace ;" 
the  king's  mother  makes  an  important  reference  to  the  "  ambitious 
Constance ;"  and  John  takes  up  the  position  for  which  he  struggles 
to  the  end, — 

"  Our  strong  possession,  and  our  right,  for  us.'' 

The  scene  of  the  Bastard  is  not  an  episode  entirely  cut  off  from  the 
main  action  of  the  piece ;  his  loss  of  "  lands,"  and  his  "  new-made 
honour,"  were  necessary  to  attach  him  to  the  cause  of  John.  The 
Bastard  is  the  one  partisan  who  never  deserts  him. 

The  second  act  brings  us  into  the  very  heart  of  the  conflict  on 
the  claim  of  Arthur,  What  a  Gothic  grandeur  runs  through  the 
whole  of  these  scenes  !  We  see  the  men  of  six  centuries  ago,  as  they 
played  the  game  of  their  personal  ambition — now  swearing  hollow 
friendships,  now  breathing  stern  denunciations; — now  affecting 
compassion  for  the  weak  and  the  suffering,  now  breaking  faith  with 
the  orphan  and  the  mother ; — now 

"  Gone  to  be  married,  gone  to  swear  a  peace ;" 

now  keeping  the  feast  "  with  slaughtered  men ;" — now  trembling 
at,  and  now  braving,  the  denunciations  of  spiritual  power; — and 
agreeing  in  nothing  but  to  bend  "  their  sharpest  deeds  of  malice  " 
on  unoffending  and  peaceful  citizens,  unless  the  citizens  have  some 
"  commodity  "  to  offer  which  shall  draw  them 

"  To  a  most  base  and  vile-concluded  peace." 
With  what  skill  has  Shakspere,  whilst  he  thus  painted  the  spirit  of 


360  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

the  chivalrous  times, — lofty  in  words,  but  sordid  in  acts, — given  us 
a  running  commentary  which  interprets  the  whole  in  the  sarcasms 
of  the  Bastard !  But  amidst  all  the  clatter  of  conventional  dignity 
which  we  find  in  the  speeches  of  John,  and  Philip,  and  Lewis,  and 
Austria,  the  real  dignity  of  strong  natural  affections  rises  over  the 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  regal  ambition  with  a  force  of  contrast 
which  is  little  less  than  sublime.  In  the  second  act  Constance  is 
almost  too  much  mixed  up  with  the  dispute  to  let  us  quite  feel  that 
she  is  something  very  much  higher  than  the  "  ambitious  Constance." 
Yet  even  here,  how  sweetly  does  the  nature  of  Arthur  rise  up 
amongst  these  fierce  broils, — conducted  at  the  sword's  point  with 
words  that  are  as  sharp  as  swords, — to  assert  the  supremacy  of  gen- 
tleness and  moderation : — 

''  Good  my  mother,  peace! 

I  would  that  I  were  low  laid  in  my  grave ; 

I  am  not  worth  this  coil  that 's  made  for  me." 

This  is  the  key-note  to  the  great  scene  of  Arthur  and  Hubert  in  the 
fourth  act.  But  in  the  mean  time  the  maternal  terror  and  anguish 
of  Constance  become  the  prominent  objects ;  and  the  rival  kings, 
the  haughty  prelate,  the  fierce  knights,  the  yielding  citizens,  appear 
but  as  puppets  moved  by  destiny  to  force  on  the  most  bitter  sorrows 
of  that  broken-hearted  mother.  We  have  here  the  true  character- 
istic of  the  drama,  as  described  by  the  philosophical  critic, — "  fate 
and  will  in  opposition  to  each  other."  Mrs.  Jameson,  in  her  very 
delighful  work,  '  The  Characteristics  of  Women,'  has  formed  a 
most  just  and  beautiful  conception  of  the  character  of  Constance : — 
"  That  which  strikes  us  as  the  principal  attribute  of  Constance  is 
power — power  of  imagination,  of  will,  of  passion,  of  affection,  of 
pride  :  the  moral  energy,  that  faculty  which  is  principally  exercised 
in  self-control,  and  gives  consistency  to  the  rest,  is  deficient ;  or 
rather,  to  speak  more  correctly,  the  extraordinary  development  of 
sensibility  and  imagination,  which  lends  to  the  character  its  rich 
poetical  colouring,  leaves  the  other  qualities  comparatively  subordi- 
nate. Hence  it  is  that  the  whole  complexion  of  the  character,  not- 
withstanding its  amazing  grandeur,  is  so  exquisitely  feminine. 
The  weakness  of  the  woman,  who  by  the  very  consciousness  of  that 
weakness  is  worked  up  to  desperation  and  defiance,  the  fluctuations 
of  temper  and  the  bursts  of  sublime  passion,  the  terrors,  the  impa- 
tience, and  the  tears,  are  all  most  true  to  feminine  nature.  The 
energy  of  Constance,  not  being  based  upon  strength  of  character, 
rises  and  falls  with  the  tide  of  passion.  Her  haughty  spirit  swells 
against  resistance,  and  is  excited  into  frenzy  by  sorrow  and  disap- 


KING  JOHN.  361 

pointment ;  while  neither  from  her  towering  pride  nor  her  strength 
of  intellect  can  she  borrow  patience  to  submit,  or  fortitude  to 
endure." 

How  exquisitely  is  this  feminine  nature  exhibited  when  Constance 
affects  to  disbelieve  the  tale  of  Salisbury  that  the  kings  are  "  gone 
to  swear  a  peace ;"  or  rather  makes  her  words  struggle  with  her 
half-belief,  in  very  weakness  and  desperation ! — 

"  Thou  shalt  be  punish'd  for  thus  frighting  me. 
For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears ; 
Oppress'd  with  wrongs,  and  therefore  fiill  of  fears ; 
A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears; 
A  woman,  naturally  bom  to  fears ; 
And  though  thou  now  confess  thou  didst  but  jest 
With  my  vex'd  spirits,  I  cannot  take  a  truce,^ 
But  they  will  quake  and  tremble  all  this  day." 

Here  is  the  timid,  helpless  woman,  sick  even  at  the  shadows  of 
coming  events ;  but  when  the  shadows  become  realities,  the  haughty 
will, 

"  lake  a  proud  river  peering  o'er  his  bound^"" 

asserts  its  supremacy  in  little  matters  which  are  yet  within  its.  con- 
trol : — 

"  Sar.  Pardon  me,  madam, 

I  may  not  go  without  you  to  the  kings. 

Const.  Thou  mayst,  thou  shalt,  I  will  not  go  with  thee  ^ 
*     *     *     *     hei^e  I  and  sorrows  sit ; 
Here  is  my  throne,  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it." 

The  pride  of  grief  for  a  while  triumphs  over  the  grief  itself : — 

"^  Arm,  arm,  you  heavens,  against  these  perjur'd  kings !" 

She  casts  away  all  fear  of  consequences,  and  defies  her  false  friends 
with  words  that  appear  as  irrepressible  as  her  tears.  When  Pan- 
dulph  arrives  upon  the  scene  she  sees  the  change  which  his  mission 
is  to  work  only  through  the  medium  of  her  own  personal  wrongs : — - 

"  Good  father  cardinal,  cry  thou,  amen, 

To  my  keen  curses  :  for,  without  my  wrong, 
There  is  no  tongue  hath  power  to  curse  him  right." 

Reckless  of  what  may  follow,  she,  who  formerly  exhorted  Philip, 

•'  Stay  for  an  answer  to  your  embassy, 

Lest  unadvis'd  you  stain  your  swords  with  blood," 

is  now  ready  to  encounter  all  the  perilous  chances  of  another  war,; 
and  to  exhort  France  to  fall  off  from  England,  even  upon  her  knee 
"  made  hard  with  kneeling."  This  would  appear  like  the  intensity 
of  selfishness,  did  we  not  see  the  passion  of  the  mother  in  every  act 


362  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

and  word.  It  is  thus  that  the  very  weakness  of  Constance — the 
impotent  rage,  the  deceiving  hope — become  clothed  with  the 
dignity  that  in  ordinary  cases  belongs  to  patient  suffering  and  rea- 
sonable expectations.  Soon,  however,  this  conflict  of  feeling — 
almost  as  terrible  as  the  "  hysterica  passio  "  of  Lear — is  swallowed 
up  in  the  mother's  sense  of  her  final  bereavement : — 

«  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 
Lies  ill  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me. 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words. 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts. 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form  ; 
Then,  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  {^ief. 
Fare  you  well :  had  you  such  a  loss  as  I, 
I  could  give  better  comfort  than  you  do. 

*  *  «  * 

O  Lord!  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son ! 
My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world ! 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrows'  cure !" 

Matchless  as  is  the  art  of  the  poet  in  these  scenes  j — matchless  as 
an  exhibition  of  maternal  sorrow  only,  apart  from  the  whirlwind  of 
conflicting  passions  that  are  mixed  up  with  that  sorrow ; — matchless 
in  this  single  point  of  view  when  compared  with  the  "  Hecuba  " 
which  antiquity  has  left  us,*  and  with  the  "  Merope"  which  the  imi- 
tators of  the  Greek  drama  have  attempted  to  revive  ; — are  we  to  be- 
lieve that  Shakspere  intended  that  our  hearts  should  sustain  this  lacera- 
tion, and  that  the  eff"ects  should  pass  away  when  Constance  quits  the 
stage  ?  Are  we  to  believe  that  he  was  satisfied  that  his  "  incidents 
should  be  various  and  affecting,"  but  "  independent  on  each  other, 
and  without  any  tendency  to  produce  and  regulate  the  conclusion  ?" 
Was  there  to  be  no  "  unity  of  feeling  "  to  sustain  and  elevate  the 
action  to  the  end  ?  Was  his  tragedy  to  be  a  mere  dance  of  Fan- 
toccini ?  No,  no.  The  remembrance  of  Constance  can  never  be 
separated  from  the  after-scenes  in  which  Arthur  appears ;  and  at 
the  very  last,  when  the  poison  has  done  its  work  upon  the  guilty 
king,  we  can  scarcely  help  believing  that  the  spirit  of  Constance 
hovers  over  him,  and  that  the  echo  of  the  mother's  cries  is  even 
more  insupportable  than  the  "  bum'd  bosom  "  and  the  "  parched 
lips,"  which  neither  his  "  kingdom's  rivers"  nor  the  "  bleak  winds" 
of  the  north  can  "  comfort  with  cold." 

Up  to  the  concluding  scene  of  the  third  act  we  have  not  learnt 
from  Shakspere  to  hate  John.     We  may  think  him  an  usurper. 

*  In  the  *  Troades '  of  Euripides. 


KING  JOHN.  363 

Our  best  sympathies  may  be  with  Arthur  and  his  mother.  But  he 
is  bold  and  confident,  and  some  remnant  of  the  indomitable  spirit 
of  the  Plantagenets  gives  him  a  lofty  and  gallant  bearing.  We  are 
not  even  sure,  from  the  first,  that  he  had  not  something  of  justice  in 
his  quarrel,  even  though  his  mother  confidentially  repudiates  "  his 
right,"  In  the  scene  with  Pandulph  we  completely  go  with  him. 
We  have  yet  to  know  that  he  would  one  day  crouch  at  the  feet  of 
the  power  that  he  now  defies ;  and  he  has  therefore  all  our  voices 
when  he  tells  the  wily  and  sophistical  cardinal 

"  That  no  Italian  priest 
Sliall  tithe  or  toll  in  our  dominions." 

But  the  expression  of  one  thought  that  had  long  been  lurking  in  the 
breast  of  John  sweeps  away  every  feeling  but  that  of  hatred,  and 
worse  than  hatred ;  and  we  see  nothing,  hereafter,  in  the  king,  but 
the  creeping,  cowardly  assassin,  prompting  the  deed  which  he  is 
afraid  almost  to  name  to  himself,  with  the  lowest  flattery  of  his  in- 
strument, and  showing  us,  as  it  were,  the  sting  which  wounds,  and 
the  slaver  which  pollutes,  of  the  venomous  and  loathsome  reptile. 
The 


the 


"  Come  hither,  Hubert — O,  my  gentle  Hubert, 
We  owe  thee  much  " — 


By  heaven,  Hubert,  I  am  almost  asham'd 
To  say  what  good  respect  I  have  of  thee  " — 


make  our  flesh  creep.  The  warrior  and  the  king  vanish.  If  Shak- 
spere  had  not  exercised  his  consummate  art  in  making  John  move 
thus  stealthily  to  his  purpose  of  blood — if  he  had  made  the  suggestion 
of  Arthur's  death  what  John  afterwards  pretended  it  was — "  the 
winking  of  authority  " — the  "  humour  " 

"  Of  dangerous  majesty,  when,  perchance,  it  frowns," — 

we  might  have  seen  him  hemmed  in  with  revolted  subjects  and 
foreign  invaders  with  something  like  compassion.  But  this  exhi- 
bition of  low  craft  and  desperate  violence  we  can  never  forgive. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  act,  when  Pandulph  instigates  the  Dau- 
phin to  the  invasion  of  England,  the  poet  overleaps  the  historical 
succession  of  events  by  many  years,  and  makes  the  expected  death 
of  Arthur  the  motive  of  policy  for  the  invasion  : — 

"  The  hearts 
Of  all  his  people  shall  revolt  from  him, 
And  kiss  the  lips  of  unacquainted  change  ; 
And  pick  strong  matter  of  revolt,  and  wrath, 
Out  of  the  bloody  fingers'  ends  of  John," 


364  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

Here  is  the  link  which  holds  together  the  dramatic  action  still  en- 
tire ;  and  it  wonderfully  binds  up  all  the  succeeding  events  of  the 
play. 

In  the  fourth  act  the  poet  has  put  forth  all  his  power  of  the  pa- 
thetic in  the  same  ultimate  direction  as  in  the  grief  of  Constance. 
The  theme  is  not  now  the  affection  of  a  mother  driven  to  frenzy  by 
the  circumstances  of  treacherous  friends  and  victorious  foes ;  but  it 
is  the  irresistible  power  of  the  very  helplessness  of  her  orphan  boy, 
triumphing  in  its  truth  and  artlessness  over  the  evil  nature  of  the 
man  whom  John  had  selected  to  destroy  his  victim,  as  one 

'•  Fit  for  bloody  villainy, 
Apt,  liable,  to  be  employed  in  danger." 

It  would  be  worse  than  idle  to  attempt  any  lengthened  comment  on 
that  most  beautiful  scene  between  Arthur  and  Hubert,  which  carries 
on  the  main  action  of  this  play.  Hazlitt  has  truly  said,  "  If  any- 
thing ever  was  penned,  heart-piercing,  mixing  the  extremes  of 
terror  and  pity,  of  that  which  shocks  and  that  which  soothes  the 
mind,  it  is  this  scene."  When  Hubert  gives  up  his  purpose,  we 
do  not  the  less  feel  that 

"  The  bloody  fingers'  ends  of  John  " 

have  not  been  washed  of  their  taint : — 

"  Your  uncle  muBt  not  know  but  you  are  dead," 

tells  us,  at  once,  that  no  relenting  of  John's  purpose  had  prompted 
the  compassion  of  Hubert.  Pleased,  therefore,  are  we,  to  see  the 
retribution  beginning.  The  murmurs  of  the  peers  at  the  "  once 
again  crown'd," — the  lectures  which  Pembroke  and  Salisbury  read 
to  their  sovereign, — are  but  the  preludes  to  the  demand  for  "  the 
enfranchisement  of  Arthur."  Then  come  the  dissembling  of 
John, — 

"  We  cannot  hold  mortality's  strong  hand," — 

and  the  bitter  sarcasms  of  Salisbury  and  Pembroke : — 

"  Indeed  we  fear'd  his  sickness  was  past  cure. 
Indeed  we  heard  how  near  his  death  he  was, 
Before  the  child  himself  felt  he  was  sick." 

"  This  must  be  answer'd  "  is  as  a  knell  in  John's  ears.  Throughout 
this  scene  the  king  is  prostrate  before  his  nobles  ; — it  is  the  prostra- 
tion of  guilt  without  the  energy  which  too  often  accompanies  it. 
Contrast  the  scene  with  the  unconquerable  intellectual  activity  of 
Richard  III.,  who  never  winces  at  reproach,  seeing  only  the  success 
of  his  crimes  and  not  the  crimes  themselves, — as,  for  example,  his 


KING  JOHN.  '  365 

answer  in  the  scene  where  his  mother  and  the  widow  of  Edward 
upbraid  him  with  his  murders, — 

"  A  flourish,  trumpets!  strike  alarums,  drums! 
Let  not  the  heavens  hear  these  tell-tale  women 
Rail  on  the  Lord's  anointed." 

The  messenger  appears  from  France  : — the  mother  of  John  is  dead ; 
— "  Constance  in  a  frenzy  died ;"  the  "  powers  of  France  "  have 
arrived  "  under  the  Dauphin."  Superstition  is  brought  in  to  terrify- 
still  more  the  weak  king,  who  is  already  terrified  with  "  subject 
enemies  "  and  "  adverse  foreigners."  The  "  prophet  of  Pomfret " 
and  the  "  five  moons  "  affright  him  as  much  as  the  consequences  of 
"  young  Arthur's  death."  He  turns  upon  Hubert  in  the  extremity 
of  his  fears,  and  attempts  to  put  upon  his  instrument  all  the  guilt 
of  that  deed.  Never  was  a  more  striking  display  of  the  equivoca- 
tions of  conscience  in  a  weak  and  guilty  mind.  Shakspere  is  here 
the  true  interpreter  of  the  secret  excuses  of  many  a  criminal,  who 
would  shift  upon  accessories  the  responsibility  of  the  deviser  of  a 
wicked  act,  and  make  the  attendant  circumstances  more  powerful 
for  evil  than  the  internal  suggestions.  When  the  truth  is  avowed 
by  Hubert,  John  does  not  rejoice  that  he  has  been  spared  the  per- 
petration of  a  crime,  but  he  is  prompt  enough  to  avail  himself  of 
his  altered  position  : — 

"  O  haste  thee  to  the  peers." 
Again  he  crawls  before  Hubert.     But  the  storm  rolls  on. 

The  catastrophe  of  Arthur's  death  follows  instantly  upon  the 
rejoicing  of  him  who  exclaimed,  "  Doth  Arthur  live  ?"  in  the  hope 
to  find  a  safety  in  his  preservation  upon  the  same  selfish  principle 
upon  which  he  had  formerly  sought  a  security  in  his  destruction. 
In  a  few  simple  lines  we  have  the  sad  dramatic  story  of  Arthur's 
end :  — 

"  The  wall  is  high ;  and  yet  will  I  leap  down  : — 
Good  ground,  be  pitiful,  and  hurt  me  not ! — 
There  's  few,  or  none,  do  know  me ;  if  they  did, 
This  ship-boy's  semblance  hath  disguis'd  me  quite. 
I  am  afraid ;  and  yet  1 11  venture  it." 

How  marvellously  does  Shakspere  subject  all  his  characters  and 
situations  to  the  empire  of  common  sense !  The  Arthur  of  the  old 
play,  after  receiving  his  mortal  hurt,  makes  a  long  oration  about  his 
mother.  The  great  dramatist  carries  on  the  now  prevailing  feeling 
of  the  audience  by  one  pointed  line  : — 

"  O  me  !  my  uncle's  spirit  is  in  these  stones." 
If  any  other  recollection  were  wanting,  these  simple  words  would 


366  SUPPLBMENTARY  NOTICE. 

make  us  feel  that  John  was  as  surely  the  murderer  of  Arthur, 
when  the  terrors  of  the  boy  drove  him  to  an  inconsiderate  attempt 
to  escape  from  his  prison,  as  if  the  assassin,  as  some  have  repre- 
sented, rode  with  him  in  the  dim  twilight  by  the  side  of  a  cliff  tliat 
overhung  the  sea,  and  suddenly  hurled  the  victim  from  his  horse 
into  the  engulfing  wave ; — or  as  if  the  king  tempted  him  to  de- 
scend from  his  prison  at  Rouen  at  the  midnight  hour,  and,  instead 
of  giving  him  freedom,  stifled  his  prayers  for  pity  in  the  waters  of 
the  Seine.  It  is  thus  that  we  know  the  anger  of  "  the  distemper'd 
lords  "  is  a  just  anger,  when,  finding  Arthur's  body,  they  kneel  be- 
fore that  "  ruin  of  sweet  life,"  and  vow  to  it  the  "  worship  of 
revenge."  The  short  scene  between  Salisbury,  Pembroke,  the 
Bastard,  and  Hubert,  which  immediately  succeeds,  is  as  spirited 
and  characteristic  as  anything  in  the  play.  Here  we  see  "  the 
invincible  knights  of  old  "  in  their  most  elevated  character — fiery, 
implacable,  arrogant,  but  still  drawing  their  swords  in  the  cause  of 
right,  when  that  cause  was  intelligible  and  undoubted.  The  cha- 
racter of  Faulconbridge  here  rises  far  above  what  we  might  have 
expected  from  the  animal  courage  and  the  exuberant  spirits  of  the 
Faulconbridge  of  the  former  acts.  The  courage  is  indeed  here 
beyond  all  doubt : — 

"  Thou  wert  better  gall  the  devil,  Salisbury  : 
If  thou  but  frown  on  me,  or  stir  thy  foot, 
Or  teach  thy  hasty  spleen  to  do  me  shame, 
I  '11  strike  thee  dead." 

But  we  were  scarcely  prepared  for  the  rush  of  tenderness  and  hu- 
manity that  accompany  the  courage,  as  in  the  speech  to  Hubert : — 

"  If  thou  didst  but  consent 
To  this  most  cruel  act,  do  but  despair, 
And,  if  thou  want'st  a  cord,  the  smallest  thread 
That  ever  spider  twisted  from  her  womb 
Will  serve  to  strangle  thee  ;  a  rush  will  be 
A  beam  to  hang  thee  on ;  or,  wouldst  thou  drown  thyself, 
Put  but  a  little  water  in  a  spoon. 
And  it  shall  be  as  all  the  ocean. 
Enough  to  stifle  such  a  villain  up." 

It  is  this  instinctive  justice  in  Faulconbridge, — this  readiness  to 
uplift  the  strong  hand  in  what  he  thinks  a  just  quarrel, — this 
abandonment  of  consequences  in  the  expression  of  his  opinions, — 
that  commands  our  sympathies  for  him  whenever  he  appears  upon  the 
scene.  The  motives  upon  which  he  acts  are  entirely  the  antagonist 
motives  by  which  John  is  moved.  We  have,  indeed,  in  Shakspere 
none  of  the  essay-writing  contrasts  of  smaller  authors.     We  have 


KING  JOHN.  367 

no  asserters  of  adverse  principles  made  to  play  at  see-saw,  with 
reverence  be  it  spoken,  like  the  Moloch  and  Belial  of  Milton. 
But,  after  some  reflection  upon  what  we  have  read,  we  feel  that  he 
who  leapt  into  Coeur-de-lion's  throne,  and  he  who  hath  "  a  trick  of 
Coeur-de-lion's  face,"  are  as  opposite  as  if  they  were  the  formal 
personifications  of  subtlety  and  candour,  cowardice  and  courage, 
cruelty  and  kindliness.  The  fox  and  the  lion  are  not  more  strongly 
contrasted  than  John  and  Faulconbridge ;  and  the  poet  did  not 
make  the  contrast  by  accident.  And  yet  with  what  incomparable 
management  are  John  and  the  Bastard  held  together  as  allies 
throughout  these  scenes.  In  the  onset  the  Bastard  receives  honour 
from  the  hands  of  John, — and  he  is  grateful.  In  the  conclusion  he 
sees  his  old  patron,  weak  indeed  and  guilty,  but  surrounded  with 
enemies, — and  he  will  not  be  faithless.  When  John  quails  before 
the  power  of  a  spiritual  tyrant,  the  Bastard  stands  by  him  in  the 
place  of  a  higher  and  a  better  nature.  He  knows  the  dangers  that 
surroimd  his  king :  — ■ 

"All  Kent  hath  yielded;  nothing  there  holds  out 
But  Dover  castle :  London  hath  receiv'd, 
Like  a  kind  host,  the  dauphin  and  his  powers ; 
Your  nobles  will  not  hear  you,  but  are  gone 
To  offer  service  to  your  enemy." 

But  no  dangers  can  daunt  his  resolution  : — 

"  Let  not  the  world  see  fear,  and  sad  distrust, 
Govern  the  motion  of  a  kingly  eye : 
Be  stirring  as  the  time ;  be  fire  with  fire; 
Threaten  the  threat'ner,  and  outface  the  brow 
Of  bragging  horror :  so  shall  inferior  eyes. 
That  borrow  their  behaviours  from  the  great, 
Grow  great  by  your  example,  and  put  on 
The  dauntless  spirit  of  resolution." 

The  very  necessity  for  these  stirring  words  would  show  us  that 
from  henceforth  John  is  but  a  puppet  without  a  will.  The  blight 
of  Arthur's  death  is  upon  him ;  and  he  moves  on  to  his  own  destiny, 
whilst  Faulconbridge  defies  or  fights  with  his  enemies-;  and  his  re- 
volted lords,  even  while  they  swear 

"  A  voluntary  zeal,  and  unurg'd  faith," 

to  the  invader,  bewail  their  revolt,  and  lament 

'*  That,  for  the  health  and  physic  of  our  right, 
We  caimot  deal  but  with  the  very  hand 
Of  stem  injustice  and  confused  wrong." 

But  the  great  retribution  still  moves  onward.     The  cause  of  Eng- 


368  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

land  is  triumphant ;  "  the  lords  are  all  come  back;" — but  the  king 

is  "  poisoned  by  a  monk  :" — 

"  Poison'd, — ill  fare; — dead,  forsook,  cast  off: 
And  none  of  you  will  bid  the  winter  come, 
To  thrust  his  icy  fingers  in  my  maw ; 
Nor  let  my  kingdom's  rivers  take  their  course 
Through  my  burn'd  bosom ;  nor  entreat  the  north 
To  make  his  bleak  winds  kiss  my  parched  lips, 
And  comfort  me  with  cold : — I  ilo  not  ask  you  much, 
I  beg  cold  comfort ;  and  you  are  so  strait, 
And  so  ingrateful,  you  deny  me  that." 

The  interval  of  fourteen  years  between  the  death  of  Arthur  and  the 
death  of  John  is  annihilated.  Causes  and  consequences,  separated 
in  the  proper  history  by  long  digressions  and  tedious  episodes,  are 
brought  together.  The  attributed  murder  of  Arthur  lost  John  all 
the  inheritances  of  the  house  of  Anjou,  and  allowed  the  house  of 
Capet  to  triumph  in  his  overthrow.  Out  of  this  grew  a  larger 
ambition,  and  England  was  invaded.  The  death  of  Arthur  and  the 
events  which  marked  the  last  days  of  John  were  separated  in  their 
cause  and  effect  by  time  only,  over  which  the  poet  leaps.  It  is  said 
that  a  man  who  was  on  the  point  of  drowning  saw,  in  an  instant,  all 
the  events  of  his  life  in  connexion  with  his  approaching  end.  So 
sees  the  poet.  It  is  his  to  bring  the  beginnings  and  the  ends  of 
events  into  that  real  union  and  dependence  which  even  the  philoso- 
phical historian  may  overlook  in  tracing  their  course.  It  is  the 
poet's  office  to  preserve  a  unity  of  action ;  it  is  the  historian's  to 
show  a  consistency  of  .progress.  In  the  chroniclers  we  have  mani- 
fold changes  of  fortune  in  the  life  of  John  after  Arthur  of  Brittany 
has  fallen.  In  Shakspere  Arthur  of  Brittany  is  at  once  revenged. 
The  heartbroken  mother  and  her  boy  are  not  the  only  sufferers 
from  double  courses.  The  spirit  of  Constance  is  appeased  by  the 
fall  of  John.  The  Niobe  of  a  Gothic  age,  who  vainly  sought  to 
shield  her  child  from  as  stern  a  destiny  as  that  with  which  Apollo 
and  Artemis  pursued  the  daughter  -of  Tantalus,  may  rest  in  peace  ! 


KING   RICHARD    11. 


Vol..  IV. 


2B 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


King  Richard  II. 

Edmund  OF  Langley,  i>MA:e  o/* York:  I         ,  ,    rr- 

T  ^  T^  ,       /.  T  }  uncles  to  the  King. 

John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  o/^ Lancaster ;    ) 

Henry,  surnamed  Bolingbroke,  Duke  of  Hereford,  son  to 

John  of  Gaunt ;  afterwards  King  Henry  IV. 

Duke  of  Aumerle,  son  to  the  Duke  of  York. 

Mowbray,  Duke  of  Norfolk. 

Duke  of  Surrey. 

Earl  of  Salisbury. 

Earl  Berkley. 

Bushy,  ] 

Bagot,  >  creatures  to  King  Richard. 

Green,  J 

Earl  of  Northumberland. 

Henry  Percy,  his  son. 

Lord  Ross. 

Lord  Willoughby. 

Lord  Fitzwater. 

Bishop  of  Carlisle. 

Abbot  of  Westminster. 

Lord  Marshal  ;  and  another  Lord. 

Sir  Pierce  of  Exton. 

Sir  Stephen  Scroop. 

Captain  of  a  band  of  Welshmen. 

Queen  to  King  Richard. 
Duchess  of  Gloster. 
Duchess  of  York. 
Lady  attending  on  the  Queen. 

Lords,  Heralds,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Two  Gardeners,  Keeper, 
Messenger,  Groom,  and  other  Attendants. 

SCENE, — dispersedly  in  England  and  Wales. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


STATE  OF  THE  TEXT,  AND  CHRONOLOGY,  OF  RICHARD  II. 

The  'Richard  II.'  of  Shakspere  was  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 
August  29,  1597,  by  Andrew  Wise;  by  whom  the  first  edition 
was  published  in  the  same  year,  under  the  title  of  '  The  Tragedie 
of  King  Richard  the  Second.  As  it  hath  been  publikely  acted  by 
the  Right  Honourable  the  Lord  Chamberlaine  his  servants.'  It 
is  one  of  the  plays  enumerated  as  Shakspere's  by  Francis  Meres 
in  1598.  A  second  edition  was  printed  by  Wise  in  1598,  which 
bears  the  name  of  "  William  Shake-speare "  as  the  author.  In 
1608  an  edition  was  printed  for  Matthew  Law,  of  which  the 
copies  in  general  bear  this  title :  '  The  Tragedie  of  King  Richard 
the  Second,  with  new  additions  of  the  Parliament  Sceane,  and  the 
deposing  of  King  Richard.  As  it  hath  been  lately  acted  by  the 
kinges  servantes,  at  the  Globe,  by  William  Shake-speare.'  A 
fourth  edition,  from  the  same  publisher,  appeared  in  1615.  The 
division  of  the  acts  and  scenes  was  first  made  in  the  folio  of  1623, 
and  not,  as  Steevens  has  stated,  in  a  quarto  of  1634. 

We  thus  see  that  one  of  the  most  prominent  scenes  of  the  play, 
"  The  Parliament  Scene  and  the  deposing  of  King  Richard,"  re- 
ceived "  new  additions  "  in  1608.  In  point  of  fact,  all  that  part  of 
the  fourth  act  in  which  Richard  is  introduced  to  make  the  sur- 
render of  his  crown,  comprising  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  lines, 
was  never  printed  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth.  The  quarto  of  1608 
first  gives  this  scene.  That  quarto  is,  with  very  few  exceptions, 
the  text  of  the  play  as  it  now  stands ;  for  it  is  remarkable  that  in 
the  folio  there  are,  here  and  there,  lines  which  are  in  themselves 
beautiful  and  unexceptionable,  amounting  in  the  whole  to  about 
fifty,  which  are  omitted.  It  is  difiicult  to  account  for  this;  for 
the  omissions  are  not  so  important  in  quantity  that  the  lines  should 
be  left  out  to  make  room  for  the  deposition  scene.  The  last  stage 
copy  was,  probably,  here  used ;  for  one  of  the  passages  omitted  is 
a  speech  of  "  a  lord"  without  a  name,  in  the  parliament  scene ;  and 
the  players  were,  perhaps,  desirous  to  save  the  introduction  of  a 

2B2 


372  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

new  character.  We  have  indicated  these  alterations  in  our  foot- 
notes. The  text  is,  upon  the  whole,  remarkably  pure,  and  presents 
few  difficulties.     , 

Whether  this  play  were  written  just  anterior  to  the  period  of 
its  publication,  or  some  three  or  four  years  before,  we  have  no 
distinct  evidence.  In  the  last  edition  of  Malone's  Shakspere,  in 
his  essay  on  the  chronological  order  of  Shakspere's  plays,  he  gives 
it  the  date  of  1 593.  In  former  editions  of  the  same  essay  he  con- 
sidered it  to  be  written  in  1597.  For  neither  of  these  conjectural 
dates  does  he  offer  any  argument  or  authority.  George  Chalmers 
would  fix  it  in  1596,  because  the  play  itself  has  some  dozen  lines 
upon  Irish  affairs ;  and  Irish  affairs  much  occupied  the  nation  in 
1596.  This  appears  to  us  a  somewhat  absurd  refinement  upon  the 
intention  of  the  author ;  for  as  the  fall  of  Richard  was,  in  some 
measure,  occasioned  by  his  absence  in  Ireland — as  Daniel  has  it, 
because  he 

"  Neglects  those  parts  from  whence  worse  dangers  grow,'" — 

it  certainly  does  appear  to  us  that  some  mention  of  Ireland  was 
called  for  in  this  play,  without  any  allusion  being  intended  to  the 
period  of  1595,  "when  Tir  Owen  took  the  Queen's  fort  at  Black- 
water."  * 

There  is,  however,  a  circumstance  connected  with  the  chronology 
of  this  play  which  has  been  entirely  overlooked  by  Malone  and 
the  other  commentators;  and  which  we  approach  with  some  hesita- 
tion when  we  consider  what  labour  they  have  bestowed  in  bringing 
to  light  parallel  passages  of  the  text  of  Shakspere  from  the  most 
obscure  authors.  The  first  four  books  of  Daniel's  '  Civil  Warres,' 
three  of  which  are  almost  wholly  occupied  with  the  story  of 
Richard  II.,  were  first  published  in  1595.  We  have  looked  at 
this  poem  with  some  care,  and  we  cannot  avoid  coming  to  the 
conclusion  that,  with  reference  to  parts  of  the  conduct  of  the 
story,  and  in  a  few  modes  of  expression,  each  of  which  differ  from 
the  general  narrative  and  the  particular  language  of  the  chroniclers, 
there  are  similarities  betwixt  Shakspere  and  Daniel,  which  would 
lead  to  the  conclusion,  either  that  the  poem  of  Daniel  was  known 
to  Shakspere,  or  the  play  of  Shakspere  was  known  to  Daniel.  We 
will  slightly  run  over  these  similarities,  and  then,  with  much  diffi- 
dence, offer  a  conclusion. 

In  the  first  scene  of  '  Richard  II.'  the  king  says,  in  regard  to  the 
appeal  of  Bolingbroke  against  Norfolk, — 

*  See  Chalmers's  *  Supplemental  Apology,'  p.  309. 


KING  RICHARD  II.  373 

"  Tell  me,  moreover,  hast  thou  sounded  him, 
If  he  appeal  the  duke  on  ancient  malice."' 

Daniel  adopts  Froissart's  version  of  the  story,  that  Norfolk  first 
accused  Bolinghroke ;  but  Froissart  has  not  a  word  of  "  ancient 
malice  " — he  simply  makes  the  king  exclaim,  "  Why  say  you  these 
words  ? — we  will  know  it."  Holinshed,  when  he  makes  Hereford 
first  appeal  Norfolk  of  treason,  shows  the  king  as  hearing  them 
both,  and  dismissing  them  with,  "  No  more,  we  have  heard  enough." 
Daniel  thus  gives  the  scene : — 

"  Hereof  doth  Norfolk  presently  take  hold, 

And  to  the  king  the  whole  discourse  relate: 
Who,  not  conceiting  it,  as  it  was  told, 
But  judging  it  proceeded  out  of  hate,'''  &c. 

In  the  fourth  scene  of  the  second  act  the  Welsh  Captain  thus  de- 
scribes the  portents  which  showed  that  "the  king  is  dead:" — 

"  The  bay-trees  in  our  country  are  all  wither 'd. 
And  meteors  fright  the  fixed  stars  of  heaven ; 
The  pale-fac'd  moon  looks  bloody  on  the  earth.'' 

Shakspere  found  the  "  bay-trees"  in  Holinshed  : — "  In  this  year,  in 
a  manner  throughout  all  the  realm  of  England,  old  bay-trees 
withered,  and  afterwards,  contrary  to  all  men's  thinking,  grew 
green  again, — a  strange  sight,  and  supposed  to  import  some  un- 
known event."     The  other  prodigies  are  in  Daniel : — 

"  Red  fiery  dragons  in  the  air  do  flj', 

And  burning  meteors,  pointed  streaming  lights, 
Bright  stars  in  midst  of  day  appear  in  sky." 

In  the  third  scene  of  the  third  act  we  have  a  particular  expression, 
unnoticed  by  the  commentators,  which  finds  a  parallel  in  Daniel : — 

"  Ten  thousand  bloody  crowns  of  mothers'  sons 
Shall  ill  become  the  Jlower  of  England's  /ace  ;" 

in  Daniel  we  have — 

"  Th"  ungodly  bloodshed  that  did  so  defile 
The  beauty  of  the  fields,  and  even  did  mar 
The  Jlower  of  thy  chief  pride,  thou  fairest  isle." 

Daniel  had  read  Stow,  although  he  might  not  have  seen  the  '  Me- 
trical History ;'  and  he  gives  a  minute  description  of  the  ambush 
of  Northumberland  between  Conway  and  Flint.  This  poet  has  been 
called,  and  properly,  by  Drayton, 

'•  Too  much  historian  in  verse." 
Shakspere  drew  the  distinction  between  poetry  and  history,  and  he, 


374  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

therefore,  gives  us  not  this  me/o -dramatic  episode.  But  the  entry 
of  Bolingbroke  and  Richard  into  London  equally  came  within  the 
province  of  history  and  poetry.  Matchless  and  original  as  this  de- 
scription is  in  Shakspere,  there  is  something  very  similar  in  Daniel, 
which  is  not  in  the  chroniclers  : — 

"  He  that  in  glory  of  his  fortune  sate, 

Admiring  what  he  thought  could  never  be, 
Did  feel  his  blood  within  salute  his  state. 

And  lift  up  his  rejoicing  soul,  to  see 
So  many  hands  and  hearts  congratulate 

Th'  advancement  of  his  long-desir'd  degree ; 
When,  prodigal  of  thanks,  in  passing  by, 
He  re-salutes  them  all  with  cheerful  eye. 
Behind  him,  all  aloof,  came  pensive  on 

The  unregarded  king;  that  drooping  went 
Alone,  and  (but  for  spite)  scarce  lookd  upon : 

Judge,  if  he  did  more  envy,  or  lament. 
See  what  a  wondrous  work  this  day  is  done ; 

Which  th'  image  of  both  fortunes  doth  present : 
In  th'  one,  to  show  the  best  of  glories'  face ; 
In  th'  other,  worse  than  worst  of  all  disgrace.'* 

We  have  mentioned,  in  our  Historical  Illustration  to  Act  V.,  that 
Daniel,  as  well  as  Shakspere,  makes  the  queen  use  the  language  of 
a  woman.  There  was  poetical  truth  in  this,  with  some  foundation 
in  historical  exactness.  Isabel,  according  to  Froissart,  had  at  eight 
years  old  the  port  of  a  queen.  But  it  is  remarkable  that  two  poets 
should  have  agreed  in  a  circumstance  which  forms  no  part  of  the 
ordinary  historical  narration.  Daniel  makes  the  resignation  of  the 
crown  by  Richard  take  place  in  the  Tower ;  but  he  gives  the  scene 
the  same  pomp  and  ceremony  with  which  Shakspere  has  invested  it 
at  Westminster.  In  the  speech  of  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle  we  have 
these  words  in  Shakspere  : — 

"  What  sulfject  can  give  sentence  on  his  king  ? 
And  who  sits  here  that  is  not  Richard's  subject  ?" 

The  words  in  Holinshed,  from  which  the  speech  is  said  to  be  copied, 
are  these : — "  There  was  none  amongst  them  worthy  or  meet  to 
give  judgment  upon  so  noble  a  prince  as  King  Richard  was,  whom 
they  had  taken  for  their  sovereign  and  liege  lord  by  the  space  of 
two-and-twenty  years  and  more."  In  Daniel  we  have  these  words 
of  the  Bishop  : — 

"  Never  shall  this  poor  breath  of  mine  consent 

That  he  that  two-and-twenty  years  have  reign'd 

As  lawful  lord  and  king  by  just  descent, 

Should  here  be  judg'd,  unheard  and  unarraigu'd; 

Bff  subjects  too  (Judges  incompetent)." 


KING  RICHARD  II.  375 

Lastly,  in  the  death  of  Richard,  Daniel,  as  well  as  Shakspere, 
follows  the  story  that  he  was  barbarously  murdered  by  Sir  Pierce 
of  Exton.  Shakspere  puts  these  words  into  the  mouth  of  the  as- 
sassin : — 

"  Didst  thou  not  mark  the  king,  what  words  he  spake  ? 
Have  I  no  friend  will  rid  me  of  this  living /ear  ?" 

Holinshed  has,  "  King  Henry,  sitting  on  a  day  at  his  table,  sore 
sighing,  said,  '  Have  I  no  faithful  friend  which  will  deliver  me  of 
him  whose  life  will  be  my  death,  and  whose  death  will  be  the  pre- 
servation of  my  life  ?'  "  Daniel  shows  Henry  perturbed  while 
Richard  lived, — 

"  And  wish'd  that  some  would  so  his  life  esteem, 
As  rid  him  of  these  fears  wherein  he  stood." 

Are  these  resemblances  accidental?  We  think  not.  Neither  do 
we  think  that  the  parallel  passages  are  derived  from  common 
sources.  Did  Daniel  copy  Shakspere  ?  We  think  not.  He  was 
of  a  modest  and  retiring  nature,  and  would  purposely  have  avoided 
provoking  a  comparison,  especially  in  the  scene  describing  the 
entrance  of  Richard  and  Bolingbroke  into  London,  in  which  he  has 
put  out  his  own  strength,  in  his  own  quiet  manner.  Shakspere,  on 
the  contrary,  as  it  appears  to  us,  took  up  Daniel's  '  Civil  Warres,' 
as  he  took  up  Hall's,  or  Holinshed' s,  or  Froissart's  '  Chronicles,' 
and  transfused  into  his  play,  perhaps  unconsciously,  a  few  of  the 
circumstances  and  images  that  belonged  to  Daniel  in  his  character 
of  poet.  Daniel's  '  Civil  Warres '  was,  in  truth,  founded  upon  a 
false  principle.  It  attempts  an  impossible  mixture  of  the  Poem 
and  the  Chronicle, — wanting  the  fire  of  the  one  and  the  accuracy 
of  the  other, — and  this  from  the  one  cause,  that  Daniel's  mind 
wanted  the  true  poetical  elevation.  Believing,  therefore,  that 
Shakspere's  '  Richard  H.'  contains  passages  that  might  have  been 
suggested  by  Daniel's  '  Civil  Warres,'  we  consider  that  the  play 
was  written  at  a  very  short  period  before  its  publication  in  1 597. 
The  exact  date  is  really  of  very  little  importance ;  and  we  should 
not  have  dwelt  upon  it,  had  it  not  been  pleasant  to  trace  resem- 
blances between  contemporary  poets  who  were  themselves  personal 
friends. 


SOURCES  OP  THE  '  HISTORY'  OF  RICHARD  II. 

The  Richard  H.  of  Shakspere  is  the  Richard  II.  of  real  history. 
The  events  as  they  are  detailed  by  the  historians,  in  connexion  with 


376  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

the  use  which  Shakspere  has  made  of  those  events,  are  pointed  out 
in  the  Historical  Illustrations  to  each  act. 

But  there  is  a  question  whether,  as  the  foundation  of  this  drama, 
Shakspere  worked  upon  any  previous  play.  No  copy  of  any  such 
play  exists.  The  character  of  Richard  is  so  entire, — so  thoroughly 
a  whole, — that  we  can  have  little  douht  in  believing  it  to  be  a 
creation,  and  not  a  character  adapted  to  the  received  dramatic  no- 
tions of  the  poet's  audience.  But  still  there  is  every  reason  to 
suppose  that  there  was  another  play  of  '  Richard  II.' — perhaps  two 
others ;  and  that  one  held  possession  of  the  stage  long  after  Shak- 
spere's  exquisite  production  had  been  acted  and  published.  There 
is  a  curious  matter  connected  with  the  state  history  of  Shakspere's 
own  times  that  has  regard  to  the  performance  of  some  play  of 
*  Richard  II.'  On  the  afternoon  previous  to  the  insurrection  of  the 
Earl  of  Essex,  in  February,  1601,  Sir  Gilly  Merrick,  one  of  his 
partisans,  procured  to  be  acted  before  a  great  company  of  those 
who  were  engaged  in  the  conspiracy,  "  the  play  of  deposing 
Richard  II."  The  oflBcial  pamphlet  of  the  declarations  of  the 
treasons  of  the  Earl  of  Essex  states  that,  when  it  was  told  Merrick, 
"  by  one  of  the  players,  that  the  play  was  old,  and  they  should  have 
loss  in  playing  it,  because  few  would  come  to  it,  there  was  forty 
shillings  extraordinary  given  to  play  it ;  and  so,  thereupon,  played 
it  was."  In  the  printed  account  of  the  arraignment  of  Merrick,  it 
is  said  that  he  ordered  this  play  "  to  satisfy  his  eyes  with  a  sight  of 
that  tragedy  which  he  thought  soon  after  his  lord  should  bring 
from  the  stage  to  the  state."  There  is  a  passage  in  Camden's 
'  Annals '  which  would  appear  to  place  it  beyond  a  doubt  that  the 
play  so  acted  was  an  older  play  than  that  of  Shakspere.  It  is  there 
charged  against  Essex  that  he  procured,  by  money,  the  obsolete 
tragedy  (exoletam  tragoediam)  of  the  abdication  of  Richard  II.  to 
be  acted  in  a  public  theatre  before  the  conspiracy.  Bacon  hints 
at  a  systematic  purpose  of  bringing  Richard  II.  "  upon  the  stage 
and  into  print  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time."  Elizabeth  herself,  in  a 
conversation  with  Lambarde,  the  historian  of  Kent,  and  keeper  of 
the  Records  in  the  Tower,  going  over  a  pandect  of  the  Rolls  which 
Lambarde  had  prepared,  coming  to  the  reign  of  Richard  II.,  said, 
"  I  am  Richard  II.,  know  ye  not  that  ?"  Any  allusion  to  Richard  II. 
at  that  time  was  the  cause  of  great  jealousy.  Haywarde,  in  1599, 
very  narrowly  escaped  a  state  prosecution  for  his  '  First  Part  of  the 
Life  and  Reign  of  King  Henry  IV.'  This  book  was  the  deposition 
of  Richard  II.  put  "  into  print,"  to  which  Bacon  alludes.     It  ap- 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


377 


pears  to  us  that,  without  further  evidence,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  the  play  acted  before  the  partisans  of  the  Earl  of  Essex  was 
not  the  play  of  Shakspere.  The  deposition  scene,  we  know, 
professed  to  be  added  to  the  edition  of  1608.  The  play  which 
Merrick  ordered  was,  in  1601,  called  an  obsolete  play.  Further, 
would  Shakspere  have  continued  in  favour  with  Elizabeth,  had 
he  been  the  author  of  a  play  whose  performance  gave  such  deep 
oflfence  ? 

But  we  have  now  further  evidence  that  there  was  an  old  play  of 
'  Richard  II.,'  which  essentially  differed  from  Shakspere's  play. 
Mr.  Collier,  whose  researches  have  thrown  so  much  light  upon  the 
stage  in  general,  and  upon  Shakspere's  life  in  particular,  has  pub- 
lished some  very  curious  extracts  from  a  manuscript  in  the  Bod- 
leian Library,  which  describe,  from  the  observations  of  a  play-goer 
in  the  time  of  James  I.,  a  play  of  '  Richard  II.,'  essentially  different 
in  its  scenes  from  the  play  of  Shakspere.  Dr.  Syraon  Forman,  who 
was  a  sort  of  quack  and  astrologer,  and  who,  being  implicated  in 
the  conspiracy  to  murder  Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  had  escaped  public 
accusation  by  suddenly  dying  in  1611,  kept  "a  book  of  plays  and 
notes  thereof,  for  common  policy;"  by  which  "common  policy" 
he  means — for  maxims  of  prudence.  His  first  entry  is  entitled 
"  in  Richard  II.,  at  the  Globe,  1611,  the  30  of  April,  Thursday." 
From  the  extract  which  we  shall  take  the  liberty  of  giving  from 
Mr.  Collier's  book,  it  will  be  seen  that  at  Shakspere's  own  theatre, 
the  Globe,  a  '  Richard  II.'  was  performed,  which  was,  unquestion- 
ably, not  his  '  Richard  II.' 

"  Remember  therein  how  Jack  Straw,  by  bis  overmuch  boldness,  not  being  politic 
nor  suspecting  anything,  was  suddenly,  at  Smithfield  Bars,  stabbed  by  AValworth, 
the  Mayor  of  London,  and  so  he  and  his  whole  army  was  overthrown.  Therefore, 
in  such  case,  or  the  like,  never  admit  any  party  without  a  bar  between,  for  a  man 
cannot  be  too  wise,  nor  keep  himself  too  safe. 

"  Also  remember  how  the  Duke  of  Glocester,  the  Earl  of  Arundel,  Oxford,  and 
others,  crossing  the  King  in  his  humour  about  the  Duke  of  Eriand  (Ireland)  and 
Bushy,  were  glad  to  fly  and  raise  a  host  of  men;  and,  being  in  his  castle,  how  the 
Duke  of  Eriand  came  by  night  to  betray  him,  with  three  hundred  men;  but,  hav- 
ing privy  warning  thereof,  kept  his  gates  fast,  and  would  not  suffer  the  enemy  to 
enter,  which  went  back  again  with  a  fly  in  his  ear,  and  after  was  slain  by  the  Earl 
of  Arundel  in  the  battle. 

"  Remember,  also,  when  the  Duke  («.  e.  of  Glocester)  and  Arundel  came  to  Lon- 
don with  their  army,  King  Richard  came  forth  to  them,  and  met  them,  and  gave 
them  fair  words,  and  promised  them  pardon,  and  that  all  should  be  well,  if  they 
would  discharge  their  army :  upon  whose  promises  and  fair  speeches  they  did  it ; 
and  after,  the  King  bid  them  all  to  a  banquet,  and  so  betrayed  them  and  cut  ofl' 
their  heads,  &c.,  because  they  had  not  his  pardon  under  his  hand  and  seal  before, 
but  his  word. 


378  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

"  Remember  therein,  also,  how  the  Duke  of  Lancaster  privily  contrived  all  villainy 
to  Bet  them  all  together  by  the  ears,  and  to  make  the  nobility  to  envy  the  King,  and 
mislike  him  and  his  government;  by  which  means  he  made  his  own  son  king,  which 
was  Henry  Bolingbroke. 

"  Remember,  also,  how  the  Duke  of  Lancaster  asked  a  wise  man  whether  himself 
should  ever  be  king,  and  he  told  him  no,  but  his  son  should  be  a  king :  and  when 
he  had  told  him,  he  hanged  him  up  for  his  labour,  because  he  should  not  bruit 
abroad,  or  speak  thereof  to  otliers.  This  was  a  policy  in  the  commonwealth's  opi- 
nion, but  I  say  it  was  a  villain's  part,  and  a  Judas'  kiss,  to  hang  the  man  for  telling 
him  the  truth.  Beware,  by  this  example,  of  noblemen  and  their  fair  words,  and  say 
little  to  them,  lest  they  do  the  like  to  thee  for  thy  good  will.'* 

From  Forman's  account  of  this  play  it  will  be  seen  that  it  em- 
braces the  earlier  period  of  Richard  II.,  containing  the  insurrection 
of  Jack  Straw.  It  seems  very  doubtful  whether  it  includes  the 
close  of  the  reign.  We  have  a  talk  for  "policy"  about  the  Duke 
of  Lancaster's  (Gaunt' s)  machinations ;  but  nothing  about  Henry 
Bolingbroke.  Were  there  two  plays  of  '  Richard  II.'  of  which  we 
know  nothing — the  obsolete  play  of  the  deposition,  which  Merrick 
caused  to  be  acted  in  1601,  and  the  play  containing  Jack  Straw, 
which  Forman  noted  in  1611  ? 


COSTUME. 

For  the  male  costume  of  this  play  we  are  overwhelmed  with  au- 
thorities. Not  only  do  we  possess  elaborately-executed  portraits 
and  monumental  effigies  of  Richard,  and  the  greater  number  of  the 
other  historical  personages,  but  the  time  is  particularly  rich  in  illu- 
minated manuscripts,  and  in  anecdotes  illustrative  of  the  dress  and 
armour  of  the  people  at  large. 

The  poems  of  Chaucer  and  the  chronicles  of  Froissart  are  full  of 
information  on  these  points ;  and  in  the  Harleian  Collection  of  MSS. 
there  is  the  well-known  and  invaluable  'Metrical  History'  of  the  de- 
position of  Richard  II.,  by  a  gentleman  of  the  household  of  Charles 
VI.  of  France,  and  who  attended  Richard  during  the  whole  of 
the  period  he  describes. f  The  MS.  is  liberally  illustrated  by  mi- 
niatures exhibiting  all  the  principal  scenes  of  that  eventful  story, 
and  containing  portraits,  of  the  dress  at  least,  of  Richard  II.,  Bo- 
lingbroke, the  Earls  of  Northumberland,  Westmoreland,  Exeter, 
Salisbury,  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  &c.  &c. 

This  circumstance  is  the  more  fortunate,  as,  although  we  possess 

*  New  Particulars  regarding  the  Works  of  Shakespeare :  18.16. 
f  See  Historical  Hlustrations  to  Act  111. 


KING  RICHARD  II.  379 

numberless  illuminated  copies  of  Froissart,  all  that  have  come 
under  our  notice  have  been  executed  as  late,  at  least,  as  the  com- 
mencement of  the  reign  of  our  Henry  VI.,  and,  consequently,  pre- 
sent us  with  the  dress  and  armour  of  another  century.  We  take 
this  opportunity  of  impressing  this  fact  upon  the  minds  of  our 
readers,  by  at  once  referring  them  to  the  cut  at  the  end  of  this 
Introductory  Notice,  taken  from  the  illuminated  copy  of  Froissart, 
and  representing  the  throwing  down  and  accepting  of  the  gage ;  by 
comparison  of  which  with  those  from  the  '  Metrical  History'  they 
will  perceive  the  difference  in  the  fashions  of  the  times,  and  avoid 
confounding  the  former  with  those  which  are  given  as  undoubted 
authorities  for  the  costume  of  this  play. 

The  foppery  of  dress  prevailing  during  the  reign  of  Richard  II. 
is  the  universal  theme  of  satire  and  reprobation  amongst  the  poets 
and  historians  of  the  day ;  and  York,  in  the  first  scene  of  the  second 
act  of  this  play,  speaks  with  perfect  truth  of  our  "  apish  nation " 
limping  in  base  imitation  after  the  "  fashions  in  proud  Italy,"  or 
wherever  "the  world  thrusts  forth  a  vanity;"  a  passage  which  Dr. 
Johnson  has  presumed,  of  course,  to  be  a  mistake  of  Shakspere,  or, 
rather,  a  wilful  anachronism  of  the  man  who  gave  "  to  all  nations 
the  customs  of  England,  and  to  all  ages  the  manners  of  his  own!" 
Richard  himself  was  (as  the  Rev.  Mr.  Webb  has  remarked  in  his 
description  of  the  '  Metrical  History'  aforesaid — '  Archseologia,'  vol. 
XX.)  the  greatest  fop  of  his  day.*  He  had  a  coat  estimated  at  thirty 
thousand  marks,  the  value  of  which  must  chiefly  have  arisen  from 
the  quantity  of  precious  stones  with  which  it  was  embroidered,  such 
being  one  of  the  many  extravagant  fashions  of  the  time.f  Those 
of  working  letters  and  mottoes  on  the  dresses,  and  cutting  the  edges 
of  the  mantles,  hoods,  &c.,  into  the  shape  of  leaves  and  other  de- 
vices, will  be  seen  by  referring  to  the  portrait  of  Richard  in  the 
Jerusalem  Chamber  at  Westminster,  and  the  illuminations  of  the 
'  Metrical  History.'  Bolingbroke,  in  the  miniatures  of  that  work,  is 
represented  in  mourning  for  his  father.  When  he  entered  London 
with  the  captive  Richard  in  his  train,  he  was  dressed,  according  to 
Froissart,  in  a  short  jack,  or  jacket,  of  cloth  of  gold,  "  a  la  fachon 
d'Almajme." 

Of  John  of  Gaunt  we  are  told  that  he  wore  his  garments  "  not 

*  The  Monk  of  Evesham  describes  him  as  extravagantly  splendid  in  his  enter- 
tainments and  dress. 

f  The  statute  passed  in  prohibition  of  such  vanities  calls  these  dresses  "  apparel 
broider'd  of  stone." 


380  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

wide,"  and  yet  they  became  him  "full  well."  In  the  Cotton  MS. 
marked  D  6,  he  is  represented  granting  the  claims  at  the  corona- 
tion of  Richard  II.,  as  Lord  High  Steward  of  England.  He  is 
attired  in  a  long  particoloured  robe,  one  half  white,  the  other 
blue,  such  being  the  family  colours  of  the  House  of  Lancaster. 
White  and  red  were,  however,  assumed  by  Richard  II.  as  his  livery 
colours,  and,  as  such,  worn  by  the  courtiers  and  citizens  on  state 
occasions. 

The  sleeves  of  John  of  Gaunt's  robe,  it  will  be  observed,  are 
tight,  and  reach  to  the  wrist,  after  the  old  fashion  of  Edward  III.'s 
time,  but  bearing  out  the  words  of  the  old  poet  before  quoted, 
who  praises  him  for  not  giving  way  to  the  extravagances  of  his 
nephew's  court :  Chaucer,  the  Monk  of  Evesham,  and  the  author 
of  an  anonymous  work,  cited  by  Camden,  and  called  '  The  Eulo- 
gium,'  all  complain  of  the  large,  long,  and  wide  sleeves,  reaching 
almost  to  the  feet,  which  even  the  servants  wore  in  imitation  of 
their  masters. 

The  shoes  had  excessively  long  pikes,  sometimes  crooked  up- 
wards, and  then  called  crackowes  (probably  from  Cracow,  in 
Poland),  and,  according  to  the  author  of  '  The  Eulogium,'  occasion- 
ally fastened  to  the  knees  by  chains  of  gold  or  silver.  The  cha- 
peron, or  hood,  of  this  reign  is  of  a  most  indescribable  shape,  and 
is  sometimes  worn  over  the  capucium,  or  cowl.  Single  ostrich- 
feathers  are  also  seen  occasionally  in  front  of  the  hood,  or  cap. 
The  hair  was  worn  long  in  the  neck  and  at  the  sides,  and  elderly 
persons  are  generally  represented  with  forked  beards. 

The  decoration  of  the  white  hart,  crowned  and  chained  under  a 
tree,  was  worn  by  all  Richard's  friends  and  retainers.  In  the  ward- 
robe account  of  his  twenty -second  year  is  an  entry  of  a  belt  and 
sheath  of  a  sword,  of  red  velvet,  embroidered  with  white  harts 
crowned  and  with  rosemary-branches. 

The  armour  of  this  reign  was  nearly  all  of  plate, — a  neck-piece 
of  chain  fastened  to  the  bascinet,  and  called  the  camail,  and  the  in- 
dented edge  of  the  chain-apron  depending  below  the  jupon,  or  sur- 
coat,  being  nearly  all  the  mail  visible.  The  jupon  introduced 
during  the  preceding  reign  was  a  garment  of  silk,  or  velvet,  richly 
embroidered  with  the  armorial  bearings  of  the  wearer,  fitting  tight 
to  the  shape,  and  confined  over  the  hips  by  a  magnificent  girdle. 
(  Vide  that  of  the  Black  Prince  at  Canterbury.)  In  the  '  Metrical 
History,'  however,  Richard  and  his  knights  are  represented  in  loose 
surcoats,  sometimes  with  sleeves,  and  embroidered  all  over  with 


KING  RICHARD  II.  381 

fanciful  devices,  the  king's  being  golden  ostrich-feathers.  The 
armour  worn  by  Bolingbroke  when  he  entered  the  lists  at  Co- 
ventry was  manufactured  expressly  for  him  at  Milan  by  order  of 
Galeazzo  Visconti,  to  whom  he  had  written  on  the  subject. 

The  chronicler  Hall  (and  Holinshed  follows  him),  describing 
this  event,  asserts,  but  without  quoting  his  authority,  that  Boling- 
broke's  horse  was  caparisoned  with  blue  and  green  velvet,  embroi- 
dered all  over  with  swans  and  antelopes  (his  badges  and  supporters), 
and  that  the  housings  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk's  charger  were  of 
crimson  velvet,  embroidered  with  silver  lions  (his  paternal  arms) 
and  mulberry-trees,  a  punning  device,  the  family  name  being  Mow- 
bray. The  vizor  of  the  bascinet,  or  war  helmet,  of  this  time,  was 
of  a  singular  shape,  giving  to  the  wearer  almost  the  appearance  of 
having  the  head  of  a  bird.  A  specimen  is  to  be  seen  in  the  Tower 
of  London,  and  a  still  more  perfect  one  is  in  the  armoury  of  Sir  S. 
Meyrick,  at  Goodrich  Court. 

No  feathers,  as  yet,  decorated  the  helmet,  unless  they  formed 
the  heraldic  crest  of  the  family,  and  then  only  the  tournament 
helmet. 

Of  the  female  characters  in  the  play,  the  Duchess  of  Gloster  is 
the  only  one  for  whose  dress  we  have  any  precise  authority  ;  and  it 
is  probable  that  she  is  represented  on  her  monumental  brass  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  which  furnishes  it,  in  the  habit  of  a  nun  of 
Barking  Abbey,  to  which  place  she  retired  after  her  husband's 
murder,  and  took  the  veil.  The  nuns  of  Barking,  however,  being 
of  the  order  of  St.  Benedict,  the  dress,  both  in  hue  and  form,  would 
resemble  the  mourning  habit  of  a  widow  of  high  rank  at  that  period, 
which  was  quite  conventual  in  its  appearance,  even  to  the  barbe,  or 
plaited  chin-cloth. 

The  general  dress  of  ladies  of  quality,  during  the  reign  of  Richard 
II.,  consisted  of  the  kirtle,  a  sort  of  low-bodied  gown,  with  long 
tight  sleeves,  and  made  to  fit  very  close  to  the  figure,  over  which 
was  worn  a  singularly-shaped  sleeveless  gown,  or  robe,  with  a  very 
full  skirt  and  train,  the  front  and  edges  generally  trimmed  with 
ermine,  or  other  rich  furs,  and  giving  the  appearance  of  a  tight 
spencer  over  a  loose  dress,  instead  of  which  it  is,  as  nearly  as  pos- 
sible, the  exact  reverse. 

Over  this,  on  state  occasions,  was  worn  a  long  mantle,  which,  as 
well  as  the  skirt  of  the  gown,  or  robe,  was  frequently  embroidered 
with  armorial  bearings.  Leithieullier,  in  his  observations  on  Se- 
pulchral Monuments,  has  remarked  that,  in  such  cases,  the  arms  on 


382 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICK. 


the  mantle  are  always  those  of  the  husband,  and  the  others  those  of 
the  lady's  own  family. 

The  hair  was  worn  in  a  gold  fret,  or  caul,  of  net-work,  sur- 
mounted by  a  chaplet,  or  garland,  of  goldsmith's  work,  a  coronet, 
or  a  veil,  according  to  the  fancy  or  rank  of  the  wearer.  The  eflBgy 
of  Anne  of  Bohemia,  and  the  illuminated  MS.  entitled  '  Liber  Re- 
galis,'  preserved  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  executed  in  the  time 
of  Richard  II.,  may  be  considered  the  best  authorities  for  the  royal 
and  noble  female  costume  of  the  period. 


[Throwing  the  Gaj; 


iiuination  in  Froissut.] 


[Richard  II.    Portrait  in  the  Jerusalem  Chamber.] 


ACT   I. 


SCENE  I. — London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 


\    Enter  KiiiG  Richard,  attended;  John  of  Gaunt,  and  other 
^  Nobles,  with  him. 

»L        K.  Rich.  Old  John  of  Gaunt,  time-honour'd  Lancaster, 
ik       Hast  thou,  according  to  thy  oath  '  and  band,* 
-.^^.Brought  hither  Henry  Hereford,**  thy  bold  son ; 

■  Band.  Bund  and  bond  are  each  the  past  participle  passive  of  the  verb  to  bind; 
and  hence  the  band,  that  by  which  a  thing  is  confined,  and  the  bond,  that  by  which 
one  is  constrained,  are  one  and  the  same  thing. 

'•  Hereford.  In  the  old  copies  this  title  is  invariably  spelt  and  pronounced  Her- 
ford.  In  Hardynge's  •  Chronicle '  the  word  is  always  written  Herford  or  Harford. 
It  is  constantly  Herford,  as  a  dissyllable,  in  Daniel's  *  Civile  Warres.' 


384  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  I. 

Here  to  make  good  the  boisterous  late  appeal. 
Which  then  our  leisure  would  not  let  us  hear. 
Against  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Thoma^_Moatbwi3L2 

Gaunt.  I  have,  my  liege. 

K.  Rich.  Tell  me,  moreover,  hast  thou  sounded  him. 
If  he  appeal  the  duke  on  ancient  malice ; 
Or  worthily,  as  a  good  subject  should. 
On  some  known  ground  of  treachery  in  him  ? 

Gaunt.  As  near  as  I  could  sift  him  on  that  argument. 
On  some  apparent  danger  seen  in  him, 
Aim'd  at  your  highness, — ^no  inveterate  malice. 

K.  Rich.  Then  call  them  to  our  presence ;  face  to  face. 
And  frowning  brow  to  brow,  ourselves  will  hear 
The  accuser,  and  the  accused,  freely  speak : — 

[Exeu7it  some  Attendants. 
High-stomach'd  are  they  both,  and  full  of  ire. 
In  rage  deaf  as  the  sea,  hasty  as  fire. 

Re-enter  Attendants,  with  Bolingbroke  and  Norfolk. 

Baling.  Many  years  of  happy  days  befal 
My  gracious  sovereign,  my  most  loving  liege  ! 

Nor.  Each  day  still  better  other's  happiness ; 
Until  the  heavens,  envying  earth's  good  hap. 
Add  an  immortal  title  to  your  crown ! 

K.  Rich.  We  thank  you  both  :  yet  one  but  flatters  us. 
As  well  appeareth  by  the  cause  you  come  ;* 
Namely,  to  appeal  each  other  of  high  treason. — 
Cousin  of  Hereford,  what  dost  thou  object 
Against  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mowbray  ? 

Boling.  First,  (heaven  be  the  record  to  my  speech  !) 
In  the  devotion  of  a  subject's  love. 
Tendering  the  precious  safety  of  my  prince. 
And  free  from  other  misbegotten  hate. 
Come  I  appellant  to  this  princely  presence. 
Now,  Thomas  Mowbray,  do  I  turn  to  thee. 
And  mark  my  greeting  well ;  for  what  I  speak 
My  body  shall  make  good  upon  this  earth, 

■   You  come.     On  which  you  come ;  or  you  come  on.     The  omission,  in  such  a 
cose,  of  the  preposition  is  not  unusual. 


Scene  I.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  385 

Or  my  divine  soul  answer  it  in  heaven. 

Thou  art  a  traitor,  and  a  miscreant ; 

Too  good  to  be  so,  and  too  bad  to  live  ; 

Since  the  more  fair  and  crystal  is  the  sky. 

The  uglier  seem  the  clouds  that  in  it  fly. 

Once  more,  the  more  to  aggravate  the  note. 

With  a  foul  traitor's  name  stuff  I  thy  throat ; 

And  wish  (so  please  my  sovereign),  ere  I  move. 

What  my  tongue  speaks,  my  right-drawn  sword  may  prove. 

IVor.  Let  not  my  cold  words  here  accuse  my  zeal : 
'T  is  not  the  trial  of  a  woman's  war. 
The  bitter  clamour  of  two  eager  tongues. 
Can  arbitrate  this  cause  betwixt  us  twain : 
The  blood  is  hot  that  must  be  cool'd  for  this. 
Yet  can  I  not  of  such  tame  patience  boast. 
As  to  be  hush'd,  and  nought  at  all  to  say : 
First,  the  fair  reverence  of  your  highness  curbs  me 
From  giving  reins  and  spurs  to  my  free  speech ; 
Which  else  would  post,  until  it  had  return'd 
These  terms  of  treason  doubled  "  down  his  throat. 
Setting  aside  his  high  blood's  royalty. 
And  let  him  be  no  kinsman  to  my  liege, 
I  do  defy  him,  and  I  spit  at  him  ; 
Call  him  a  slanderous  coward,  and  a  villain  : 
Which  to  maintain,  I  would  allow  him  odds ; 
And  meet  him,  Avere  I  tied  to  run  a-foot 
Even  to  the  frozen  ridges  of  the  Alps, 
Or  any  other  ground  inhabitable  ^ 
Wherever  Englishman  durst  set  his  foot. 
Meantime,  let  this  defend  my  loyalty, — 
By  all  my  hopes,  most  falsely  doth  he  lie. 

Boling.  Pale  trembling  coward,  there  I  throw  my  gage. 
Disclaiming  here  the  kindred  of  the  king ; 
And  lay  aside  my  high  blood's  royalty, 

*■  Doubled.  In  folio  of  1623,  and  first  quarto  of  1597,  doubly;  doubled  a  HtB 
reading  of  fhe  quarto  1615. 

''  Inhabitable.  Uninhabitable,  unhabitable.  Jonson,  and  Taylor  the  Water-poet, 
both  use  tlie  word  in  tliis  sense,  strictly  according  to  its  Latin  derivation.  But  the 
Nurmaii  origin  of  much  of  our  language  warrants  this  use.  Habitable,  and  its  con- 
verse, present  no  difficulty  to  a  Frenchman. 

Vol.  IV.  2  C 


386  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  I. 

Which  fear,  not  reverence,  makes  thee  to  except : 
If  guilty  dread  hath  left  thee  so  much  strength. 
As  to  take  up  mine  honour's  pawn,  then  stoop ; 
By  that,  and  all  the  rites  of  knighthood  else. 
Will  I  make  good  against  thee,  arm  to  arm. 
What  I  have  spoke,  or  thou  canst  worse  devise.* 

Aor.  I  take  it  up  ;  and  by  that  sword  I  swear. 
Which  gently  laid  my  knighthood  on  my  shoulder, 
I  '11  answer  thee  in  any  fair  degree. 
Or  chivalrous  design  of  knightly  trial : 
And,  when  I  mounts  alive  may  I  not  light. 
If  I  be  traitor,  or  unjustly  fight ! 

K.  Rich.  What  doth  our  cousin  lay  to  Mowbray's  charge  ? 
It  must  be  great,  that  can  inherit  us  ^ 
So  much  as  of  a  thought  of  ill  in  him. 

Boling.  Look,  what  I  said  "^  my  life  shall  prove  it  true ; — 
That  Mowbray  hath  receiv'd  eight  thousand  nobles,* 
In  name  of  lendings,  for  your  highness'  soldiers ; 
The  which  he  hath  detain'd  for  lewd  "^  employments. 
Like  a  false  traitor  and  injurious  villain. 
Besides  I  say,  and  will  in  battle  prove, — 
Or  here,  or  elsewhere,  to  the  furthest  verge 
That  ever  was  survey'd  by  English  eye, — 
That  all  the  treasons,  for  these  eighteen  years 
Com  plotted  and  contrived  in  this  land, 
Fetch'd  from  false  Mowbray  their  first  head  and  spring. 
Further  I  say, — and  further  will  maintain 
Upon  his  bad  life,  to  make  all  this  good, — 
That  he  did  plot  the  duke  of  Gloster's  death  ; 
Suggest  ®  his  soon -believing  adversaries  ; 

*  So  the  quarto  of  1597.     The  first  folio  readsj 

"  What  I  have  spoken,  or  thou  caast  devise.*' 

*  Inherit  tu.  To  inherit  was  not  only  used  in  the  sense  of  to  inherit  as  an  heir, 
but  in  that  of  to  receive  generally.  It  is  here  used  for  to  cause  toreceive,  in  the  tame 
way  that  to  possess  is  either  used  for  to  have,  or  to  cause  to  have. 

<^  Said.     So  the  quartos  and  folio.     In  modem  editions,  speak. 

<*  Leu<d,  in  its  early  signification,  means  misled,  deluded ;  and  thence  it  came  to 
stand,  as  here,  for  wicked.  The  laity — "  the  body  of  the  Christian  people,"  as 
Gibbon  calls  them — were  designated  as  lewede  by  the  clergy.  (See  Tooke,  vol.  ii. 
p.  383.) 

*  Suggest — prompt. 


I 


I 


Scene  I.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  387 

And,  consequently,  like  a  traitor  coward, 

Sluic'd  out  his  innocent  soul  through  streams  of  blood : 

Which  blood,  like  sacrificing  Abel's,  cries. 

Even  from  the  tongueless  caverns  of  the  earth. 

To  me  for  justice  and  rough  chastisement ; 

And,  by  the  glorious  worth  of  my  descent. 

This  arm  shall  do  it,  or  this  life  be  spent. 

K.  Rich.  How  high  a  pitch  his  resolution  soars ! — 
Thomas  of  Norfolk,  what  say'st  thou  to  this  ? 

Nor.  O,  let  my  sovereign  turn  away  his  face. 
And  bid  his  ears  a  little  while  be  deaf. 
Till  I  have  told  this  slander  of  his  blood. 
How  God,  and  good  men,  hate  so  foul  a  liar. 

K.  Rich.  Mowbray,  impartial  are  our  eyes  and  ears: 
Were  he  my  brother,  nay,  our*  kingdom's  heir, 
(As  he  is  but  my  father's  brother's  son,) 
Now  by  my  sceptre's  awe  I  make  a  vow. 
Such  neighbour  nearness  to  our  sacred  blood 
Should  nothing  privilege  him,  nor  partialize 
The  unstooping  firmness  of  my  upright  soul : 
He  is  our  subject,  Mowbray ;  so  art  thou  ; 
Free  speech,  and  fearless,  I  to  thee  allow. 

Nor.  Then,  Bolingbroke,^  as  low  as  to  thy  heart. 
Through  the  false  passage  of  thy  throat,  thou  liest ! 
Three  parts  of  that  receipt  I  had  for  Calais 
Disburs'd  I  duly  to  his  highness'  soldiers : 
The  other  part  reserv'd  I  by  consent ; 
For  that  my  sovereign  liege  was  in  my  debt. 
Upon  remainder  of  a  dear  account. 
Since  last  I  went  to  France  to  fetch  his  queen : 
Now  swallow  down  that  lie. — For  Gloster's  death, — 
I  slew  him  not  j'f but  to  my  own  disgrace,  ^ 

Neglected  my  sworn  duty  in  that  case. 
For  you,  my  noble  lord  of  Lancaster, 
The  honourable  father  to  my  foe. 
Once  I  did  lay  an  ambush  for  your  life, 
A  trespass  that  doth  vex  my  grieved  soul  : 
But,  ere  I  last  receiv'd  the  sacrament, 

»  Our  kingdoni'i  heir.     So  the  folio.     The  earlier  copies,  my  kingdom's  heir. 

2  C  2 


388  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  I. 

I  did  confess  it ;  and  exactly  begg'd 

Your  grace's  pardon,  and,  I  hope,  I  had  it. 

This  is  my  fault  r  As  for  the  rest  appeal'd. 

It  issues  from  the  rancour  of  a  villain, 

A  recreant  and  most  degenerate  traitor  : 

Which  in  myself  I  boldly  will  defend ; 

And  interchangeably  hurl  down  my  gage 

Upon  this  overweening  traitor's  foot. 

To  prove  myself  a  loyal  gentleman 

Even  in  the  best  blood  chamber'd  in  his  bosom  : 

In  haste  whereof,  most  heartily  I  pray 

Your  highness  to  assign  our  trial  day. 

K.  Rich.  Wrath-kindled  gentlemen,  be  rul'd  by  me ; 
Let 's  purge  this  choler  without  letting  blood : 
This  we  prescribe,  though  no  physician ; 
Deep  malice  makes  too  deep  incision  : 
Forget,  forgive ;  conclude,  and  be  agreed ; 
Our  doctors  say,  this  is  no  month*  to  bleed.'' 
Good  uncle,  let  this  end  where  it  begun ; 
We  '11  calm  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  you  your  son. 

Gaunt.  To  be  a  make-peace  shall  become  my  age : — 
Throw  down,  my  son,  the  duke  of  Norfolk's  gage. 

K.  Rich.  And,  Norfolk,  throw  down  his. 

Gaunt.  When,  Harry?  when?'' 

Obedience  bids,  I  should  not  bid  again. 

K.  Rich.  Norfolk,  throw  down,  we  bid  ;  there  is  no  boot.' 

Nor.  Myself  I  throw,  dread  sovereign,  at  thy  foot  : 
My  life  thou  shalt  command,  but  not  my  shame : 
The  one  my  duty  owes ;  but  my  fair  name, 
(Despite  of  death,)  that  lives  upon  my  grave. 
To  dark  dishonour's  use  thou  shalt  not  have. 

■  Month  in  the  quartos;  in  the  folio,  time. 

•>  JVhen,  Harry?  when?     UTien,  so  used,  is  an  expression  of  impatience,  as  in 
'  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,' — "Why  when,  I  say  ?"     Monck  Mason,  in  this  pas- 
sage, suggests  a  new  punctuation,  which  is  very  ingenious,  though  we  can  scarcely 
venture  to  adopt  it  in  the  text,  contrary  to  all  the  old  copies.     It  is  this, — 
«  When,  Harry  ?     When 
Obedience  bids,  I  should  not  bid  again." 
*  No  boot.     Boot  is  here  used  in  its  original  sense  of  compensation.     There  is  no 
boot,  no  remedy  for  what  is  jwist, — nothing  to  be  added,  or  substituted. 


I 


Scene  I.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  389 

I  am  disgrac'd,  impeach'd,  and  baffled  here ; 
Piere'd  to  the  soul  with  slander's  venom 'd  spear ; 
The  which  no  balm  can  cure,  but  his  heart-blood 
Which  breath'd  this  poison. 

K.  Rich.  Rage  must  be  withstood : 

Give  me  his  gage  : — Lions  make  leopards  tame." 

Nor.  Yea,  but  not  change  his ''  spots  :  take  but  my  shame. 
And  I  resign  my  gage.     My  dear  dear  lord. 
The  purest  treasure  mortal  times  afford 
Is  spotless  reputation ;  that  away. 
Men  are  but  gilded  loam,''  or  painted  clay. 
A  jewel  in  a  ten-times-barr'd-up  chest 
Is  a  bold  spirit  in  a  loyal  breast. 
Mine  honour  is  my  life ;  both  grow  in  one ; 
Take  honour  from  me,  and  my  life  is  done : 
Then,  dear  my  liege,  mine  honour  let  me  try ; 
In  that  I  live,  and  for  that  will  I  die. 

K.  Rich.  Cousin,  throw  down  your  gage ;  do  you  begin. 

Baling.  O,  heaven  defend  my  soul  from  such  foul  sin ! 
Shall  I  seem  crest-fallen  in  my  father  s  sight  ? 
Or  with  pale  beggar  fear  impeach  my  height 
Before  this  outdar'd  dastard?     Ere  my  tongue 
Shall  wound  mine  honour  with  such  feeble  wrong. 
Or  sound  so  base  a  parle,  my  teeth  shall  tear 
The  slavish  motive  of  recanting  fear ; 
And  spit  it  bleeding,  in  his  high  disgrace. 
Where  shame  doth  harbour,  even  in  Mowbray's  face. 

[Exit  Gaunt. 

K.  Rich.  We  were  not  born  to  sue,  but  to  command  : 
Which  since  we  cannot  do  to  make  you  friends. 
Be  ready,  as  your  lives  shall  answer  it. 
At  Coventry,  upon  Saint  Lambert's  day ; 

*  Lions  make  leopards  tame.     The  crest  of  Norfolk  was  a  golden  leopard. 

''  His  spots.  So  the  old  copies.  According  to  the  custom  in  Shakspere's  time  of 
changing  from  the  singular  to  the  plural  number,  or  from  the  plural  to  the  singular, 
the  alteration  to  their  in  modern  copies  was  scarcely  called  for.  But  in  this  case 
Mowbray  quotes  the  very  text  of  Scripture — Jer.  xiii.  23. 

•=  Gilded  loam.  In  '  England's  Parnassus  '  (1600)  these  three  lines  are  extracted, 
but  the  third  line  reads  thus  : — 

"  Men  are  but  gilded  trunks,  or  painted  clay." 


390  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  I. 

There  shall  your  swords  and  lances  arbitrate 

The  swelling  difference  of  your  settled  hate ; 

Since  we  cannot  atone  you/  you  shall  see  ^ 

Justice  design*^  the  victor's  chivalry. 

Lord  marshal,  command  our  officers  at  arms 

Be  ready  to  direct  these  home-alarms.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — London.     A  Room  in  the  Duke  o/*  Lancaster'* 

Palace.^ 

Enter  Gaunt  and  Duchess  of  Gloster." 

Gaunt.  Alas !  the  part*^  I  had  in  Gloster's  blood 
Doth  more  solicit  me  than  your  exclaims. 
To  stir  against  the  butchers  of  his  life. 

But  since  correction  lieth  in  those  hands  , 

Which  made  the  fault  that  we  cannot  correct. 
Put  we  our  quarrel  to  the  will  of  heaven ; 
Who,  when  he  sees®  the  hours  ripe  on  earth. 
Will  rain  hot  vengeance  on  offenders'  heads. 

Duch.  Finds  brotherhood  in  thee  no  sharper  spur  ? 
Hath  love  in  thy  old  blood  no  living  fire  ? 
Edward's  seven  sons,'  whereof  thyself  art  one. 
Were  as  seven  phials  of  his  sacred  blood. 
Or  seven  fair  branches  springing  from  one  root : 
Some  of  those  seven  are  dried  by  nature's  course. 
Some  of  those  branches  by  the  destinies  cut : 
But  Thomas,  my  dear  lord,  my  life,  my  Gloster, — 
One  phial  full  of  Edward's  sacred  blood. 
One  flourishing  branch  of  his  most  royal  root. 
Is  crack'd,  and  all  the  precious  liquor  spilt; 
Is  hack'd  down,  and  his  summer  leaves  all  vaded,' 

*  Atoneyou — make  you  in  concord — cause  you  to  be  at  one. 

•>  You  shall  see.  All  the  old  copies  read  you ;  modem  editors  bave  substituted 
ve. 

'  Design — designate — point  out — exhibit — show  by  a  token. 
•*  The  part  I  had,  &c.     My  consanguinity  to  Gloster. 

•  He  sees.  All  the  old  copies,  they  see.  Heaven  is  often  put  as  the  impersonation 
of  the  Deity. 

'  Vadtd.  So  all  the  old  copies;  modern  editors  read  faded.  But  to  vade  seems 
to  have  a  stronger  sense  than  to  fadx,  aUhough  fade  was  often  written  vade.  Still 
we  may  trace  the  distinction.     In  *  The  Mirrour  for  Magistrates'  we  have, 

"The 


Scene  II.J  KING  RICHARD  U.  391 

By  envy's  hand,  and  murther's  bloody  axe. 

Ah,  Gaunt !  his  blood  was  thine ;  that  bed,  that  womb. 

That  mettle,  that  self-mould,  that  fashion'd  thee. 

Made  him  a  man ;  and  though  thou  liv'st  and  breath'st. 

Yet  art  thou  slain  in  him :  thou  dost  consent 

In  some  large  measure  to  thy  father's  death. 

In  that  thou  seest  thy  wretched  brother  die. 

Who  was  the  model  of  thy  father's  life. 

Call  it  not  patience.  Gaunt,  it  is  despair : 

In  suffering  thus  thy  brother  to  be  slaughter'd. 

Thou  show'st  the  naked  pathway  to  thy  life. 

Teaching  stern  murther  how  to  butcher  thee  : 

That  which  in  mean  men  we  entitle  patience 

Is  pale  cold  cowardice  in  noble  breasts. 

What  shall  I  say  ?  to  safeguard  thine  own  life. 

The  best  way  is  to  'venge  my  Gloster's  death. 

Gaunt.  Heaven's  is  the  quarrel ;  for  heaven's  substitute. 
His  deputy  anointed  in  his  sight. 
Hath  caus'd  his  death  :  the  which  if  wrongfully. 
Let  heaven  revenge ;  for  I  may  never  lift 
An  angry  arm  against  his  minister. 

Duch.  Where  then,  alas!  may  I  complain  myself?* 

Gaunt.  To  heaven,  the  widow's  champion  and  defence. 

Duch.  Why  then,  I  will.     Farewell,  old  Gaunt. 
Thou  go'st  to  Coventry,  there  to  behold 
Our  cousin  Hereford  and  fell  Mowbray  fight : 
O,  sit  my  husband's  wrongs  on  Hereford's  spear. 
That  it  may  enter  butcher  Mowbray's  breast ! 
Or,  if  misfortune  miss  the  first  career. 
Be  Mowbray's  sins  so  heavy  in  his  bosom,' 
That  they  may  break  his  foaming  courser's  back. 
And  throw  the  rider  headlong  in  the  lists, 

"  The  barren  fields,  which  whilom  flower'd  as  they  would  never  vade." 
This  ia  clearly  in  the  sense  of  fade.     In  Spenser  we  have, 

"  However  gay  their  blossom  or  their  blade 
Do  flourish  now,  they  into  dust  shall  vade." 
Here  we  have,  as  clearly,  the  sense  to  pass  away,  to  vanish.     But,  after  all,  the  old 
writers  probably  used  the  words  without  distinction ;  for  doubtless  they  are  the  same 
words. 

"  Complain  myself.     The  verb  is  here  the  same  as  the  French  verb  teplaindre. 


392  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  I. 

A  caitiff'  recreant  to  my  cousin  Hereford ! 
Farewell,  old  Gaunt ;  thy  sometimes  brother's  wife 
With  her  companion  grief  must  end  her  life. 

Gaunt.  Sister,  farewell:  1  must  to  Coventry: 
As  much  good  stay  with  thee,  as  go  with  me  ! 

Duch.  Yet  one  word  more ; — Grief  boundeth  where  it  falls. 
Not  with  the  empty  hollowness,  but  weight : 
I  take  my  leave  before  I  have  begun  ; 
For  sorrow  ends  not  when  it  seemeth  done. 
Commend  me  to  my  brother,  Edmund  York. 
Lo,  this  is  all : — Nay,  yet  depart  not  so  ; 
Though  this  be  all,  dp  not  so  quickly  go  ; 
I  shall  remember  more.     Bid  him — O,  what  ? — 
With  all  good  speed  at  Plashy  visit  me. 
Alack,  and  what  shall  good  old  York  there  see. 
But  empty  lodgings  and  unfurnish'd  walls,' 
Unpeopled  offices,"  untrodden  stones  ? 
And  what  cheer ^  there  for  welcome  but  my  groans? 
Therefore  commend  me ;  let  him  not  come  there. 
To  seek  out  sorrow  that  dwells  everywhere  : 
Desolate,  desolate,  will  I  hence,  and  die ; 
The  last  leave  of  thee  takes  my  weeping  eye.  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Open  Space  near  Coventry. 
Lasts  set  out,  and  a  Throne.     Heralds,  8^c.,  attending. 

Enter  the  Lord  Marshal  *'  and  Aumerle.'* 

Mar.  My  lord  Aumerle,  is  Harry  Hereford  arm'd  ? 
Aum.  Yea,  at  all  points  ;  and  longs  to  enter  in. 
Mar.  The  duke  of  Norfolk,  sprightfully  and  bold. 
Stays  but  the  summons  of  the  appellant's  trumpet. 

*  Caitiff.  The  original  meaning  of  this  word  was,  a  prisoner.  Wickliffe  has 
"  he  stighynge  an  high  ledde  caityfle  caityf"  (captivity  captive).  As  the  captive 
anciently  became  a  slave,  the  word  gradually  came  to  indicate  a  man  in  a  servile 
condition — ^a  mean  creature — a  dishonest  ])erson.  The  history  of  language  is  odea 
the  history  of  opinion;  and  it  is  not  surprising  that,  in  the  days  of  misused  power, 
to  be  weak,  and  to  be  guilty,  were  synonymous.  The  French  diet^  bad  anciently 
the  meaning  of  captif. 

••  Cheer.  The  quarto  of  1597  reads  dteer;  the  subsequent  early  editions,  hear. 
(See  Illustrations  to  Act  I.) 


Scene  III.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  393 

Aum.  Why,  then  the  champions  are  prepar'd,  and  stay 
For  nothing  but  his  majesty's  approach. 

Flourish  of  trumpets.  Enter  King  Richard,  who  takes  his 
seat  on  his  throne;  Gaunt,  and  several  Noblemen,  who 
take  their  places.  A  trumpet  is  sounded,  and  answered  by 
another  trumpet  within.  Then  enter  Norfolk,  in  armour, 
preceded  by  a  Herald. 

K.  Rich.  Marshal,  demand  of  yonder  champion 
The  cause  of  his  arrival  here  in  arms : 
Ask  him  his  name  ;  and  orderly  proceed 
To  swear  him  in  the  justice  of  his  cause. 

Mar.  In  God's  name  and  the  king's,  say  who  thou  art. 
And  why  thou  com'st  thus  knightly  clad  in  arms  : 
Against  what  man  thou  com'st,  and  what 's  thy  quarrel  : 
Speak  truly,  on  thy  knighthood,  and  thine  oath ; 
As  so  defend  thee  heaven,  and  thy  valour  ! 

Nor.  My  name  is  Thomas  Mowbray,  duke  of  Norfolk  ; 
Who  hither  come  engaged  by  my  oath, 
(Which  heaven  defend  a  knight  should  violate !) 
Both  to  defend  my  loyalty  and  truth 
To  God,  my  king,  and  his  succeeding  issue,' 
Against  the  duke  of  Hereford  that  appeals  me  ; 
And,  by  the  grace  of  God,  and  this  mine  arm. 
To  prove  him,  in  defending  of  myself, 
A  traitor  to  my  God,  my  king,  and  me  : 
And,  as  I  truly  fight,  defend  me  heaven!    \_He  takes  his  seat. 

Trumpet  sounds.    Enter  Bolingbroke,  in  armour,  preceded 
by  a  Herald. 

K.  Rich.  Marshal,  ask  yonder  knight  in  arms. 
Both  who  he  is,  and  why  he  cometh  hither 
Thus  plated  in  habiliments  of  war ; 

"  The  first  folio,  deviating  from  the  first  three  editions,  reads  "/ui  succeeding 
issue ;'" — the  succeeding  issue  of  the  king.  My  succeeding  issue,  the  reading  of  the 
quartos,  must  be  received  in  the  sense  that  Mowbray  owed  to  his  descendants  to 
defend  his  loyalty  and  tnith  to  them,  as  well  as  to  his  God  and  to  his  king.  Their 
fortunes  would  have  been  ruined  by  his  attainder  ;  their  reputations  compromised 
by  his  disgrace.     This,  however,  would  be  to  refine  somewhat  too  much. 


394  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  I. 

And  formally  according  to  our  law 
Depose  him  in  the  justice  of  his  cause. 

Mar.  What  is  thy  name  ?    and  wherefore  com'st   thou 
hither. 
Before  king  Richard,  in  his  royal  lists  ? 
Against  whom  comest  thou  ?  and  what 's  thy  quarrel  ? 
Speak  like  a  true  knight,  so  defend  thee  heaven ! 

Boling.  Harry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
Am  I ;  who  ready  here  do  stand  in  arms. 
To  prove,  by  heaven's  grace,  and  my  body's  valour. 
In  lists,  on  Thomas  Mowbray  duke  of  Norfolk, 
That  he  's  a  traitor,  foul  and  dangerous. 
To  God  of  heaven,  king  Richard,  and  to  me ; 
And,  as  I  truly  fight,  defend  me  heaven ! 

Mar.  On  pain  of  death,  no  person  be  so  bold. 
Or  daring-hardy,  as  to  touch  the  lists. 
Except  the  marshal,  and  such  officers 
Appointed  to  direct  these  fair  designs. 

Boling.  Lord  marshal,  let  me  kiss  my  sovereign's  hand. 
And  bow  my  knee  before  his  majesty  : 
For  Mowbray  and  myself  are  like  two  men 
That  vow  a  long  and  weary  pilgrimage ; 
Then  let  us  take  a  ceremonious  leave. 
And  loving  farewell,  of  our  several  friends. 

Mar.  The  appellant  in  all  duty  greets  your  highness. 
And  craves  to  kiss  your  hand,  and  take  his  leave. 

K.  Rich.  We  will  descend,  and  fold  him  in  our  arms. 
Cousin  of  Hereford,  as  thy  cause  is  right. 
So  be  thy  fortune  in  this  royal  fight ! 
Farewell,  my  blood ;  which  if  to-day  thou  shed. 
Lament  we  may,  but  not  revenge  thee  dead. 

Boling.  O,  let  no  noble  eye  profane  a  tear 
For  me,  if  I  be  gor'd  with  Mowbray's  spear  j 
As  confident  as  is  the  falcon's  flight 

Against  a  bird  do  I  with  Mowbray  fight. 

My  loving  lord,  [to  Lord  Marshal]  I  take  my  leave  of  you ; 
Of  you,  my  noble  cousin,  lord  Aumerle  : — 
Not  sick,  although  I  have  to  do  with  death ; 
But  lusty,  young,  and  cheerly  drawing  breath. 


Scene  III.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  395 

Lo,  as  at  English  feasts,  so  I  regreet 

The  daintiest  last,  to  make  the  end  most  sweet : 

O  thou,  the  earthly  »  author  of  my  blood, —         [To  Gaunt. 

Whose  youthful  spirit,  in  me  regenerate. 

Doth  with  a  two-fold  vigour  lift  me  up 

To  reach  at  victory  above  my  head, — 

Add  proof  unto  mine  armour  with  thy  prayers  ; 

And  with  thy  blessings  steel  my  lance's  point. 

That  it  may  enter  Mowbray's  waxen  coat,** 

And  furnish'^  new  the  name  of  John  of  Gaunt, 

Even  in  the  lusty  'haviour  of  his  son. 

Gaunt.    Heaven    in    thy    good    cause    make   thee    pros- 
perous ! 
Be  swift  like  lightning  in  the  execution ; 
And  let  thy  blows,  doubly  redoubled. 
Fall  like  amazing  thunder  on  the  casque 
Of  thy  adverse  '^  pernicious  enemy  : 
Rouse  up  thy  youthful  blood,  be  valiant  and  live. 

Boling.  Mine  innocency,  and  saint  George  to  thrive. 

[He  takes  his  seat. 

Nor.    [Rising.l    However   heaven,   or  fortune,   cast   my 
lot. 
There  lives,  or  dies,  true  to  king  Richard's  throne, 
A  loyal,  just,  and  upright  gentleman : 
Never  did  captive  with  a  freer  heart 
Cast  off  his  chains  of  bondage,  and  embrace 
His  golden  uncontroU'd  enfranchisement. 
More  than  my  dancing  soul  doth  celebrate 
This  feast  of  battle  with  miue  adversary. 
Most  mighty  liege,  and  my  companion  peers. 
Take  from  my  mouth  the  wish  of  happy  years : 

»  Earthli/.     In  the  folio,  earthy. 

^  IVaxen  coat.  The  original  meaning  of  the  noun  wax  is  that  of  something 
pliable,  yielding.  fVeak  and  wax  have  the  same  root.  Mowbray's  waxen  coat, 
into  which  Bolingbroke's  lance's  point  may  enter,  is  his  frail  and  penetrable  coat,  or 
armour. 

"  FttmUh  is  the  reading  of  the  folio;  /urbith  of  the  quarto  of  1597.  To/urbish 
is  to  polish  ;   to  furnish  to  dress. 

^  Adverse,  in  the  quarto ;  the  folio,  amaz'd. 


3%  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  I. 

As  gentle  and  as  jocund,  as  to  jest,' 

Go  I  to  fight ;  Truth  hath  a  quiet  breast. 

K.  Rich.  Farewell,  mj  lord  :  securely  I  espy 
Virtue  with  valour  couched  in  thine  eye. 
Order  the  trial,  marshal,  and  begin. 

[The  King  and  the  Lords  return  to  their  seats. 

Mar.  Harry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
Receive  thy  lance ;  and  God  defend  thy  right ! 

Boling.  [Rising.']  Strong  as  a  tower  in  hope,  I  cry — amen. 

Mar.  Go  bear  this  lance  [to  an  Officer]  to  Thomas,  duke 
of  Norfolk. 

1  Her.  Harry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
Stands  here  for  God,  his  sovereign,  and  himself. 
On  pain  to  be  found  false  and  recreant. 

To  prove  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mowbray, 
A  traitor  to  his  God,  his  king,  and  him. 
And  dares  him  to  set  forward  to  the  fight. 

2  Her.    Here    standeth    Thomas    Mowbray,     duke     of 

Norfolk, 
On  pain  to  be  found  false  and  recreant. 
Both  to  defend  himself,  and  to  approve 
Henry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
To  God,  his  sovereign,  and  to  him,  disloyal ; 
Courageously,  and  with  a  free  desire. 
Attending  but  the  signal  to  begin. 

Mar.  Sound,  trumpets  ;  and  set  forward,  combatants. 

[A  charge  sounded. 
Stay,  the  king  hath  thrown  his  warder^  down. 

K'.  Rich.  Let  them  lay  by  their  helmets  and  their  spears. 
And  both  return  back  to  their  chairs  again  : 
Withdraw  with  us  :  and  let  the  trumpets  sound, 

*  Tojett.     A  jest  was  sometimes  used  to  signify  a  mask,  or  pageant.    Thus,  in 
the  old  play  of '  Hieronymo :' — 

"He  promis'd  us,  in  honour  of  our  guest, 
To  grace  our  banquet  with  some  pompous  jest." 
To  jest,  therefore,  in  the  sense  in  which  Mowbray  here  uses  it,  is  to  play  a  part  in  a 
mask. 

•»  Warder — the  truncheon,  or  staff  of  command. 


Scene  III.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  397 

While  we  return  these  dukes  what  we  decree. — 

[A  long  flourish. 
Draw  near,  [To  the  Combatants. 

And  list,  what  with  our  council  we  have  done. 
For  that  our  kingdom's  earth  should  not  be  soil'd 
With  that  dear  blood  which  it  hath  fostered  ; 
And  for  our  eyes  do  hate  the  dire  aspect 
Of  civil  wounds  plough'd  up  with  neighbours'  swords  ; 
[And  for  we  think  the  eagle-winged  pride 
Of  sky -aspiring  and  ambitious  thoughts. 
With  rival-hating  envy,  set  on  you  " 
To  wake  our  peace,  which  in  our  country's  cradle 
Draws  the  sweet  infant  breath  of  gentle  sleep  ;]  ^ 
Which  so  rous'd  up  with  boisterous  untun'd  drums. 
With  harsh  resounding  trumpets'  dreadful  bray. 
And  grating  shock  of  wrathful  iron  arms. 
Might  from  our  quiet  confines  fright  fair  peace. 
And  make  us  wade  even  in  our  kindred's  blood  ; — 
Therefore,  we  banish  you  our  territories  : 
You,  cousin  Hereford,  upon  pain  of  death. 
Till  twice  five  summers  have  enrich'd  our  fields. 
Shall  not  regreet  our  fair  dominions. 
But  tread  the  stranger  paths  of  banishment. 

Boling.  Your  will  be  done  :  This  must  my  comfort  be. 
That  sun,  that  warms  you  here,  shall  shine  on  me ; 
And  those  his  golden  beams,  to  you  here  lent. 
Shall  point  on  me,  and  gild  my  banishment. 

K.  Rich.  Norfolk,  for  thee  remains  a  heavier  doom. 
Which  I  with  some  unwillingness  pronounce  : 
The  sly  slow  hours  •=  shall  not  determinate 
The  dateless  limit  of  thy  dear  ^  exile  ; — 

»  On  you.     So  the  old  copies.     Pope  and  subsequent  editors  read  you  on. 

^  These  five  lines,  enclosed  in  brackets,  are  omitted  in  the  folio.  (See  Introduc- 
tcry  Notice.) 

=  Sly  slow  hours.  So  the  old  copies.  Pope  would  read  fly-shw.  Chapman,  in 
his  translation  of  the  '  Odyssey,'  has  "  those  sly  hours."  It  would  hardly  be  fair 
to  think  that  Pope  changed  the  text  that  he  might  have  the  credit  of  originality  in 
the  following  line  : — 

"  All  sly  slow  things,  with  circumspective  eye." 

<■  Dear  exile.  The  manner  in  which  Shakspere  uses  the  word  dear  often  presents 
a  difficulty  to  the  modem  reader.     Twenty-five  Imes  before  this  we  have  the  "  dear 


398  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  I. 

The  hopeless  word  of,  never  to  return. 
Breathe  I  against  thee,  upon  pain  of  life. 

Nor.  A  heavy  sentence,  my  most  sovereign  liege. 
And  all  unlook'd  for  from  your  highness'  mouth  : 
A  dearer  merit,'  not  so  deep  a  maim 
As  to  be  cast  forth  in  the  common  air. 
Have  I  deserved  at  your  highness'  hands. 
The  language  I  have  learn'd  these  forty  years. 
My  native  English,  now  I  must  forego  : 
And  now  my  tongue's  use  is  to  me  no  more 
Than  an  unstringed  viol,  or  a  harp  ; 
Or  like  a  cunning  instrument  cas'd  up. 
Or,  being  open,  put  into  his  hands 
That  knows  no  touch  to  tune  the  harmony. 
Within  my  mouth  you  have  engaol'd  my  tongue. 
Doubly  portcullis'd  with  my  teeth  and  lips  ; 
And  dull,  unfeeling,  barren  ignorance 
Is  made  my  gaoler  to  attend  on  me. 
I  am  too  old  to  fawn  upon  a  nurse. 
Too  far  in  years  to  be  a  pupil  now ; 
What  is  thy  sentence,  then,  but  speechless  death. 
Which  robs  my  tongue  from  breathing  native  breath  ? 

K.  Rich.  It  boots  thee  not  to  be  compassionate  ;  ^ 
After  our  sentence  plaining  comes  too  late. 

blood"  of  the  kingdom — the  valued  blood.  We  have  now  the  "dear  exile"  of 
Norfolk — the  harmful  exile.  The  apparent  contradiction  is  immediately  reconciled 
by  looking  at  the  etymology  of  the  word.  To  dere,  the  old  English  verb,  from  the 
Anglo-Saxon  der-ian,  is  to  hurt, — to  do  mischief;  and  thence  dearth,  meaning, 
which  hurteth,  deretk,  or  maketh  dear.  In  the  expression  dear  exile  we  have  the 
primitive  meaning  of  to  dere.  But  in  the  other  expression,  dear  blood,  we  have  the 
secondary  meaning.  One  of  the  most  painful  consequences  of  mischief  on  a  large 
scale,  such  as  the  mischief  of  a  bad  season,  was  dearth — the  barrenness,  the  scarcity, 
produced  by  the  hurtful  agent.  What  was  spared  was  thence  called  dear — precious 
— costly — greatly  coveted — highly  prized. 

•  A  dearer  merit.     A  more  valued  reward.     Johnson  says  to  deserve  a  merit  is  a 
phrase  of  which  he  knows  not  any  example.     Shakspere  here  distinctly   means  to 
deserve  a  reward  ;  for  merit  is  strictly  the  part  or  share  earned  or  gained.     Prior, 
who  wrote  a  century  after  Shakspere,  uses  the  word  in  the  same  sense  : — 
"  Those  laurel-groves,  the  merit*  of  thy  youth, 
Which  thou  from  Mahomet  didst  greatly  gain." 

''  Compatsionate.     This  is  the  only  instance  in  which  Shakspere  uses  compas- 
■iouate  iu  the  sense  of  complaining. 


ScBNE  III.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  399 

Nor.  Then  thus  I  turn  me  from  my  country's  light. 
To  dwell  in  solemn  shades  of  endless  night.  [Retiring. 

K.  Rich.  Return  again,  and  take  an  oath  with  thee. 
Lay  on  our  royal  sword  your  banish'd  hands  ; 
Swear  by  the  duty  that  you  owe  to  heaven, 
(Our  part  therein  we  banish  "  with  yourselves,) 
To  keep  the  oath  that  we  administer : — 
You  never  shall  (so  help  you  truth  and  heaven  !) 
Embrace  each  other's  love  in  banishment ; 
Nor  ever  look  upon  each  other's  face ; 
Nor  ever  write,  regreet,  or  reconcile 
This  lowering  tempest  of  your  home-bred  hate  ; 
Nor  ever  by  advised  purpose  meet 
To  plot,  contrive,  or  complot  any  ill 
'Gainst  us,  our  state,  our  subjects,  or  our  land. 

Baling.  I  swear. 

Nor.  And  I,  to  keep  all  this. 

Baling.  Norfolk, — so  far  as  to  mine  enemy  ; " — 
By  this  time,  had  the  king  permitted  us. 
One  of  our  souls  had  wander'd  in  the  air, 
Banish'd  this  frail  sepulchre  of  our  flesh. 
As  now  our  flesh  is  banish'd  from  this  land  : 
Confess  thy  treasons  ere  thou  fly  this  realm  ; 
Since  thou  hast  far  to  go,  bear  not  along 
The  clogging  burthen  of  a  guilty  soul. 

Nor.  No,  Bolingbroke ;  if  ever  I  were  traitor 
My  name  be  blotted  from  the  book  of  life. 
And  I  from  heaven  banish'd  as  from  hence  ! 
But  what  thou  art,  heaven,  thou,  and  I  do  know  j 
And  all  too  soon,  I  fear,  the  king  shall  rue. 
Farewell,  my  liege : — Now  no  way  can  I  stray  ; 
Save  back  to  England,  all  the  world  's  my  way.  [Exit. 

K.  Rich.  Uncle,  even  in  the  glasses  of  thine  eyes 
I  see  thy  grieved  heart ;  thy  sad  aspect 
Hath  from  the  number  of  his  banish'd  years 


•  Johnson's  interpretation  cf  this  passage  seems  to  be  just :  ''  Norfolk,  so  far  I 
have  addressed  myself  to  thee  as  to  mine  enemy;  I  now  utter  my  last  words  with 
kindness  and  tenderness ;  confess  thy  treasons.'' 


400  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  I. 

Pluck'd  four  away  : — Six  frozen  winters  spent. 
Return    [to   Boling.]    with   welcome   home   from   banish- 
ment. 

Baling.  How  long  a  time  lies  in  one  little  word ! 
Four  lagging  winters,  and  four  wanton  springs 
End  in  a  word :  Such  is  the  breath  of  kings. 

Gaunt.  I  thank  my  liege,  that,  in  regard  of  me. 
He  shortens  four  years  of  my  son's  exile ; 
But  little  vantage  shall  I  reap  thereby ; 
For  ere  the  six  years  that  he  hath  to  spend 
Can  change  their  moons,  and  bring  their  times  about. 
My  oil-dried  lamp,  and  time-bewasted  light. 
Shall  be  extinct  with  age  and  endless  night ; 
My  inch  of  taper  will  be  burnt  and  done. 
And  blindfold  death  not  let  me  see  my  son. 

K.  Rich.  Why,  uncle,  thou  hast  many  years  to  live. 

Gaunt.  But  not  a  minute,  king,  that  thou  canst  give : 
Shorten  my  days  thou  canst  with  sullen  sorrow. 
And  pluck  nights  from  me,  but  not  lend  a  morrow  : 
Thou  canst  help  time  to  furrow  me  with  age. 
But  stop  no  wrinkle  in  his  pilgrimage ; 
Thy  word  is  current  with  him  for  my  death  : 
But,  dead,  thy  kingdom  cannot  buy  my  breath. 

K.  Rich.  Thy  son  is  banish'd  upon  good  advice. 
Whereto  thy  tongue  a  party-verdict  gave ; 
Why  at  our  justice  seem'st  thou  then  to  lower  ? 

Gaunt.  Things  sweet  to  taste  prove  in  digestion  sour. 
You  urg'd  me  as  a  judge  ;  but  I  had  rather 
You  would  have  bid  me  argue  like  a  father : 
[O,  had  it  been  a  stranger,  not  my  child. 
To  smooth  his  fault  I  should  have  been  more  mild : 
A  partial  slander  sought  I  to  avoid. 
And  in  the  sentence  my  own  life  destroy'd.]  * 
Alas,  I  look'd  when  some  of  you  should  say, 
I  was  too  strict,  to  make  mine  own  away ; 
But  you  gave  leave  to  mine  unwilling  tongue. 
Against  my  will,  to  do  myself  this  wrong. 

*  These  four  lines,  enclosed  in  brackets,  are  omitted  in  the  folio. 


Scene  III.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  401 

K.  Rich.  Cousin,  farewell : — and,  uncle,  bid  bim  so  ; 
Six  years  we  banisli  him,  and  he  shall  go. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  K.  Richard  and  Train. 

Aum.  Cousin,  farewell :  what  presence  must  not  know. 
From  where  you  do  remain,  let  paper  show. 

Mar.  My  lord,  no  leave  take  I ;  for  I  will  ride 
As  far  as  land  will  let  me  by  your  side. 

Gaunt.  O,  to  what  purpose  dost  thou  hoard  thy  words. 
That  thou  retum'st  no  greeting  to  thy  friends  ? 

Baling.  I  have  too  few  to  take  my  leave  of  yo\i. 
When  the  tongue's  office  should  be  prodigal 
To  breathe  the  abundant  dolour  of  the  heart. 

Gaunt.  Thy  grief  is  but  thy  absence  for  a  time.  • 

Baling.  Joy  absent,  grief  is  present  for  that  time. 

Gaunt.  What  is  six  winters  ?  they  are  quickly  gone. 

Baling.  To  men  in  joy  ;  but  grief  makes  one  hour  ten. 

Gaunt.  Call  it  a  travel  that  thou  tak'st  for  pleasure. 

Baling.  My  heart  will  sigh  when  I  miscall  it  so. 
Which  finds  it  an  enforced  pilgrimage. 

Gaunt.  The  sullen  passage  of  thy  weary  steps 
Esteem  a  foil,"  wherein  thou  art  to  set 
The  precious  jewel  of  thy  home-return. 

[Baling.  Nay,  rather,  every  tedious  stride  I  make 
Will  but  remember  me,  what  a  deal  of  world 
I  wander  from  the  jewels  that  I  love. 
Must  I  not  serve  a  long  apprenticehood 
To  foreign  passages ;  and  in  the  end. 
Having  my  freedom,  boast  of  nothing  else 
But  that  I  was  a  journeyman  to  grief? 

Gaunt.  All  places  that  the  eye  of  heaven  visits 
Are  to  a  wise  man  ports  and  happy  havens : 
Teach  thy  necessity  to  reason  thus ; 
There  is  no  virtue  like  necessity. 
Think  not,  the  king  did  banish  thee ; 
But  thou  the  king :  Woe  doth  the  heavier  sit. 
Where  it  perceives  it  is  but  faintly  borne. 
Go,  say  I  sent  thee  forth  to  purchase  honour. 
And  not,  the  king  exil'd  thee :  or  suppose, 

*  Foil  oi/otfl,  the  thin  plate  or  leaf  of  metal  used  in  setting  jewellery. 

Vol.  IV.  2  D 


k 


1 


402  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  I. 

Devouring  pestilence  hangs  in  our  air, 

And  thou  art  flying  to  a  fresher  clime. 

Look,  what  thy  soul  holds  dear,  imagine  it 

To  lie  that  way  thou  go'st,  not  whence  thou  com'st. 

Suppose  the  singing  birds,  musicians ; 

The  grass  whereon  thou  tread'st,  the  presence  strew'd ; 

The  flowers,  fair  ladies ;  and  thy  steps,  no  more 

Than  a  delightful  measure  or  a  dance  : 

For  gnarling  sorrow  hath  less  power  to  bite 

The  man  that  mocks  at  it,  and  sets  it  light.'] 
Baling.  O,  who  can  hold  a  fire  in  his  hand. 

By  thinking  on  the  frosty  Caucasus  ?  i* 

Or  cloy  the  hungry  edge  of  appetite. 

By  bare  imagination  of  a  feast  ? 

Or  wallow  naked  in  December  snow. 

By  thinking  on  fantastic  summer's  heat? 

O,  no  !  the  apprehension  of  the  good 

Gives  but  the  greater  feeling  to  the  worse : 

Fell  sorrow's  tooth  doth  never  rankle  more. 

Than  when  it  bites  but  lanceth  not  the  sore. 

Gaunt.  Come,  come,  my  son,  I  '11  bring  thee  on  thy  way  : 

Had  I  thy  youth  and  cause,  I  would  not  stay. 

Boling.    Then,  England's   ground,   farewell;    sweet  soil, 
adieu ; 

/  My  mother,  and  my  nurse,  that  bears  me  yet ! 
I    Where'er  I  wander,  boast  of  this  I  can,  N 

Y  Though  banish'd,  yet  a  true-born  Englishman.       \\ Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— ^  Room  in  the  King'j  Palace. 

Enter  King  Richard,  Bagot,  and  Green  ;  Aumerle 
following. 

K.  Rich.  We  did  observe. — Cousin  Aumerle, 
How  far  brought  you  high  Hereford  on  his  way  ? 

Aum.  I  brought  high  Hereford,  if  you  call  him  so. 
But  to  the  next  highway,  and  there  I  left  him. 

•  The  twenty-six  lines  between  brackets  are  omitted  in  the  folio.  They  are  in 
the  first  quarto  of  1597,  and  are  continued  in  the  subsequent  quartos. — (See  Intro- 
ductory Notice.) 


Scene  IV.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  403 

K.  Rich.  And,  say,  what  store  of  parting  tears  were  shed  ? 

Aum.  'Faith,  none  for  me,'  except  the  north-east  wind. 
Which  then  blew  bitterly  against  our  face, 
Awak'd  the  sleepy  rheum ;  and  so,  by  chance. 
Did  grace  our  hollow  parting  with  a  tear. 

K.  Rich,    What  said  our  cousin  when  you  parted  with 
him  ? 

Aum.  Farewell : 
And,  for  my  heart  disdained  that  my  tongue 
Should  so  profane  the  word,  that  taught  me  craft 
To  counterfeit  oppression  of  such  grief. 
That  word  seem'd  buried  in  my  sorrow's  grave. 
Marry,  would  the  word  farewell  have  lengthen'd  hours. 
And  added  years  to  his  short  banishment. 
He  should  have  had  a  volume  of  farewells ; 
But,  since  it  would  not,  he  had  none  of  me. 

K.  Rich.  He  is  our  cousin,  cousin;  but  'tis  doubt. 
When  time  shall  call  him  home  from  banishment. 
Whether  our  kinsman  come  to  see  his  friends. 
Ourself  and  Bushy,  Bagot  here,  and  Green, 
Observ'd  his  courtship  to  the  common  people  : —  ■* 

How  he  did  seem  to  dive  into  their  hearts. 
With  humbl6  and  familiar  courtesy ; 
What  reverence  he  did  throw  away  on  slaves; 
Wooing  poor  craftsmen  with  the  craft  of  smiles. 
And  patient  underbearing  of  his  fortune. 
As  't  were  to  banish  their  affects  with  him. 
Off  goes  his  bonnet  to  an  oyster- wench  ; 
A  brace  of  draymen  bid — God  speed  him  well. 
And  had  the  tribute  of  his  supple  knee. 
With — Thanks,  my  countrymen,  my  loving  friends ; 
As  were  our  England  in  reversion  his. 
And  he  our  subjects'  next  degree  in  hope. 

Green.  Well,  he  is  gone  ;  and  with  him  go  these  thoughts. 
Now  for  the  rebels,  which  stand  out  in  Ireland ; 
Expedient''  manage  must  be  made,  my  liege, 

*  None  for  me — none  on  my  part. 

^  Expedient — prompt— suitable — disengaged  from  entanglements. — (See  note  on 
'  King  John,'  Act  II.,  Scene  1.) 

2D2 


404  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  I. 

Ere  further  leisure  yield  them  further  means. 
For  their  advantage,  and  your  highness'  loss. 

K.  Rich.  We  will  ourself  in  person  to  this  war. 
And,  for  our  coffers,  with  too  great  a  court. 
And  liberal  largess,  are  grown  somewhat  light. 
We  are  enforc'd  to  farm  our  royal  realm  ; 
The  revenue  whereof  shall  furnish  us 
For  our  affairs  in  hand :  If  that  come  short. 
Our  substitute  at  home  shall  have  blank  charters ; 
Whereto,  when  they  shall  know  what  men  are  rich. 
They  shall  subscribe  them  for  large  sums  of  gold. 
And  send  them  after  to  supply  our  wants ; 
For  we  will  make  for  Ireland  presently. 

Enter  Bushy. 

Bushy,  what  news? 

Bushy.  Old  John  of  Gaunt  is  grievous  sick,  my  lord  ; 
Suddenly  taken  ;  and  hath  sent  post  haste. 
To  entreat  your  majesty  to  visit  him. 

K.  Rich.  Where  lies  he? 

Bushy.  At  Ely-house. 

K.  Rich.  Now  put  it,  heaven,  in  his  physician's  mind, 
,  To  help  him  to  his  grave  immediately  ! 
jThe  lining  of  his  coffers  shall  make  coats 
iTo  deck  our  soldiers  for  these  Irish  wars. 
Come,  gentlemen,  let 's  all  go  visit  him : 
I*ray  God,  we  may  make  haste,  and  come  too  late  ! 
'  ■         ^  \^Exeunt. 


fi^^^ 


KING  RICHARD  11.  406 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   ACT    L 


*  Scene  I. — "  Hast  ihou,  according  to  thy  oath  and  hand — " 

The  appeal  of  Hereford  against  Mowbray  was  to  be  decided  by  a  "  trial  by  com- 
bat." This  practice  was  very  ancient,  and  traces  of  it  are  found  in  the  fifth  century. 
The  "oath  and  band"  of  John  of  Gaunt  were  the  pledges  that  he  gave  fur  his  son's 
appearance.     Thus,  in  the  'Fairy  Queen'  of  Spenser  : — 

"  These  three  that  liardy  challenge  took  in  hand. 
For  Canace  with  Cambel  for  to  fight ; 
The  day  was  set,  that  all  might  understand, 
And  pledges  pawn'd,  the  same  to  keep  aright." 

*  Scene  I. — "  Eight  thousand  nobles." 
The  following  is  a  representation  of  the  gold  noble  of  Richard  II. : — 


'  Scene  I. — "  Then,  Bolingbroke:' 

Henry  of  Lancaster  was  not  called  Bolingbroke,  or  Bullingbrook,  till  he  had 
ascended  the  throne.  This  name  of  Henry  IV.  was  derived  from  his  birth  place, 
Bolingbroke  Castle,  in  Lincolnshire.  The  last  remains  of  this  ancient  edifice 
crumbled  over  their  base  in  May,  1815.     (*  Gentleman's  Magazine,'  vol.  Ixxxv.) 

*  Scene  I. — "  Our  doctors  say,  this  is  no  month  to  bleed."' 

Malone  says,  "This  alludes  to  the  almanacs  of  the  time,  when  particular  seasons 
were  pointed  out  as  the  most  proper  times  for  being  bled."  In  an  English  almanac 
for  1386 — the  earliest  known  (and  which  has  been  printed,  1812) — we  have  full 
directions  for  bloodletting.     (See  'Companion  to  the  Almanac,'  1839,  p.  55.) 

*  Scene  II. — "  Duke  of  Lancaster'' s  Palace." 

The  Savoy  Palace,  of  which  some  remains  existed  within  a  few  years,  was  situated 
near  the  Thames,  almost  close  to  the  Strand  end  of  Waterloo  Bridge.  This  was 
anciently  the  seat  of  Peter  Earl  of  Savoy,  uncle  to  Eleanor,  queen  of  Henry  III. 
Upon  his  death  it  devolved  to  the  queen,  who  gave  it  to  her  second  son,  Edmund, 
afterwards  Earl  of  Lancaster.  From  tliat  time  the  Savoy  was  taken  as  part  and 
parcel  of  the  earldom  and  honour  of  Lancaster,  and  was  used  as  the  London  palace 
of  the  earls  and  dukes  of  that  house.     John  of  Gaunt  married  Blanch,  the  daughter 


406 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  L 


of  Henry,  the  first  Duke  of  Lancaster.  Blanch  was  a  co-heiress  with  her  sister 
Matilda  to  the  vast  estates  of  this  duchy ;  and  by  the  death  of  Matilda,  without 
issue,  he  became  subsequently  possessessed  of  all  the  property,  in  right  of  his  wife, 
and  was  himself  created  Duke  of  Lancaster. 

•  Scene  IL — "  Duchest  of  Gloaler" 

The  following  is  a  {wrtrait  of  Eleanor  Bohun,  widow  of  Thomas  of  Woodstock, 
Duke  of  Gloster.     (See  Introductory  Notice.) 


'  Scene  II. — "  Edward's  seven  sons."' 

The  seven  sons  of  the  great  Edward  III.  were,  1.  Edward  of  Woodstock,  the 
Black  Prince ;  2.  William  of  Hatfield ;  3.  Lionel  Duke  of  Clarence ;  4.  John  of 
Gaunt ;  5.  Edmund  of  I.rfingley,  Duke  of  York  ;  6.  William  of  Windsor ;  7.  Tho- 
mas of  Woodstock,  Duke  of  Gloster. 

^  Scene  II. — "  Be  Mowbray's  sins  so  heavy  in  his  bosoms 

Did  not  this  fine  description  suggest  the  equally  fine  scene  in  '  Ivanhoe,'  where 
the  guilty  Templar  falls  without  a  blow  ? 

•  Scene  II. — "  Unfumiih'd  wallt." 

"  The  usual  manner,"  says  Percy,  in  his  preface  to  the  *  Northumberland  House- 
hold Book,'  "  of  hanging  the  rooms  in  the  old  castles,  was  only  to  cover  the  naked 
stone  walls  with  tapestry,  or  arras,  hung  upon  tenter-hooks,  from  which  they  were 
easily  taken  down  upon  every  removal." 

'0  Scene  II. — "  Unpeopled  offices." 

The  offices  were  those  parts  of  a  great  house,  or  castle,  in  which  the  vast  train  of 
servants  lived  and  carried  on  their  duties.  Tiiey  were  not  out-buildings,  nor  sub- 
terraneous, but  on  the  ground-floor  within  the  house.  The  "  unpeopled  offices," 
therefore,  of  the  Duchess  of  Gloster "s  desolate  mansion  would  present  no  sound  of 
life,  nor  "  cheer  for  welcome." 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


407 


"  Scene  III. — "  Lord  marthal." 

Mowbray  was  himself  earl  marshal  of  England ;  but  the  Duke  of  Surrey  officiated 
aa  marshal  on  this  occasion. 

'«  Scene  III. — "  AumtrU."' 

The  eldest  son  of  the  Duke  of  York  was  created  Duke  of  Aumerle,  or  Albemarle, 
— a  town  in  Normandy.     He  officiated  as  high  constable  at  the  lists  of  Coventry. 

'■  Scene  III. — "  Our  part  therein  we  banith." 

The  King  here  alludes  to  a  disputed  question  amongst  writers  on  public  law  : — 
Is  a  banished  man  tied  in  his  allegiance  to  the  state  which  exiled  him?  Richard 
requires  them  to  swear  by  their  duty  to  heaven ;  for  "  our  part "  in  your  duty 
"we  banish  with  yourselves."  Hobbes  and  Puffendorf  hold  this  opinion; — Cicero 
thought  differently. 

'*  Scene  III. — "  The  frosty  Caucasu*." 

"  In  the  language  of  the  Calmuc  Tartars,  C'hasu  signifies  snow,"  according  to 
Mr.  Wilford,  in  the  sixth  volume  of  '  Asiatic  Researches.'  There  are  two  papers 
in  the  '  Censura  Literaria'  of  Sir  E.  Brydges  which  refute  this  notion  of  the  origin 
of  (he  name  of  Caucasus. — Vol.  iv.  p.  412  ;  vol.  v.  p.  87. 


HISTORICAL    ILLUSTRATION. 


Shakspere's  "  History  "  of '  Richard  II.'  presents,  in  one  particular,  a  most  remark- 
able contrast  to  that  of  King  John.'  In  the  '  King  John,'  for  the  purpose  of  securing 
a  dramatic  unity  of  action,  the  chronological  succession  of  events,  as  they  occurred 
in  the  real  history  of  the  times,  is  constantly  disregarded.  In  the  '  Richard  II.' 
that  chronological  succession  is  as  strictly  adhere<l  to.  The  judgment  of  the  poet 
is  remarkably  exhibited  in  these  opposite  modes  of  working.  He  had  to  mould  a 
drama  out  of  the  disjointed  materials  of  the  real  history  of  John,  in  which  events, 
remote  in  the  order  of  time,  and  apparently  separated  as  to  cause  and  consequence, 
should  all  conduce  to  the  development  of  one  great  action — the  persecution  of 
Arthur  by  his  uncle,  and  the  retribution  to  which  the  fate  of  Arthur  led.  In  the 
life  of  Richard  II.  there  were  two  great  dramatic  events,  far  separated  in  the  order 
of  time,  and  having  no  connexion  in  their  origin  or  consequences.  The  rebellion  of 
Wat  Tyler,  in  1381,  might,  in  itself,  have  formed  the  subject  of  a  drama  not  un- 
worthy of  the  hand  of  Shakspere.  It  might  have  stood  as  the  "  First  Part"'  of  the 
Life  of  Richard  II.  Indeed,  it  is  probable,  as  we  have  shown  in  the  Introductory 
Notice,  that  a  play  in  which  this  event  formed  a  remarkable  feature  did  exist.  But 
the  greater  event  of  Richard's  life  was  the  banishment  and  the  revolt  of  Bolingbroke, 
which  led  to  his  own  deposition  and  his  death.  This  is  the  one  event  which  Shak- 
spere has  made  the  subject  of  the  great  drama  before  us.  With  a  few  very  minute 
deviations  from  history — deviations  which  are  as  nothing  compared  with  the  errors 
of  the  contemporary  historian,  Froissart — the  scenes  which  this  play  presents,  and 
the  characters  which  it  develops,  are  historically  true  to  the  letter.  But  what  a 
wonderful  vitality  does  the  truth  acquire  in  our  poet's  hands !  The  hard  and  formal 
abstractions  of  the  old  chroniclers — the  tigures  that  move  about  in  robes  and  armour, 
without  presenting  to  us  any  distinct  notions  of  their  common  human  qualities — 
here  show  themselves  to  us  as  men  like  ourselves,  partaking  of  like  passions  and 


408  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 

like  weaknesses;  and,  whilst  tbey  exhibit  to  us  the  natural  triumph  of  intellectual 
vigour  and  decision  over  frailty  and  irresolution,  ihey  claim  our  pity  for  tlie  unfor- 
tunate, and  our  resj)ect  for  the  "faithful  amongst  the  faithless."  But  in  the 
'  Chronicles '  Shakspere  found  the  rude  outline  ready  to  his  hand,  which  he  was  to 
fill  up  with  his  surpassing  colouring.  There  was  nothing  in  the  course  of  the  real 
events  to  alter  for  the  purposes  of  dramatic  propriety.  The  history  was  full  of  the 
most  stirring  and  picturesque  circumstances ;  and  the  incidents  came  so  thick  and 
fast  upon  one  another,  that  it  was  unnecessary  for  the  poet  to  leap  over  any  long 
intervals  of  time.  Bolingbroke  first  appealed  Norfolk  of  treason  in  January,  1398. 
Richard  was  deposed  in  September,  1399. 

The  finl  scene  of  this  act  exhibits  the  course  of  the  quarrel  between  Bolingbroke 
and  Mowbray,  as  it  proceeded,  after  Harry  Hereford's  "  boisterous  late  appeal." 
We  must  observe  that  the  Bolingbroke  of  Shakspere  is  called  Duke  of  Herefopl  (or 
Earl  of  Derby,  his  former  title)  by  all  the  old  historians  ;  it  being  pretty  clear  that 
he  was  not  distinguished  by  the  name  of  Bolingbroke  till  ailer  he  had  assumed  the 
crown.  Drayton  states  this  without  any  qualification.  We  must,  however,  follow 
the  poet  in  calling  him  Bolingbroke.  It  is  somewhat  difficult  to  understand  the 
original  cause  of  the  quarrel  between  Bolingbroke  and  Norfolk.  Tbey  were  each 
elevated  in  rank  at  the  Christmas  of  1398,  probably  with  the  view,  on  the  part  of 
Richard,  to  propitiate  men  of  such  power  and  energy.  They  were  the  only  two 
who  remained  of  the  great  lords  who,  twelve  years  before,  had  driven  Richard's 
favourites  from  his  court  and  kingdom,  and  had  triumpliantly  asserted  their  resist- 
ance to  his  measures  at  the  battle  of  Radcot  Bridge.  The  Duke  of  Gloster,  the 
imcle  of  the  king,  with  whose  party  Bolingbroke  and  Norfolk  had  always  been  con- 
federated, was  murdered  at  Calais  in  1398.  Bolingbroke,  in  the  same  year,  had 
received  a  full  pardon  in  parliament  for  his  proceedings  in  1386.  "  In  this  parlia- 
ment, holden  at  Shrewsbury,"'  says  Holinshed,  "  Henry  Duke  of  Hereford  accused 
Thomas  Mowbray  of  certain  words,  which  he  should '  utter  in  talk  had  betwixt 
them  as  they  rode  together  lately  before,  betwixt  London  and  Brainford,  sounding 
highly  to  the  king's  dishonour."  Froissart  (we  quote  from  Lord  Bemers"  transla- 
tion) gives  a  different  version  of  the  affair,  and  says — "  On  a  day  the  Earl  of  Derby 
and  the  Earl  Marshal  communed  together  of  divers  matters ;  at  last,  among  other, 
they  spake  of  the  state  of  the  king  and  of  his  council,  such  as  he  had  about  him,  and 
believed  them;  so  that,  at  the  last,  tlie  Earl  of  Derby  spake  certain  words  which  he 
thought  for  the  best,  wenynge  that  they  should  never  have  been  called  to  rehearsal, 
which  words  were  neither  villainous  nor  outrageous."  Froissart  then  goes  on  to 
make  the  Earl  Marshal  repeat  these  words  to  the  king,  and  Derby  to  challenge  him 
as  a  false  traitor,  after  the  breach  of  confidence.  Shakspere  has  followed  Holinshed. 
The  accusation  of  Bolingbroke  against  Norfolk  was  first  made,  according  to  this 
chronicler,  at  Shrewsbury;  and  "there  was  a  day  appointed,  about  six  weeks  after, 
for  the  king  to  come  unto  Windsor,  to  hear  and  to  take  some  order  betwixt  the  two 
dukes  which  had  thus  appealed  each  other.''  The  scene  then  proceeds  in  the  essential 
matters  very  much  as  is  exhibited  by  Shakspere,  except  that  the  appellant  and 
defendant  each  speak  by  the  mouth  of  a  knight  that  had  "licence  to  speak."  Nor- 
folk is  accused  of  being  a  false  and  disloyal  traitor — of  appropriating  eight  thousand 
nobles,  which  he  had  received  to  pay  the  king's  soldiers  at  Calais — of  being  the 
occasion  of  all  the  treason  contrived  in  the  realm  for  eighteen  years — and,  by  his 
false  suggestions  and  malicious  counsels,  having  caused  the  Duke  of  Gloster  to  be 
murdered.  Norfolk,  in  the  answer  by  his  knight,  declares  that  Henry  of  Lancaster 
hath  "  falsely  and  wickedly  lied  as  a  false  and  disloyal  knight ;"  and  he  then,  in 
bis  own  jxirson,  adds  the  explanation  which  Shakspere  gives  about  the  use  of  the 
money  for  Calais.     The  chronicler,  however,  makes  him  say  not  a  word  about 


KING  RICHARD  II.  409 

Gloster's  death ;  but  he  confesses  that  he  once  "  laid  an  ambush  to  have  slain  the 
Duke  of  Lancaster  that  there  sitteth,''  The  king  once  again  requires  them  to  be 
asked  if  they  would  agree  and  make  peace  together;  "but  they  both  flatly  answered 
that  they  would  not;  and  withal  the  Duke  of  Hereford  cast  down  his  gage,  and  the 
Duke  of  Norfolk  took  it  up.  The  king,  perceiving  this  demeanour  betwixt  them, 
sware  by  St.  John  Baptist  that  he  would  never  seek  to  make  peace  betwixt  them 
again."  The  combat  was  then  ap{x>inted  to  be  done  at  Coventry,  "  some  say  upon 
a  Monday  in  August ;  other,  upon  St.  Lambert's  day,  being  the  I7tli  September; 
other,  on  the  11th  September." 

The  narrative  of  Holinshed  upon  which  Shakspere  has  founded  the  third  scene  of 
this  act  is  most  picturesque.  We  see  all  the  gorgeous  array  of  chivalry,  as  it  existed 
in  an  age  of  pageants,  called  forth  with  unusual  magnificence  upon  an  occasion  of 
the  gravest  import.  The  old  stage  of  Shakspere's  time  could  exhibit  none  of  this 
magnificence.  The  great  company  of  men  apparelled  in  silk  sendall — the  splendid 
coursers  of  the  combatants,  with  their  velvet  housings — the  king  on  his  throne,  sur- 
rounded by  his  peers  and  his  ten  thousand  men  in  armour — all  these  were  to  be 
wholly  imagined  upon  the  ancient  stage.  Our  poet,  in  his  Chorus  to  •  Henry  V.,' 
thus  addresses  his  audience : — 

"  Piece  out  our  imperfections  with  your  thoughts; 
Into  a  thousand  parts  divide  one  man, 
And  malce  imaginary  puissance  : 
Think,  when  we  talk  of  horses,  that  you  see  them 
Printing  their  proud  hoofs  i'  the  receiving  eartli." 

To  assist  our  readers  in  seeing  the  "  imaginary  puissance"  of  the  lists  of  Coventry, 
we  subjoin  Holinshed's  description : — 

"  The  Duke  of  Aumerle,  that  day  being  high  constable  of  England,  and  the 
Duke  of  Surrey ,  marshal,  placed  themselves  between  them,  well  armed  and  appointed ; 
and  when  they  saw  their  time,  they  first  entered  into  the  lists  with  a  great  company 
of  men  apparelled  in  silk  sendall,  embroidered  with  silver,  both  richly  and  curiously, 
every  man  having  a  tipped  staff  to  keep  the  field  in  order.  About  the  hour  of  prime 
came  to  the  barriers  of  the  lists  th«  Duke  of  Hereford,  mounted  on  a  white  courser 
barded  with  green  and  blue  velvet,  embroidered  sumptuously  with  swans  and  ante- 
lopes of  goldsmiths  work,  armed  at  all  points.  The  constable  and  marshal  came 
to  the  barriers,  demanding  of  him  what  he  was :  he  answered — '  I  am  Henry  of 
Lancaster  Duke  of  Hereford,  which  am  come  hither  to  do  mine  endeavour  against 
Thomas  Mowbray  Duke  of  Norfolk,  as  a  traitor  untrue  to  God,  the  king,  his  realm, 
and  me.'  Then,  incontinently,  he  sware  upon  the  holy  evangelists  that  his  quarrel 
was  true  and  just,  and  upon  that  point  he  required  to  enter  the  lists.  Then  he  put 
by  his  sword,  which  before  he  held  naked  in  his  hand,  and,  putting  down  his  visor, 
made  a  cross  on  his  horse,  and  with  spear  in  hand  entered  into  the  lists,  and  descended 
from  his  horse,  and  set  him  down  in  a  chair  of  green  velvet,  at  the  one  end  of  the 
lists,  and  there  reposed  himself,  abiding  the  coming  of  his  adversary. 

"  Soon  after  him,  entered  into  the  field  with  great  triumph  King  Richard,  accom- 
panied with  all  the  peers  of  the  realm,  and  in  his  company  was  the  Earl  of  St.  Paul, 
which  was  come  out  of  France  in  post  to  see  this  challenge  performed.  The  king 
had  there  above  ten  thousand  men  in  armour,  lest  some  fray  or  tumult  might  rise 
amongst  his  nobles  by  quarrelling  or  partaking.  When  the  king  was  set  in  his  seat, 
which  was  richly  hanged  and  adorned,  a  king-at-arms  made  open  proclamation, 
prohibiting  all  men,  in  the  name  of  the  king,  and  of  the  high  constable  and  marshal, 
to  enterprise  or  attempt  to  approach  or  touch  any  part  of  the  lists  upon  pain  of 
death,  except  such  as  were  appointed  to  order  or  marshal  the  field.  The  proclama- 
tion ended,  another  herald  cried,  '  Behold  here  Henry  of  I^mcaster  Duke  of  Here- 


410  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 

ford  appellant,  which  is  entered  into  the  lists  royal  to  do  his  devoir  against  Thomas 
Mowbray  Duke  of  Norfolk  defendant,  upon  pain  to  be  found  false  and  recreant.' 

"  The  Duke  of  Norfolk  hovered  on  horseback  at  the  entrance  of  the  lists,  his 
horse  being  barded  with  crimson  velvet,  embroidered  richly  with  lions  of  silver  and 
mulberry-trees ;  and  when  he  had  made  his  oath  before  the  constable  and  marshal 
that  his  quarrel  was  just  and  true,  he  entered  the  field  manfully,  saying  aloud, 
*  God  aid  him  that  liath  the  right,'  and  then  he  departed  from  his  liorse,  and  sate 
him  down  in  his  chair,  which  was  of  crimson  velvet,  curtained  about  with  white 
and  red  damask.  The  lord  marshal  viewed  their  spears  to  see  that  they  were  of 
equal  length,  and  delivered  the  one  spear  himself  to  the  Duke  of  Hereford,  and  sent 
the  other  unto  the  Duke  of  Norfolk  by  a  knight.  Then  the  herald  proclaimed  that 
the  traverses  and  chairs  of  tlie  champions  should  be  removed,  commanding  them  on 
the  king's  behalf  to  mount  on  horseback,  and  address  themselves  to  the  l)attle  and 
combat. 

"  The  Duke  of  Herefonl  was  quickly  horsed,  and  closed  his  beaver,  and  cast  his 
spear  into  the  rest,  and,  when  tlie  trumpet  sounded,  set  forward  courageously 
towards  liis  enemy  six  or  seven  paces.  The  Duke  of  Norfolk  was  not  fully  set 
forward,  when  the  king  cast  down  his  warder,  and  the  heralds  cried,  'Ho,  ho!' 
Then  the  king  caused  their  spears  to  be  taken  from  them,  and  commanded  them  to 
repair  agahi  to  their  chairs,  where  they  remained  two  long  hours,  while  the  king 
and  his  council  deliberately  consulted  what  order  was  best  to  be  had  in  so  weighty 
a  cause." 

The  sentence  of  Richard  upon  Bolingbvoke  and  Norfolk  was,  in  efl'ect,  the  same 
as  Shakspere  has  described  it ;  but  the  remission  of  a  portion  of  the  term  of  Bo- 
lingbroke's  banishment  did  not  take  place  at  the  lists  of  Coventry.  Fro issart  says 
that,  when  Bolingbroke's  day  of  departure  approached,  he  came  to  Eltliam,  to  the 
king,  who  thus  addressed  him  : — "  As  God  help  me,  it  right  greatly  displeaseth 
me  tlie  words  that  hath  been  between  you  and  the  earl  marshal ;  but  the  sentence 
that  I  have  given  is  for  the  best,  and  for  to  appease  thereby  the  people,  who  greatly 
murmured  on  this  matter ;  wiierefore,  cousin,  yet  to  ease  you  somewhat  of  your 
pain,  I  release  my  judgment  from  ten  year  to  six  year.  Cousin,  take  this  aworth, 
and  ordain  you  thereafter."  The  earl  answered  and  said,  "  Sir,  I  thank  your 
grace ;   and  when  it  shall  please  you,  ye  shall  do  me  more  grace," 


Scene  I.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  41 1 

ACT   II. 

SCENE  I. — London.     A  Room  in  Ely  House, 

Gaunt  on  a  couch;  the  Duke  of  York,  and  others  standing 

by  him. 

Gaunt.  Will  the  king  come  ?  that  I  may  breathe  my  last 
In  wholesome  counsel  to  his  unstaid  youth. 

York.  Vex  not  yourself,  nor  strive  not  with  your  breath; 
For  all  in  vain  comes  counsel  to  his  ear. 

Gaunt.  O,  but  they  say,  the  tongues  of  dying  men 
Enforce  attention,  like  deep  harmony ; 
Where  words  are  scarce,  they  are  seldom  spent  in  vain ; 
For  they  breathe  truth,  that  breathe  their  words  in  pain. 
He,  that  no  more  must  say,  is  listen'd  more 

Than  they  whom  youth  and  ease  have  taught  to  glose  ; 
More  are  men's  ends  mark'd,  than  their  lives  before ; 

The  setting  sun,  and  music  at  the  close, 
(As  the  last  taste  of  sweets  is  sweetest,)  last. 
Writ  in  remembrance,  more  than  things  long  past ;' 
Though  Richard  my  life's  counsel  would  not  hear. 
My  death's  sad  tale  may  yet  undeaf  his  ear. 

York.  No  ;  it  is  stopp'd  with  other  flattering  sounds, 
As  praises  of  his  state :  then,  there  are  found 
Lascivious  metres  ;  to  whose  venom  sound 
The  open  ear  of  youth  doth  always  listen  : 
Report  of  fashions  in  proud  Italy  ; 

*  The  ordinary  reading  of  this  passage  is  as  follows  : — 
"  The  setting  sun,  and  music  at  the  close, 
As  the  last  taste  of  sweets,  is  sweetest  last ; 
Writ  in  remembrance  more  than  things  long  past."' 
We  have  adopted  the  change  in  the  punctuation  which  was  suggested  by  Monck 
Mason  ;  by  which  slight  alteration  the  word  last,  at  the  end  of  the  second  line,  is 
read  as  a  verb,  of  which  the  sun  and  mime  form  the  nominative  case.     This  inge- 
nious suggestion  has  not  been  adopted  in  the  text,  or  alluded  to  in  the  notes,  of  the 
variorum  editions. 


412  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  1 1. 

Whose  manners  still  our  tardy  apish  nation 

Limps  after  in  base  imitation. 

Where  doth  the  world  thrust  forth  a  vanity, 

(So  it  be  new,  there 's  no  respect  how  vile,) 

That  is  not  quickly  buzz'd  into  his  ears  ? 

Then  all  too  late  comes  counsel  to  be  heard. 

Where  will  doth  mutiny  with  wit's  regard. 

Direct  not  him,  whose  way  himself  will  choose ; 

'T  is  breath  thou  lack'st,  and  that  breath  wilt  thou  lose. 

Gaunt.  Methinks  I  am  a  prophet  new  inspir'd; 
And  thus,  expiring,  do  foretell  of  him : 
His  rash  -fierce  blaze  of  riot  cannot  last ; 
For  violent  fires  soon  burn  out  themselves ; 
Small  showers  last  long,  but  sudden  storms  are  short ; 
He  tires  betimes,  that  spurs  too  fast  betimes  ; 
With  eager  feeding  food  doth  choke  the  feeder : 
Light  vanity,  insatiate  cormorant. 
Consuming  means,  soon  preys  upon  itself. 
This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd  isle. 
This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 
This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise ; 
This  fortress,  built  by  nature  for  herself. 
Against  infestion  *  and  the  hand  of  war  ; 

*  In/estion.  All  the  ancient,  copies  read  infection.  In  '  England's  Parnassus' 
(1600),  wliere  the  passage  is  quoted,  we  read  in  test  ion.  Farmer  suggested  the  sub- 
stitution of  infestion,  which  Maloiie  has  adopted,  and  which  we  think  right  to  fol- 
low. Infection,  in  Shakspere's  time,  was  used,  as  it  is  now,  to  express  the  taint  of 
some  pernicious  quality  ;  and  was  more  particularly  applied  to  that  frightful  dis- 
ease, the  plague,  to  whose  ravages  London  was  annually  subject.  For  Shakspere, 
therefore,  to  call  England 

"  'Th.\a  fortress,  built  by  nature  for  herself, 
Against  infection," 
would  sound  very  unreasonable  to  an  audience  who  were  constantly  witnesses  of 
the  ravages  of  infection. 

"  The  silver  sea, 
Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall," 
was  then  unavailing  to  keep  out  "  the  pestilence  which  walketh  in  darkness."  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  England  had  been  long  free  from  foreign  invasion.  Infestion  is 
taken,  by  Malone,  to  he.  an  abbreviation  of  infestation,  in  the  same  way  that,  in 
Bishop  Hall,  acception  is  used  for  acceptation.  Infestation  appears  to  have  desig- 
nated those  violent  inciirsions  of  an  enemy — those  annoying,  joy-depriving  (i«- 
festus)  ravages — to  which  an  unprotected  frontier  is  peculiarly  exposed ;  and  from 
which  the  sea,  "as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house,"  shutout  "  this  scepter'd  isle." 


Scene!.]  i  KING  RICHARD  II.  413 

This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world ; 

This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea. 

Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall. 

Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house. 

Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands ; 

This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England, 

This  nurse,  this  teeming  womb  of  royal  kings, 

Fcar'd  by  their  breed,  and  famous  for  their  birth. 

Renowned  for  their  deeds  as  far  from  home, 

(For  Christian  service,  and  true  chivalry,) 

As  is  the  sepulchre  in  stubborn  Jewry 

Of  the  world's  ransom,  blessed  Mary's  son  : 

This  land  of  such  dear  souls,  this  dear  dear  land. 

Dear  for  her  reputation  through  the  world. 

Is  now  leas'd  out,  (I  die  pronouncing  it,) 

Like  to  a  tenement,  or  pelting"  farm  : 

England,  bound  in  with  the  triumphant  sea. 

Whose  rocky  shore  beats  back  the  envious  siege 

Of  watery  Neptune,  is  now  bound  in  with  shame. 

With  inky  blots,  and  rotten  parchment  bonds ; 

That  England,  that  was  wont  to  conquer  others. 

Hath  made  a  shameful  conquest  of  itself: 

Still,  infection,  being  a  word  of  which  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  meaning,  is  to  be 
preferred,  if  we  can  be  content  to  receive  the  idea  in  a  limited  sense — that  the  sea 
in  some  sort  kept  out  pestilence,  though  not  absolutely. 

*  Pelting.  Whatever  doubts  there  may  be  as  to  the  origin  of  this  word,  its  ap- 
plication is  perfectly  clear.  It  invariably  means  something  petty — of  little  worth. 
The  "  peltittg/arm"  in  this  passage,  and  "  the  poor  pelting  villages"  of  Lear,  would 
leave  no  doubt  as  to  its  use,  even  if  we  had  not  "a  pelting  little  town,"  and  "a 
pelting  village  of  barbarous  people,"  in  North's  'Plutarch.'  The  epithet  was  not 
conBned  to  inanimate  things.  In  '  Measure  for  Measure'  we  have  the  famous  pas  • 
sage,— 

"  Could  g^eat  men  thunder 

As  Jove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet. 

For  every  pelting,  petty  officer 

Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder." 
Gabriel  Harvey,  it  seems,  wrote  the  word  faulting ;  and  as  palt  is  the  Teutonic 
word  for  a  scrap — a  rag — some  say  that  paulting,  pelting,  and  paltry,  are  the  same. 
Pell,  as  is  well  known,  is  a  skin.  The  fur  trade  is  still  called  the  peltry  trade. 
But  skins — peltries — in  former  times  might  have  been  considered  comparatively 
worthless.  A  dead  fowl  thrown  to  a  hawk  was,  according  to  Grose,  a  pelt.  Thus 
pelting  may  have  been  derived  directly  from  pelt,  although  it  may  have  had  some 
original  affinity  with  paltry. 


414  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  II. 

Ah,  would  the  scandal  vanish  with  my  life. 
How  happy  then  were  my  ensuing  death ! 

Enter    King    Richard    and   Queen  ;    Aumerle,    Bushy, 
Green,  Bagot,  Ross,  and  Willoughby. 

York.  The  king  is  come  :  deal  mildly  with  his  youth ; 
For  young  hot  colts,  being  rag'd,  do  rage  the  more. 

Queen.  How  fares  our  noble  uncle,  Lancaster  ? 

K.  Rich.  What   comfort,    man?      How   is  't    with   aged 
Gaunt  ? 

Gaunt.  O,  how  that  name  befits  my  composition  ! 
Old  Gaunt,  indeed ;  and  gaunt  in  being  old : 
Within  me  grief  hath  kept  a  tedious  fast ; 
And  who  abstains  from  meat,  that  is  not  gaunt  ? 
For  sleeping  England  long  time  have  I  watch'd  ; 
Watching  breeds  leanness,  leanness  is  all  gaunt : 
The  pleasure  that  some  fathers  feed  upon 
Is  my  strict  fast, — I  mean  my  children's  looks ; 
And,  therein  fasting,  hast  thou  made  me  gaunt : 
Gaunt  am  I  for  the  grave,  gaunt  as  a  grave. 
Whose  hollow  womb  inherits  nought  but  bones. 

K.  Rich.  Can  sick  men  play  so  nicely  with  their  names  ? 

Gaunt.  No,  misery  makes  sport  to  mock  itself: 
Since  thou  dost  seek  to  kill  my  name  in  me, 
I  mock  my  name,  great  king,  to  flatter  thee. 

K.  Rich.  Should  dying  men  flatter  with  those  that  live? 

Gaunt.  No,  no ;  men  living  flatter  those  that  die. 

K.  Rich.  Thou,  now  a  dying,  say'st  thou  flatterest  me. 

Gaunt.  Oh !  no ;  thou  diest,  though  I  the  sicker  be. 

K.  Rich.  I  am  in  health,  I  breathe,  and  see  thee  ill. 

Gaunt.  Now,  He  that  made  me  knows  I  see  thee  ill ; 
111  in  myself  to  see,  and  in  thee  seeing  ill. 
Thy  death-bed  is  no  lesser  than  the  land 
Wherein  thou  Host  in  reputation  sick  : 
And  thou,  too  careless  patient  as  thou  art, 
Committ'st  thy  anointed  body  to  the  cure 
Of  those  physicians  that  first  wounded  thee. 
A  thousand  flatterers  sit  within  thy  crown. 
Whose  compass  is  no  bigger  than  thy  head ; 


Scene  I.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  415 

And  yet,  incaged  in  so  small  a  verge. 

The  waste  is  no  whit  lesser  than  thy  land. 

O,  had  thy  grandsire,  with  a  prophet's  eye. 

Seen  how  his  son's  son  should  destroy  his  sons. 

From  forth  thy  reach  he  would  have  laid  thy  shame. 

Deposing  thee  before  thou  wert  possess'd. 

Which  art  possess'd"  now  to  depose  thyself. 

Why,  cousin,  wert  thou  regent  of  the  world. 

It  were  a  shame  to  let  this  land  by  lease  : 

But,  for  thy  world,  enjoying  but  this  land. 

Is  it  not  more  than  shame  to  shame  it  so  ? 

Landlord  of  England  art  thou,  and  not  king  : 

Thy  state  of  law  is  bondslave  to  the  law ; 

And 

K.  Mich.      And  thou**  a  lunatic  lean-witted  fool. 
Presuming  on  an  ague's  privilege, 
Dar'st  with  thy  frozen  admonition 
Make  pale  our  cheek ;  chasing  the  royal  blood. 
With  fury,  from  his  native  residence. 
Now  by  my  seat's  right  royal  majesty, 
Wert  thou  not  brother  to  great  Edward's  son. 
This  tongue,  that  runs  so  roundly  in  thy  head. 
Should  run  thy  head  from  thy  unreverend  shoulders. 

Gaunt.  O,  spare  me  not,  my  brother  Edward's  son. 
For  that  I  was  his  father  Edward's  son ; 
That  blood  already,  like  the  pelican. 
Hast  thou  tapp'd  out,  and  drunkenly  carous'd  : 
My  brother  Gloster,  plain  well-meaning  soul, 
(Whom  fair  befal  in  heaven  'mongst  happy  souls !) 
May  be  a  precedent  and  witness  good. 
That  thou  respect'st  not  spilling  Edward's  blood : 
Join  with  the  present  sickness  that  I  have ; 
And  thy  unkindncss  be  like  crooked  age,'' 

"  Possessed.  The  second  possess'd  in  this  sentence  is  used  in  the  same  way  in 
which  Maria  speaks  of  Malvolio,  in  '  Twelfth  Night :' — "  He  is,  sure,  possessed,  ma- 
dam." 

*'  So  the  folio.     The  first  quarto  resids  thus :  — 

"  Gaunt.  And  thou 

K.  Rick. a  lunatic  lean-witted  fool." 

<=  Crooked  age.     It  has  been  suggested  that  age  here  means    Time;   and  that 


416  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  II. 

To  crop  at  once  a  too-long  wither'd  flower. 

Live  in  thy  shame,  but  die  not  shame  with  thee ! — 

These  words  hereafter  thy  tormentors  be ! — 

Convey  me  to  my  bed,  then  to  my  grave : 

Love  they  to  live,  that  love  and  honour  have. 

[Exit,  borne  out  by  his  Attendants. 

K.  Rich.  And  let  them  die,  that  age  and  suUens  have ; 
For  both  hast  thou,  and  both  become  the  grave. 

York.  I  do  beseech  your  majesty,  impute  his  words  * 
To  wayward  sickliness  and  age  in  him : 
He  loves  you,  on  my  life,  and  holds  you  dear 
As  Harry  duke  of  Hereford,  were  he  here. 

K.  Rich.  Right ;    you  say  true :    as  Hereford's  love,   so 
his : 
As  theirs,  so  mine ;  and  all  be  as  it  is. 

Enter  Northumberland. 

North.  My  liege,  old  Gaunt  commends  him  to  your  ma- 
jesty. 

K.  Rich.  What  says  he?'' 

North.  Nay,  nothing ;  all  is  said : 

His  tongue  is  now  a  stringless  instrument ; 
Words,  life,  and  all,  old  Lancaster  hath  spent. 

York.  Be  York  the  next  that  must  be  bankrupt  so ! 
Though  death  be  poor,  it  ends  a  mortal  woe. 

K.  Rich.  The  ripest  fruit  first  falls,  and  so  doth  he ; 
His  time  is  spent,  our  pilgrimage  must  be : 
So  much  for  that.     Now  for  our  Irish  wars : 
We  must  supplant  those  rough  rug-headed  kerns. 
Which  live  like  venom,  where  no  venom  else. 
But  only  they,  hath  privilege  to  live. 
And,  for  these  great  affairs  do  ask  some  charge. 
Towards  our  assistance,  we  do  seize  to  us 
The  plate,  coin,  revenues,  and  moveables. 
Whereof  our 'uncle  Gaunt  did  stand  possess'd. 

crooked  age  is  not  bending  age,  but  Time  armed  with  a  crook,  by  which  name  a 
sickle  was  anciently  called.  The  natural  meaning  of  the  passage  seems  to  be,  like 
bent  old  age,  which  crops  the  flower  of  life. 

*  Steevens  struck  out  /  do  from  this  line. 

^  Steevens  stuck  in  now,  to  make  ten  syllables  of  this  line. 


Scene  I.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  417 

York.  How^ong  shall  I  be  patient?     Ah,  how  long 
Shall  tender  duty  make  me  suffer  wrong? 
Not  Gloster's  death,  nor  Hereford's  banishment. 
Nor  Gaunt's  rebukes,  nor  England's  private  wrongs. 
Nor  the  prevention  of  poor  Bolingbroke 
About  his  marriage,  nor  my  own  disgrace. 
Have  ever  made  me  sour  my  patient  cheek. 
Or  bend  one  wrinkle  on  my  sovereign's  face. 
I  am  the  last  of  noble  Edward's  sons. 
Of  whom  thy  father,  prince  of  Wales,  was  first ; 
In  war,  was  never  lion  rag'd  more  fierce. 
In  peace,  was  never  gentle  lamb  more  mild. 
Than  was  that  young  and  princely  gentleman  : 
His  face  thou  hast,  for  even  so  look'd  he, 
Accomplish'd  with  the  number  of  thy  hours  ; 
But  when  he  frown'd  it  was  against  the  French, 
And  not  against  his  friends  ;  his  noble  hand 
Did  win  what  he  did  spend,  and  spent  not  that 
Which  his  triumphant  father's  hand  had  won  : 
His  hands  were  guilty  of  no  kindred's  blood. 
But  bloody  with  the  enemies  of  his  kin. 
O,  Richard  !  York  is  too  far  gone  with  grief. 
Or  else  he  never  would  compare  between. 

K.  Rich.  Why,  uncle,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

York.  O,  my  liege. 

Pardon  me,  if  you  please ;  if  not,  I,  pleas'd 
Not  to  be  pardon'd,  am  content  withal. 
Seek  you  to  seize,  and  gripe  into  your  hands. 
The  royalties  and  rights  of  banish'd  Hereford  ? 
Is  not  Gaunt  dead  ?  and  doth  not  Hereford  live  ? 
Was  not  Gaunt  just  ?  and  is  not  Harry  true  ? 
Did  not  the  one  deserve  to  have  an  heir? 
Is  not  his  heir  a  well-deserving  son  ? 
Take  Hereford's  rights  away,  and  take  from  time 
His  charters,  and  his  customary  rights  ; 
Let  not  to-morrow  then  ensue  to-day ; 
Be  not  thyself,  for  how  art  thou  a  king. 
But  by  fair  sequence  and  succession  ? 
Now,  afore  God  (God  forbid,  I  say  true !) 

Vol.  IV.  2  E 


418  KINO  RICHARD  II.  [Act  II. 

If  you  do  wrongfully  seize  Hereford's  right. 

Call  in  his  letters-patents  that  he  hath 

By  his  attorneys-general  to  sue 

His  livery,'  and  deny  his  ofFer'd  homage. 

You  pluck  a  thousand  dangers  on  your  head. 

You  lose  a  thousand  well-disposed  hearts. 

And  prick  my  tender  patience  to  those  thoughts 

Which  honour  and  allegiance  cannot  think. 

K.  Rich.  Think  what  you  will ;  we  seize  into  our  hands 
His  plate,  his  goods,  his  money,  and  his  lands. 

York.  I  '11  not  be  by  the  while :  My  liege,  farewell  : 
What  will  ensue  hereof  there 's  none  can  tell ; 
But  by  bad  courses  may  be  understood. 
That  their  events  can  never  fall  out  good.  [Exit. 

K.  Rich.  Go,  Bushy,  to  the  earl  of  Wiltshire  straight ; 
Bid  him  repair  to  us  to  Ely-house 
To  see  this  business  :  To-morrow  next 
We  will  for  Ireland  ;  and  't  is  time,  I  trow ; 
And  we  create,  in  absence  of  ourself. 
Our  uncle  York  lord  governor  of  England, 
For  he  is  just,  and  always  lov'd  us  well. 
Come  on,  our  queen :  to-morrow  must  we  part ; 
Be  merry,  for  our  time  of  stay  is  short.  [^Flourish. 

CvRiA  '♦*  [Exeunt  King,  Queen,  Bushy,  Aum.,  Green, 

\  ;  ^tt«-»*  ^''  '"  «W^  BagOT. 

North.  Well,  lords,  the  duke  of  Lancaster  is  dead. 

Ross.  And  living  too  ;  for  now  his  son  is  duke. 

Willo.  Barely  in  title,  not  in  revenue. 

North.  Richly  in  both,  if  justice  had  her  right. 

Ross.  My  heart  is  great ;  but  it  must  break  with  silence. 
Ere 't  be  disburthen'd  with  a  liberal  tongue. 

North.  Nay,  speak  thy  mind ;  and  let  him  ne'er  speak 
more 
That  speaks  thy  words  again  to  do  thee  harm  ! 

Willo.  Tends  that  thou  'dst  speak  to  the  duke  of  Here- 
ford? 
If  it  be  so,  out  with  it  boldly,  man; 
Quick  is  mine  ear  to  hear  of  good  towards  him. 

Ross.  No  good  at  all  that  I  can  do  for  him ; 


Scene  I.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  419 

Unless  you  call  it  good  to  pity  him. 
Bereft  and  gelded  of  his  patrimony. 

North.  Now,  afore  heaven,  't  is  shame  such  wrongs  are 
borne. 
In  him  a  royal  prince,  and  many  more 
Of  noble  blood  in  this  declining  land. 
The  king  is  not  himself,  but  basely  led 
By  flatterers  ;  and  what  they  will  inform. 
Merely  in  hate,  'gainst  any  of  us  all. 
That  will  the  king  severely  prosecute 
'Gainst  us,  our  lives,  our  children,  and  our  heirs. 

Ross.  The  commons  hath  he  pill'd  with  grievous  taxes. 
And  quite  lost  their  hearts :  *  the  nobles  hath  he  fin'd 
For  ancient  quarrels,  and  quite  lost  their  hearts. 

Willo.  And  daily  new  exactions  are  devis'd — 
As  blanks,  benevolences,  and  I  wot  not  what ; 
But  what,  o'  God's  name,  doth  become  of  this  ? 

North.  Wars  have  not  wasted  it,  for  warr'd  he  hath  not. 
But  basely  yielded  upon  compromise 
That  which  his  ancestors  achiev'd  with  blows  : 
More  hath  he  spent  in  peace  than  they  in  wars. 

Ross.  The  earl  of  Wiltshire  hath  the  realm  in  farm. 

Willo.  The  king 's  grown  bankrupt,  like  a  broken  man. 

North.  Reproach  and  dissolution  hangeth  over  him. 

Ross.  He  hath  not  money  for  these  Irish  wars. 
His  burthenous  taxations  notwithstanding. 
But  by  the  robbing  of  the  banish'd  duke. 

North.  His  noble  kinsman  :  most  degenerate  king ! 
But,  lords,  we  hear  this  fearful  tempest  sing. 
Yet  seek  no  shelter  to  avoid  the  storm  : 
We  see  the  wind  sit  sore  upon  our  sails. 
And  yet  we  strike  not,''  but  securely  perish. 

Ross.  We  see  the  very  wrack  that  we  must  suflfer; 
And  unavoided  is  the  danger  now. 
For  suffering  so  the  causes  of  our  wrack. 

North.  Not  so  ;  even  through  the  hollow  eyes  of  death 


"  Steevens  struck  out  quite  from  this  line. 
^  Strike  not.     To  strike  sail  is  to  lower  sail. 


2E3 


420  KING  RICHARD  IL  [Act  II. 

I  spy  life  peering ;  but  I  dare  not  say 
How  near  the  tidings  of  our  comfort  is. 

Willo.  Nay,  let  us  share  thy  thoughts,  as  thou  dost  ours. 

Ross.  Be  confident  to  speak,  Northumberland  : 
We  three  are  but  thyself;  and,  speaking  so. 
Thy  words  are  but  as  thoughts  ;  therefore,  be  bold. 

North.  Then  thus  : — I  have  from  Port  le  Blanc,  a  bay 
In  Brittany,  rcceiv'd  intelligence 

That  Harry  duke  of  Hereford,  Reignold  lord  Cobham,' 
That  late  broke  from  the  duke  of  Exeter,* 
His  brother,  archbishop  late  of  Canterbury, 
Sir  Thomas  Erpingham,  sir  John  Ramston, 
Sir   John    Norbery,   sir    Robert    Waterton,    and    Francis 

Quoint, — 
All  these,  well  furnish'd  by  the  duke  of  Bretagne, 
With  eight  tall  ships,  three  thousand  men  of  war. 
Are  making  hither  with  all  due  expedience. 
And  shortly  mean  to  touch  our  northern  shore  : 
Perhaps  they  had  ere  this,  but  that  they  stay 
The  first  departing  of  the  king  for  Ireland. 
If  then  we  shall  shake  oiF  our  slavish  yoke. 
Imp  out*"  our  drooping  country's  broken  wing. 
Redeem  from  broking  pawn  the  blemish'd  crown, 
Wipe  off"  the  dust  that  hides  our  sceptre's  gilt. 
And  make  high  majesty  look  like  itself. 
Away  with  me  in  post  to  Ravenspurg : 
But  if  you  faint,  as  fearing  to  do  so. 
Stay  and  be  secret,  and  myself  will  go. 

Ross.  To  horse,  to  horse !  urge  doubts  to  them  that  fear. 

Willo.  Hold  out  my  horse,  and  I  will  first  be  there. 

[Exeunt. 

»  We  print  this  liue  according  to  the  old  copies.  Modem  editors  have  omitted 
duke  of. 

•"  Imp  out.  To  imp  a  hawk  was  artificially  to  supply  such  wing  feathers  as  were 
dropped  or  forced  out  by  accident.     To  imp  is  to  engraft — to  insert. 


ScrEMKllJ  KING  RICHARD  II.  421 

^    SCENE  \\.~The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Queen,  Bushy,  and  Bagot. 

Bushy.  Madam,  your  majesty  is  too  much  sad  : 
You  promis'd,  when  you  parted  with  the  king, 
To  lay  aside  life-harming  *  heaviness. 
And  entertain  a  cheerful  disposition. 

Queen.  To  please  the  king,  I  did ;  to  please  myself, 
I  cannot  do  it ;  yet  I  know  no  cause 
Why  I  should  welcome  such  a  guest  as  grief. 
Save  bidding  farewell  to  so  sweet  a  guest 
As  my  sweet  Richard :  Yet,  again,  methinks. 
Some  unborn  sorrow,  ripe  in  fortune's  womb. 
Is  coming  towards  me ;  and  my  inward  soul 
With  nothing  trembles :  at  something  it  grieves 
More  than  with  parting  from  my  lord  the  king. 

Bushy.  Each  substance  of  a  grief  hath  twenty  shadows. 
Which  show  like  grief  itself,  but  are  not  so : 
For  sorrow's  eye,  glazed  with  blinding  tears. 
Divides  one  thing  entire  to  many  objects. 
Like  perspectives,*  which,  rightly  gaz'd  upon. 
Show  nothing  but  confusion, — ey'd  awry. 
Distinguish  form  :  so  your  sweet  majesty. 
Looking  awry  upon  your  lord's  departure. 
Finds  shapes  of  griefs  more  than  himself  to  wail ; 
Which,  look'd  on  as  it  is,  is  nought  but  shadows 
Of  what  it  is  not.     Then,  thrice-gracious  queen. 
More  than  your  lord's  departure  weep   not ;    more  's  not 

seen  : 
Or  if  it  be,  't  is  with  false  sorrow's  eye. 
Which,  for  things  true,  weeps  things  imaginary. 
Queen.  It  may  be  so ;  but  yet  my  inward  soul 
Persuades  me  it  is  otherwise  :  Howe'er  it  be, 
I  cannot  but  be  sad ;  so  heavy  sad. 
As — though,  in  thinking,  on  no  thought  I  think — 
Makes  me  with  heavy  nothing  faint  and  shrink. 

Bushy.  'T  is  nothing  but  conceit,  my  gracious  lady. 

»  Life-harming.     So  the  quarto  of  1597.     The  folio,  Klf-hanamg. 


422  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  11. 

Queen.  'T  is  nothing  less :  conceit  is  still  deriv'd 
From  some  forefather  grief;  mine  is  not  so  ; 
For  nothing  hath  begot  my  something  grief ; 
Or  something  hath  the  nothing  that  I  grieve  ; 
'T  is  in  reversion  that  I  do  possess ; 
But  what  it  is,  that  is  not  yet  known ;  what 
I  cannot  name  ;  't  is  nameless  woe,  I  wot. 

Enter  Green. 

Green.  Heaven  save  your  majesty ! — and  well  met,  gen- 
tlemen, 
I  hope  the  king  is  not  yet  shipp'd  for  Ireland. 

Queen.  Why  hop'st  thou  so  ?  't  is  better  hope  he  is ; 
For  his  designs  crave  haste,  his  haste  good  hope ; 
Then  wherefore  dost  thou  hope  he  is  not  shipp'd  ? 

Green.  That  he,  our  hope,  might  have  retir'd  his  power. 
And  driven  into  despair  an  enemy's  hope. 
Who  strongly  hath  set  footing  in  this  land  : 
The  banish'd  Bolingbroke  repeals  himself. 
And  with  uplifted  arms  is  safe  arriv'd 
At  Ravenspurg. 

Queen.  Now  God  in  heaven  forbid  ! 

Green.  O,  madam,  't  is  too  true ;  and  that  is  worse, — 
The  lord  Northumberland,  his  young  son  Henry  Percy, 
The  lords  of  Ross,  Beaumond,  and  Willoughby, 
With  all  their  powerful  friends,  are  fled  to  him. 

Bushy.  Why  have  you  not  proclaim'd  Northumberland 
And  the  rest  of  the  revolting  faction  traitors  ?■ 

Green.  We  have :  whereupon  the  earl  of  Worcester 
Hath  broke  his  staff,  resign'd  his  stewardship. 
And  all  the  household  servants  fled  with  him 
To  Bolingbroke. 

Queen.  So,  Green,  thou  art  the  midwife  of  my  woe. 
And  Bolingbroke  my  sorrow's  dismal  heir  : 
Now  hath  my  soul  brought  forth  her  prodigy  ; 
And  I,  a  gasping  new-deliver'd  mother. 
Have  woe  to  woe,  sorrow  to  sorrow,  join'd. 

Bushy.  Despair  not,  madam. 

•  The  folio,  revolting  ;  the  first  quarto,  revolted. 


Scene  II.]  KING  RICHARD  11.  423 

Queen.  Who  shall  hinder  me  ? 

I  will  despair,  and  be  at  enmity 
With  cozening  hope  ;  he  is  a  flatterer, 
A  parasite,  a  keeper-back  of  death. 
Who  gently  would  dissolve  the  bands  of  life. 
Which  false  hope  lingers  in  extremity. 

Enter  York. 

Green.  Here  comes  the  duke  of  York. 

Queen.  With  signs  of  war  about  his  aged  neck  ; 
O,  full  of  careful  business  are  his  looks ! 
Uncle, 
For  heaven's  sake,  speak  comfortable  words. 

York.  [Should  I  do  so,  I  should  belie  my  thoughts  :J  " 
Comfort 's  in  heaven ;  and  we  are  on  the  earth. 
Where  nothing  lives,  but  crosses,  care,  and  grief. 
Your  husband  he  is  gone  to  save  far  off. 
Whilst  others  come  to  make  him  lose  at  home : 
Here  am  I  left  to  underprop  his  land ; 
Who,  weak  with  age,  cannot  support  myself: 
Now  comes  the  sick  hour  that  his  surfeit  made  ; 
Now  shall  he  try  his  friends  that  flatter'd  him. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord,  your  son  was  gone  before  I  came. 

York.  He  was  ? — Why,  so  ! — go  all  which  way  it  will  \ 
The  nobles  they  are  fled,  the  commons  they  are  cold,^ 
And  will,  I  fear,  revolt  on  Hereford's  side. — 
Sirrah,  get  thee  to  Plashy,  to  my  sister  Gloster ; — 
Bid  her  send  me  presently  a  thousand  pound : 
Hold,  take  my  ring. 

Serv.  My  lord,  I  had  forgot  to  tell  your  lordship  : 
To-day,  I  came  by,  and  called  there  ; — 
But  I  shall  grieve  you  to  report  the  rest, 

York.  What  is  it,  knave  ? 

Serv.  An  hour  before  I  came,  the  duchess  died. 

■  This  line  is  wanting  in  the  folio. 

'•  Steevens  rejected  the  second  they  are  from  this  line. 


424  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  II. 

York.  Heaven  for  his  mercy  !  what  a  tide  of  woes 
Comes  rushing  on  this  woeful  land  at  once  ! 
I  know  not  what  to  do  : — I  would  to  heaven, 
(So  my  untruth  had  not  provok'd  him  to  it,) 
The  king  had  cut  off  my  head  with  my  brother's. 
What,  are  there  posts  despatch'd  for  Ireland? —  * 
How  shall  we  do  for  money  for  these  wars  ? — 
Come,  sister, — cousin,  I  would  say :  pray,  pardon  me. — 
Go,  fellow,  \to  the  Servant]  get  thee  home,  provide  some 

carts. 
And  bring  away  the  armour  that  is  there. —   \_Exit  Servant. 
Gentlemen,  will  you  go  muster  men  ?  if  I  know 
How,  or  which  way,  to  order  these  affairs. 
Thus  disorderly  thrust  into  my  hands. 
Never  believe  me.     Both  are  my  kinsmen  ; — 
The  one  is  my  sovereign,  whom  both  my  oath 
And  duty  bids  defend  ;  the  other  again 
Is  my  kinsman,  whom  the  king  hath  wrong'd. 
Whom  conscience  and  my  kindred  bids  to  right. 
Well,  somewhat  we  must  do. — Come,  cousin,  I  '11- 
Dispose  of  you  : — Gentlemen,  go  muster  up  your  men,*" 
And  meet  me  presently  at  Berkley  castle. 

I  should  to  Plashy  too  ; 

But  time  will  not  permit : — All  is  uneven. 
And  everything  is  left  at  six  and  seven. 

[Exeunt  York  and  Queen. 
Bushy.  The  wind  sits  fair  for  news  to  go  to  Ireland, 
But  none  returns.     For  us  to  levy  power, 

'  The  first  quarto  has  no  posts. 

'•  Steevens  omits  gentlemen.  It  may  be  well  to  say,  once  for  all,  that  we  notice 
the  principal  of  these  changes,  which  are  very  numerous  in  this  play,  and  were  made 
without  any  authority  from  old  copies,  to  account  for  the  difl'erences  between  our 
text  and  that  of  all  the  modern  editions,  except  Malone's  of  1821.  The  principle 
upon  which  Steevens  invariably  worked  was  to  cut  out  or  thrust  in  a  word,  or 
words,  wherever  he  found  a  verse  longer  or  shorter  than  ten  syllables  counted  upon 
his  fingers.  To  restore  the  popular  text  to  what  Shakspere  wrote  would,  perhaps, 
be  impossible  ;  for  every  edition,  in  a  portable  form,  that  has  been  printed  within 
the  last  thirty  years,  makes  a  merit  of  adopting  "the  text  of  Steevens  and  Malone," 
which  is,  in  point  of  fact,  the  text  with  all  the  corruptions  of  Steevens.  Malone, 
when  left  to  himself,  and  not  working  in  conjunction  with  Steevens,  knew  better 
what  was  the  duty  of  an  editor.  We  have  restored  several  minor  readings  without 
notice. 


Scene  III.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  425 

Proportionable  to  the  enemy. 
Is  all  impossible. 

Green.  Besides,  our  nearness  to  the  king  in  love. 
Is  near  the  hate  of  those  love  not  the  king. 

Bagot.  And  that 's  the  wavering  commons  :  for  their  love 
Lies  in  their  purses  ;  and  whoso  empties  them. 
By  so  much  fills  their  hearts  with  deadly  hate. 

Bushy.  Wherein  the  king  stands  generally  condemn'd. 

Bagot.  If  judgment  lie  in  them,  then  so  do  we. 
Because  we  have  been  ever  near  the  king. 

Green.  Well,  I  '11  for  refuge  straight  to  Bristol  castle  ; 
The  earl  of  Wiltshire  is  already  there. 

Bushy.  Thither  will  I  with  you  :  for  little  office 
Will  the  hateful  commons  perform  for  us ; 
Except,  like  curs,  to  tear  us  all  in  pieces. — 
Will  you  go  along  with  us  ? 

Bagot.  No  ;  I  will  to  Ireland  to  his  majesty. 
Farewell :  if  heart's  presages  be  not  vain. 
We  three  here  part,  that  ne'er  shall  meet  again. 

Bushy.  That 's  as  York  thrives  to  beat  back  Bolingbroke. 

Green.  Alas,  poor  duke !  the  task  he  undertakes 
Is  numb'ring  sands,  and  drinking  oceans  dry ; 
Where  one  on  his  side  fights,  thousands  will  fly. 

Bushy.  Farewell  at  once  ;  for  once,  for  all,  and  ever. 

Green.  Well,  we  may  meet  again. 

Bagot.  I  fear  me,  never.     \^Exeunt. 

-^     SCENE  III.— 'The  Wilds  in  Glostershire. 

Enter  Bolingbrokk  and  Northumberland,  with  Forces. 

Boling.  How  far  is  it,  my  lord,  to  Berkley  now  ? 

North.  Believe  me,  noble  lord, 
I  am  a  stranger  here  in  Glostershire. 
These  high  wild  hills,  and  rough  uneven  ways. 
Draw  out  our  miles,  and  make  them  wearisome  ; 
And  yet  our  fair  discourse  hath  been  as  sugar. 
Making  the  hard  way  sweet  and  delectable. 
But,  I  bethink  me,  what  a  weary  way 


426  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  II. 

From  Ravenspurg  to  Cotswold  will  be  found 
In  Ross  and  Willoughbj,  wanting  your  company ; 
Wticli,  I  protest,  hath  very  much  beguil'd 
The  tediousness  and  process  of  my  travel : 
But  theirs  is  sweeten'd  with  the  hope  to  have 
The  present  benefit  which  I  possess  : 
And  hope  to  joy,'  is  little  less  in  joy. 
Than  hope  enjoy'd  :  by  this  the  weary  lords 
Shall  make  their  way  seem  short ;  as  mine  hath  done 
By  sight  of  what  I  have,  your  noble  company. 
Boling.  Of  much  less  value  is  my  company 
Than  your  good  words.     But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Harry  Percy. 

North.  It  is  my  son,  young  Harry  Percy, 
Sent  from  my  brother  Worcester,  whencesoever. — 
Harry,  how  fares  your  uncle  ? 

Percy.  I  had  thought,  my  lord,  to  have  leam'd  his  health 
of  you. 

North.  Why,  is  he  not  with  the  queen  ? 

Percy.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  he  hath  forsook  the  court. 
Broken  his  staff  of  office,  and  dispers'd 
The  household  of  the  king. 

North.  What  was  his  reason  ? 

He  was  not  so  resolv'd  when  we  last  spake  together. 

Percy.  Because  your  lordship  was  proclaimed  traitor. 
But  he,  my  lord,  is  gone  to  Ravenspurg, 
To  offer  service  to  the  duke  of  Hereford ; 
And  sent  me  over  by  Berkley,  to  discover 
What  power  the  duke  of  York  had  levied  there ; 
Then  with  direction  to  repair  to  Ravenspurg. 

North.  Have  you  forgot  the  duke  of  Hereford,  boy  ? 

Percy.  No,  my  good  lord ;  for  that  is  not  forgot 
Which  ne'er  I  did  remember :  to  my  knowledge, 
I  never  in  my  life  did  look  on  him. 

North.  Then  learn  to  know  him  now ;  this  is  the  duke. 

Percy.  My  gracious  lord,  I  tender  you  my  service. 
Such  as  it  is,  being  tender,  raw,  and  young ; 

•  To  joy  is  here  used  as  a  verb. 


Scene  III.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  427 

Which  elder  days  shall  ripen,  and  confirm 
To  more  approved  service  and  desert. 

Baling.  I  thank  thee,  gentle  Percy ;  and  be  sure, 
I  count  myself  in  nothing  else  so  happy 
As  in  a  soul  rememb'ring  my  good  friends  ; 
And  as  my  fortune  ripens  with  thy  love. 
It  shall  be  still  thy  true  love's  recompense : 
My  heart  this  covenant  makes,  my  hand  thus  seals  it. 

North.  How  far  is  it  to  Berkley  ?     And  what  stir 
Keeps  good  old  York  there,  with  his  men  of  war  ? 

Percy.  There  stands  the  castle,  by  yon  tuft  of  trees, 
Mann'd  with  three  hundred  men,  as  I  have  heard : 
And  in  it  are  the  lords  of  York,  Berkley,  and  Seymour ; 
None  else  of  name  and  noble  estimate. 

Enter  Ross  and  Willoughby. 

North.  Here  come  the  lords  of  Ross  and  Willoughby, 
Bloody  with  spurring,  fiery -red  with  haste. 

Boling.  Welcome,  my  lords  :  I  wot  your  love  pursues 
A  banish'd  traitor ;  all  my  treasury 
Is  yet  but  unfelt  thanks,  which,  more  enrich'd. 
Shall  be  your  love  and  labour's  recompense. 

Ross.  Your  presence  makes  us  rich,  most  noble  lord. 

Willo.  And  far  surmounts  our  labour  to  attain  it. 

Boling.  Evermore  thanks,  th'  exchequer  of  the  poor ; 
Which,  till  my  infant  fortune  comes  to  years. 
Stands  for  my  bounty.     But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Berkley. 

North.  It  is  my  lord  of  Berkley,  as  I  guess. 

Berk.  My  lord  of  Hereford,  my  message  is  to  you. 

Boling.  My  lord,  my  answer  is — to  Lancaster  :* 
And  I  am  come  to  seek  that  name  in  England  : 
And  I  must  find  that  title  in  your  tongue. 
Before  I  make  reply  to  aught  you  say. 

Berk.  Mistake  me  not,  my  lord ;  't  is  not  my  meaning 
To  raze  one  title  of  your  honour  out : — 

■  To  Lancaster.     I  do  not  answer  to  the  name  of  Hereford — my  answer  is  to  the 
name  of  Lancaster. 


428  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  II. 

To  you,  my  lord,  I  come,  (what  lord  you  will,) 
From  the  most  gracious  '  regent  of  this  land. 
The  duke  of  York ;  to  know  what  pricks  you  on 
To  take  advantage  of  the  absent  time. 
And  fright  our  native  peace  with  self-born  arms. 

Enter  York,  attended. 

Baling.  I  shall  not  need  transport  my  words  by  you  j 
Here  comes  his  grace  in  person. — My  noble  uncle !    [Kneels. 

York.  Show  me  thy  humble  heart,  and  not  thy  knee. 
Whose  duty  is  deceivable  and  false. 

Baling.  My  gracious  uncle ! 

York.  Tut,  tut ! 
Grace  me  no  grace,  nor  uncle  me  no  uncle.^ 
I  am  no  traitor's  uncle ;  and  that  word,  grace. 
In  an  ungracious  mouth,  is  but  profane. 
Why  have  these  banish'd  and  forbidden  legs 
Dar'd  once  to  touch  a  dust  of  England's  ground  ? 
But  more  then,  why,  why  have  they  dar'd  to  march 
So  many  miles  upon  her  peaceful  bosom. 
Frighting  her  pale-fac'd  villages  with  war. 
And  ostentation  of  despised  arms?* 
Com'st  thou  because  the  anointed  king  is  hence? 
Why,  foolish  boy,  the  king  is  left  behind. 
And  in  my  loyal  bosom  lies  his  power. 
Were  I  but  now  the  lord  of  such  hot  youth 
As  when  brave  Gaunt,  thy  father,  and  myself, 
Rescued  the  Black  Prince,  that  young  Mars  of  men. 
From  forth  the  ranks  of  many  thousand  French, 
O,  then,  how  quickly  should  this  arm  of  mine. 
Now  prisoner  to  the  palsy,  chastise  thee. 
And  minister  correction  to  thy  fault ! 

Baling.  My  gracious  uncle,  let  me  know  my  fault ; 
On  what  condition  stands  it,  and  wherein  ? 

•  Graciout  in  the  first  quarto ; — glorious  in  the  folio,  which  also  omits  regent. 
^  This  is  the  reading  of  the  first  quarto.     The  folio  reads, 

"  Tut,  tut,  grace  me  no  grace,  nor  uncle  me." 
In  '  Romeo  and  Juliet '  we  have, 

"  Thank  me  no  thank  ings,  nor  proud  me  no  prouds." 

•  Detpited  arms.     The  ostentation  of  arms  which  we  despise. 


Scene  III.j  KING  RICHARD  II.  429 

York.  Even  in  condition  of  the  worst  degree,— 
In  gross  rebellion,  and  detested  treason  : 
Thou  art  a  banish'd  man,  and  here  art  come. 
Before  the  expiration  of  thy  time. 
In  braving  arms  against  thy  sovereign. 

Boling.  As  I  was  banish'd,  I  was  banish'd  Hereford: 
But  as  I  come,  I  come  for  Lancaster. 
And,  noble  uncle,  I  beseech  your  grace. 
Look  on  my  wrongs  with  an  indificrent  eye : 
You  are  my  father,  for  methinks  in  you 
I  see  old  Gaunt  alive ;  O,  then,  my  father ! 
Will  you  permit  that  I  shall  stand  condemn'd 
A  wand'ring  vagabond  ;  my  rights  and  royalties  * 

Pluck'd  from  my  arms  perforce,  and  given  away 
To  upstart  unthrifts?     Wherefore  was  I  born? 
If  that  my  cousin  king  be  king  of  England, 
It  must  be  granted  I  am  duke  of  Lancaster. 
You  have  a  son,  Aumerle,  my  noble  kinsman ; 
Had  you  first  died,  and  he  been  thus  trod  down. 
He  should  have  found  his  uncle  Gaunt  a  father. 
To  rouse  his  wrongs,  and  chase  them  to  the  bay. 
I  am  denied  to  sue  my  livery  here. 
And  yet  my  letters-patents  give  me  leave  : 
My  father's  goods  are  all  distrain'd,  and  sold ; 
And  these,  and  all,  are  all  amiss  employ'd. 
What  would  you  have  me  do  ?     I  am  a  subject. 
And  challenge  law :  Attorneys  are  denied  me ; 
And  therefore  personally  I  lay  my  claim 
To  my  inheritance  of  free  descent. 

North,  The  noble  duke  hath  been  too  much  abus'd. 

Ross.  It  stands  your  grace  upon,  to  do  him  right. 

Willo.  Base  men  by  his  endowments  are  made  great. 

York.  My  lords  of  England,  let  me  tell  you  this, — 
I  have  had  feeling  of  my  cousin's  wrongs. 
And  labour'd  all  I  could  to  do  him  right  : 
But  in  this  kind  to  come,  in  braving  arms. 
Be  his  own  carver,  and  cut  out  his  way. 
To  find  out  right  with  wrongs, — it  may  not  be  ; 


430  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act    II. 

And  you  that  do  abet  him  in  this  kind. 
Cherish  rebellion,  and  are  rebels  all. 

North.  The  noble  duke  hath  sworn  his  coming  is 
But  for  his  own :  and,  for  the  right  of  that. 
We  all  have  strongly  sworn  to  give  him  aid ; 
And  let  him  ne'er  see  joy  that  breaks  that  oath. 

York.  Well,  well,  I  see  the  issue  of  these  arms ; 
I  cannot  mend  it,  I  must  needs  confess. 
Because  my  power  is  weak,  and  all  ill  left : 
But,  if  I  could,  by  Him  that  gave  me  life, 
I  would  attach  you  all,  and  make  you  stoop 
Unto  the  sovereign  mercy  of  the  king ; 
But,  since  I  cannot,  be  it  known  to  you, 
I  do  remain  as  neuter.     So,  fare  you  well ; — 
Unless  you  please  to  enter  in  the  castle. 
And  there  repose  you  for  this  night. 

Boling.  An  oflfer,  uncle,  that  we  will  accept. 
But  we  must  win  your  grace  to  go  with  us 
To  Bristol  castle ;  which,  they  say,  is  held 
By  Bushy,  Bagot,  and  their  complices. 
The  caterpillars  of  the  commonwealth. 
Which  I  have  sworn  to  weed,  and  pluck  away. 

York.  It  may  be  I  will  go  with  you  : — but  yet  I  '11  pause ; 
For  I  am  loth  to  break  our  country's  laws. 
Nor  friends,  nor  foes,  to  me  welcome  you  are : 
Things  past  redress  are  now  with  me  past  care.        [Exeunt. 

Jif  SCENE  IV.— ^  Camp  in  Wales. 

Enter  Salisbury  and  a  Captain. 

Cap.  My  lord  of  Salisbury,  we  have  stay'd  ten  days. 
And  hardly  kept  our  countrymen  together. 
And  yet  we  hear  no  tidings  from  the  king ; 
Therefore  we  will  disperse  ourselves  ;  farewell. 

Sal.  Stay  yet  another  day,  thou  trusty  Welshman  ; 
The  king  reposeth  all  his  confidence 
In  thee. 

Cap.  'T  is  thought  the  king  is  dead  ;  we  will  not  stay. 
The  bay-trees  in  our  country  are  all  wither'd. 


Scene  IV.]  KING  RICHARD  II,  431 

And  meteors  fright  the  fixed  stars  of  heaven ; 

The  pale-fac'd  moon  looks  bloody  on  the  earth. 

And  lean-look'd  prophets  whisper  fearful  change  ; 

Rich  men  look  sad,  and  ruffians  dance  and  leap, — 

The  one,  in  fear  to  lose  what  they  enjoy. 

The  other,  to  enjoy  by  rage  and  war : 

These  signs  forerun  the  death  [or  fall']  of  kings. — 

Farewell ;   our  countrymen  are  gone  and  fled. 

As  well  assur'd  Richard  their  king  is  dead.  [Eant. 

Sal.  Ah,  Richard !  with  the  eyes  of  heavy  mind, 
I  see  thy  glory,  like  a  shooting  star. 
Fall  to  the  base  earth  from  the  firmament ! 
Thy  sun  sets  weeping  in  the  lowly  west. 
Witnessing  storms  to  come,  woe,  and  unrest ; 
Thy  friends  are  fled,  to  wait  upon  thy  foes  ; 
And  crossly  to  thy  good  all  fortune  goes.  [Exit. 

■  Or /all  is  not  in  the  original  copies. 


4S2  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    ACT    IL 


'  Scene  I. — "  Ui»  livery." 

Malone  gives  the  following  explanation  of  this  passage : — "  On  the  death  of  every 
person  who  held  by  knight's  service,  the  escheator  of  the  court  in  which  he  died 
summoned  a  jury,  who  inquired  what  estate  he  died  seized  of,  and  of  what  age  his 
next  heir  was.  If  he  was  under  age,  he  became  award  of  the  king's;  but  if  he  was 
found  to  be  of  full  age,  he  then  had  a  right  to  sue  out  a  writ  of  ouster  k  main, — that 
is,  Mi  livery, — that  the  king' s  hand  might  betaken  off,  and  the  land  deliixredio  him." 
Bolingbroke  had  appointed  attorneys  to  execute  this  office  for  him,  if  his  &ther 
should  die  during  the  period  of  his  banishment. 

«  Scene  I. — "  That  late  broke  from  the  duke  of  Exeter."^ 

Thomas,  the  son  of  the  Earl  of  Arundel,  was  in  the  custody  of  the  Duke  of 
Exeter,  and  escaped  from  his  house — broke  from  him.  The  description  could  not 
apply  to  "  Reignold  lord  Cobham ;" — and,  therefore,  Malone  has  introduced  a 
line,  which  he  supposes,  or  something  like  it,  to  have  been  accidentally  omitted : — 

"  The  son  of  Richard  earl  of  Arundel,  ' 
That  late  broke  from  the  duke  of  Exeter." 

^  Scene  II. — "  Like  perspectives." 
These  perspectives  were  produced  by  cutting  a  board  so  that  it  should  present  a 
number  of  sides,  or  flats,  when  looked  at  obliquely.  To  these  sides,  a  print,  or 
drawing,  cut  into  parts,  was  affixed ;  so  that  looked  at  "  awry "  the  whole  picture 
was  seen  ;  looked  at  direct — "  rightly  gaz'd  upon" — it  showed  "  nothing  but  con- 
fusion."    Dr.  Plot,  in  his  'History  of  Staffordshire,'  describes  these  "perspectives." 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


433 


[John  of  GauHt.] 
HISTORICAL     ILLUSTRATION. 


John  of  Gaunt,  who,  in  the  first  line  of  thig  play,  is  called 

''  Old  John  of  Gannt,  time-honoor'd  Lancaster," 

was  the  fourth  son  of  Edward  III.,  by  his  Queen  Philippa.  He  was  called  of  Gaot 
or  Ghent,  from  the  place  of  his  birth; — was  bom  in  1340,  and  died  in  1399.  The 
circumstance  of  the  king  naming  him  as  old  John  of  Gaunt  has  many  examples  in 
the  age  of  Shakspere.  Spenser  calls  the  Earl  of  Leicester  an  old  man,  though  he 
was  then  not  fifty ;  Lord  Huntingdon  represents  Coligny  as  very  old,  though  he  died 
at  fifty-three.  There  can  be  little  doubt,  we  apprehend,  that  the  average  duration  of 
human  life  has  been  much  increased  during  the  last  two  centuries ;  and,  at  that  period, 
marriages  were  much  earlier,  so  that  it  was  not  uncommon  for  a  man  to  be  at  the 
head  of  a  family  before  he  was  twenty.  When  John  of  Gaunt  was  fifty-eight  (in 
the  year  of  Bolingbroke's  appeal  against  Hereford),  Henry  of  Monmouth,  his  grand- 
son, was  eleven  years  old;  so  that  Bolingbroke,  who  was  bom  in  1366,  must  have 
been  a  father  at  twenty -one.  Froissart  thus  speaks  of  the  death  of  John  of  Gaunt : — 
"  So  it  fell  that,  about  the  feast  of  Christmas,  Duke  John  of  Lancaster,  who  lived 
in  great  displeasure,  what  because  the  king  had  banished  his  son  out  of  the  realm  tot 
so  little  a  cause,  and  also  because  of  the  evil  governing  of  the  realm  by  his  nephew, 
King  Richard ;  (for  he  saw  well,  if  he  long  persevered,  and  were  suffered  to  con- 
tinue, the  realm  was  likely  to  be  utterly  lost) — with  these  imaginations  and  other, 
the  duke  fell  sick,  whereon  he  died ;  whose  death  was  greatly  sorrowed  of  all  his 
friends  and  lovers." 

Shakspere  found  no  authority  in  the  Chronicles  for  the  fine  deatfa-scene  of  John  of 
Gaunt;  but  the  principal  circumstance  for  which  he  reproaches  the  king — that 
England  "  is  now  leas'd  out " — is  distincUy  supported.  Fabyan  says,  "  In  this 
22nd  year  of  King  Richard,  the  common  &me  ran  that  the  king  had  letten  to  farm 
the  realm  unto  Sir  William  Scrope,  Earl  of  Wiltshire,  and  then  treasurer  of  Eng- 

VoL.  IV.  2  F 


434  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 

land,  to  Sir  John  Bushey,  Sir  John  Bagot,  and  Sir  Henry  Green,  knight*."  The 
subeequent  reproach  of  the  confederated  lords,  that 

"  Daily  new  exactioiu  aredevis'd; 
As  blanks,  benevolences," 

is  also  fully  supported.  The  "  blanks  "  were  most  ingenious  uistruments  of  pillage, 
principally  devised  for  the  oppression  of  substantial  and  wealthy  citizens.  For  these 
blanks,  they  of  London  "  were  fain  to  seal,  to  their  great  charge,  as  in  the  end  apjieared. 
And  the  like  charters  were  sent  abroad  into  all  shires  within  the  realm,  whereby 
great  grudge  and  murmuring  arose  amongst  the  people ;  for  when  they  were  so  sealed, 
the  king's  oflScers  wrote  in  the  same  what  liked  them,  as  well  for  charging  the  jmrties 
with  pajrment  of  money,  as  otherwise." 

The  general  condition  of  the  country,  while  the  commons  were  "  pill'd,'  and  tlie 
nobles  "fin'd,"  by  Richard  and  his  creatures,  was,  according  to  Froissart,  most 
lamentable.  We  copy  the  passage,  as  it  is  highly  characteristic  of  the  manners  of 
the  times.  The  period  thus  described  is  that  immediately  before  the  departure  of 
Richard  for  Ireland  :  —  "  The  state  generally  of  all  men  in  England  began  to  mur- 
mur and  to  rise  one  against  another,  and  ministering  of  justice  was  clean  stopped  up 
in  all  courts  of  England ;  whereof  the  valiant  men  and  prelates,  who  loved  rest  and 
peace,  and  were  glad  to  pay  their  duties,  were  greatly  abashed  :  for  there  rose  in  the 
realm  companies  in  divers  routs,  keeping  the  fields  and  highways,  so  that  merchants 
durst  not  ride  abroad  to  exercise  their  merchandise  for  doubt  of  robbing ;  and  no 
man  knew  to  whom  to  complain  to  do  them  right,  reason,  and  justice,  which  things 
were  right  prejudicial  and  displeasant  to  the  good  people  of  England,  for  it  was  con- 
trary to  their  accustomable  usage :  for  all  people,  labourers  and  merchants  in  Eng- 
land, were  wont  to  live  in  rest  and  peace,  and  to  occupy  their  merchandise  peace- 
ably, and  the  labourers  to  labour  their  lands  quietly ;  and  then  it  was  contrary,  for 
when  merchants  rode  from  town  to  town  with  their  merchandise,  and  had  either  gold 
or  silver  in  their  purses,  it  was  taken  from  them  ;  and  from  other  men  and  labourers 
out  of  their  houses  these  companions  would  take  wheat,  oats,  beefs,  muttons,  porks, 
and  the  poor  men  durst  speak  no  word.  These  evil  deeds  daily  multiplied  so  that 
great  complaints  and  lamentations  were  made  thereof  throughout  the  realm,  and  the 
good  people  said,  The  time  is  changed  upon  us  from  good  to  evil,  ever  since  the  death 
of  good  King  Edward  the  Third,  in  whose  days  justice  was  well  kept  and  ministered : 
in  his  days  there  was  no  man  so  hardy  in  England  to  take  a  hen  or  a  chicken,  or  a 
sheep,  without  he  had  paid  truly  for  it ;  and  now-a-days,  all  that  we  have  is  taken 
from  us,  and  yet  we  dare  not  speak  ;  these  things  cainiotlong  endure,  but  that  Eng- 
land is  likely  to  be  lost  without  recovery  :  we  have  a  king  now  that  will  do  nothing; 
he  eutendeth  but  to  idleness  and  to  accomplish  bis  pleasure,  and  by  that  he  showeth 
he  careth  not  how  everything  goeth,  so  he  may  have  his  will.  It  were  time  to  pro- 
vide for  remedy,  or  else  our  enemies  will  rejoice  and  mock  us."  There  is  a  remark- 
able corroboration  of  the  state  of  cruel  oppression  in  which  the  common  people  lived, 
furnished  by  a  copy  of  the  stipulations  made  by  the  Duke  of  Surrey,  in  1398,  on 
taking  upon  him  the  government  of  Ireland :  "  Item,  That  he,  the  lieutenant,  may 
have,  at  sundry  times,  out  of  every  parish,  or  every  two  parishes,  in  England,  a  man 
and  his  wife,  at  the  cost  of  the  king,  in  the  land  of  Ireland,  to  inhabit  the  same  land 
where  it  is  wasted  upon  the  marshes."'  (Cotton  MS.)  This  compulsory  colonization 
must  have  been  most  odious  to  the  people,  who  knew  that  the  "  wild  men  "  of  Ire- 
land, amongst  whom  they  were  to  be  placed,  kept  the  government  in  constant  terror. 

The  seizure  of  Bolingbroke's  patrimony  by  Richard,  after  the  death  of  Gaunt,  is 
thus  described  by  Holinshed ;  and  Shakspere  has  most  accurately  followed  the 
description  as  to  its  facta  : — "  The  death  of  this  duke  gave  occasion  of  increasing 
more  hatred  in  the  people  of  this  realm  toward  the  king,  for  he  seized  into  his  hands 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


435 


all  tJie  goods  that  belonged  to  him,  and  also  received  all  the  rents  and  revenues  of 
his  lands,  which  ought  to  have  descended  unto  the  Duke  of  Hereford,  by  lawful  in- 
heritance, in  revoking  his  letters  patents,  which  he  had  granted  to  him  before,  by- 
virtue  whereof  he  might  make  his  attonieys-general  to  sue  livery  for  him,  of  any 
manner  of  inheritances  or  possessions  that  might  from  thenceforth  fall  unto  him, 
and  that  his  homage  might  be  respited  with  making  reasonable  fine :  whereby  it 
was  evident  that  the  king  meant  his  utter  undoing."  The  private  malice  of 
Richard  against  his  banished  cousin — 

"  The  prevention  of  poor  Bolingbroke 
About  his  marriage" — 

is  also  detailed  in  the  Chronicles. 

Fired  with  revenge  by  these  aggressions,  and  encouraged  by  letters  from  the 
leading  men  of  England — nobility,  prelates,  magistrates,  and  rulers,  as  Holinshed 
describes  them — promising  him  all  their  aid,  power,  and  assistance,  in  "  expulsing"' 
King  Richard — Bolingbroke  took  the  step  which  involved  this  land  in  blood  for 
nearly  a  century.  He  quitted  Paris,  and  sailed  from  Port  Blatic,  in  Lower  Brit- 
tany, with  very  few  men-at-arms,  according  to  some  accounts — with  three  thousand, 
according  to  others.  This  event  took  place  about  a  fortnight  after  Richard  had 
sailed  for  Ireland.  His  last  remaining  uncle,  the  Duke  of  York,  had  been  left  in 
the  government  of  the  kingdom.  He  was,  however,  unfitted  for  a  post  of  so  much 
difficulty  and  danger;  and  Shakspere  has  well  described  his  perplexities  upon 
hearing  of  the  landing  of  Bolingbroke  : — 

"  If  I  know 

How  or  which  way  to  order  these  affairs, 

Thus  disorderly  thrust  into  my  hands, 

Never  believe  me." 

He  had  been  little  accustomed  to  afiairs  of  state.  Hardyng,  in  his  '  Chronicle,' 
thus  describes  him  at  an  early  period  of  his  life : — 

"  Edmonde  hyght  of  Langley  of  goodchere. 
Glad  and  mery  and  of  his  owne  ay  lyved 
Without  wrong  as  chronicles  have  breved. 
When  all  the  lordes  to  councell  and  parlyament 
Went,  he  wolde  to  hunte,  and  also  to  hawekyng. 
All  gentyll  disporte  as  to  a  lorde  appent, 
He  used  aye,  and  to  the  pore  supportyng." 

Froissart  describes  him  as  living  at  his  own  castle  with  his  people,  interfering  not 
with  what  was  passing  in  the  country,  but  taking  all  things  as  they  happened. 
According  to  Holinshed,  the  army  that  he  raised  to  oppose  Bolingbroke  "boldly 
protested  that  they  would  not  fight  against  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  whom  they  knew 
to  be  evil  dealt  with."  It  seems  to  be  agreed  on  all  hands  that  Froissart,  who 
makes  Bolingbroke  land  at  Plymouth,  and  march  direct  to  London,  was  incorrectly 
informed.  Holinshed,  upon  the  authority  of  "  our  English  writers,"  says,  "  The 
Duke  of  Lancaster,  after  that  he  had  coasted  alongst  the  shore  a  certain  time,  and 
had  got  some  intelligence  how  the  people's  minds  were  aflected  towards  him,  landed, 
about  the  beginning  of  July,  ip  Yorkshire,  at  a  place  sometimes  called  Ravenspur, 
betwixt  Hull  and  Bridlington,  and  with  him  not  past  threescore  persons,  as  some 
write  :  but  he  was  so  joyfully  received  of  the  lords,  knights,  and  gentlemen  of  those 
parts,  that  he  found  means  (by  their  help)  forthwith  to  assemble  a  great  number  of 
people  that  were  willing  to  take  his  part."  The  subsequent  events,  previous  to  the 
return  of  Richard,  are  most  correctly  delineated  by  our  poet.  Bolingbroke  was 
joined  by  Northumberland  and  Harry  Percy,  by  Ross  and  Willoughby.  "  He 
sware  unto  those  lords  that  he  would  demand  no  more  but-  the  lands  that  were  to 
him  descended  by  inheritance  irom  his  father,  and  in  right  o^  his  wife."'     From 

2  F  2 


436 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 


Doiicaster,  with  a  mighty  army,  Boliiigbroke  marched  through  the  counties  of 
Derby  or  Nottingham,  Leicester,  Warwick,  and  Worcester  ; — "  through  the  coun- 
tries coming  by  Evesham  unto  Berkley."  The  Duke  of  York  had  marched  towards 
Wales  to  meet  the  king,  upon  his  expected  arrival  from  Ireland.  Holinshed  says, 
he  "  was  received  into  the  Castle  of  Berkley,  and  there  remained  till  the  coming 
thither  of  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  whom  when  he  perceived  that  he  was  not  able  to 
resist,  on  the  Sunday  after  the  feast  of  St.  James,  which,  as  that  year  came  about, 
fell  upon  a  Friday,  he  came  forth  into  the  church  that  stood  without  the  castle,  and 
there  communed  with  the  Duke  of  Lancaster.  *  *  ♦  *  On  the  morrow  after, 
the  foresaid  dukes  with  their  power  went  towards  Bristow,  where  (at  their  coming) 
they  showed  themselves  before  the  town  and  castle,  being  an  huge  multitude  of 
people."  The  defection  of  the  Welsh  under  Salisbury  is  detailed  in  the  writers  of 
the  period ;  and  so  is  the  prodigy  of  the  withered  bay-trees. 


[Edmund  of  Langley.] 


Scene  I.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  437 


^ 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.— Bolingbroke'j  Camp  at  Bristol. 


Enter  Bolingbroke,  York,  Northumberland,  Percy, 
WiLLOUGHBY,  Ross :  Officers  behind,  with  Bushy  and 
Green,  prisoners. 

Boling.  Bring  forth  these  men. — 
Bushy,  and  Green,  I  will  not  vex  your  souls- 
(Since  presently  your  souls  must  part  your  bodies,) 
With  too  much  urging  your  pernicious  lives. 
For  't  were  no  charity  :  yet,  to  wash  your  blood 
From  off  my  hands,  here,  in  the  view  of  men, 
I  will  unfold  some  causes  of  your  deaths. 
You  have  misled  a  prince,  a  royal  king, 
A  happy  gentleman  in  blood  and  lineaments, 
By  you  unhappied  and  disfigur'd  clean. 
You  have,  in  manner,  with  your  sinful  hours. 
Made  a  divorce  betwixt  his  queen  and  him ; 
Broke  the  possession  of  a  royal*  bed. 
And  stain'd  the  beauty  of  a  fair  queen's  cheeks 
With  tears  drawn  from  her  eyes  by  your  foul  wrongs. 
Myself — a  prince,  by  fortune  of  my  birth  ; 
Near  to  the  king  in  blood ;  and  near  in  love. 
Till  you  did  make  him  misinterpret  me, — 
Have  stoop'd  my  neck  under  your  injuries. 
And  sigh'd  my  English  breath  in  foreign  clouds. 
Eating  the  bitter  bread  of  banishment  : 
While  you  have  fed  upon  my  seignories, 
Dispark'd  my  parks,*  and  fell'd  my  forest  woods ; 

'  Dispark'd  my  park*.  To  disafforest  a  forest  is  to  annul  all  the  peculiar  privi- 
leges which  belong  to  it,  and  render  it,  with  reference  to  the  rights  of  the  owner  or 
lord,  and  the  privileges  of  the  tenants  or  vassals,  the  same  as  that  of  ordinary  land. 
Bolingbroke,  we  presume,  complains  that,  when  the  favoxirites  of  Richard  had  dis- 
parked  his  parks,  they  let  out  the  property  to  common  purposes  of  pasture  or  tillage, 
and  at  the  same  time  felled  his  woods;— thus,  not  only  feeding  upon  his  seignories, 
but  destroying  their  ancient  beaufy  and  propriety. 


438  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  HI. 

From  mine  own  windows  torn  my  household  coat, 

Raz'd  out  my  impress,  leaving  me  no  sign — 

Save  men's  opinions,  and  my  living  blood — 

To  show  the  world  I  am  a  gentleman. 

This,  and  much  more,  much  more  than  twice  all  this. 

Condemns  you  to  the  death : — See  them  deliver'd  over 

To  execution  and  the  hand  of  death. 

Bushy.  More  welcome  is  the  stroke  of  death  to  me. 
Than  Bolingbroke  to  England.     [Lords,  farewell.'] 

Green.  My  comfort  is,  that  heaven  will  take  our  souls, 
And  plague  injustice  with  the  pains  of  hell. 

Baling.  My  lord  Northumberland,  see  them  despatch'd. 
[Exeunt  Northumberland  and  others,  with  Prisoners. 
Uncle,  you  say,  the  queen  is  at  your  house  : 
For  heaven's  sake,  fairly  let  her  be  entreated ; 
Tell  her,  I  send  to  her  my  kind  commends ; 
Take  special  care  my  greetings  be  deliver'd. 

York.  A  gentleman  of  mine  I  have  despatch'd 
With  letters  of  your  love  to  her  at  large. 

Boling.  Thanks,  gentle  uncle. — Come,  lords,  away ; 
To  fight  with  Glendower  and  his  complices  ^ 
Awhile  to  work,  and,  after,  holiday.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— r^eCba*/^"  Wales.     A  Castle  in  View. 

Flourish :  Drums  and   Trumpets.     Enter  King  Richard, 
Bishop  of  Carlisle,  Aumerle,  and  Soldiers. 

K.  Rich.  Barkloughly  castle  call  you  this  at  hand  ? 

Aum.  Yea,  my  lord.     How  brooks  your  grace  the  air. 
After  your'^  late  tossing  on  the  breaking  seas? 

K.  Rich.  Needs  must  I  like  it  well ;  I  weep  for  joy. 
To  stand  upon  my  kingdom  once  again. 
Dear  earth,  I  do  salute  thee  with  my  hand. 
Though  rebels  wound  thee  with  their  horses'  hoofs : 
As  a  long-parted  mother  with  her  child 
Plays  fondly  with  her  tears''  and  smiles,  in  meeting; 

•  Lurdt,  farewell,  is  omitted  in  the  folio. 
''  Steeven»  omits  your. 

*  The  usual  mode  of  reading  these  two  beautiful  lines  is  as  follows : — 


Scene  II.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  439 

So,  weeping,  smiling,  greet  I  thee,  my  earth,* 
And  do  thee  favour  with  my  royal  hands. 
Feed  not  thy  sovereign's  foe,  my  gentle  earth, 
Nor  with  thy  sweets  comfort  his  ravenous  sense : 
But  let  thy  spiders,  that  suck  up  thy  venom. 
And  heavy-gaited  toads,**  lie  in  their  way ; 
Doing  annoyance  to  the  treacherous  feet 
Which  with  usurping  steps  do  trample  thee. 
Yield  stinging  nettles  to  mine  enemies  : 
And  when  they  from  thy  bosom  pluck  a  flower. 
Guard  it,  I  pray  thee,  with  a  lurking  adder. 
Whose  double  tongue  may  with  a  mortal  touch 
Throw  death  upon  thy  sovereign's  enemies. 
Mock  not  my  senseless  conjuration,  lords ; 
This  earth  shall  have  a  feeling,  and  these  stones 
Prove  armed  soldiers,  ere  her  native  king 
Shall  falter  under  foul  rebellion's  ^  arms. 

Bishop.  Fear  not,  my  lord  ;  that  Power  that  made  you  king 
Hath  power  to  keep  you  king,  in  spite  of  all. 
[The  means  that  heaven  yields  must  be  embrac'd. 
And  not  neglected ;  else,  if  heaven  would. 
And  we  will  not,  heaven's  ofier  we  refuse ; 
The  proffer'd  means  of  succour  and  redress..]'* 

"  As  a  long-parted  mother  with  her  child 
Plays  fondly  with  her  tears,  and  smiles  in  meeting." 
Smiles,  in  this  way,  is  a  verb;  but,  by  the  transposition  of  the  comma,  it  is  read  as  a 
noun.     The  "  long-parted  mother  "  does  not  only  play  fondly  with  her  teiirs,  but 
with  her  smiles  also.     Richard  adds, 

"  So  weeping,  smiling,  greet  I  thee,  my  earth." 

"  The  repeated  use,  by  Richard,  of  the  word  earth,  would  seem  to  indicate  that 
Shakspere  employs  the  word  in  the  meaning  of  inheritance, — possession, — "  my 
kingdom," — "  dear  earth,'' — "  my  earth," — "  my  gentle  earth."  Mr.  Whiter,  in 
his  curious  '  Etymological  Dictionary,'  has  shown  that  the  word  heir  is  derived 
from  earth.  "  The  Latin  hceres,  hcered-ia,  or,  as  it  was  anciently  written,  eres,  is  the 
person  who  possesses,  or  is  destined  to  possess,  tlie  certain  spot  of  land, — or  of  earthy 
hertha,  herda,  &c."     When  Capulet,  in  '  Romeo  and  Juliet,'  says, 

"  She  is  the  hopeful  lady  of  my  earth," 
there  is  little  doubt  that  he  means  that  Juliet  is  his  heiress. 

•>  Heavy-gaited  toads.  This  epithet  is  one  of  the  many  examples  of  Shakspere's 
wonderful  accuracy  in  observing  natural  objects,  and  of  hia  power  of  conveying  an 
image  by  a  word. 

«  Rebellion's  artns.     So  the  quarto  of  1597.     The  folio  rebellious. 

^  These  four  lines,  enclosed  in  brackets,  are  omitted  in  the  folio. 


440  KING  RICHARD  11.  [Act  III, 

Aum.  He  means,  my  lord,  that  we  are  too  remiss ; 
Wliilst  Bolingbroke,  through  our  security. 
Grows  strong  and  great,  in  substance,  and  in  friends. 

K.  Rich.  Discomfortable  cousin !  know'st  thou  not. 
That,  when  the  searching  eye  of  heaven  is  hid 
Behind  the  globe,  and  lights*  the  lower  world. 
Then  thieves  and  robbers  range  abroad  unseen. 
In  murthers,  and  in  outrage,  bloody  here ; 
But  when,  from  under  this  terrestrial  ball. 
He  fires  the  proud  tops  of  the  eastern  pines. 
And  darts  his  light''  through  every  guilty  hole. 
Then  murthers,  treasons,  and  detested  sins. 
The  cloak  of  night  being  pluck'd  from  off  their  backs. 
Stand  bare  and  naked,  trembling  at  themselves  ? 
So  when  this  thief,  this  traitor,  Bolingbroke, — 
Who  all  this  while  hath  revell'd  in  the  night. 
Whilst  we  were  wand'ring  with  the  antipodes, — 
Shall  see  us  rising  in  our  throne  the  east. 
His  treasons  will  sit  blushing  in  his  face. 
Not  able  to  endure  the  sight  of  day. 
But,  self-affrighted,  tremble  at  his  sin. 
Not  all  the  water  in  the  rough  rude  sea 
Can  wash  the  balm  from  an  anointed  king : 
The  breath  of  worldly  men  cannot  depose 
The  deputy  elected  by  the  Lord : 
For  every  man  that  Bolingbroke  hath  press'd. 
To  lift  shrewd  steel  against  our  golden  crown. 
Heaven  for  his  Ricliard  hath  in  heavenly  pay 
A  glorious  angel :  then,  if  angels  fight. 
Weak  men  must  fall ;  for  heaven  still  guards  the  right. 

Enter  Salisbury. 
Welcome,  my  lord ;  How  far  off  lies  your  power  ? 

Sal.  Nor  near,  nor  farther  off,  my  gracious  lord. 
Than  this  weak  arm :  Discomfort  guides  my  tongue, 
And  bids  me  speak  of  nothing  but  despair. 

■  And  lights.  All  the  old  copies  read  that  'lights.  That,  as  a  relative,  has  pro' 
bably  searching  eye  for  its  antecedent;  but  the  construction  is  still  difficult,  whilst 
a  slight  alteration  removes  the  difficulty* 

*>  Ugkt,     In  the  folio,  lightning. 


Scene  II.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  441 

One  day  too  late,  I  fear,  my  noble  lord. 

Hath  clouded  all  thy  happy  days  on  earth  ; 

O,  call  back  yesterday,  bid  time  return. 

And  thou  shalt  have  twelve  thousand  fighting  men  : 

To-day,  to-day,  unhappy  day,  too  late, 

O'erthrows  thy  joys,  friends,  fortune,  and  thy  state ; 

For  all  the  Welshmen,  hearing  thou  wert  dead. 

Are  gone  to  Bolingbroke,  dispers'd,  and  fled. 

Aum.  Comfort,  my  liege :  why  looks  your  grace  so  pale  ? 

K.  Rich.  But  now,  the  blood  of  twenty  thousand  men 

Did  triumph  in  my  face,  and  they  are  fled ; 
And,  till  so  much  blood  thither  come  again. 

Have  I  not  reason  to  look  pale  and  dead  ? 
All  souls  that  will  be  safe  fly  from  my  side ; 
For  time  hath  set  a  blot  upon  my  pride. 

Aum.  Comfort,  my  liege ;  remember  who  you  are. 

K.  Rich.  I  had  forgot  myself:  Am  I  not  king? 
Awake  thou  sluggard*  majesty  !  thou  sleepest. 
Is  not  the  king's  name  forty  thousand  names? 
Arm,  arm,  my  name !  a  puny  subject  strikes 
At  thy  great  glory. — Look  not  to  the  ground. 
Ye  favourites  of  a  king.     Are  we  not  high  ? 
High  be  our  thoughts  :  I  know,  my  uncle  York 
Hath  power  enough  to  serve  our  turn.     But  who 
Comes  here? 

Enter  Scroop, 

Scroop.  More  health  and  happiness  betide  my  liege. 
Than  can  my  care-tun'd  tongue  deliver  him. 

K.  Rich.  Mine  ear  is  open,  and  my  heart  prepared  j 
The  worst  is  worldly  loss  thou  canst  unfold. 
Say,  is  my  kingdom  lost  ?  why,  't  was  my  care ; 
And  what  loss  is  it  to  be  rid  of  care  ? 
Strives  Bolingbroke  to  be  as  great  as  we  ? 
Greater  he  shall  not  be  ;  if  he  serve  God, 
We  '11  serve  him  too,  and  be  his  fellow  so. 
Revolt  our  subjects  ?  that  we  cannot  mend ; 
They  break  their  faith  to  God,  as  well  as  us : 

■  Sluggard.     One  of  the  quartos  has  coward. 


442  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  UI. 

Cry,  woe,  destruction,  ruin,  loss,  decay ; 

The  worst  is  death,  and  death  will  have  his  day. 

Scroop.  Glad  am  I  that  your  highness  is  so  arm'd 
To  bear  the  tidings  of  calamity. 
Like  an  unseasonable  stormy  day. 
Which  makes  the  silver  rivers  drown  their  shores. 
As  if  the  world  were  all  dissolv'd  to  tears ; 
So  high  above  his  limits  swells  the  rage 
Of  Bolingbroke,  covering  your  fearful  land 
With  hard  bright  steel,  and  hearts  harder  than  steel. 
White  beards  have  arm'd  their  thin  and  hairless  scalps 
Against  thy  majesty ;  and  boys,  with  women's  voices. 
Strive  to  speak  big,  and  clap  their  female  joints 
In  stiff  unwieldy  arms  against  thy  crown: 
Thy  very  beadsmen  learn  to  bend  their  bows 
Of  double-fatal  yew  against  thy  state ; 
Yea,  distaff-women  manage  rusty  bills 
Against  thy  seat :  both  young  and  old  rebel. 
And  all  goes  worse  than  I  have  power  to  tell. 

K.  Rich.  Too  well,  too  well,  thou  tell'st  a  tale  so  ill. 
Where  is  the  earl  of  Wiltshire  ?  where  is  Bagot  ? 
What  is  become  of  Bushy  ?  where  is  Green  ? 
That  they  have  let  the  dangerous  enemy 
Measure  our  confines  with  such  peaceful  steps  ? 
If  we  prevail,  their  heads  shall  pay  for  it. 
I  warrant  they  have  made  peace  with  Bolingbroke. 

Scroop.  Peace  have  they  made  with  him,  indeed,  my  lord. 

K.  Rich.  O  villains,  vipers,  damn'd  without  redemption ! 
Dogs,  easily  won  to  fawn  on  any  man  ! 
Snakes,  in  my  heart-blood  warm'd,  that  sting  my  heart ! 
Three  Judases,  each  one  thrice  worse  than  Judas ! 
Would  they  make  peace  ?  terrible  hell  make  war 
Upon  their  spotted  souls  for  this  offence  ! 

Scroop.  Sweet  love,  I  see,  changing  his  property. 
Turns  to  the  sourest  and  most  deadly  hate : 
Again  uncurse  their  souls ;  their  peace  is  made 
With  heads,  and  not  with  hands  :  those  whom  you  curse 
Have  felt  the  worst  of  death's  destroying  wound. 
And  lie  full  low,  grav'd  in  the  hollow  ground. 


Scene  II.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  443 

Aum.  Is  Bushy,  Green,  and  the  earl  of  Wiltshire,  dead  ? 

Scroop.  Yea,  all  of  them  at  Bristol  lost  their  heads. 

Aum.  Where  is  the  duke  my  father  with  his  power  ? 

K.  Rich.  No  matter  where.     Of  comfort  no  man  speak  : 
Let 's  talk  of  graves,  of  worms,  and  epitaphs ; 
Make  dust  our  paper,  and  with  rainy  eyes 
Write  sorrow  on  the  bosom  of  the  earth.  i 

Let 's  choose  executors,  and  talk  of  wills  :  1 

And  yet  not  so, — for  what  can  we  bequeath. 
Save  our  deposed  bodies  to  the  ground  ? 
Our  lands,  our  lives,  and  all,  are  Bolingbroke's, 
And  nothing  can  we  call  our  own  but  death ;  j 

And  that  small  model "  of  the  barren  earth,  ' 

Which  serves  as  paste  and  cover  to  our  bones.'' 
For  heaven's  sake,  let  us  sit  upon  the  ground. 
And  tell  sad  stories  of  the  death  of  kings  : — 
How  some  have  been  depos'd,  some  slain  in  war. 
Some  haunted  by  the  ghosts  they  have  depos'd  :  "^ 
Some  poison'd  by  their  wives,  some  sleeping  kill'd ; 
All  murther'd : — For  within  the  hollow  crown 
That  rounds  the  mortal  temples  of  a  king. 
Keeps  Death  his  court ;  and  there  the  antic  sits. 
Scoffing  his  state,  and  grinning  at  his  pomp, — ' 
Allowing  him  a  breath,  a  little  scene 
To  monarchize,  be  fear'd,  and  kill  with  looks ; 
Infusing  him  with  self  and  vain  conceit, — 
As  if  this  flesh,  which  walls  about  our  life. 
Were  brass  impregnable, — and,  humour'd  thus. 
Comes  at  the  last,  and  with  a  little  pin 
Bores  through  his  castle  walls,  and — farewell  king  ! 
Cover  your  heads,  and  mock  not  flesh  and  blood 
With  solemn  reverence;  throw  away  respect, 

■  Model.  The  word  is,  probably,  here  used  for  something  formed  or  fashioned. 
The  earth  assumes  the  shape  of  the  body  which  it  covers.  Douce  seems  to  tliiiik  it 
meaus  only  measure,  portion,  or  quantity, — a  modicum. 

^  We  copy  a  remark  of  Johnson  upon  this  line,  to  show  what  criticism  upon 
Shakspere  used  to  be,  even  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  ablest  of  modern  writers : 
"  A  metaphor,  not  of  the  most  sublime  kind,  taken  from  a  pie." 

'  Ghottt  they  have  deposed.  Ghosts  of  those  whom  they  have  deposed.  This  sort 
'if  ellipsis  is  very  frequently  used  by  our  poet. 


444  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  III. 

Tradition,  form,  and  ceremonious  duty. 
For  you  have  but  mistook  me  all  this  while  : 
I  live  with  bread  like  you,  feel  want,  taste  grief. 
Need  friends  : — Subjected  thus, 
How  can  you  say  to  me — I  am  a  king? 

Car.  My  lord,  wise  men  ne'er  wail  their  present  woes. 
But  presently  prevent  the  ways  to  wail. 
To  fear  the  foe,  since  fear  oppresseth  strength. 
Gives,  in  your  weakness,  strength  unto  your  foe, 
[And  so  your  follies  fight  against  yourself.'] 
Fear,  and  be  slain ;  no  worse  can  come,  to  fight  : 
And  fight  and  die,  is  death  destroying  death ; 
Where  fearing  dying  pays  death  servile  breath. 

Aum.  My  father  hath  a  power,  inquire  of  him  ; 
And  learn  to  make  a  body  of  a  limb. 

K.  Rich.  Thou  chid'st  me  well : — Proud  Bolingbroke,  I 
come 
To  change  blows  with  thee  for  our  day  of  doom. 
This  ague-fit  of  fear  is  over-blown  ; 
An  easy  task  it  is  to  win  our  own. 
Say,  Scroop,  where  lies  our  uncle  with  his  power  ? 
Speak  sweetly,  man,  although  thy  looks  be  sour. 

Scroop.  Men  judge  by  the  complexion  of  the  sky 

The  state  and  inclination  of  the  day  : 
So  may  you  by  my  dull  and  heavy  eye  ; 

My  tongue  hath  but  a  heavier  tale  to  say. 
I  play  the  torturer,  by  small  and  small. 
To  lengthen  out  the  worst  that  must  be  spoken  : — 
Your  uncle  York  is  ^  join'd  with  Bolingbroke  j 
And  all  your  northern  castles  yielded  up. 
And  all  your  southern  gentlemen  in  arms 
Upon  his  faction." 

K.  Rich.  Thou  hast  said  enough. — 

Beshrew  thee,  cousin,  which  didst  lead  me  forth     [To  Aum. 
Of  that  sweet  way  I  was  in  to  despair ! 
What  say  you  now?  What  comfort  have  we  now  ? 

"  This  line  is  omitted  in  the  folio. 

''  /»,  in  the  folio  ;  in  the  quartos,  hath, 

'  Faction.     The  first  quarto  reads  parti/, 


Scene  III.]  KING  RICHARD  II,  445 

By  heaven,  I  '11  hate  him  everlastingly 
That  bids  me  be  of  comfort  any  more. 
Go  to  Flint  castle  ;  there  I  '11  pine  away ; 
A  king,  woe's  slave,  shall  kingly  woe  obey. 
That  power  I  have,  discharge  ;  and  let  them  go 
To  ear  the  land  *  that  hath  some  hope  to  grow. 
For  I  have  none  : — Let  no  man  speak  again 
To  alter  this,  for  counsel  is  but  vain. 

Aum.  My  liege,  one  word. 

K.  Rich.  He  does  me  double  wrong 

That  wounds  me  with  the  flatteries  of  his  tonorue. 

D 

Discharge  my  followers,  let  them  hence. — Away, 

From  Richard's  night  to  Bolingbroke's  fair  day.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Wales.     Before  Flint  Castle. 

Enter,  with  drum  and  colours,  Bolingbroke   and  Forces; 
York,  Northumberland,  and  others. 

Baling.  So  that  by  this  intelligence  we  learn. 
The  Welshmen  are  dispers'd  ;  and  Salisbury 
Is  gone  to  meet  the  king,  who  lately  landed. 
With  some  few  private  friends,  upon  this  coast. 

North.  The  news  is  very  fair  and  good,  my  lord  ; 
Richard,  not  far  from  hence,  hath  hid  his  head. 

York.  It  would  beseem  the  lord  Northumberland 
To  say,  king  Richard  :  Alack  the  heavy  day. 
When  such  a  sacred  king  should  hide  his  head ! 

North.  Your  grace  mistakes ; ''  only  to  be  brief. 
Left  I  his  title  out. 

York.  The  time  hath  been. 

Would  you  have  been  so  brief  with  him,  he  would 
Have  been  so  brief  with  you,  to  shorten  you. 
For  taking  so  the  head,'^  your  whole  head's  length. 

■■  Ear  the  land — plough  the  land.  So  in  Shakspere's  dedication  of  Venus  and 
Adonis '  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  "  never  after  ear  so  barren  a  land,  for  fear  it 
yield  me  still  so  bad  a  harvest."  Elar  is  the  same  as  the  Latin  arare,  to  plough,  to 
till.     Arable  is  ear-able. 

i>  Hanmer  added  me; — make  a  pause  after  the  emphatic  mittakes,  and  the  metre 
wants  no  such  addition. 

"  Taking  so  the  head.  Johnson  thinks  that  to  take  the  head  is  to  take  undue 
liberties.  We  incline  to  Douce's  opinion,  that  the  expression  means  to  take  away 
the  sovereign's  cA»*^  title. 


446  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  HI. 

Boling.  Mistake  not,  uncle,  farther  than  you  should. 

York.  Take  not,  good  cousin,  farther  than  you  should, 
Lest  you  mis-take  :  The  heavens  are  o'er  your  head. 

Boling.  I  know  it,  uncle  ;  and  oppose  not  myself 
Against  their  will. — But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Percy. 

Welcome,  Harry  : '  what,  will  not  this  castle  yield  ? 

Percy.  The  castle  royally  is  mann'd,  my  lord. 
Against  thy  entrance. 

Boling.  Royally  ? 
Why,  it  contains  no  king  ? 

Percy.  Yes,  my  good  lord, 

It  doth  contain  a  king ;  king  Richard  lies 
Within  the  limits  of  yon  lime  and  stone  : 
And  with  him  the  lord  Aumerle,  lord  Salisbury, 
Sir  Stephen  Scroop  j  besides  a  clergyman 
Of  holy  reverence,  who,  I  cannot  learn. 

North.  Oh !  belike  it  is  the  bishop  of  Carlisle. 

Boling.  Noble  lord,  [To  North. 

Go  to  the  rude  ribs  of  that  ancient  castle  : 
Through  brazen  trumpet  send  the  breath  of  parle 
Into  his  ruin'd  ears,  and  thus  deliver. 
Henry  Bolingbroke 

Upon  his  knees  doth  kiss  king  Richard's  hand ; 
And  sends  allegiance,  and  true  faith  of  heart. 
To  his  most  royal  person  :  hither  come 
Even  at  his  feet  to  lay  my  arms  and  power ; 
Provided  that,  my  banishment  repeal'd. 
And  lands  restor'd  again,  be  freely  granted  : 
If  not,  I  '11  use  the  advantage  of  my  power. 
And  lay  the  summer's  dust  with  showers  of  blood, 
Rain'd  from  the  wounds  of  slaughter'd  Englishmen : 
The  which,  how  far  off  from  the  mind  of  Bolingbroke 
It  is  such  crimson  tempest  should  bedrench 
The  fresh  green  lap  of  fair  king  Richard's  land, 

'  Welcome,  Harry.     In  Steeveng,  who  followed  Hanmer,  we  must  put  up  with 
the  feeble  Well,  Horn/. 


Scene  III.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  447 

My  stooping  duty  tenderly  shall  show. 
Go,  signify  as  much ;  while  here  we  march 
Upon  the  grassy  carpet  of  this  plain. 

[North,  advances  to  the  castle  with  a  trumpet. 
Let 's  march  without  the  noise  of  threat'ning  drum. 
That  from  this  castle's  totter'd  »  battlements 
Our  fair  appointments  may  be  well  perus'd. 
Methinks,  king  Richard  and  myself  should  meet 
With  no  less  terror  than  the  elements 
Of  fire  and  water,  when  their  thund'ring  shock  *• 
At  meeting  tears  the  cloudy  cheeks  of  heaven. 
Be  he  the  fire,  P 11  be  the  yielding  water  : 
The  rage  be  his,  while  on  the  earth  I  rain 
My  waters  ;  on  the  earth,  and  not  on  him. 
March  on,  and  mark  king  Richard  how  he  looks. 

A  parle  sounded,  and  answered  by  another  trumpet  within. 
Flourish.  Enter  on  the  walls  King  Richard,  the  Bishop 
OF  Carlisle,  Aumerle,  Scroop,  and  Salisbury. 

York.  See,  see,  king  Richard  doth  himself  appear. 
As  doth  the  blushing  discontented  sun. 
From  out  the  fiery  portal  of  the  east ; 
When  he  perceives  the  envious  clouds  are  bent 
To  dim  his  glory,  and  to  stain  the  track 
Of  his  bright  passage  to  the  Occident.'^ 
Yet  looks  he  like  a  king ;  behold,  his  eye. 
As  bright  as  is  the  eagle's,  lightens  forth 
Controlling  majesty ;   Alack,  alack,  for  woe. 
That  any  harm  should  stain  so  fair  a  show  ! 

K.  Rich.  We  are  amaz'd ;  and  thus  long  have  we  stood 
To  watch  the  fearful  bending  of  thy  knee,  [To  North. 


"   Tottered,  for  tottering  ;  die  passive  for  the  active  participle. 

•■  Thundering  shock.  All  the  old  copies  read  smoke.  We  cannot  trace  how  thock 
has  been  substituted;  yet  we  feel  it  right  to  adopt  it.  The  passage  was  written  long 
before  the  properties  of  electricity  were  known ;  and  the  poet  attributes,  therefore, 
the  thundering  shock  which  "tears  the  cloudy  cheeks  of  heaven  "  to  the  meeting  of 
"the  elements  of  fire  and  water," — some  obscure  notion  of  the  days  of  conjectural 
science. 

<^  In  all  the  old  copies  the  first  six  lines  of  this  spe«ch  are  given  to  Bolingbroke. 


448  KING  RICHARD  11.  [Act  III. 

Because  we  thought  ourself  thy  lawful  king : 

And  if  we  be,  how  dare  thy  joints  forget 

To  pay  their  awful  duty  to  our  presence  ? 

If  we  be  not,  show  us  the  hand  of  God 

That  hath  dismiss'd  us  from  our  stewardship ; 

For  well  we  know,  no  hand  of  blood  and  bone 

Can  gripe  the  sacred  handle  of  our  sceptre, 

Unless  he  do  profane,  steal,  or  usurp. 

And  though  you  think  that  all,  as  you  have  done. 

Have  torn  their  souls,  by  turning  them  from  us. 

And  we  are  barren,  and  bereft  of  friends  ; 

Yet  know, — my  master,  God  omnipotent. 

Is  mustering  in  his  clouds,  on  our  behalf. 

Armies  of  pestilence ;  and  they  shall  strike 

Your  children  yet  unborn,  and  unbegot. 

That  lift  your  vassal  hands  against  my  head. 

And  threat  the  glory  of  my  precious  crown. 

Tell  Bolingbroke,  (for  yond',  methinks,  he  is,) 

That  every  stride  he  makes  upon  my  land 

Is  dangerous  treason  :  He  is  come  to  ope 

The  purple  testament  of  bleeding  war ;  * 

But  ere  the  crown  he  looks  for  live  in  peace. 

Ten  thousand  bloody  crowns  of  mothers'  sons 

Shall  ill  become  the  flower  of  England's  face  ; 

Change  the  complexion  of  her  maid-pale  peace 

To  scarlet  indignation,  and  bedew 

Her  pastures'  grass  with  faithful  English  blood. 

North.  The  king  of  heaven  forbid,  our  lord  the  king 
Should  so  with  civil  and  uncivil  arms 
Be  rush'd  upon !  Thy  thrice-noble  cousin, 
Harry  Bolingbroke,  doth  humbly  kiss  thy  hand ; 

•  There  ia  a  very  similar  line  in  the  first  part  of '  Jeronimo,'  a  play  which,  it  is 
supposed,  was  produced  in  1688  (see  Dodsley's  '  Old  Plays,'  edition  1825,  vol. 
iii.,  p.  51)  : — 

"  Then  I  unclasp  the  purple  leaves  of  war." 

Whiter  pointed  this  out  in  his  *  Specimen  of  a  Commentary,'  in  1794,  but  none 
of  the  editors  have  noticed  it.  Steevens  believed  that  Shakspere  here  used  the  word 
tettament  in  its  legal  sense.  Whiter  says,  "  Whatever  be  the  direct  meaning  of  the 
words  in  question,  I  am  persuaded  that  the  idea  of  a  book  with  a  purple  covering 
suggested  this  combination  of  words  to  the  mind  of  our  poet." 


Scene  III.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  449 

And  by  the  honourable  tomb  he  swears. 
That  stands  upon  your  royal  grandsire's  bones ;  * 
And  by  the  royalties  of  both  your  bloods. 
Currents  that  spring  from  one  most  gracious  head  ; 
And  by  the  buried  hand  of  warlike  Gaunt ; 
And  by  the  worth  and  honour  of  himself. 
Comprising  all  that  may  be  sworn  or  said, — 
His  coming  hither  hath  no  further  scope. 
Than  for  his  lineal  royalties,  and  to  beg 
Enfranchisement  immediate  on  his  knees  ; 
Which  on  thy  royal  party  granted  once. 
His  glittering  arms  he  will  commend  to  rust. 
His  barbed  steeds  to  stables,  and  his  heart 
To  faithful  service  of  your  majesty. 
This  swears  he,  as  he  is  a  prince,  is  just ; 
And,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  credit  him. 

K.  Rich.  Northumberland,  say, — thus  the  king  returns : — 
His  noble  cousin  is  right  welcome  hither ; 
And  all  the  number  of  his  fair  demands 
Shall  be  accomplish'd  without  contradiction  : 
With  all  the  gracious  utterance  thou  hast. 
Speak  to  his  gentle  hearing  kind  commends. — 
We  do  debase  ourself,  cousin,  do  we  not,  [To  Aumerle. 

To  look  so  poorly,  and  to  speak  so  fair  ? 
Shall  we  call  back  Northumberland,  and  send 
Defiance  to  the  traitor,  and  so  die  ? 

Aum.  No,  good  my  lord  ;  let 's  fight  with  gentle  words. 
Till  time  lend  friends,  and  friends  their  helpful  swords. 

K.  Rich.  O  God  !  O  God !   that  e'er  this  tongue  of  mine. 
That  laid  the  sentence  of  dread  banishment 
On  yon  proud  man,  should  take  it  off  again 
With  words  of  sooth !  *  O,  that  I  were  as  great 
As  is  my  grief,  or  lesser  than  my  name ! 
Or  that  I  could  forget  what  I  have  been  ! 
Or  not  remember  what  I  must  be  now ! 

"  Words  of  sooth — words  of  assent — assuaging,  soothing  words.  As  sooth,  in  its 
first  meaning,  is  true  or  truth  ;  so  to  soothe  is  to  receive  as  true ;  and  thence  to  assent, 
— and  further  to  propitiate. 

VoT..  IV.  2G 


450  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  III. 

Swell'st  thou,  proud  heart  ?     I  '11  give  thee  scope  to  beat. 

Since  foes  have  scope  to  beat  both  thee  and  me. 

Aum.  Northumberland  comes  back  from  Bolingbroke, 
K.  Rich.  What  must  the  king  do  now  ?  Must  he  submit  ? 

The  king  shall  do  it.     Must  he  be  depos'd  ? 

The  king  shall  be  contented  :  Must  he  lose 

The  name  of  king  ?  o'  God's  name,  let  it  go  : 

I  '11  give  my  jewels,  for  a  set  of  beads ; 

My  gorgeous  palace,  for  a  hermitage  ; 

My  gay  apparel,  for  an  alms-man's  gown  ; 

My  figur'd  goblets,  for  a  dish  of  wood ; 

My  sceptre,  for  a  palmer's  walking-staff; 

My  subjects,  for  a  pair  of  carved  saints  ; 

And  my  large  kingdom,  for  a  little  grave, 

A  little  little  grave,  an  obscure  grave : — 

Or  I  '11  be  buried  in  the  king's  highway. 

Some  way  of  common  trade,"  where  subjects'  feet 

May  hourly  trample  on  their  sovereign's  head : 

For  on  my  heart  they  tread,  now  whilst  I  live ; 

And,  buried  once,  why  not  upon  my  head  ? 

Aumerle,  thou  weep'st ;  My  tender-hearted  cousin  ! — 

We  '11  make  foul  weather  with  despised  tears ; 

Our  sighs,  and  they,  shall  lodge  the  summer  corn. 

And  make  a  dearth  in  this  revolting  land. 

Or  shall  we  play  the  wantons  with  our  woes. 

And  make  some  pretty  match  with  shedding  tears  ? 

As  thus ; — To  drop  them  still  upon  one  place. 

Till  they  have  fretted  us  a  pair  of  graves 

Within  the  earth  ;  and,  therein  laid, — "  There  lies 

Two  kinsmen,  digg'd  their  graves  with  weeping  eyes  ?  " 

Would  not  this  ill  do  well  ? — ^Well,  well,  I  see 

I  talk  but  idly,  and  you  mock  at  me. — 

Most  mighty  prince,  my  lord  Northumberland, 

•  Some  toay  <^  common  trade.  The  early  meddling  editors  changed  trade  into 
tread.  The  original  meai)ing  of  trade  is  a  course — a  path  traded  or  trodden  con- 
tinuously. The  trade-winds  are  not  winds  favourable  to  commerce,  but  winds 
blowing  in  a  regular  course.  Our  modem  usage  of  the  word  as  intercourse  for 
buying  and  selling  is  a  secondary  meaning  engrafted  upon  the  original  meaning  of 
habitual  course  or  practice. 


Scene  III.J  KING  RICHARD  II.  451 

What  says  king  Bolingbroke?  will  his  majesty 
Give  Richard  leave  to  live  till  Richard  die  ? 
You  make  a  leg,  and  Bolingbroke  says — ay. 

North.  My  lord,  in  the  base  court '  he  doth  attend 
To  speak  with  you  ;  may 't  please  you  to  come  down  ? 

K.  Rich.  Down,  dovni,  I  come  ;  like  glistering  Phaeton, 
Wanting  the  manage  of  unruly  jades. 

[North,  retires  to  Boling. 
In  the  base  court  ?  Base  court,  where  kings  grow  base. 
To  come  at  traitors'  calls,  and  do  them  grace. 
In  the  base  court  ?  Come  down  ?  Down  court !  down  king  ! 
For  night-owls  shriek,  where  mounting  larks  should  sing. 

[Exeunt/rom  above. 

Boling.  What  says  his  majesty  ? 

North.  Sorrow  and  grief  of  heart 

Makes  him  speak  fondly,  like  a  frantic  man : 
Yet  he  is  come. 

Enter  King  Richard,  and  his  Attendants  below. 

Boling.  Stand  all  apart. 
And  show  fair  duty  to  his  majesty. 


My  gracious  lord, —  [Kneeling. 

K.  Rich.  Fair  cousin,  you  debase  your  princely  knee. 
To  make  the  base  earth  proud  with  kissing  it : 
Me  rather  had  my  heart  might  feel  your  love. 
Than  my  unpleas'd  eye  see  your  courtesy. 
Up,  cousin,  up  ;  your  heart  is  up,  I  know. 
Thus  high  at  least,    [touching  his  own  head]    although  your 
knee  be  low. 

Boling.  My  gracious  lord,  I  come  but  for  mine  own. 

K.  Rich.  Your  own  is  yours,  and  I  am  yours,  and  all. 

Boling.  So  far  be  mine,  my  most  redoubted  lord. 
As  my  true  service  shall  deserve  your  love. 

K.  Rich.  Well  you  deserve : — They  well  deserve  to  have 
That  know  the  strong'st  and  surest  way  to  get. 
Uncle,  give  me  your  hand :  nay,  dry  your  eyes ; 
Tears  show  their  love,  but  want  their  remedies. — 

»  Bate  court — lower  court — bas  cow. 

2  G  2 


452  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  III. 

Cousin,  I  am  too  young  to  be  your  father. 
Though  you  are  old  enough  to  be  my  heir. 
What  you  will  have,  I  '11  give,  and  willing  too ; 
For  do  we  must  what  force  will  have  us  do. — 
Set  on  towards  London : — Cousin,  is  it  so  ? 

Baling .  Yea,  my  good  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Then  I  must  not  say  no. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Langley.      The  Duke  of  York's  Garden. 
Enter  the  Queen  and  two  Ladies. 

Queen.  What  sport  shall  we  devise  here  in  this  garden,  . 
To  drive  away  the  heavy  thought  of  care  ? 

1  Lady.  Madam,  we  '11  play  at  bowls. 

Queen.  'T  will  make  me  think  the  world  is  full  of  rubs. 
And  that  my  fortune  runs  'gainst  the  bias. 

1  Lady.  Madam^  we'll  dance. 

Queen.  My  legs  can  keep  no  measure  in  delight. 
When  my  poor  heart  no  measure  keeps  in  grief: 
Therefore,  no  dancing,  girl ;  some  other  sport. 

1  Lady.  Madam,  we  '11  tell  tales. 

Queen.  Of  sorrow,  or  of  joy  ?• 

1  Lady.  Of  either,  madam. 

Queen.  Of  neither,  girl : 

For  if  of  joy,  being  altogether  wanting. 
It  doth  remember  me  the  more  of  sorrow  ; 
Or  if  of  grief,  being  altogether  had. 
It  adds  more  sorrow  to  my  want  of  joy : 
For  what  I  have,  I  need  not  to  repeat ; 
And  what  I  want,  it  boots  not  to  complain. 

1  Lady.  Madam,  I  '11  sing. 

Queen.  'T  is  well  that  thou  hast  cause ; 

But  thou  shouldst  please  me  better  wouldst  thou  weep. 

1  Lady.  I  could  weep,  madam,  would  it  do  you  good. 

Queen.  And  I  could  sing,^  would  weeping  do  me  good, 

■  Oftorrow  or  of  joy  ?  All  the  old  copies  read  of  sorrow  or  of  grief,  which  the 
context  clearly  shows  to  be  an  error.     It  was  corrected  by  Pope. 

*>  And  J  could  sing.  Thus  all  the  old  copies ;  but  Pope,  having  corrected  the 
error  just  above,  was  satisfied  that  another  error  existed,  and  changed  sing  to  weep. 


Scene  IV.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  453 

And  never  borrow  any  tear  of  thee. 
But  stay,  here  come  the  gardeners : 
Let 's  step  into  the  shadow  of  these  trees. — 

Enter  a  Grardener  and  two  Servants. 

My  wretchedness  unto  a  row  of  pins. 

They  '11  talk  of  state  :  for  every  one  doth  so 

Against  a  change :  Woe  is  forerun  with  woe. 

[Queen  and  Ladies  retire. 

Gard.  Go,  bind  thou  up  yon'  dangling  apricocks,* 
Which,  like  unruly  children,  make  their  sire 
Stoop  with  oppression  of  their  prodigal  weight : 
Give  some  supportance  to  the  bending  twigs. 
Go  thou,  and,  like  an  executioner. 
Cut  off  the  heads  of  too-fast-growing  sprays. 
That  look  too  lofty  in  our  commonwealth  : 
All  must  be  even  in  our  government. 
You  thus  employ'd,  I  will  go  root  away 
The  noisome  weeds,  that  without  profit  suck 
The  soil's  fertility  from  wholesome  flowers. 

1  Serv.  Why  should  we,  in  the  compass  of  a  pale. 
Keep  law,  and  form,  and  due  proportion. 
Showing,  as  in  a  model,  our  firm  estate  ? 
When  our  sea-walled  garden,  the  whole  laud. 
Is  full  of  weeds ;  her  fairest  flowers  chok'd  up. 
Her  fruit-trees  all  unprun'd,  her  hedges  ruin'd. 

This  reading  has  been  adopted  in  all  subsequent  editions.  We  believe  that  the 
original  was  right,  and  that  the  sense  of  the  passage  was  mistaken.  The  queen,  who 
speaks  constantly  of  her  sorrow,  it  may  be  presumed  does  weep,  or  has  been  weeping. 
The  lady  offers  to  sing,  but  the  queen  desires  sympathy : — "  Thou  shouldst  please 
me  better  wouldst  thou  weep."  The  lady  could  weep,  "  would  it  do  you  good." 
The  queen  rejoins, 

"  And  I  could  sing,  would  weeping  do  me  good." 
If  my  griefs  were  removed  by  weeping, — if  my  tears  could  take  away  my  sorrow, — ^I 
should  be  ready  to  sing, — I  could  sing,  and  then,  my  sorrows  being  past,  I  would 
"  never  borrow  any  tear  of  thee," — not  ask  thee  to  weep,  as  I  did  just  now. 

*  Apricocks.  Our  modem  apricot  is  from  the  French  abricot.  But  the  name 
came  with  the  fruit  from  Persia — bricoc;  and  we  probably  derived  it  from  the 
Italian.  Florio,  in  his  '  New  World  of  Words,'  has  "  Berricocoli — Apricock- 
plumbes." 


454  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  III. 

Her  knots  disorder'd,"  and  her  wholesome  herbs 
Swarming  with  caterpillars? 

Gard.  Hold  thy  peace  :— 

He  that  hath  suiFer'd  this  disorder'd  spring 
Hath  now  himself  met  with  the  fall  of  leaf: 
The  weeds,  that  his  broad-spreading  leaves  did  shelter. 
That  seem'd  in  eating  him  to  hold  him  up. 
Are  pluck'd  up,  root  and  all,  by  Bolingbroke ; 
I  mean  the  earl  of  Wiltshire,  Bushy,  Green. 

1  Serv.  What,  are  they  dead? 

Gard.  They  are ; 

And  Bolingbroke  hath  seiz'd  the  wasteful  king. — 
Oh !  what  pity  is  it. 

That  he  had  not  so  trimm'd  an^  dress'd  his  land. 
As  we  this  garden  !     We  ^  at  time  of  year 
Do  wound  the  bark,  the  skin  of  our  fruit-trees  ; 
Lest,  being  over-proud  with  sap  and  blood. 
With  too  much  riches  it  confound  itself: 
Had  he  done  so  to  great  and  growing  men. 
They  might  have  liv'd  to  bear,  and  he  to  taste. 
Their  fruits  of  duty.     Superfluous  branches 
We  lop  away,  that  bearing  boughs  may  live  : 
Had  he  done  so,  himself  had  borne  the  crown. 
Which  waste  and  idle  hours  hath  quite  thrown  down. 

1  Serv.  What,  think  you  then,  the  king  shall  be  depos'd  ? 

Gard.  Depress'd  he  is  already ;  and  depos'd, 
'T  is  doubt,  he  will  be  :  Letters  came  last  night 
To  a  dear  friend  of  the  good  duke  of  York's, 
That  tell  black  tidings. 

Queen.  O,  I  am  press'd  to  death  through  want  of  speak' 
ing!— 
Thou,  old  Adam's  likeness,  [coming  from  her  concealment] 
set  to  dress  this  garden, 

»  Knott  di»order'd.  The  symmetrical  beds  of  a  garden  were  the  knots.  (See 
'  Love's  Labour's  Lost,'  Illustrations  of  Act  I.) 

^  JVe  is  not  in  the  original  copies;  but  it  renders  the  construction  less  ambiguous. 
The  metrical  arrangement  is  confused  in  the  old  copies ;  but  we  adhere  to  the 
original  as  much  as  possible, 


Scene  IV.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  455 

How  (lares  thy  harsh-rude  tongue  sound  this  unpleasing 

news? 
What  Eve,  what  serpent  hath  suggested  thee 
To  make  a  second  fall  of  cursed  man  ? 
Why  dost  thou  say  king  Richard  is  depos'd  ? 
Dar'st  thou,  thou  little  better  thing  than  earth. 
Divine  his  downfall  ?     Say  where,  when,  and  how 
Cam'st  thou  by  these  ill-tidings  ?  speak,  thou  wretch. 

Gard.  Pardon  me,  madam :  little  joy  have  I 
To  breathe  these  news  :  yet  what  I  say  is  true. 
King  Richard,  he  is  in  the  mighty  hold 
Of  Bolingbroke  ;  their  fortunes  both  are  weigh'd  : 
In  your  lord's  scale  is  nothing  but  himself. 
And  some  few  vanities  that  make  him  light ; 
But  in  the  balance  of  great  Bolingbroke, 
Besides  himself,  are  all  the  English  peers. 
And  with  that  odds  he  weighs  king  Richard  down. 
Post  you  to  London,  and  you  '11  find  it  so  : 
I  speak  no  more  than  every  one  doth  know. 

Queen.  Nimble  mischance,  that  art  so  light  of  foot. 
Doth  not  thy  embassage  belong  to  me. 
And  am  I  last  that  knows  it  ?     O,  thou  think'st 
To  serve  me  last,  that  I  may  longest  keep 
Thy  sorrow  in  my  breast.     Come,  ladies,  go. 
To  meet  at  London  London's  king  in  woe. 
What,  was  I  bom  to  this  !  that  my  sad  look 
Should  grace  the  triumph  of  great  Bolingbroke  ? 
Gardener,  for  telling  me  this  news  of  woe, 
I  would  the  plants  thou  graft'st  may  never  grow. 

\^Exeunt  Queen  and  Ladies. 

Gard.  Poor  queen  !  so  that  thy  state  might  be  no  worse,, 
I  would  my  skill  were  subject  to  thy  curse. — 
Here  did  she  drop  a  tear ;  here,  in  this  place, 
I  '11  set  a  bank  of  rue,  sour  herb  of  grace  : 
Rue,  even  for  ruth,  here  shortly  shall  be  seen. 
In  the  remembrance  of  a  weeping  queen.  [Exeunt. 


456 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  III. 


ILLUSTRATIONS     OF     ACT    I IL 


'  Scene  II. — 


"  There  the  antic  sits, 


Scoffing  his  state,  and  grinning  at  hispomp.''^ 

We  have  given  a  fac-simile  from  the  seventh  in  the  fine  series  of  woodcuts  called 
Imagines  mortis,  improperly  attributed  to  Holbein.  It  is  a  wonderful  composition  ; 
and  it  is  by  no  means  improbable,  as  suggested  by  Douce,  that  the  engraving  fur- 
nished Shakspere  with  the  hint  of  these  splendid  lines. 

*  Scene  III. — "  By  the  honourable  tomb  he  swears, 

That  stands  upon  your  royal  grandsire's  bones.''' 

The  reverence  in  which  the  memory  of  this  illustrious  king  was  held  by  his  de- 
scendants, and  by  the  people,  made  this  oath  of  peculiar  solemnity.  And  yet  Bo- 
lingbroke  violated  it  in  an  oath-breaking  age. 


KING  RICHARD  II.  457 


HISTORICAL     ILLUSTRATION. 


We  have  hitherto  traced  the  course  of  eveuta  in  Shakgpere's  History  of '  Richard  II.' 
by  the  aid  of  the  Chronicles.  Froissart  was  a  contemporary  of  Richard ;  and  in 
the  days  of  the  king's  prosperity  had  presented  him  with  a  book  "  fair  enlumined 
and  written,"  of  which  when  the  king  demanded  whereof  it  treated,  the  maker  of  his- 
tories "  showed  him  how  it  treated  matters  of  love,  whereof  the  king  was  glad,  and 
looked  in  it,  and  read  it  in  many  places,  for  he  could  speak  and  read  French  very 
well."  Holinshed  was,  in  another  sense,  a  "  maker  of  hislories."  He  compiled,  and 
that  admirably  well,  from  those  who  had  written  before  him ;  and  he  was  properly 
Shakspere's  great  authority  for  the  incidents  which  he  dramatised.  But  we  have 
now  to  turn  to  one  of  the  most  remarkable  documents  that  afford  materials  for  the 
history  of  any  period — the  narrative  of  an  eye-witness  of  what  took  place  from  the 
period  when  Richard,  being  in  Ireland,  received  the  news  of  Bolingbroke's  landing, 
to  the  time  when  the  king  was  utterly  prostrate  at  the  feet  of  the  man  whom  he  had 
bani^ed  and  plundered.  All  the  historians  have  been  greatly  indebted  to  this 
narrative.  It  is  entitled  '  Histoire  du  Roy  d'Angleterre  Richard,  Traictant  par- 
ticulierement  la  Rebellion  de  ses  subiectz  et  prinse  de  sa  personne.  Composee 
par  un  gentlehom'e  Francois  de  marque,  qui  fut  a  la  suite  du  diet  Roy,  avecq  per- 
mission du  Roy  de  France,  1399.'  The  most  beautiful,  and,  apparently,  the 
earliest  copy  of  this  manuscript  is  in  the  British  Museum.  It  contains  sixteen 
illuminations,  in  which  the  identity  of  the  portraits  and  of  the  costume  is  pre- 
served throughout.  It  appears  to  have  been  the  property  of  Charles  of  Anjou, 
Count  of  Maine,  and  formed  part  of  the  Harleian  collection.  Another  manuscript 
of  the  same  history,  which  is  in  the  library  at  Lambeth,  was  that  consulted  and 
quoted  by  the  early  historians,  and  it  is  called,  by  Holinshed,  '  A  French  Pam- 
phlet that  belongeth  to  Master  John  Dee :"  the  name  of  John  Dee,  with  the  date 
1575,  appears  in  the  last  leaf.  The  author  of  the  'Metrical  History'  informs  us,  in 
his  title,  that  he  was  "  Un  gentilhom'e  Francois  de  marque  ;"  and,  when  brought 
before  Bolingbroke,  the  writer  says  of  himself  and  his  companion,  "  The  herald 
told  him,  in  the  English  language,  that  we  were  of  France,  and  that  the  king  had 
sent  us  with  King  Richard  into  Ireland  for  recreation,  and  to  see  the  country.'' 
This  manuscript  has  been  re- published  in  the  twentieth  volume  of  the  '  Archaeologia,' 
with  a  most  admirable  translation,  and  notes  alike  distinguished  for  their  learning 
and  good  sense,  by  the  Rev.  John  Webb. 

The  author  of  the  '  Metrical  History,'  with  his  companion,  "  in  the  year  one 
thousand  and  four  hundred  save  one,  quitted  Paris,  fiiU  of  joy ;"  and,  travelling 
late  and  early,  reached  London.  He  found  that  Richard  had  set  out,  anxious  to 
journey  day  and  night  He  followed  him  to  Milford  Haven,  where  "  he  waited 
ten  days  for  the  north  wind,  and  passed  his  time  pleasantly  amidst  trumpets  and 
the  sounds  of  minstrelsy."  The  king  had  proceeded  to  Waterford,  whither  the 
French  knight  at  length  followed  him.  Six  days  afterwards  the  king  took  the 
field,  with  the  English,  for  Kilkenny,  whence  after  a  fortnight's  delay,  he  marched 
directly  towards  Macmore  (the  Irish  chieftain)  into  the  depths  of  the  deserts,  who, 
with  his  wild  men — Shakspere's  "  rough,  rug-headed  kerns" — defied  England  and 
its  power.  The  usual  accompaniment  of  war  was  not  wanting  on  this  occasion : — 
'•  Orders  were  given  by  the  king  that  everything  should  be  set  fire  to."  Neither 
were  the  pageantries  of  chivalry, — the  gilding  of  the  horrors, — absent  from  this  ex- 
pedition. Henry  of  Monmouth,  the  son  of  Bolingbroke,  being  then  eleven  years 
old,  was  with  the  king;  and  Richard  knighted  him    making,  at  the  same  time, 


458  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  III. 

eight  or  ten  other  knighta.  The  English  army  appears  to  have  suffered  greatly 
from  the  want  of  provisions.  A  negotiation  took  place  with  Macmore,  which 
ended  in  nothing.  The  king's  face  grew  pale  with  anger,  and  he  sware,  in  great 
wrath,  by  St.  Edward,  that  no,  never,  would  he  depart  from  Ireland  till,  alive  or 
dead,  he  had  Macmore  in  his  power.  The  want  of  provisions  dislodged  the  army 
and  drove  them  to  Dublin,  where,  for  six  weeks,  they  lived  "  easy  of  body  as  fish 
in  Seine."  No  news  came  from  England.  The  winds  were  contrary.  At  last, 
"  a  barge  arrived  which  was  the  occasion  of  much  sorrow."  Those  who  came  in 
her  related  to  the  king  how  Scrope  was  beheaded  by  Bolingbroke — how  the  jjeople 
had  been  stirred  to  insurrection — how  the  invader  had  taken  towns  and  castles  for 
his  own.  "  It  seemed  to  me,"  says  the  French  knight,  "  that  the  king's  face  at 
this  turned  pale  with  anger,  while  he  said,  *  Come  hither,  friends.  Good  Lord, 
this  man  designs  to  deprive  me  of  my  country.'  "  Richard  consulted  his  council 
on  a  Saturday,  and  tiiey  agreed  to  put  to  sea  on  the  next  Monday.  The  king, 
however,  according  to  this  writer,  was  deceived  and  betrayed  by  Aumerle,  who 
persuaded  him  to  remain  himself,  and  send  Salisbury  to  raise  the  Welsh  against 
Bolingbroke.  The  French  knight  and  his  companion  departed  with  Salisbury,  and 
lauded  at  Conway.  Salisbury  raised,  it  seems,  forty  thousand  men  within  four 
days.  The  earl  kept  them  in  the  field  a  fortnight;  but  they  then  deserted  him,  as 
Shakspere  has  represented,  because  they  heard  "  no  tidings  from  the  king."  He 
•'  tarried  eighteen  days,"  says  the  French  knight,  "  after  our  departure  from  Ire- 
land.    It  was  very  great  folly." 

The  '  Metrical  History'  now  proceeds  to  the  events  which  followed  the  landing  of 
Richard  upon  the  Welsh  coast.  "  He  did  not  stop  there,"  says  the  history,  "  consi- 
dering the  distress,  complaints,  and  lamentations  of  the  poor  people,  and  the  mortal 
alarm  of  all.  Then  he  resolved  that,  without  saying  a  word,  he  would  set  out  at 
midnight  from  his  host,  attended  by  a  few  persons,  for  he  would  on  no  account  be 
discovered.    In  that  place  he  clad  himself  in  another  garb,  like  a  poor  priest  of  the 

Minors  (Franciscans),  for  the  fear  that  he  had  of  being  known  of  his  foes 

Thus  the  king  set  out  that  very  night,  with  only  thirteen  others,  and  arrived,  by 
break  of  day,  at  Conway."  He  here  met  Salisbury.  "  At  the  meeting  of  the  king 
and  the  earl,  instead  of  joy  there  was  very  great  sorrow.  Tears,  lamentations,  sighs, 
groans,  and  mourning,  quickly  broke  forth.  Truly  it  was  a  piteous  sight  to  behold 
their  looks  and  countenances,  and  woeful  meeting.  The  earl's  face  was  pale  with 
watching.  He  related  to  the  king  his  bard  fate."  Aumerle,  the  constable,  accord- 
ing to  this  writer,  basely  went  off  with  the  king's  men — his  last  hope.  "  The  king 
continued  all  sorrowful  at  Conway,  where  he  had  no  more  with  them  than  two  or 

three  of  his  intimate  friends,  sad  and  distressed Reckoning  nobles  and  other 

persons,  we  were  but  sixteen  in  all."  From  Conway  they  went  to  Beaumaris,  and 
thence  to  Carnarvon.  "  In  his  castles,  to  which  he  retired,  there  was  no  furniture, 
nor  had  he  anything  to  lie  down  upon  but  straw.  Really,  he  lay  in  this  manner  for 
four  or  six  nights ;  for,  in  truth,  not  a  farthings  worth  of  victuals  or  anything  else 
was  to  be  found  in  them."  In  consequence  of  this  poverty  the  king  returned  to 
Conway.  The  '  Metrical  History'  then  details,  at  considerable  length,  and  with  great 
spirit  and  circumstantiality,  the  remarkable  incident  of  Northumberland  entrapping 
Richard  to  leave  Conway,  so  that  he  might  convey  him  as  his  prisoner  to  Flint 
Castle.  "  This  is  one  of  the  instances,"  says  Mr.  Courtenay  (•  Shakspeare's  Historical 
Plays  considered  Historically'),  "  in  which  a  more  minute  knowledge  of  history 
might  have  furnished  Shakspere  with  some  good  scenes  and  further  discriminations 
of  character."  One  would  suppose,  from  this  remark,  that  the  account  of  the  meet- 
ing between  Northumberland  and  the  king  at  Conway,  and  the  king's  agreement, 
upon  Northumberland's  assurances  of  safety,  to  go  with  him  to  Flint,  was  unre- 


KING  RICHARD  II.  459 

corded  by  the  chronicler  whom  Shakspere  is  known  to  have  consulted.  Holinshed 
relates  this  affair  with  great  distinctness;  and  he  moreover  gives  an  account  of  the 
ambush  described  by  the  French  knight.  We  must,  therefore,  conclude  that  Shak- 
spere  knew  his  own  business  as  a  dramatist  in  the  omission  of  the  scene.  The  pass- 
age is  also  given  very  fully  in  Stow  ;  and  is  versified  by  Daniel  in  his  '  Civil  Warres.' 
"  In  the  castle  of  Flint,"  says  the  '  Metrical  History,'  "  King  Richard  awaited  the 
coming  of  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  who  set  out  from  the  city  of  Chester  on  Tuesday, 
the  22nd  of  August,  with  the  whole  of  his  force."  King  Richard,  "  having  heard 
mass,  went  up  upon  the  walls  of  the  castle,  which  are  large  and  wide  in  the  inside, 
beholding  the  Duke  of  Lancaster  as  he  came  along  the  sea-shore  with  all  his  host," 
Messengers  came  from  Henry  to  Richard,  and  an  interview  took  place  between 
them.  Shakspere  has  made  Northumberland  the  negotiator  on  this  occasion,  as  he 
really  was  at  Conway.  "  The  king  went  up  again  upon  the  walls,  and  saw  that  the 
army  was  two  bowshots  from  the  castle;  then  he,  together  with  those  that  were  with 
him,  began  anew  great  lamentation."  At  length  Lancaster  entered  the  castle. 
"  Then  they  made  the  king,  who  had  dined  in  the  donjon,  come  down  to  meet  Duke 
Henry,  who,  as  soon  as  he  perceived  him  at  a  distance,  bowed  very  low  to  the 
ground ;  and  as  they  approached  each  other,  he  bowed  a  second  time,  with  his  cap 
in  his  hand  ;  and  then  the  king  took  off  his  bonnet,  and  spake  first  in  this  manner: 
'  Fair  cousin  of  Lancaster,  you  be  right  welcome.'  Then  Duke  Henry  replied, 
bowing  very  low  to  the  ground,  '  My  lord,  I  am  come  sooner  than  you  sent  for  me  : 
the  reason  wherefore  I  will  tell  you.  The  common  report  of  your  people  is  such, 
that  you  have,  for  the  space  of  twenty  or  two-and-twenty  years,  governed  them  very 
badly  and  very  rigorously,  and  in  so  much  that  they  are  not  well  contented  there- 
with. But  if  it  please  our  Lord,  I  will  help  you  to  govern  them  better  than  they 
have  been  governed  in  time  past.'  King  Richard  then  answered  him,  '  Fair  cousin, 
since  it  pleaseth  you,  it  pleaseth  us  well.'  And  be  assured  that  these  are  the  very 
words  that  they  two  spake  together,  without  taking  away  or  adding  anything :  for 
I  heard  and  understood  them  very  well."  This  version  of  the  remarkable  dialogue 
between  Bolingbroke  and  Richard  is  not  given  by  Holinshed,  although  he  quotes 
all  the  substance  of  what  had  previously  taken  place  between  Northumberland  and 
Richard  "  out  of  Master  Dee's  book."  Holinshed  thus  describes  the  interview  : — 
"  Forthwith,  as  the  duke  got  sight  of  the  king,  he  showed  a  reverend  duty,  as  be- 
came him,  in  bowing  his, knee;  and,  coming  forward,  did  so  likewise  the  second  and 
third  time,  till  the  king  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  lift  him  up,  saying,  '  Dear  cou- 
sin, ye  are  welcome.'  The  duke,  humbly  thanking  him,  said,  '  My  sovereign  lord 
and  king,  the  cause  of  my  coming  at  this  present  is  (your  honour  saved)  to  have 
again  restitution  of  my  person,  my  lands,  and  heritage,  through  your  favourable 
licence.'  The  king  hereunto  answered,  '  Dear  cousin,  I  am  ready  to  accomplish 
your  will,  so  that  ye  may  enjoy  all  that  is  yours,  without  exception.' "  Shak- 
spere's  version  of  the  scene  appears  to  lie  between  the  two  extremes  of  Bolingbroke's 
defiance,  as  recorded  by  the  French  knight  and  copied  by  Stow,  and  of  his  assumed 
humility,  as  described  by  Holinshed. 


460  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  IV. 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I. — London.  Westminster  Hall.  The  Lords  spi- 
ritual on  the  right  side  of  the  throne ;  the  Lords  temporal 
on  the  left ;  the  Commons  below. 

Enter  Bolingbroke,  Aumerle,  Surrey,  Northumber- 
land, Percy,  Fitzwater,  another  Lord,  Bishop  of 
Carlisle,  Abbot  of  Westminster,  and  Attendants. 
Officers  behind  with  Bagot. 

Baling.  Call  forth  Bagot. 
Now,  Bagot,  freely  speak  thy  mind ; 
What  thou  dost  know  of  noble  Gloster's  death  ; 
Who  wrought  it  with  the  king,  and  who  perform'd 
The  bloody  office  of  his  timeless'  end. 

Bagot.  Then  set  before  my  face  the  lord  Aumerle. 

Baling.  Cousin,  stand  forth,  and  look  upon  that  man. 

Bagot.  My  lord  Aumerle,  I  know  your  daring  tongue 
Scorns  to  unsay  what  it  hath  once  deliver'd. 
In  that  dead  time  when  Gloster's  death  was  plotted, 
I  heard  you  say, — Is  not  my  arm  of  length. 
That  reacheth  from  the  restful  English  court 
As  far  as  Calais,  to  my  uncle's  head  ? — 
Amongst  much  other  talk,  that  very  time, 
I  heard  you  say,  that  you  had  rather  refuse 
The  offer  of  an  hundred  thousand  crowns. 
Than  Bolingbroke's  return  to  England ; 
Adding  withal,  how  bless'd  this  land  would  be 
In  this  your  cousin's  death. 

Aum.  Princes,  and  noble  lords. 

What  answer  shall  I  make  to  this  base  man  ? 
Shall  I  so  much  dishonour  my  fair  stars. 
On  equal  terms  to  give  him  chastisement  ? 
Either  I  must,  or  have  mine  honour  soil'd 

*  TttneUu — untimely. 


Scene  I.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  461 

With  the  attainder  of  his  sland'rous  lips. 
There  is  my  gage,  the  manual  seal  of  death. 
That  marks  thee  out  for  hell :  I  say,  thou  liest. 
And  will  maintain  what  thou  hast  said  is  false. 
In  thy  heart-blood,  though  being  all  too  base 
To  stain  the  temper  of  my  knightly  sword. 

Boling.  Bagot,  forbear,  thou  shalt  not  take  it  up. 

Aum.  Excepting  one,  I  would  he  were  the  best 
In  all  this  presence,  that  hath  mov'd  me  so. 

Fitz.  If  that  thy  valour  stand  on  sympathies," 
There  is  my  gage,  Aumerle,  in  gage  to  thine : 
By  that  fair  sun  that  shows  me  where  thou  stand'st, 
I  heard  thee  say,  and  vauntingly  thou  spak'st  it. 
That  thou  wert  cause  of  noble  Gloster's  death. 
If  thou  deny'st  it,  twenty  times  thou  liest ; 
And  I  will  turn  thy  falsehood  to  thy  heart. 
Where  it  was  forged,  with  my  rapier's  point.** 

Aum.  Thou  dar'st  not,  coward,  live  to  see  the  day. 

Fitz.  Now,  by  my  soul,  I  would  it  were  this  hour. 

Aum.  Fitzwater,  thou  art  damn'd  to  hell  for  this. 

Percy.  Aumerle,  thou  liest ;  his  honour  is  as  true. 
In  this  appeal,  as  thou  art  all  unjust : 
And,  that  thou  art  so,  there  I  throw  my  gage. 
To  prove  it  on  thee  to  the  extremest  point 
Of  mortal  breathing  ;  seize  it,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Aum.  And  if  I  do  not,  may  my  hands  rot  off. 
And  never  brandish  more  revengeful  steel 
Over  the  glittering  helmet  of  my  foe ! 

[Lord.  I  task  the  earth  <=  to  the  like,  forsworn  Aumerle ; 

^  Sympathies.  Sympathy  is,  passion  with, — mutual  passion.  Aumerle  thinks 
that  to  accept  the  challenge  of  Bagot  would  dishonour  his  "fair  stars:"  the  stars 
that  presided  over  his  birth  made  him  Bagot's  superior.  Fitzwater,  who  is  his  equal 
in  blood,  throws  down  his  gage  with  the  retort, 

"  If  that  thy  valour  stand  on  sympathies.' 

*"  Rapier's  point.  The  rapier  was  a  weapon  not  known  in  the  time  of  Richard. 
This  is  an  anachronism  which  the  commentators  dwell  on,  but  which  is  justified 
upon  the  principle  of  employing  terms  which  were  familiar  to  an  audience. 

"  Task  the  earth.  This  is  the  reading  of  the  first  quarto.  The  subsequent  edi- 
tions read  take.  When  the  lord  threw  down  his  gage,  he  tasked  the  earth,  in  the 
same  way  that  Percy  had  done  by  throwing  down  his  gage.  Johnson  would  read 
thy  oath  instead  of  the  earth.     Whiter,  although  he  does  not  suppose  that  there  was 


462  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  IV. 

And  spur  tliee  on  with  full  as  many  lies 
As  may  be  hoUa'd  in  thy  treacherous  ear 
From  sun  to  sun : '  there  is  my  honour's  pawn ; 
Engage  it  to  the  trial,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Aum.  Who  sets  me  else  ?  by  heaven,  I  '11  throw  at  all : 
I  have  a  thousand  spirits  in  one  breast. 
To  answer  twenty  thousand  such  as  you.]  ^ 

Surrey.  My  lord  Fitzwater,  I  do  remember  well 
The  very  time  Aumerle  and  you  did  talk. 

Fitz.  'T  is  very  true  :'^  you  were  in  presence  then  ; 
And  you  can  witness  with  me,  this  is  true. 

Surrey.  As  false,  by  heaven,  as  heaven  itself  is  true. 

Fitz.  Surrey,  thou  liest. 

Surrey.  Dishonourable  boy ! 

That  lie  shall  lie  so  heavy  on  my  sword. 
That  it  shall  render  vengeance  and  revenge. 
Till  thou  the  lie-giver,  and  that  lie,  do  lie 
In  earth  as  quiet  as  thy  father's  skull. 
In  proof  whereof,  there  is  my  honour's  pawn ; 
Engage  it  to  the  trial,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Fitz.  How  fondly  dost  thou  spur  a  forward  horse ! 
If  I  dare  eat,  or  drink,  or  breathe,  or  live, 
I  dare  meet  Surrey  in  a  wilderness. 
And  spit  upon  him,  whilst  I  say,  he  lies. 
And  lies,  and  lies  :  there  is  my  bond  of  faith. 
To  tie  thee  to  my  strong  correction. 
As  I  intend  to  thrive  in  this  new  world, 
Aumerle  is  guilty  of  my  true  appeal : 
Besides,  I  heard  the  banish'd  Norfolk  say 
That  thou,  Aumerle,  didst  send  two  of  thy  men 
To  execute  the  noble  duke  at  Calais. 

a  connexion  between  an  oath  and  the  earth,  when  the  gage  was  thrown — or  as  War- 
ner has  it  in  his  '  Albion's  England,'  when  the  glove  was  "  terr'd" — yet  points  at  an 
etymological  affinity  between  the  Gothic  aith  (juramentum)  and  airtha  (terra). 

*  From  sun  to  sun.  The  old  copies  read  from  sin  to  sin.  The  time  appointed  for 
the  combats  of  chivalry  was  betwixt  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun.  Shakspere,  in 
'  Cymbeline,'  uses  the  phrase  in  this  sense. 

*>  The  challenge  of  the  anonymous  lord  to  Aumerle,  and  his  answer  (eight  lines 
in  brackets),  are  omitted  in  the  folio. 

"  'T  is  very  true.  So  the  quarto  of  1597.  The  folio  reads,  "  My  lord,  V  is  very 
trut.'''' 


Scene  I.]  KING  RICHARD  11.  46^3 

Aum.  Some  honest  Christian  trust  me  with  a  gage. 
That  Norfolk  lies  :  here  do  I  throw  down  this. 
If  he  may  be  repeal'd  to  try  his  honour. 

Baling.  These  differences  shall  all  rest  under  gage. 
Till  Norfolk  be  repeal'd  :  repeal'd  he  shall  be. 
And,  though  mine  enemy,  restor'd  again 
To  all  his  land  and  seignories ;  when  he  's  return'd. 
Against  Aumerle  we  will  enforce  his  trial. 

Car.  That  honourable  day  shall  ne'er  be  seen. 
Many  a  time  hath  banish'd  Norfolk  fought 
For  Jesu  Christ ;  in  glorious  Christian  field 
Streaming  the  ensign  of  the  Christian  cross. 
Against  black  pagans,  Turks,  and  Saracens  : 
And,  toil'd  with  works  of  war,  retir'd  himself 
To  Italy  ;  and  there,  at  Venice,  gave 
His  body  to  that  pleasant  country's  earth,' 
And  his  pure  soul  unto  his  captain  Christ, 
Under  whose  colours  he  had  fought  so  long. 

Boling.  Why,  bishop,  is  Norfolk  dead  ? 

Car.  As  sure  as  I  live,  my  lord. 

Boling.  Sweet  peace  condiTCt  his  sweet  soul  to  the  bosom 
Of  good  old  Abraham ! — Lords  appellants,  ^ 

Your  differences  shall  all  rest  under  gage. 
Till  we  assign  you  to  your  days  of  trial. 

Enter  York,  attended. 

York.  Great  duke  of  Lancaster,  I  come  to  thee 
From  plume-pluck'd  Richard ;  who  with  willing  soul 
Adopts  thee  heir,  and  his  high  sceptre  yields 
To  the  possession  of  thy  royal  hand  : 
Ascend  his  throne,  descending  now  from  him, — 
And  long  live  Henry,  of  that  name  the  fourth ! 

Boling.  In  God's  name,  I  '11  ascend  the  regal  throne. 

Car.  Marry,  Heaven  forbid ! — 
Worst  in  this  royal  presence  may  I  speak. 
Yet  best  beseeming  me  to  speak  the  truth. 
Would  God,  that  any  in  this  noble  presence 
Were  enough  noble  to  be  upright  judge 


464  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  IV. 

Of  noble  Richard  ;  then  true  nobleness  '  would 

Learn  him  forbearance  from  so  foul  a  wrong. 

What  subject  can  give  sentence  on  his  king  ? 

And  who  sits  here  that  is  not  Richard's  subject  ? 

Thieves  are  not  judg'd  but  they  are  by  to  hear. 

Although  apparent  guilt  be  seen  in  them  : 

And  shall  the  figure  of  God's  majesty. 

His  captain,  steward,  deputy  elect. 

Anointed,  crowned,  planted  many  years. 

Be  judg'd  by  subject  and  inferior  breath. 

And  he  himself  not  present  ?     O,  forfend  ^  it,  God, 

That,  in  a  Christian  climate,  souls  refin'd 

Should  show  so  heinous,  black,  obscene  a  deed ! 

I  speak  to  subjects,  and  a  subject  speaks, 

Stirr'd  up  by  heaven  thus  boldly  for  his  king. 

My  lord  of  Hereford  here,  whom  you  call  king. 

Is  a  foul  traitor  to  proud  Hereford's  king  : 

And  if  you  crown  him,  let  me  prophesy, — 

The  blood  of  English  shall  manure  the  ground. 

And  future  ages  groan  for  this  foul  act; 

Peace  shall  go  sleep  with  Turks  and  infidels. 

And,  in  this  seat  of  peace,  tumultuous  wars 

Shall  kin  with  kin  and  kind  with  kind  confound ; 

Disorder,  horror,  fear,  and  mutiny. 

Shall  here  inhabit,  and  this  land  be  call'd 

The  field  of  Golgotha,  and  dead  men's  skulls. 

O,  if  you  rear  "^  this  house  against  this  house. 

It  will  the  woefullest  division  prove 

That  ever  fell  upon  this  cursed  earth  : 

Prevent  it,  resist  it,  and  let  it  not  be  so. 

Lest  child,  child's  children,  cry  against  you — woe ! 

North.  Well  have  you  argued,  sir ;  and,  for  your  pains, 

*  Nobleness.     So  all  the  old  copies.     Modern  editors  read  nobkss.     Steevens 
changed  the  word  to  get  rid  of  a  short  syllable.     He  had,  however,  authority  for 
the  use  of  nobless  in  the  sense  of  nobleness,  in  Ben  Jonson  (Epigram  102)  : — 
"  But  thou,  whose  noblesse  keeps  one  stature  still." 
»»  Forfend.     So  the  quarto  of  1597.     The  folio,  forbid.     We  cling  to  the  less 
common  word,  as  in  '  Othello  :' — 

"  No,  heavens  forfend,  I  would  not  kill  thy  soul." 
'  Rear,  in  the  folio  ;  in  the  quartos,  raise. 


Scene  I.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  465 

Of  capital  treason  we  arrest  you  here  : 

My  lord  of  Westminster,  be  it  your  charge 

To  keep  him  safely  till  his  day  of  trial. 

May 't  please  you,  lords,  to  grant  the  commons'  suit  ? 

Boling.  Fetch  hither  Richard,  that  in  common  view 
He  may  surrender ;  so  we  shall  proceed 
Without  suspicion. 

York.  I  will  be  his  conduct.  [Eacil. 

Boling.  Lords,  you  that  here  are  under  our  arrest. 
Procure  your  sureties  for  your  days  of  answer  : 
Little  are  we  beholden  to  your  love,  [To  Carlisle. 

And  little  look'd  for  at  your  helping  hands. 

Re-enter  York,  with  King  Richard,  and  Officers  bearing 
the  crown,  %c. 

K.  Rich.  Alack,  why  am  I  sent  for  to  a  king. 
Before  I  have  shook  oflf  the  regal  thoughts 
Wherewith  I  reign'd  ?     I  hardly  yet  have  leam'd 
To  insinuate,  flatter,  bow,  and  bend  my  knee : — 
Give  sorrow  leave  awhile  to  tutor  me 
To  -this  submission.     Yet  I  well  remember 
The  favours  *  of  these  men  :  Were  they  not  mine  ? 
Did  they  not  sometime  cry,  all  hail !  to  me  ? 
So  Judas  did  to  Christ :  but  he,  in  twelve. 
Found  truth  in  all  but  one ;  I,  in  twelve  thousand,  none. 
God  save  the  king  ! — Will  no  man  say,  amen  ? 
Am  I  both  priest  and  clerk?  well  then,  amen. 
God  save  the  king !  although  I  be  not  he ; 
And  yet,  amen,  if  heaven  do  think  him  me. — 
To  do  what  service  am  I  sent  for  hither? 

York.  To  do  that  office,  of  thine  own  good  will. 
Which  tired  majesty  did  make  thee  offer, — 
The  resignation  of  thy  state  and  crown 
To  Henry  Bolingbroke. 

K.  Rich.  Give  me  the  crown : — Here,  cousin,  seize  the 
crown ; 

'  Favours — features,  countenances. 
Vol.  IV.  2  H 


466  KING  RICHARD  11.  [Act  IV. 

Here,  cousin,  on  this  side  my  hand ;  on  that  side  thine.' 

Now  is  this  golden  crown  like  a  deep  well. 

That  owes  two  buckets  filling  one  another ; 

The  emptier  ever  dancing  in  the  air. 

The  other  down,  unseen,  and  full  of  water : 

That  bucket  down,  and  full  of  tears,  am  I, 

Drinking  my  griefs,  whilst  you  mount  up  on  high. 

Baling.  I  thought  you  had  been  willing  to  resign. 

K.  Rich.  My  crown  I  am,  but  still  my  griefs  are  mine : 
You  may  my  glories  and  my  state  depose. 
But  not  my  griefs  ;  still  am  I  king  of  those. 

Baling .  Part  of  your  cares  you  give  me  with  your  crown. 

K.  Rich.  Your  cares  set  up  do  not  pluck  my  cares  down. 
My  care  is  loss  of  care,  by  old  care  done ; 
Your  care  is  gain  of  care,  by  new  care  won  : 
The  cares  I  give  I  have,  though  given  away ; 
They  tend  the  crown,  yet  still  with  me  they  stay. 

Boling.  Are  you  contented  to  resign  the  crown  ? 

K.  Rich,  kj,  no ; — no,  ay ;  for  I  must  nothing  be  ; 
Therefore  no,  no,  for  I  resign  to  thee. 
Now  mark  me  how  I  will  undo  myself: — 
I  give  this  heavy  weight  from  off  my  head. 
And  this  unwieldy  sceptre  from  my  hand. 
The  pride  of  kingly  sway  from  out  my  heart ; 
With  mine  own  tears  I  wash  away  my  jDalm, 
With  mine  own  hands  I  give  away  my  crown. 
With  mine  own  tongue  deny  my  sacred  state. 
With  mine  own  breath  release  all  duteous  oaths  : 
All  pomp  and  majesty  I  do  forswear ; 
My  manors,  rents,  revenues,  I  forego  ; 
My  acts,  decrees,  and  statutes,  I  deny : 
God  pardon  all  oaths  that  are  broke  to  me ! 
God  keep  all  vows  unbroke  are  made  to  thee ! 

•  This  is  the  reading  of  the  folio.     The  quarto  of  1608,  the  only  other  edition  in 
which  the  passage  appears,  reads  thus  : — 

"  Give  me  the  crown. — Seize  the  crown. 
Here,  cousin,  on  this  side  my  hand,  and  on  that  side  yours." 
It  appears  to  us  that  the  repetition  of  "  here,  cousin,"  is  Shaksperian  j  and  that  Ma- 
lone  is  wrong  in  omitting  "  here,  cousin,"  in  the  second  line. 


Scene  L]  KING  RICHARD  II.  467 

Make  me,  that  nothing  have,  with  nothing  griev'd  ; 
And  thou  with  all  pleas'd,  that  hast  all  achiev'd ! 
Long  mayst  thou  live  in  Richard's  seat  to  sit. 
And  soon  lie  Richard  in  an  earthy  pit ! 
God  save  king  Henry  unking'd  Richard  says. 
And  send  him  many  years  of  sunshine  days  ! 
What  more  remains  ? 

North.         No  more,  but  that  you  read  [Offering  a  paper. 
These  accusations,  and  these  grievous  crimes. 
Committed  by  your  person,  and  your  followers. 
Against  the  state  and  profit  of  this  land  ; 
That^by  confessing  them,  the  souls  of  men 
May  deem  that  you  are  worthily  depos'd. 

K.  Rich.  Must  I  do  so  ?  and  must  I  ravel  out 
My  weav'd-up  follies!    Gentle  Northumberland, 
If  thy  offences  were  upon  record. 
Would  it  not  shame  thee,  in  so  fair  a  troop. 
To  read  a  lecture  of  them  ?     If  thou  would st. 
There  shouldst  thou  find  one  heinous  article. 
Containing  the  deposing  of  a  king. 
And  cracking  the  strong  warrant  of  an  oath, 
Mark'd  with  a  blot,  damn'd  in  the  book  of  heaven  : — 
Nay,  all  of  you,  that  stand  and  look  upon  me. 
Whilst  that  my  wretchedness  doth  bait  myself. 
Though  some  of  you,  with  Pilate,  wash  your  hands. 
Showing  an  outward  pity  ;  yet  you  Pilates 
Have  here  deliver'd  me  to  my  sour  cross. 
And  water  cannot  wash  away  your  sin. 

North.  My  lord,  despatch  ;  read  o'er  these  articles. 

K.  Rich.  Mine  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  I  cannot  see : 
And  yet  salt  water  blinds  them  not  so  much. 
But  they  can  see  a  sort'  of  traitors  here. 
Nay,  if  I  turn  mine  eyes  upon  myself, 
I  find  myself  a  traitor  with  the  rest  : 
For  I  have  given  here  my  soul's  consent 
To  undeck  the  pompous  body  of  a  king ; 

*  A  sort — a  company.     So  in  '  Richard  III.' — 

"  A  tort  of  vagabonds,  rascals,  and  runaways." 

2  H  2 


468  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  IV. 

Made  glory  base ;  a  sovereignty  a  slave  ; 
Proud  majesty  a  subject ;  state  a  peasant. 

North.  My  lord, 

K.  Rich.  No  lord  of  thine,  thou  haught,  insulting  man. 
No,  nor  no  man's  lord  ;  I  have  no  name,  no  title, — 
No,  not  that  name  was  given  me  at  the  font, — 
But 't  is  usurp'd  : — Alack  the  heavy  day. 
That  I  have  worn  so  many  winters  out. 
And  know  not  now  what  name  to  call  myself! 
O,  that  I  were  a  mockery  king  of  snow. 
Standing  before  the  sun  of  Bolingbroke, 
To  melt  myself  away  in  water-drops ! — 
Good  king, — great  king, — (and  yet  not  greatly  good,) 
An  if  my  word  be  sterling  yet  in  England, 
Let  it  command  a  mirror  hither  straight. 
That  it  may  show  me  what  a  face  I  have. 
Since  it  is  bankrupt  of  his  majesty. 

Boling.  Go  some  of  you,  and  fetch  a  looking-glass. 

\_Exit  an  Attendant. 

North.  Read  o'er  this  paper,  while  the  glass  doth  come. 

K.  Rich.  Fiend  !  thou  torment'st  me  ere  I  come  to  hell. 

Boling.  Urge  it  no  more,  my  lord  Northumberland. 

North.  The  commons  will  not  then  be  satisfied. 

K.  Rich.  They  shall  be  satisfied  :  I  '11  read  enough, 
When  I  do  see  the  very  book  indeed 
Where  all  my  sins  are  writ,  and  that 's  myself. 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  a  glass. 

Give  me  that  glass,  and  therein  will  I  read. 

No  deeper  wrinkles  yet  ?     Hath  sorrow  struck 

So  many  blows  upon  this  face  of  mine. 

And  made  no  deeper  wounds  ? — O,  flattering  glass. 

Like  to  my  followers  in  prosperity. 

Thou  dost  beguile  me !     Was  this  face  the  face 

That  every  day  under  his  household  roof 

Did  keep  ten  thousand  men  ?     Was  this  the  face 

That,  like  the  sun,  did  make  beholders  wink  ? 

Is  this  the  face  which  fac'd  so  many  follies, 

That  was  at  last  outfac'd  by  Bolingbroke  ? 


Scene  I.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  469 

A  brittle  glory  shineth  in  this  face : 
As  brittle  as  the  glory  is  the  face ; 

[Dashes  the  glass  against  the  ground. 
For  there  it  is,  crack'd  in  an  hundred  shivers. 
Mark,  silent  king,  the  moral  of  this  sport, — 
How  soon  my  sorrow  hath  destroy'd  my  face. 

Baling.  The  shadow  of  your  sorrow  hath  destroy'd 
The  shadow  of  your  face. 

K.  Rich.  Say  that  again. 

The  shadow  of  my  sorrow  ?     Ha  !  let 's  see  : — 
'T  is  very  true,  my  grief  lies  all  within ; 
And  these  external  manners  of  laments  * 
Are  merely  shadows  to  the  unseen  grief. 
That  swells  with  silence  in  the  tortur'd  soul ; 
There  lies  the  substance  :  and  I  thank  thee,  king. 
For  thy  great  bounty,  that  not  only  giv'st 
Me  cause  to  wail,  but  teachest  me  the  way 
How  to  lament  the  cause.     I  '11  beg  one  boon. 
And  then  be  gone,  and  trouble  you  no  more. 
Shall  I  obtain  it? 

Baling.  Name  it,  fair  cousin. 

K.  Rich.  Fair  cousin  ?  I  am  greater  than  a  king  : 
For  when  I  was  a  king  my  flatterers 
Were  then  but  subjects  ;  being  now  a  subject, 
I  have  a  king  here  to  my  flatterer. 
Being  so  great,  I  have  no  need  to  beg. 

Baling.  Yet  ask. 

K.  Rich.  And  shall  I  have  ? 

Baling.  You  shall. 

K.  Rich.  Then  give  me  leave  to  go. 

Baling.  Whither  ? 

K.  Rich.  Whither  you  will,  so  I  were  from  your  sights. 

Baling.  Go,  some  of  you,  convey  him  to  the  Tower. 

K.  Rich.  O,  good  !     Convey  ? — Conveyers  *»  are  you  all. 
That  rise  thus  nimbly  by  a  true  king's  fall. 

[Exeunt  K.  Richard,  some  Lords,  and  a  Guard. 

*  Laments  is  the  reading  of  the  old  copies  ;  modern  editions,  lament. 
*>  Conveyers.     Conveyer  was  sometimes  used  in  an  ill  sense, — as  a  fraudulent 
appropriator  of  property,  a  juggler.    In  Tyndall's  works  we  have,  "  What  say  ye  uf 


470  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  IV. 

^  Boling.  On  Wednesday  next,  we  solemnly  set  down 

Our  coronation  :  lords,  prepare  yourselves. 

[Exeunt  all  but  the  Abbot,  Bishop  of  Carl.,  ant/ Aum. 

Abbot.  A  woeful  pageant  have  we  here  beheld. 

Car.  The  woe  's  to  come  ;  the  children  yet  unborn 
Shall  feel  this  day  as  sharp  to  them  as  thorn. 

Aum.  You  holy  clergymen,  is  there  no  plot 
To  rid  the  realm  of  this  pernicious  blot  ? 

Abbot.  Before  I  freely  speak  my  mind  herein. 
You  shall  not  only  take  the  sacrament 
To  bury  mine  intents,  but  to  effect 
Whatever  I  shall  happen  to  devise  : — 
I  see  your  brows  are  full  of  discontent. 
Your  hearts  of  sorrow,  and  your  eyes  of  tears ; 
Come  home  with  me  to  supper  ;  I  will  lay 
ju^  A  plot  shall  show  us  all  a  merry  day.  [Exeunt. 

this  crafty  conveyer,  which  fearetb  not  to  juggle  with  the  Holy  Scripture  V     Pistol 
gives  it  as  a  soft  name  for  stealing — "  Convey  the  wise  it  call." 


KING  RICHARD  II.  471 


ILLUSTRATION    OF    ACT     IV. 


f 


'  Scene  I. —  "  And  there,  at  Fenice,  gave 

Hit  body  to  that  pleasant  country's  earth."' 
The  remains  of  Thomas  Mowbray  were  interred  in  Saint  Mark's  church,  in  Venice, 
A.D.  1399;  but  his  ashes  were  removed  to  England  in  1533.  The  slab  which 
originally  covered  these  remains  at  the  latter  end  of  the  seventeenth  ceutury 
stood  under  the  gallery  of  the  ducal  palace ;  and  the  arms  of  Thomas  Mowbray 
being  very  elaborately  engraved  upon  it,  the  stone  was  described  by  an  Italian 
writer  in  1682  as  a  Venetian  hieroglyphic.  By  the  indefatigable  inquiries  of  Mr. 
Rawdon  Brown,  an  English  gentleman  residing  in  Venice,  this  most  curious  mo- 
nument was  traced,  in  1839,  to  the  possession  of  a  stonemason  ;  and  it  has  been 
■ent  to  England,  and  is  now  safe  in  the  custody  of  Mr.  Howard,  of  Corby. 


HISTORICAL    ILLUSTRATION. 


The  fourth  act  of  Shakspere's  History  of  '  Richard  II.'  opens  with  the  assembly 
of  Bolingbroke  and  the  peers  in  parliament.  The  entry  of  the  triumphant  Henry 
of  Lancaster  and  the  captive  king  into  London  is  reserved  by  the  jjoet  for 
the  unequalled  description  by  York  to  his  Duchess  in  the  fifth  act.  But,  as  we 
are  following  the  course  of  real  events,  we  will  very  briefly  describe  the  proceed- 
ings between  the  surrender  of  Richard  at  Flint  Castle  and  his  deposition. 

After  the  interview  between  Richard  and  Bolingbroke,  the  author  of  the  '  Metri- 
cal History'  thus  proceeds :  "  The  said  Duke  Henry  called  aloud  with  a  stem  and 
savage  voice,  '  Bring  out  the  king's  horses ;'  and  then  they  brought  him  two  little 
horses  that  were  not  worth  forty  francs.  The  king  mounted  one,  and  the  Earl  of 
Salisbury  the  other."  Henry,  with  his  captives,  set  out  from  Flint,  and  prot;eeded 
to  Chester,  where  they  staj'ed  three  days.  Tlie  duke  then  dismissed  many  of  his  fol- 
lowers, saying  that  thirty  or  forty  thousand  men  would  be  sufficient  to  take  the 
king  to  London.  At  Lichfield  the  unhappy  Richard  attempted  to  escape  by  night, 
letting  himself  down  into  a  garden  tlirough  a  window  of  his  tower.  The  French 
knight  goes  on  to  record  that  a  deputation  arrived  from  London,  to  request  Henry, 
on  the  part  of  the  commons,  to  cut  off  the  king's  head;  to  which  request  Henry 
replied,  "  Fair  sirs,  it  would  be  a  very  great  disgrace  to  us  for  ever  if  we  should 
thus  put  him  to  death ;  but  we  will  bring  him  to  London,  and  there  he  shall  be 
judged  by  the  parliament."  Proceeding  by  Coventry,  Daventry,  Northampton, 
Dunstable,  and  St.  Alban's,  the  army  reached  within  six  miles  of  London.  Here 
the  cavalcade  was  met  by  the  Mayor,  accompanied  by  a  very  great  number  of  the 
commons.  "  They  paid  much  greater  respect,''  says  the  writer,  "to  Duke  Henry 
than  to  the  king,  shouting  with  a  loud  and  fearful  voice,  '  Long  live  the  Duke  of 
Lancaster!'  "  Ricliard  was  taken,  according  to  this  relation,  to  Westminster. 
Henry,  who  entered  the  city  at  the  hour  of  vespers,  "  alighted  at  St.  Paul's,  and 
went  all  armed  before  the  high  altar  to  make  his  orisons.  He  returned  by  the 
tomb  of  his  father,  which  is  very  nigh  to  the  said  altar,  and  there  be  wept  very 


472  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IV. 

much,  for  he  had  never  seen  it  since  his  father  had  been  laid  there.*'  The  per- 
sonal narrative  of  the  French  knight  here  closes ;  the  remainder  of  his  narrative 
being  given  on  the  faith  of  anotlier  person,  a  clerk.  From  Westminster,  Richard 
was  removed  to  the  Tower.  The  parliament,  which  began  on  the  I3th  September, 
drew  up  thirty -three  "articles  objected  to  King  Richard,  whereby  he  was  counted 
worthy  to  be  deposed  from  his  principality."' 

The  scene  of  fiery  contention  in  Westminster  Hall,  with  which  this  act  opens, 
follows  the  chroniclers  very  literally.  Shakspere  has,  however,  placed  this  remark- 
able exhibition  of  vindictive  charges  and  recriminations  before  the  deposition  of 
Richard.  It  took  place  after  Henry's  coronation.  The  protest  of  the  Bishop  of 
Carlisle,  whom  Hoi inshed  calls  "  a  bold  bishop  and  a  faithful,"  also,  according  to 
most  authorities,  followed  tlie  deposition.  It  is  stated  to  have  been  made  on  a 
request  from  the  commons  that  Richard  might  have  "judgment  decreed  against 
him,  so  as  the  realm  were  not  troubled  by  him."  There  is  considerable  doubt 
whether  this  speech  was  delivered  at  all.  It  does  not  appear  that  Richard  made 
his  resignation  in  j)arliament,  but  that  Northumberland  and  other  peers,  prelates 
and  knights,  with  justices  and  notaries,  attended  the  captive  on  the 29th  September, 
1399,  in  the  chief  chamber  of  the  king's  lodging  in  the  Tower,  where  he  read  aloud 
and  subscribed  the  scroll  of  resignation,  saying  that,  if  it  were  in  his  power,  he 
would  that  the  Duke  of  Lancaster  there  present  should  be  his  successor.  These 
instruments  were  read  to  the  parliament  the  day  following.  So  Holinshed  relates 
the  story.  Froissart,  however,  details  the  ceremonies  of  the  surrender  with  more 
minuteness  :  "  On  a  day  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  accompanied  with  lords,  dukes, 
prelates,  earls,  barons,  and  knights,  and  of  the  notablest  men  of  London,  and  of 
other  good  towns,  rode  to  the  Tower,  and  there  alighted.  Then  King  Richard  was 
brought  into  the  hall,  apparelled  like  a  king  in  his  robes  of  state,  his  sceptre  in  his 
hand,  and  his  crown  on  his  head ;  then  he  stood  up  alone,  not  holden  nor  stayed 
by  no  man,  and  said  aloud,  '  I  have  been  king  of  Etigland,  duke  of  Aquitaine, 
and  lord  of  Ireland,  about  twenty-one  years,  which  seigniory,  royalty,  sceptre,  crown, 
and  heritage  I  clearly  resign  here  to  my  cousin  Henry  of  Lancaster ;  and  I  desire 
him  here,  in  this  open  presence,  in  entering  of  the  same  possession,  to  take  this 
sceptre  :'  and  so  delivered  it  to  the  duke,  who  took  it."  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  this  apparently  willing  resignation,  which  his  enemies  said  was  made  even  with 
a  merry  countenance,  was  extorted  from  Richard  by  the  fear  of  death.  Northum- 
berland openly  proclaimed  this  when  he  rebelled  against  Henry.  In  a  very  curious 
manuscript  in  the  library  of  the  King  of  France,  from  which  copious  extracts  are 
given  in  Mr.  Webb's  notes  to  the  '  Metrical  History,'  there  is  a  detailed  account  of 
a  meeting  between  Richard  and  Bolingbroke  in  the  Tower,  at  which  York  and 
Aumerle  were  present, — where  the  king,  in  a  most  violent  rage,  says,  "  I  am  king, 
and  will  still  continue  king,  in  spite  of  all  my  enemies."  Shakspere  has  most  skil- 
fully portrayed  this  natural  struggle  of  the  will  of  the  unhappy  man  against  the 
necessity  by  which  he  was  overwhelmed.  The  deposition  scene  shows  us, — as  faith- 
fully as  the  glass  which  the  poet  introduces  exhibits  the  person  of  the  khig, — the 
vacillations  of  a  nature  irresolute  and  yielding,  but  clinging  to  the  phantom  of 
power  when  the  substance  had  passed  away.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Shak- 
spere's  portrait  of  Richard  II.  is  as  historically  true  as  it  is  poetically  just. 

The  chroniclers  have  shown  us  the  fierce,  and,  as  we  should  call  them  in  modern 
times,  the  brutal  contests  of  the  peers  in  the  first  parliament  of  Henry  IV.  But  we 
have  had  lately  opened  to  us  a  most  curious  record  of  the  days  of  Richard,  which 
shows  us  a  parliament  that  more  nearly  approaches  to  our  notions  of  an  assembly  of 
men  called  together  for  the  public  good,  but  not  forgetting  their  private  interests  in 
their  peaceful  moods ;  and  deporting  themselves  as  men  do  who  have  mighty  ques- 


KING  RICHARD  II.  473 

tiona  to  deliberate  upon,  but  who  bring  to  that  deliberation  the  sloth,  the  petty  feel- 
ings, and  the  other  individual  characteristics  that  remind  us  that  great  legislators 
are  sometimes  small  men.  The  Camden  Society,  which  is  doing  for  literature  the 
very  reverse  of  what  the  Roxburgh  Club  did — which  is  making  unpublished  and 
rare  tracts  accessible  to  all  men,  instead  of  gaining  a  petty  reputation  by  rendering 
scarce  things  known,  and  then  causing  them  to  be  scarcer, — has  published  an  '  Alli- 
terative Poem  on  the  Deposition  of  King  Richard  II.'  This  most  curious  produc- 
tion is  printed  from  a  manuscript  in  the  public  library  at  Cambridge.  There 
seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  the  poem  was  written  about  the  time  when  Richard  fell 
into  the  hands  of  his  enemies : — the  first  lines  represent  the  author  as  being  informed 
that  "  Henrri  was  entrid  on  the  est  half"  of  the  kingdom,  while  Richard  "  werrid 
be  west  on  the  wilde  Yrisshe."  The  author  of  the  poem  appears  to  have  been  a  par- 
tisan of  Bolingbroke — the  transcriber  was  of  the  opposite  faction  ;  and  to  this 
circumstance  we  owe  the  loss  of  the  more  important  part  of  the  original  composi- 
tion ;  for  he  broke  oflF  abruptly  in  the  description  of  Richard's  servile  parliament — 
the  parliament  that,  giving  a  colour  to  his  exactions  and  despotic  exercise  of  autho- 
rity, led  to  the  great  revolution  which  ended  in  his  deposition.  Of  this  famous  par- 
liament the  following  is  a  part  of  the  description  to  which  we  have  alluded  : — 

"  And  somme  slombrid  and  slepte,  and  said  but  a  lite ; 
And  somme  mafflid  vt-ith  the  mouth,  and  n  yst  what  they  ment ; 
And  somme  had  hire,  and  helde  ther-with  evere, 
And  wolde  no  fForther  a  ffoot,  fFor  ffer  of  her  maistris ; 
And  some  were  so  soleyne,  and  sad  of  her  wittis. 
That  er  they  come  to  the  clos  a-combred  they  were. 
That  thei  the  conclucioun  than  constrewe  ne  couthe 
No  burne  of  the  benche,  of  borowe  nother  ellis. 
So  blynde  and  so  ballid  and  bare  was  the  reson ; 
And  somme  were  so  flfers  at  the  ffrist  come, 
That  they  bente  on  a  bouet,  and  bare  a  topte  saile 
A-ffor  the  wynde  ffresshely,  to  make  a  good  ffare." 

We  venture  upon  a  free  prose  translation  of  the  old  English : — 

"  And  some  slumbered  and  slept,  and  said  but  a  little  ;  and  some  stammered 
with  the  mouth,  and  knew  not  what  they  meant ;  and  some  were  paid,  and  held  to 
that,  and  would  no  further  a-foot,  for  fear  of  their  masters;  and  some  were  so  sullen 
and  grave  in  their  wits,  that  before  they  came  to  the  close  they  were  so  much  encum- 
bered, that  their  conclusions  could  be  construed  by  no  baron  on  the  bench,  nor  by 
no  one  else  of  the  borough, — so  blind,  and  so  bald,  and  so  bare  was  their  reason. 
And  some  were  so  fierce  at  the  first  coming,  that  they  were  bent  on  a  bout,  and  bare 
a  topsail  afore  the  wind  freshly,  to  make  a  good  fare." — Unchangeable  human 
nature ! 


474  KING  RICHARD  11.  [Act  V. 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  I. — London.     A  Street  leading  to  the  Tower. 

Enter  Queen  and  Ladies. 

Queen.  This  way  the  king  will  come  j  this  is  the  way 
To  Julius  Caesar's  ill-erected'  tower. 
To  whose  flint  bosom  my  condemned  lord 
Is  doom'd  a  prisoner  by  proud  Bolingbroke  : 
Here  let  us  rest,  if  this  rebellious  earth 
Have  any  resting  for  her  true  king's  queen. 

Enter  King  Richard  and  Guards. 

But  soft,  but  see,  or  rather  do  not  see. 

My  fair  rose  wither  :  Yet  look  up ;  behold ; 

That  you  in  pity  may  dissolve  to  dew. 

And  wash  him  fresh  again  with  true-love  tears. 

Ah,  thou,  the  model  where  old  Troy  did  stand  ;  ^ 

Thou  map  of  honour  ;  thou  king  Richard's  tomb. 

And  not  king  Richard  ;  thou  most  beauteous  inn,*^ 

Why  should  hard-favour'd  grief  be  lodg'd  in  thee. 

When  triumph  is  become  an  alehouse  guest  ? 

K.  Rich.  Join  not  with  grief,  fair  woman,  do  not  so. 
To  make  my  end  too  sudden  :  learn,  good  soul. 
To  think  our  former  state  a  happy  dream  ; 
From  which  awak'd,  the  truth  of  what  we  are 

"  Ill-erected — erected  for  evil. 

*•  The  queen,  in  a  series  of  bold  metaphors,  compares  her  "  condemned  lord  "  to 
a  ruin,  or  a  mere  outward  form  of  greatness.  He  is  "  the  model  where  old  Troy  did 
stand'" — the  representation  of  the  waste  on  which  the  most  renowned  city  of  anti- 
quity once  stood. 

•=  Inn.  We  doubt  whether  the  word  is  here  used  as  Falstaff  uses  it — "  Shall  I  not 
"take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ?"  An  inn  was  originally  a  dwelling — a  place  of  cover 
or  protection.  We  have  still  the  Inns  of  Court ;  Lord  Braybrooke's  seat  in  Essex, 
commonly  called  Audley-End,  is,  properly,  Audley-Inn.  When  the  queen  opposes 
the  term  alehouse  to  inn,  she  certainly  does  not  mean,  as  Monck  Mason  thinks,  to 
discriminate  between  two  classes  of  houses  of  entertainment,  but  between  a  public- 
house  and  a  "  beauteous  mansion." 


Scene!.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  475 

Shows  us  but  this  :  I  am  sworn  brother,'  sweet. 

To  grim  necessity ;  and  he  and  I 

Will  keep  a  league  till  death.     Hie  thee  to  France, 

And  cloister  thee  in  some  religious  house : 

Our  holy  lives  must  win  a  new  world's  crown. 

Which  our  profane  hours  here  have  stricken  down. 

Queen.  What,  is  my  Richard  both  in  shape  and  mind 
Transform'd  and  weaken'd  ?     Hath  Bolingbroke 
Depos'd  thine  intellect  ?     Hath  he  been  in  thy  heart  ? 
The  lion,  dying,  thrusteth  forth  his  paw. 
And  wounds  the  earth,  if  nothing  else,  with  rage 
To  be  o'erpower'd  ;  and  wilt  thou,  pupil-like. 
Take  thy  correction  mildly  ?  kiss  the  rod  ; 
And  fawn  on  rage  with  base  humility, 
Which  art  a  lion,  and  a  king  of  beasts  ? 

K.  Rich.  A  king  of  beasts,  indeed ;  if  aught  but  beasts, 
I  had  been  still  a  happy  king  of  men. 
Good  sometime  queen,  prepare  thee  hence  for  France  : 
Think  I  am  dead  ;  and  that  even  here  thou  tak'st. 
As  from  my  death-bed,  my  last  living  leave. 
In  winter's  tedious  nights  sit  by  the  fire 
With  good  old  folks ;  and  let  them  tell  thee  tales 
Of  woeful  ages,  long  ago  betid  : 
And,  ere  thou  bid  good  night,  to  quit  their  grief. 
Tell  thou  the  lamentable  fall  of  me. 
And  send  the  hearers  weeping  to  their  beds. 
For  why,  the  senseless  brands  will  sympathize 
The  heavy  accent  of  thy  moving  tongue. 
And,  in  compassion,  weep  the  fire  out : 
And  some  will  mourn  in  ashes,  some  coal-black. 
For  the  deposing  of  a  rightful  king. 

Enter  Northumberland,  attended. 

North.  My  lord,  the  mind  of  Bolingbroke  is  chang'd  ; 
You  must  to  Pomfret,  not  unto  the  Tower. 


"  Sworn  brother.  Military  adventurers  were  lometimes  leagued  to  share  each 
others'  fortunes — to  divide  their  plunder,  and  even  their  honours.  They  were  then 
/ratresj'urati — swoni  brothers. 


476  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  V. 

And,  madam,  there  is  order  ta'en  for  you ; 
With  all  swift  speed  you  must  away  to  France. 

K.  Rich.  Northumberland,  thou  ladder  wherewithal 
The  mounting  Bolingbroke  ascends  my  throne. 
The  time  shall  not  be  many  hours  of  age 
More  than  it  is,  ere  foul  sin,  gathering  head. 
Shall  break  into  corruption  :  thou  shalt  think. 
Though  he  divide  the  realm,  and  give  thee  half. 
It  is  too  little,  helping  him  to  all : 
And  he  shall  think  that  thou,  which  know'st  the  way 
To  plant  unrightful  kings,  wilt  know  again. 
Being  ne'er  so  little  urg'd  another  way. 
To  pluck  him  headlong  from  the  usurped  throne. 
The  love  of  wicked  friends  converts  to  fear  ; 
That  fear  to  hate ;  and  hate  turns  one,  or  both. 
To  worthy  danger,  and  deserved  death. 

North.  My  guilt  be  on  my  head,  and  there  an  end. 
Take  leave,  and  part ;  for  you  must  part  forthwith. 

K.  Rich.  Doubly  divorc'd? — Bad  men,  ye  violate 
A  twofold  marriage  ;  'twixt  my  crown  and  me ; 
And  then  betwixt  me  and  my  married  wife. 
Let  me  unkiss  the  oath  'twixt  thee  and  me  ; 
And  yet  not  so,  for  with  a  kiss  'twas  made." 
Part  us,  Northumberland ;  I  towards  the  north. 
Where  shivering  cold  and  sickness  pines  the  clime ; 
My  queen  ^  to  France ;  from  whence,  set  forth  in  pomp. 
She  came  adorned  hither  like  sweet  May, 
Sent  back  like  Hallowmas,*^  or  short'st  of  day. 

Queen.  And  must  we  be  divided  ?  must  we  part  ? 

K.  Rich.  Ay,  hand  from  hand,  my  love,  and  heart  from 
heart. 

Queen.  Banish  us  both,  and  send  the  king  with  me. 

North.  That  were  some  love,  but  little  policy. 

Queen.  Then  whither  he  goes  thither  let  me  go. 

K.  Rich.  So  two,  together  weeping,  make  one  woe. 

•  The  kiss  was  an  established  fonn  of  the  ancient  ceremony  of  affiancing.     (See 
Illustrations  of '  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,'  Act  II.  Scene  2.) 

»>  Queen.     So  the  folio.     The  quartos,  wife. 

*  Halloumat.     The  first  of  November, — opposed  to  "sweet  May." 


Scene  II.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  477 

Weep  thou  for  me  in  France,  I  for  thee  here ; 

Better  far  off  than  near,  be  ne'er  the  near'.' 

Go,  count  thy  way  with  sighs  ;  I  mine  with  groans. 

Queen.  So  longest  way  shall  have  the  longest  moans. 

K.  Rich.  Twice  for  one  step  I  '11  groan,  the  way  being  short. 
And  piece  the  way  out  with  a  heavy  heart. 
Come,  come,  in  wooing  sorrow  let 's  be  brief. 
Since,  wedding  it,  there  is  such  length  in  grief. 
One  kiss  shall  stop  our  mouths,  and  dumbly  part ; 
Thus  give  I  mine,  and  thus  take  I  thy  heart.         [They  kiss. 

Queen.  Give  me  mine  own  again ;  't  were  no  good  part. 
To  take  on  me  to  keep,  and  kill  thy  heart.  [Kiss  again. 

So,  now  I  have  mine  own  again,  begone. 
That  I  may  strive  to  kill  it  with  a  groan. 

K.  Rich.  We  make  woe  wanton  with  this  fond  delay  ; 
Once  more,  adieu  ;  the  rest  let  sorrow  say.  [Exeunt. 

f  SCENE  l\.~The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Duke  of  York's 

Palace. 

Enter  York  and  his  Duchess.' 

Duch.  My  lord,  you  told  me  you  would  tell  the  rest. 
When  weeping  made  you  break  the  story  off 
Of  our  two  cousins  coming  into  London. 

York.  Where  did  I  leave  ? 

Duch.  At  that  sad  stop,  my  lord. 

Where  rude  misgovem'd  hands,  from  windows'  tops. 
Threw  dust  and  rubbish  on  king  Richard's  head. 

York.  Then,  as  I  said,  the  duke,  great  Bolingbroke, 
Mounted  upon  a  hot  and  fiery  steed. 
Which  his  aspiring  rider  seem'd  to  know. 
With  slow,  but  stately  pace,  kept  on  his  course. 
While  all  tongues  cried — God  save  thee,  Bolingbroke  ! 
You  would  have  thought  the  very  windows  spake. 
So  many  greedy  looks  of  young  and  old 
Through  casements  darted  their  desiring  eyes 
Upon  his  visage ;  and  that  all  the  walls, 

■  Ne'er  the  near.     Some  deem  this  a  proverbial  expression,  meaning  not  nearer 
to  good.     It  appears  to  us  here  to  mean  "  never  the  nearer.'* 


478  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  V. 

With  painted  imagery,  had  said  at  once, — 
Jesu  preserve  thee !  welcome,  Bolingbroke  ! 
Whilst  he,  from  one  side  to  the  other  turning. 
Bare-headed,  lower  than  his  proud  steed's  neck, 
Bespake  them  thus, — I  thank  you,  countrymen  : 
And  thus  still  doing,  thus  he  pass'd  along. 

Duck.  Alas,  poor  Richard  !  where  rides  he  the  whilst  ? 

York.  As  in  a  theatre,  the  eyes  of  men. 
After  a  well-grac'd  actor  leaves  the  stage. 
Are  idly  bent  on  him  that  enters  next. 
Thinking  his  prattle  to  be  tedious  : 
Even  so,  or  with  much  more  contempt,  men's  eyes 
Did  scowl  on  Richard  ;  no  man  cried,  God  save  him  ; 
No  joyful  tongue  gave  him  his  welcome  home : 
But  dust  was  thrown  upon  his  sacred  head ; 
Which  with  such  gentle  sorrow  he  shook  off. 
His  face  still  combating  with  tears  and  smiles. 
The  badges  of  his  grief  and  patience. 
That  had  not  God,  for  some  strong  purpose,  steel'd 
The  hearts  of  men,  they  must  perforce  have  melted. 
And  barbarism  itself  have  pitied  him." 
But  heaven  hath  a  hand  in  these  events ; 
To  whose  high  will  we  bound  our  calm  contents. 
To  Bolingbroke  are  we  sworn  subjects  now. 
Whose  state  and  honour  I  for  aye  allow. 

Enter  Aumerle. 

Duck.  Here  comes  my  son  Aumerle. 

York.  Aumerle  that  was  ;*> 

But  that  is  lost,  for  being  Richard's  friend. 
And,  madam,  you  must  call  him  Rutland  now : 
I  am  in  parliament  pledge  for  his  truth. 
And  lasting  fealty  to  the  new-made  king. 

■  It  is  pleasant,  in  reading  what  has  been  written  upon  Shakspere,  to  meet  occa- 
sionally with  the  genial  criticism  of  one  who  understands  him.  Dryden,  speaking 
of  this  celebrated  passage,  says,  "  The  painting  of  this  description  is  so  lively,  and 
the  words  so  moving,  that  I  have  scarce  read  anything  comparable  to  it  in  any  other 
language." 

*"  Aumerle  that  was.  Aumerle  was  deprived  of  his  dukedom  by  an  act  of  Henry's 
first  parliament ;  but  was  suffered  to  retain  his  earldom  of  Rutland. 


Scene  II.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  479 

Duch.  Welcome,  my  son :  Who  are  the  violets  now 
That  strew  the  green  lap  of  the  new-come  spring? 

Aum.  Madam,  I  know  not,  nor  I  greatly  care  not ; 
God  knows,  I  had  as  lief  be  none,  as  one. 

York.  Well,  bear  you  well  in  this  new  spring  of  time. 
Lest  you  be  cropp'd  before  you  come  to  prime. 
What  news  from  Oxford  ?  hold  those  justs  and  triumphs  ? 

Aum.  For  aught  I  know,  my  lord,  they  do. 

York.  You  will  be  there,  I  know. 

Aum.  If  God  prevent  it  not ;  I  purpose  so. 

York.  What  seal  is  that  that  hangs  without  thy  bosom  ?* 
Yea,  look'st  thou  pale  ?  let  me  see  the  writing. 

Aum.  My  lord,  't  is  nothing. 

York.  No  matter  then  who  sees  it : 

I  will  be  satisfied, — ^let  me  see  the  writing. 

Aum.  I  do  beseech  your  grace  to  pardon  me  ; 
It  is  a  matter  of  small  consequence. 
Which  for  some  reasons  I  would  not  have  seen. 

York.  Which  for  some  reasons,  sir,  I  mean  to  see. 
I  fear,  I  fear, — 

Duch.  What  should  you  fear  ? 

'T  is  nothing  but  some  bond,  that  he  is  enter'd  into 
For  gay  apparel,  'gainst  the  triumph. 

York.  Bound  to  himself?  what  doth  he  with  a  bond 
That  he  is  bound  to  ?     Wife,  thou  art  a  fool. — 
Boy,  let  me  see  the  writing. 

Aum.  I  do  beseech  you,  pardon  me ;  I  may  not  show  it. 

York.  I  will  be  satisfied ;  let  me  see  it,  I  say. 

[Snatches  it,  and  reads. 
Treason  !  foul  treason ! — villain  !  traitor !  slave ! 

Duch.  What 's  the  matter,  my  lord  ? 

York.  Ho !  who 's  within  there  ? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Saddle  my  horse. 
Heaven  for  his  mercy  !  what  treachery  is  here ! 

*  The  seal  was  formerly  not  impressed  on  the  deed  itself,  bat  attached  to  it  by  a 
slip  of  parchment.  The  Great  Seal  is  applied  in  a  similar  manner  at  the  present 
day. 


480  KING  RICHARD  IL  [Act  V. 

Duch.  Why,  what  is  't,  my  lord  ? 

York.  Give  me  my  boots,  I  say ;  saddle  my  horse : — 
Now  by  my  honour,  by  my  life,  my  troth, 
I  will  appeach  the  villain.  \^Exit  Servant. 

Duch.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

York.  Peace,  foolish  woman. 

Duch.  I  will  not  peace : — What  is  the  matter,  son  ? 

Aum.  Good  mother,  be  content ;  it  is  no  more 
Than  my  poor  life  must  answer. 

Duch.  Thy  life  answer  ? 

Re-enter  Servant,  with  boots. 

York.  Bring  me  my  boots,  I  will  unto  the  king. 

Duch.  Strike  him,  Aumerle. — Poor  boy,  thou  art  amaz'd  : 
Hence,  villain  ;  never  more  come  in  my  sight. — 

[To  the  Servant. 

Ywrk.  Give  me  my  boots,  I  say. 

Duch.  Why,  York,  what  wilt  thou  do  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  hide  the  trespass  of  thine  own  ? 
Have  we  more  sons  ?  or  are  w^e  like  to  have  ? 
Is  not  my  teeming  date  drunk  up  with  time? 
And  wilt  thou  pluck  my  fair  son  from  mine  age. 
And  rob  me  of  a  happy  mother's  name  ? 
Is  he  not  like  thee  ?  is  he  not  thine  own  ? 

York.  Thou  fond  mad  woman. 
Wilt  thou  conceal  this  dark  conspiracy  ? 
A  dozen  of  them  here  have  ta'en  the  sacrament. 
And  interchangeably  set  down  their  hands. 
To  kill  the  king  at  Oxford. 

Duch.  He  shall  be  none ; 

We  '11  keep  him  here  :  Then  what  is  that  to  him  ? 

York.  Away, 
Fond  woman  !  were  he  twenty  times  my  son  .^ 

I  would  appeach  him. 

Duch.  Hadst  thou  groan'd  for  him. 

As  I  have  done,  thou  'dst  be  more  pitiful. 
But  now  I  know  thy  mind  ;  thou  dost  suspect 
That  I  have  been  disloyal  to  thy  bed. 
And  that  he  is  a  bastard,  not  thy  son : 


Scene  III.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  481 

Sweet  York,  sweet  husband,  be  not  of"  that  mind : 
He  is  as  like  thee  as  a  man  may  be. 
Not  like  to  me,  or  any  of  my  kin. 
And  yet  I  love  him. 

York.  Make  way,  unruly  woman.  \^Exit. 

Duch.  After,  Aumcrle ;  mount  thee  upon  his  horse ; 
Spur,  post ;  and  get  before  him  to  the  king, 
And  beg  thy  pardon  ere  he  do  accuse  thee. 
I  '11  not  be  long  behind  ;  though  I  be  old, 
I  doubt  not  but  to  ride  as  fast  as  York : 
And  never  will  I  rise  up  from  the  ground, 
Till  Bolingbroke  have  pardon'd  thee  :  Away  ; 
Begone.  [Exeunt. 

Jf    SCENE  III.— Windsor.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Bolingbroke,  as  King ;  Percy,  and  other  Lords. 

Baling.  Can  no  man  tell  of  my  unthrifty  son  ?  * 
'T  is  full  three  months  since  I  did  see  him  last  : 
If  any  plague  hang  over  us,  't  is  he. 
I  would  to  Heaven,  my  lords,  he  might  be  found : 
Inquire  at  London,  'mongst  the  taverns  there. 
For  there,  they  say,  he  daily  doth  frequent. 
With  unrestrained  loose  companions — 
Even  such,  they  say,  as  stand  in  narrow  lanes. 
And  beat  our  watch,  and  rob  our  passengers ; 
While  he,  young,  wanton,  and  effeminate  boy. 
Takes  on  the  point  of  honour,  to  support 
So  dissolute  a  crew. 

Percy.  My  lord,  some  two  days  since  I  saw  the  prince. 
And  told  him  of  the.se  triumphs  held  at  Oxford. 

Boling.  And  what  said  the  gallant  ? 

Percy.  His  answer  was, — he  would  unto  the  stews. 
And  from  the  commonest  creature  pluck  a  glove. 
And  wear  it  as  a  favour ;  and  with  that 
He  would  unhorse  the  lustiest  challenger. 

Boling.  As  dissolute  as  desperate  :  yet  through  both 
Vol.  IV.  2  I 


482  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  V. 

I  see  some  sparkles  of  a  better  hope/ 
Which  elder  days  may  happily  bring  forth. 
But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Au merle,  hastily. 

Aunt.  Where  is  the  king  ? 

Boling.  What  means 

Our  cousin,  that  he  stares  and  looks  so  wildly  ? 

Aum.  God  save  your  grace.     I  do  beseech  your  majesty. 
To  have  some  conference  with  your  grace  alone. 

Boling.  Withdraw  yourselves,  and  leave  us  here  alone. 

[Exeunt  Percy  and  Lords. 
What  is  the  matter  with  our  cousin  now  ? 

Aum.  For  ever  may  my  knees  grow  to  the  earth,  [Kneels. 
My  tongue  cleave  to  my  roof  within  my  mouth. 
Unless  a  pardon,  ere  I  rise,  or  speak. 

Boling.  Intended,  or  committed,  was  this  fault  ? 
If  on  the  first,  how  heinous  ere  it  be. 
To  win  thy  after-love,  I  pardon  thee. 

Aum.  Then  give  me  leave  that  I  may  turn  the  key. 
That  no  man  enter  till  my  tale  be  done. 

Boling.  Have  thy  desire.  [Aumerle  locks  the  door. 

York.  [}Vithin.'\  My  liege,  beware ;  look  to  thyself ; 
Thou  hast  a  traitor  in  thy  presence  there. 

Boling.  Villain,  I  '11  make  thee  safe.  [Drawing. 

Aum.  Stay  thy  revengeful  hand; 
Thou  hast  no  cause  to  fear. 

York.  [Within.]  Open  the  door,  secure,  fool-hardy  king  ; 
Shall  I,  for  love,  speak  treason  to  thy  face  ? 
Open  the  door,  or  I  will  break  it  open. 

[Bolingbroke  opens  the  doer. 

Enter  York. 
Boling.  What  is  the  matter  uncle  ?  speak  ; 
Recover  breath ;  tell  us  how  near  is  danger. 
That  we  may  arm  us  to  encounter  it. 

*  In  the  folio  these  lines  stand  thus  : — 

"  I  see  some  sparks  of  better  hope ;  which  elder  days 
May  happily  bring  forth.     But  who  comes  here  ?  ' 
The  modem  reading  is  certainly  an  improvement ;  and  one  of  the  quartos  has 
tparkk*. 


Scene  III.]  KING  RICHARD  IF.  483 

York.  Peruse  this  writing  here,  and  thou  shalt  know 
The  treason  that  my  haste  forbids  me  show. 

Aum.  Remember,  as  thou  read'st,  thy  promise  past : 
I  do  repent  me ;  read  not  my  name  there. 
My  heart  is  not  confederate  with  my  hand. 

York.  It  was,  villain,  ere  thy  hand  did  set  it  down. — 
I  tore  it  from  the  traitor's  bosom,  king ; 
Fear,  and  not  love,  begets  his  penitence : 
Forget  to  pity  him,  lest  thy  pity  prove 
A  serpent  that  will  sting  thee  to  the  heart. 

Boling.  O  heinous,  strong,  and  bold  conspiracy  ! 

0  loyal  father  of  a  treacherous  son ! 

Thou  sheer,"  immaculate,  and  silver  fountain. 
From  whence  this  stream  through  muddy  passages 
Hath  held  his  current,  and  defil'd  himself! 
Thy  overflow  of  good  converts  to  bad ; 
And  thy  abundant  goodness  shall  excuse 
This  deadly  blot  in  thy  digressing  son. 

York.  So  shall  my  virtue  be  his  vice's  bawd ; 
And  he  shall  spend  mine  honour  with  his  shame. 
As  thriftless  sons  their  scraping  father's  gold. 
Mine  honour  lives  when  his  dishonour  dies, 
Or  my  sham'd  life  in  his  dishonour  lies ; 
Thou  kill'st  me  in  his  life,  giving  him  breath. 
The  traitor  lives,  the  true  man 's  put  to  death. 

Duch.  [Within.]  What  ho,  my  liege!  for  heaven's  sake 
let  me  in. 

Boling.  What  shrill- voic'd  suppliant  makes  this  eager  cry? 

Duch.  A  woman,  and  thine  aunt,  great  king;  't  is  I. 
Speak  with  me,  pity  me,  open  the  door  : 
A  beggar  begs  that  never  begg'd  before. 

Boling.  Our  scene  is  alter'd, — from  a  serious  thing, 
And  now  chang'd  to  "  The  Beggar  and  the  King." 
My  dangerous  cousin,  let  your  mother  in  ; 

1  know  she 's  come  to  pray  for  your  foul  sin. 

York.  If  thou  do  pardon,  whosoever  pray. 
More  sins,  for  this  forgiveness,  prosper  may. 

*  Sheer  means  separated,  unmingled,  free  from  admixture — and  thus  pure.. 

2  I  2 


484  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  V. 

This  fester'd  joint  cut  off,  the  rest  rests  sound ; 
This,  let  alone,  will  all  the  rest  confound. 

Enter  Duchess. 

Duch.  O  king,  believe  not  this  hard-hearted  man ; 
Love,  loving  not  itself,  none  other  can. 

York.  Thou  frantic  woman,  what  dost  thou  make  here  ? 
Shall  thy  old  dugs  once  more  a  traitor  rear  ? 

Duch.  Sweet  York,  be  patient.     Hear  me,  gentle  liege. 

[Kneels. 

Boling.  Rise  up,  good  aunt. 

Duch.  Not  yet,  I  thee  beseech : 

For  ever  will  I  kneel  upon  my  knees,' 
And  never  see  day  that  the  happy  sees. 
Till  thou  give  joy ;  until  thou  bid  me  joy. 
By  pardoning  Rutland,  my  transgressing  boy. 

Aum.  Unto  my  mother's  prayers  I  bend  my  knee.  [Kneels. 

York.  Against  them  both  my  true  joints  bended  be. 

[Kneels. 
[Ill  mayst  thou  thrive,  if  thou  grant  any  grace  !]  ^ 

Duch.  Pleads  he  in  earnest  ?  look  upon  his  face ; 
His  eyes  do  drop  no  tears,  his  prayers  are  in  jest ; 
His  words  come  from  his  mouth,  ours  from  our  breast : 
He  prays  but  faintly,  and  would  be  denied ;  '^ 
We  pray  with  heart,  and  soul,  and  all  beside : 
His  weary  joints  would  gladly  rise,  I  know  ; 
Our  knees  shall  kneel  till  to  the  ground  they  grow : 
His  prayers  are  full  of  false  hypocrisy  ; 
Ours  of  true  zeal  and  deep  integrity. 
Our  prayers  do  out-pray  his  ;  then  let  them  have 
That  mercy  which  true  prayers  ought  to  have. 

Boling.  Good  aunt,  stand  up. 

Duch.  Nay,  do  not  say — stand  up ; 

°  So  the  folio.  Walk  upon  my  knees  is  the  reading  of  the  first  quarto.  In  the 
Communion  Service  we  have  "  meekly  kneeling  on  your  knees." 

^  This  line  is  not  in  the  folio. 

'  Blair,  in  his  '  Lectures  on  Rhetoric,'  compares  this  argument  to  a  passage  in 
Cicero,  where  the  orator  maintains  that  the  coldness  of  Marcus  Callidius,  in 
making  an  accusation  of  an  attempt  to  poison  him,  was  a  proof  that  the  charge  was 
false.     "  An  tu,  M.  Callidi,  nisi  fingeres,  sic  ageres  ?' 


Scene  III.]  KING  RICHARD  II,  485 

But  pardon,  first ;  and  afterwards,  stand  up. 
An  if  I  were  thy  nurse,  thy  tongue  to  teach. 
Pardon — should  be  the  first  word  of  thy  speech. 
I  never  long'd  to  hear  a  word  till  now ; 
Say — pardon,  king  :  let  pity  teach  thee  how : 
The  word  is  short,  but  not  so  short  as  sweet ; 
No  word  like  pardon,  for  kings'  mouths  so  meet. 

York.  Speak  it  in  French,  king :  say,  pardonnez  moy. 

Duch.  Dost  thou  teach  pardon  pardon  to  destroy? 
Ah,  my  sour  husband,  my  hard-hearted  lord. 
That  sett'st  the  word  itself  against  the  word ! 
Speak,  pardon,  as  't  is  current  in  our  land  ; 
The  chopping  French*  we  do  not  understand. 
Thine  eye  begins  to  speak,  set  thy  tongue  there : 
Or,  in  thy  piteous  heart  plant  thou  thine  ear ; 
That,  hearing  how  our  plaints  and  prayers  do  pierce. 
Pity  may  move  thee  pardon  to  rehearse. 

Boling.  Good  aunt,  stand  up. 

Duch.  I  do  not  sue  to  stand. 

Pardon  is  all  the  suit  I  have  in  hand. 

Boling.  I  pardon  him,  as  heaven  shall  pardon  me. 

Duch.  O  happy  vantage  of  a  kneeling  knee ! 
Yet  am  I  sick  for  fear :  speak  it  again ; 
Twice  saying  pardon  doth  not  pardon  twain. 
But  makes  one  pardon  strong. 

Boling.  With  all  my  heart 

I  pardon  him. 

Duch.  A  god  on  earth  thou  art. 

Boling.  But  for  our  trusty  brother-in-law,^  and  the  abbot. 
With  all  the  rest  of  that  consorted  crew. 
Destruction  straight  shall  dog  them  at  the  heels. 
Good  uncle,  help  to  order  several  powers 
To  Oxford,  or  where'er  these  traitors  are ; 

»  Chopping  Frendi.  Chopping  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  changing,  which  is 
derived  from  cheaping,  trafficking.  We  still  say  a  chopping  wind.  Malone,  we 
apprehend,  mistakes  when  he  explains  the  word  by  jaUxring.  York  exhorts  the 
king,  instead  of  saying  pardon,  to  say  pardonnez  moy — excuse  me.  The  duchess 
will  have  pardon  as  "  't  is  current  in  our  land."  The  chopping  French — the 
French  which  changes  the  meaning  of  words — which  sets  "  the  word  itself  against 
the  word" — she  says,  "  we  do  not  understand." 


480  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  V. 

They  shall  not  live  within  this  world,  I  swear. 
But  I  will  have  them,  if  I  once  know  where. 
Uncle,  farewell, — and  cousin,  too,  adieu  : 
Your  mother  well  liath  pray'd,  and  prove  you  true. 

Duch.  Come,  my  old  son; — I  pray  Heaven*  make  thee 
new.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 

Enter  Exton  and  a  Servant. 

Exton.  Didst  thou  not  mark   the  king,   what  words  he 
spake  ? 
"  Have  I  no  friend  will  rid  me  of  this  living  fear  ?" 
Was  it  not  so? 

Serv.  Those  were  his  very  words. 

Exton.  "  Have  I  no  friend  V  quoth  he :  he  spake  it  twice. 
And  urg'd  it  twice  together ;  did  he  not  ? 

Serv.  He  did. 

Exton.  And,  speaking  it,  he  wistly''  look'd  on  me; 
As  who  should  say, — I  would  thou  wort  the  man 
That  would  divorce  this  terror  from  my  heart ; 
Meaning  the  king  at  Pomfret.     Come,  let 's  go ; 
I  am  the  king's  friend,  and  will  rid  his  foe.  [Exeunt. 


»  Heaven.  This  is  the  last  passage  of  the  play  in  which  we  have  substituted, 
according  to  the  authority  of  the  folio  of  1623,  the  word  Heaven  for  God.  It  is  to 
be  observed  that  the  editors  of  the  folio  have  retained  the  name  of  tlie  Most  High 
when  it  is  used  in  a  jwculiarly  empliatic  or  reverential  manner,  and  have  not  made 
the  change  to  Heaven  indiscriminately.  The  substitution  of  this  word,  in  most 
cases,  was  made  in  obedience  to  a  statute  of  James  I.  (3  Jac.  I.  c.  21)  ;  and 
it  ap{)ears  to  us  that  the  modem  editors  have  not  exercised  good  taste,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  in  restoring  the  readings  of  the  earliest  copies,  which  were  issued  at  a 
time  when  the  habits  of  society  sanctioned  the  habitual,  and  therefore  light, 
employment  of  the  Sacred  Name. 

^  I'Vistly.  So  the  old  copies.  fVittfully  has  crept  into  the  modern  editions  with- 
out authority.  Wistly  is  constantly  used  by  the  writers  of  Shakspere's  time, — by 
Drayton  for  example : — 

"  But  when  more  wistly  they  did  her  behold." 


Scene  V.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  487 

SCENE  v.— Pomfret.     The  Dungeon  of  the  Castle. 
Enter  Kino  Richard. 

K.  Rich.  I  have  been  studying  how  to  compare* 
This  prison,  where  I  live,  unto  the  world : 
And,  for  because  the  world  is  populous. 
And  here  is  not  a  creature  but  myself, 
I  cannot  do  it ; — ^yet  I  '11  hammer  it  out. 
My  brain  I  '11  prove  the  female  to  my  soul ; 
My  soul,  the  father :  and  these  two  beget 
A  generation  of  still-breeding  thoughts. 
And  these  same  thoughts  people  this  little  world ;  ** 
In  humours  like  the  people  of  this  world. 
For  no  thought  is  contented.     The  better  sort, — 
As  thoughts  of  things  divine, — are  intermix'd 
With  scruples,  and  do  set  the  faith  itself 
Against  the  faith  :•= 

As  thus, — Come,  little  ones ;  and  then  again, — 
It  is  as  hard  to  come,  as  for  a  camel 
To  thread  the  postern  of  a  needle's  eye. 
Thoughts  tending  to  ambition  they  do  plot 
Unlikely  wonders  :  how  these  vain  weak  nails 
May  tear  a  passage  through  the  flinty  ribs 
Of  this  hard  world,  my  ragged  prison  walls ; 
And,  for  they  cannot,  die  in  their  own  pride. 
Thoughts  tending  to  content  flatter  themselves 
That  they  are  not  the  first  of  fortune's  slaves. 
Nor  shall  not  be  the  last ;  like  silly  beggars, 

"  So  the  folio.     Modem  editions,  haw  I  may  compare. 

^  This  littk  world.  "  The  little  world  of  man,"  as  in  '  Lear.'  Shakspere  here 
uses  the  philosophy  which  is  thus  described  by  Raleigh  : — '•  Because  iii  the  little 
frame  of  man's  body  there  is  a  representation  of  the  universal,  and  (by  allusion)  a 
kind  of  participation  of  all  the  parts  there,  therefore  was  man  called  microcotmot,  or 
the  little  world.'" — (•  History  of  the  World.') 

c  So  the  folio.  The  quarto  of  1597  reads — "  The  word  itself  against  the  word ;" 
which  is,  perhaps,  better  taken  singly.  But  in  the  third  scene  of  this  act  the 
duchess  uses  precisely  the  same  expression ;  and  the  sense  of  the  word  there  being 
altogether  different,  the  change  was,  we  think,  judicious.  Modem  editors  liave, 
however,  rejected  the  readuig  which  we  adopt. 


488  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Aci  V. 

Who,  sitting  in  the  stocks,  refuge  their  shame. 

That  many  have,  and  others  must  sit  there : 

And  in  this  thought  they  find  a  kind  of  case. 

Bearing  their  own  misfortunes  on  the  back 

Of  such  as  have  before  endur'd  the  like. 

Thus  play  I,  in  one  person,  many  people. 

And  none  contented :  Sometimes  am  I  king ; 

Then  treason  makes  me  wish  myself  a  beggar. 

And  so  I  am  :  Then  crushing  penury 

Persuades  me  I  was  better  when  a  king ; 

Then  am  I  king'd  again :  and  by-and-by. 

Think  that  I  am  unking'd  by  Bolingbroke, 

And  straight  am  nothing : — But,  whate'er  I  am. 

Nor  I,  nor  any  man,  that  but  man  is. 

With  nothing  shall  be  pleas'd  till  he  be  eas'd 

With  being  nothing.     Music  do  I  hear  ?  [Music. 

Ha,  ha !  keep  time : — How  sour  sweet  music  is. 

When  time  is  broke,  and  no  proportion  kept ! 

So  is  it  in  the  music  of  men's  lives. 

And  here  have  I  the  daintiness  of  ear. 

To  check  time  broke  in  a  disorder'd  string ; 

But,  for  the  concord  of  my  state  and  time. 

Had  not  an  ear  to  hear  my  true  time  broke. 

I  wasted  time,  and  now  doth  time  waste  me. 

For  now  hath  time  made  me  his  numb'ring  clock  : 

My  thoughts  are  minutes ;  and,  with  sighs,  they  jar 

Their  watches  on  unto  mine  eyes,  the  outward  watch. 

Whereto  my  finger,  like  a  dial's  point. 

Is  pointing  still,  in  cleansing  them  from  tears." 

Now,  sir,  the  sounds  that  tell  what  hour  it  is 

Are  clamorous  groans,  that  strike  upon  my  heart, 

■  It  is  somewhat  difficult  to  follow  this  reading.  Richard  says  Time  has  made 
him  a  numbering  clock.  A  clock  and  a  watch  were  formerly  tlie  same  instru- 
ments ;  a  clock  so  called  because  it  clicketh — a  watch  so  called  because  it  marks 
the  walchet,  the  ancient  divisions  of  the  day.  Comparing,  then,  himself  to  such  an 
instrument,  he  says,  his  thoughts  jar — that  is,  tick  their  watches  on  (unto)  his  eyes, 
which  are  the  outward  part  of  the  instrument — the  dial-plate  on  which  the  hours  are 
numbered, — whereto  his  finger,  the  dial's  point,  is  pointing.  These  analogies  may 
appear  forced,  and  somewhat  obscure ;  but  it  must  be  observed  that,  throughout  the 
character  of  Richard,  the  poet  has  made  him  indulge  in  those  freaks  of  the  imagina- 
tion which  belong  to  weakness  of  character.     (See  Supplementary  Notice.) 


Scene  V.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  489 

Which  is  the  bell :  So  sighs,  and  tears,  and  groans. 
Show  minutes,  times,  and  hours : — but  my  time 
Runs  posting  on  in  Bolingbroke's  proud  joy, 
While  I  stand  fooling  here,  his  Jack  o'  the  clock.* 
This  music  mads  me,  let  it  sound  no  more ; 
For,  though  it  have  holpe  madmen  to  their  wits. 
In  me  it  seems  it  will  make  wise  men  mad. 
Yet  blessing  on  his  heart  that  gives  it  me ! 
For  't  is  a  sign  of  love  ;  and  love  to  Richard 
Is  a  strange  brooch''  in  this  all-hating  world. 

Enter  Groom. 

Groom.  Hail,  royal  prince  ! 

K.  Rich.  Thanks,  noble  peer ; 

The  cheapest  of  us  is  ten  groats  too  dear.* 
What  art  thou?  and  how  comest  thou  hither. 
Where  no  man  ever  comes,  but  that  sad  dog  *= 
That  brings  me  food,  to  make  misfortune  live  ? 

Groom.  I  was  a  poor  grocan  of  thy  stable,  king. 
When  thou  wert  king ;  who,  travelling  towards  York, 
With  much  ado,  at  length  have  gotten  leave 
To  look  upon  my  sometimes  royal  master's  face. 
O,  how  it  yearn'd  my  heart,  when  I  beheld. 
In  London  streets  that  coronation  day. 
When  Bolingbroke  rode  on  roan  Barbary ! 
That  horse  that  thou  so  often  hast  bestrid  ; 
That  horse  that  I  so  carefully  have  dress'd ! 

K.  Rich.  Rode  he  on  Barbary  ?     Tell  me,  gentle  friend. 
How  went  he  under  him  ? 

Groom.  So  proudly  as  if  he  had  disdain'd  the  ground. 

K.  Rich.  So  proud  that  Bolingbroke  was  on  his  back ! 
That  jade  hath  eat  bread  from  my  royal  hand  ; 

"  Jack  o'  the  clock.  An  automaton,  such  as  fonnerly  constituted  one  of  the  won- 
ders of  London  before  St.  Duustan's  Church  in  Fleet  Street ;  but  which  the  ruth- 
less hand  of  improvement  has  now  swept  away. 

''  A  strange  brooch.  The  brooch,  a  valuable  ornament,  was,  it  seems,  out  of 
fashion  in  Shakspere's  time.  In  '  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well '  we  have  "  the  brooch 
and  the  toothpick,  which  wear  not  now."  Love  to  Richard  is,  therefore,  called  a 
strange  brooch,  a  thing  of  value  out  of  fashion. 

'^  Sad  dog.    Sad  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  grave,  gloomy. 


490  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  V. 

This  hand  hath  made  him  proud  with  clapping  him. 
Would  he  not  stumble  ?     Would  he  not  fall  down, 
(Since  pride  must  have  a  fall,)  and  break  the  neck 
Of  that  proud  man  that  did  usurp  his  back  ? 
Forgiveness,  horse !  why  do  I  rail  on  thee. 
Since  thou,  created  to  be  aw'd  by  man. 
Wast  bom  to  bear  ?  I  was  not  made  a  horse ; 
And  yet  I  bear  a  burthen  like  an  ass, 
Spur-gall'd,  and  tir'd,  by  jauncing '  Bolingbrokc. 

Enter  Keeper,  with  a  dish. 

Keep.  Fellow,  give  place ;  here  is  no  longer  stay. 

[To  the  Groom. 

K.  Rich.  If  thou  love  me  't  is  time  thou  wert  away. 

Groom.  What  my  tongue  dares  not  that  my  heart  shall 
say.  [Exit. 

Keep.  My  lord,  will 't  please  you  to  fall  to  ? 

K.  Rich.  Taste  of  it  first,  as  thou  art  wont  to  do. 

Keep.  My  lord,  I  dare  not ;  Sir  Pierce  of  Exton,  who 
Lately  came  from  the  king,  commands  the  contrary. 

K.  Rich.  The  devil  take  Henry  of  Lancaster,  and  thee ! 
Patience  is  stale,  and  I  am  weary  of  it.      [Beats  the  Keeper. 

Keep.  Help,  help,  help ! 

Enter  Exton,  and  Servants,  armed. 

K.  Rich.  How  now  ?  what  means  death  in  this  rude  as- 
sault? 
Villain,  thine  own  hand  yields  thy  death's  instrument. 

[Snatching  a  weapon,  and  killing  one. 
Go  thou,  and  fill  another  room  in  hell. 

[He  kills  another,  then  Exton  strikes  him  down. 
That  hand  shall  burn  in  never-quenching  fire. 
That  staggers  thus  my  person. — Exton,  thy  fierce  hand 
Hath  with  the  king's  blood  stain'd  the  king's  own  land. 
Mount,  mount,  my  soul !  thy  seat  is  up  on  high ; 
Whilst  my  gross  flesh  sinks  downward,  here  to  die.      [Dies. 

*  Jouncing.  Richard  compares  himself  to  a  spur-galled  beast  that  Bolingbroke 
rides. — Jauncing — ^jaunting — hurriedly  moving  Bolingbroke.  It  is  possible,  how- 
ever, that  it  may  be  a  contraction  of  joyauncing. 


Scene  VI.]  KING  RICHARD  II.  491 

Exton.  As  full  of  valour  as  of  royal  blood  : 
Both  have  I  spilt ;  O,  would  the  deed  were  good ! 
For  now  the  devil,  that  told  me  I  did  well. 
Says  that  this  deed  is  chronicled  in  hell. 
This  dead  king  to  the  living  king  I  '11  bear. 
Take  hence  the  rest,  and  give  them  burial  here.      [Exeunt. 

^    SCENE  VL— Windsor.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Flourish.     Enter  Bolingbroke  and  York,  with  Lords  and 
Attendants. 
Baling.  Kind  uncle  York,  the  latest  news  we  hear 
Is,  that  the  rebels  have  consum'd  with  fire 
Our  town  of  Cicester  in  Glostershire  ; 
But  whether  they  be  ta'en,  or  slain,  we  hear  not. 

Enter  Northumberland. 

Welcome,  my  lord  :  what  is  the  news  ? 

North.  First,  to  thy  sacred  state  wish  I  all  happiness. 
The  next  news  is, — I  have  to  London  sent 
The  heads  of  Salisbury,  Spencer,  Blunt,  and  Kent : 
The  manner  of  their  taking  may  appear 
At  large  discoursed  in  this  paper  here.    [Presenting  a  paper. 

Baling.  We  thank  thee,  gentle  Percy,  for  thy  pains ; 
And  to  thy  worth  will  add  right  worthy  gains. 

Enter  Fitzwater. 

Fitz.  My  lord,  I  have  from  Oxford  sent  to  London 
The  heads  of  Brocas,  and  sir  Bennet  Seely  ; 
Two  of  the  dangerous  consorted  traitors 
That  sought  at  Oxford  thy  dire  overthrow. 

Boling.  Thy  pains,  Fitzwater,  shall  not  be  forgot ; 
Right  noble  is  thy  merit,  well  I  wot. 

Enter  Percy,  with  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle. 
Percy.  The  grand  conspirator,  abbot  of  Westminster, 
With  clog  of  conscience  and  sour  melancholy. 
Hath  yielded  up  his  body  to  the  grave  ;  * 
But  here  is  Carlisle  living,  to  abide 
Thy  kingly  doom,  and  sentence  of  his  pride. 


492  KING  RICHARD  II.  [Act  V. 

Boling.  Carlisle,  this  is  your  doom  : — 
Choose  out  some  secret  place,  some  reverend  room. 
More  than  thou  hast,  and  with  it  joy  thy  life  ; 
So,  as  thou  liv'st  in  peace,  die  free  from  strife  : 
For  though  mine  enemy  thou  hast  ever  been. 
High  sparks  of  honour  in  thee  have  I  seen. 

Enter  Exton,  with  Attendants  bearing  a  coffin. 

Exton.  Great  king,  within  this  coffin  I  present 
Thy  buried  fear  ;  herein  all  breathless  lies 
The  mightiest  of  thy  greatest  enemies, 
Richard  of  Bordeaux,  by  me  hither  brought. 

Boling.  Exton,  I  thank  thee  not ;  for  thou  hast  wrought 
A  deed  of  slander,  with  thy  fatal  hand. 
Upon  my  head,  and  all  this  famous  land. 

Exton.  From  your  own  mouth,  my  lord,  did  I  this  deed. 

Boling.  They  love  not  poison  that  do  poison  need. 
Nor  do  I  thee ;  though  I  did  wish  him  dead, 
I  hate  the  murtherer,  love  him  murthered. 
The  guilt  of  conscience  take  thou  for  thy  labour. 
But  neither  my  good  word,  nor  princely  favour  : 
With  Cain  go  wander  through  the  shade  of  night. 
And  never  show  thy  head  by  day  nor  light. 
Lords,  I  protest,  my  soul  is  full  of  woe 
That  blood  should  sprinkle  me  to  make  me  grow  : 
Come,  mourn  with  me  for  that  I  do  lament. 
And  put  on  sullen  black,  incontinent ; 
I  '11  make  a  voyage  to  the  Holy  Land, 
To  wash  this  blood  off  from  my  guilty  hand : — 
March  sadly  after  ;  grace  my  mourning  here. 
In  weeping  after  this  untimely  bier.  [Exeunt. 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


493 


[Abbot  of  Westminster.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    ACT    V. 


'  Scene  II. — Duchess  of  York. 

The  mother  of  Aumerle  died  in  1394.     Edmund  of  Langley  was  subsequently 
married. 

*  Scene  III. — "  Can  no  man  tell  of  my  unthrifty  son  ?  " 

Shaksperehas  here  laid  the  connexion  between  this  play  and  that  of  '  Henry  IV.,' 
by  a  dramatic  relation  of  the  real  events  of  history.  Henry  of  Monmouth  was  at 
this  time  only  twelve  years  old.  Richard  had  taken  him  with  his  army  to  Ireland ; 
had  knighted  him ;  and  bad  kept  him  as  a  hostage  when  he  knew  of  Bolingbroke's 
invasion. 

^  Scene  III. — "  Our  trusty  brother-in-law.'' 

John  Duke  of  Exeter  (own  brother  to  Richard  II.),  who  married  Elizabeth,  the 
sister  of  Bolingbroke. 


494  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 

*  Scene  V. — "  7%«  cheapest  of  us  is  ten  groats  too  dear." 
We  subjoin  a  representation  of  the  groat  of  Richard  II. 


*  Scene  VI. — "  Hath  yielded  up  his  body  to  the  graved 

William  de  Colchester,  Abbot  of  Westminster,  according  to  Holinshed's  Chro- 
nicle, which  Shakspere  followed,  died  about  this  time.  The  relation  is  not  correct. 
He  outlived  Henry  IV.  The  portrait  which  we  give  in  the  preceding  page  is  from 
his  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey. 


HISTORICAL    ILLUSTRATION. 


We  have  avoided  any  previous  illiutration  of  the  history  and  character  of  Richard's 
queen,  reserving  a  short  notice  for  this  act,  in  which  she  occupies  so  interesting  a 
position.  Richard  was  twice  married.  His  first  wife,  who  was  called  the  good 
Queen  Anne,  died  in  1394.  His  second  wife,  the  queen  of  this  play,  was  Isabel, 
eldest  daughter  of  Charles  VI.  of  France.  When  Richard  espoused  her,  on  the 
31st  of  October,  1396,8he  was  but  eight  years  old.  The  alliance  with  France  gave 
the  greatest  dissatisfaction  in  England,  and  was  one  amongst  the  many  causes  of 
Richard's  almost  general  unpopularity.  Froissart  mentions  Richard's  obstinacy  in 
this  matter  with  great  naivete  :  "  It  is  not  pleasant  to  tlie  realm  of  England  that  he 
should  marry  witli  France,  and  it  hath  been  showed  him  that  the  daughter  of  France 
is  over  young,  and  that  this  five  or  six  year  she  shall  not  be  able  to  keep  him 
company ;  thereto  he  hath  answered  and  saifh,  that  she  shall  grow  riglit  well  in 
age."  Isabel  was  espoused  at  Paris,  by  proxy.  Froissart  says,  "  As  I  was  in- 
formed, it  was  a  goodly  sight  to  see  her  behaviour  :  for  all  that  she  was  but  young, 
right  pleasantly  she  bare  the  port  of  a  queen."  Isabel  lived  at  Windsor,  under  the 
care  of  Lady  de  Coucy :  but  this  lady  was  dismissed  for  her  extravagance,  and  an 
Englishwoman,  Lady  Mortimer,  succeeded  her  in  the  charge.  It  appears  from  the 
'  Metrical  History"  that  Richard  was  very  much  attached  to  her.  In  his  lamentations 
in  Conway  Castle  he  uses  tliese  passionate  expressions :  "  My  mistress  and  my 
consort!  accursed  be  the  man,  little  doth  he  love  us,  wiio  thus  sliamefuUy 
separateth  us  two.  I  am  dying  of  grief  because  of  it.  My  fair  sister,  my  lady, 
and  my  sole  desire.  Since  I  am  robbed  of  the  pleasure  of  beholding  thee,  such 
pain  and  aflliction  oppressetli  my  whole  heart,  that,  oftentimes,  I  am  hard  upon 


KING  RICHARD  II.  495 

despair.  Alas !  Isabel,  rightful  daughter  of  France,  you  were  wont  to  be  my  joy, 
my  hope,  and  my  consolation  ;  I  now  plainly  see  that,  through  the  great  violence  of 
fortune,  which  hath  slain  many  a  man,  I  must  wrongfully  be  removed  from  you." 
When  we  observe  that  Froissart  describes  the  girl  of  eight  years  old  as  deporting 
herself  right  pleasantly  as  a  queen,  and  read  of  the  lamentations  of  Richard  for 
their  separation,  as  described  by  one  who  witnessed  them,  we  may  consider  that 
there  was  an  historical  as  well  as  a  dramatic  propriety  in  the  character  which 
Shakspere  has  drawn  of  her.  In  the  garden-scene  at  Langley  we  have  scarcely 
more  elevation  of  character  than  might  belong  to  a  precocious  girl.  In  one  part, 
however,  of  the  last  scene  witli  Richard,  we  have  the  majesty  of  the  high-minded 
woman : — 

"  What,  is  my  Richard  both  in  shape  and  mind 
Transform'd  and  weaken'd  ?    Hath  Bolingbroke 
Depos'd  thine  intellect  ?    Hath  he  been  in  thy  heart  f  " 

The  poet,  however,  had  an  undoubted  right  to  mould  his  materials  to  his  own 
purpose.  Daniel,  in  his  descriptive  poem  of  the  Civil  Wars,  which  approaches  to 
the  accuracy  of  a  chronicle,  makes  "  the  young  affected  queen  "  a  mucli  more 
prominent  personage  than  Shakspere  does.  These  are  her  words,  as  she  witnesses 
the  procession  of  Richard  and  Bolingbroke  in  imaginary  situation  altogether  : — 

"  And  yet,  dear  lord,  though  thy  ungrateful  land 

Hath  left  thee  thus;  yet  I  will  take  thy  part  : 
I  do  remain  the  same,  under  thy  hand ; 

Thou  still  doth  rule  the  kingdom  of  my  heart  : 
If  all  be  lost,  that  government  doth  stand ; 

And  that  shall  never  from  thy  rule  depart : 
And,  so  thou  be,  I  care  not  how  thou  be : 
Let  greatness  go,  so  it  go  without  thee." 

Poor  Isabel  was  sent  back  to  France  ;  and  there  she  became,  a  second  time,  the 
victim  of  a  state  alliance,  being  married  to  the  eldest  son  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans, 
who  was  only  nine  years  old.  Her  younger  sister  became  the  wife  of  our 
Henry  V. 

Tlie  writer  of  the  '  Metrical  History  '  appears  to  have  conceived  a  violent  sus- 
picion of  Aumerle  and  of  all  his  proceedings.  He  represents  him  as  the  treacherous 
cause  of  Richard's  detention  in  Ireland ;  and,  in  the  conspiracy  of  the  Abbot  of 
Westminster  and  the  other  lords,  he  is  described  as  basely  becoming  privy  to 
their  designs  that  he  might  betray  them  to  Henry  IV.  Shakspere's  version  of  the 
story  is  the  more  dramatic  one,  which  is  given  by  Holinshed. 

"This  Earl  of  Rutland,  departing  before  from  Westminster,  to  see  his  father  the 
Duke  of  York,  as  he  sat  at  dinner  had  his  counterpart  of  the  indenture  of  the  con- 
federacy in  his  bosom.  The  father,  espying  it,  would  needs  see  what  it  was  :  and 
though  the  son  humbly  denied  to  show  it,  the  father,  being  more  eaniest  to  see  it, 
by  force  took  it  out  of  his  bosom,  and,  perceiving  the  contents  thereof,  in  a  great 
rage  caused  his  horses  to  be  saddled  out  of  hand,  and  spitefully  reproving  his  son 
of  treason,  for  whom  he  was  become  surety  and  mainpeniour  for  his  good  bearing 
in  open  parliament,  he  incontinently  mounted  on  horseback  to  ride  towards 
Windsor  to  the  king,  to  declare  to  him  the  malicious  intent  of  his  son  and  big 
accomplices.  The  Earl  of  Rutland,  seeing  in  what  danger  he  stood,  took  bis 
horse  and  rode  anotlier  way  to  Windsor,  in  post,  so  that  he  got  thither  before  his 
father;  and  when  he  was  alighted  at  the  castle-gate,  he  caused  tlie  gates  to  be 
shut,  saying  that  he  must  needs  deliver  the  keys  to  the  king.  When  he  came 
before  the  king's  presence  he  kneeled  down  on  his  knees,  beseecliing  him  of  mercy 
and  forgiveness,  and  declaring  the  whole  matter  mito  him  in  order  as  everything 


496  ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 

had  pajsed ;  obtained  pardon ;  and  therewith  came  his  father,  and,  being  let  in, 
delivered  the  indenture  which  he  had  taken  from  his  son  unto  the  king ;  wlio, 
thereby  perceiving  his  son's  words  to  be  true,  changed  his  purpose  for  his  going  to 
Oxfortl,  and  despatched  messengers  forth  to  signify  unto  the  Earl  of  Northumf)er- 
land  his  high  constable,  and  to  the  Earl  of  Westmoreland  his  high  marshal,  and  to 
others  his  assured  friends,  of  all  the  doubtful  danger  and  perilous  jeopardy." 

The  death  of  Richard  II.  is  one  of  those  historical  mysteries  which,  per- 
haps, will  never  be  cleared  up.  The  story  which  Shakspere  has  adopted,  of  his 
assassination  by  Sir  Pierce  of  Exton  and  his  followers,  was  related  by  Caxton  in 
his  addition  to  Hygden's  '  Polycronicon  ;'  was  copied  by  Fabyan,  and,  of  course, 
found  its  way  into  Holinshed.  The  honest  old  compiler,  however,  notices  the 
other  stories — that  he  died  either  by  compulsory  famine  or  by  voluntary  pining. 
Caxton  borrowed  his  account,  it  is  supposed,  from  a  French  manuscript  in  the 
royal  library  at  Paris,  written  by  a  partisan  of  Richard.  In  his  '  Chronicle,' 
printed  two  years  before  the  additions  to  the '  Polycronicon,'  Caxton  takes  no  notice 
of  the  story  of  the  assassination  by  Sir  Pierce  of  Exton ;  but  says, "  He  was  enfamined 

unto  the  death  by  his  keeper yet  much  jjeople  in  England,  and  in  other 

lands,  said  that  he  was  alive  many  year  after  his  death."  It  is  a  remarkable  con- 
firmation of  the  belief  that  Richard  did  not  die  by  the  wounds  of  a  battle-axe,  that 
when  his  tomb  was  opened  in  Westminster  Abbey,  some  years  since,  his  skull 
was  found  uninjured.  Thomas  of  Walsingham,  who  was  living  at  the  time  of 
Richard's  death,  relates  that  the  unhappy  captive  voluntarily  starved  himself. 
His  body  was  removed  to  the  Tower,  where  it  was  publicly  exhibited.  The  story 
of  his  voluntary  starvation  is,  however,  doubtful ;  that  of  his  violent  assassination 
seems  altogether  apocryphal.  In  an  important  document,  whose  publication  we  owe 
to  Sir  Henry  Ellis — the  manifesto  of  the  Percies  against  Henry  IV.,  issued  just 
before  the  battle  of  Shrewsbury — Henry  is  distinctly  charged  with  having  caused 
Richard  to  perish  from  hunger,  thirst,  and  cold,  after  fifteen  days  and  nights  of  suf- 
ferings unheard  of  among  Christians.  Two  years  afterwards  Archbishop  Scroop  repeats 
the  charge ;  but  he  adds  what  unquestionably  weakens  its  force,  "  ut  vulgariter 
dicitur.^  There  is  one  other  story  which  has  formed  the  subject  of  a  very  curious 
controversy,  but  which  it  would  be  out  of  place  here  to  detail — that  espoused  by 
Mr.  Tytler — that  Richard  escaped,  and  lived  nineteen  years  in  Scotland.  The 
various  arguments  for  and  against  this  incredible  tale  may  be  found  in  a 
paper,  by  the  late  amiable  and  accomplished  Lord  Dover,  read  before  the  Royal 
Society  of  Literature.  The  conflicting  evidence  as  to  the  causes  of  Richard's 
death  in  Porafret  Castle  is  very  ably  detailed  by  Mr.  Amyot,  in  the  20th  volume 
of  the  '  Archaeologia.'  The  prison-scene  in  Shakspere  will,  perhap8,more  than  any 
accredited  relation,  continue  to  influence  the  popular  belief;  and  yet,  on  the 
other  hand,  we  have  the  beautiful  passage  in  Gray's  '  Bard'  to  support  the  less 
dramatic  story: — 

"  Fair  laughs  the  mom,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 
While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm, 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes  ; 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm ; 
.  Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sptay. 
That,  hush'd  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  evening  preyv 

Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 

The  rich  ropa«t  prepare. 

Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast; 

Close  by  the  regal  chair 

Fell  thirst  and  famine  scowl 

A  baleful  smiln  upon  their  baffled  guest." 


KING  RICHARD  II. 


497 


The  body  of  Richard  was  brought  to  London  ;  and,  being  publicly  exposed,  was 
removed  to  Langley  for  interment.  Henry  V.,  who  appears  always  to  have  che- 
rished a  generous  regard  for  the  memory  of  the  unfortunate  king,  caused  it  to  be 
removed  in  great  state  to  Westminster  Abbey. 


[Portrait  of  Richard  II.  armed.     Illumination  in  '  Metrical  History.'] 


Vol.  IV 


2  K 


498  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 


["  I'll  give  my  jewels  for  a  set  of  beads." — Act  III.  Scene  3.] 

SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 


We  scarcely  know  how  to  approach  this  drama,  even  for  the  purpose 
of  a  simple  analysis.  We  are  almost  afraid  to  trust  our  own  admi- 
ration when  we  turn  to  the  cold  criticism  by  which  opinion  in  this 
country  has  been  Wont  to  be  governed.  We  have  been  told  that  it 
cannot  "  be  said  much  to  aifect  the  passions  or  enlarge  the  under- 
standing."* It  may  be  so.  And  yet,  we  think,  it  might  somewhat 
"  aflfect  the  passions," — for  "  gorgeous  tragedy  "  hath  here  put  on 
her  "  scepter'd  pall,"  and  if  she  bring  not  Terror  in  her  train.  Pity, 
at  least,  claims  the  sad  story  for  her  own.  And  yet  it  may  some- 
what "  enlarge  the  understanding," — for,  though  it  abound  not  in 
those  sententious  moralities  which  may  fitly  adorn  "  a  theme  at 
school,"  it  lays  bare  more  than  one  human  bosom  with  a  most 
searching  anatomy ;  and,  in  the  moral  and  intellectual  strength  and 
weakness  of  humanity,  which  it  discloses  with  as  much  precision  as 
the  scalpel  reveals  to  the  student  of  our  physical  nature  the  symp- 
toms of  health  or  disease,  may  we  read  the  proximate  and  final 
causes  of  this  world's  success  or  loss,  safety  or  danger,  honour  or 
disgrace,  elevation  or  ruin.  And  then,  moreover,  the  profound 
truths  which,  half-hidden  to  the  careless  reader,  are  to  be  drawn  out 
from  this  drama,  are  contained  in  such  a  splendid  frame-work  of 

*  Johnson. 


KING  RICHARD  II.  499 

the  picturesque  and  the  poetical,  that  the  setting  of  the  jewel  almost 
distracts  our  attention  from  the  jewel  itself.  We  are  here  plunged 
into  the  midst  of  the  fierce  passions  and  the  gorgeous  pageantries  of 
the  antique  time.  We  not  only  enter  the  halls  and  galleries,  where 
is  hung 

"  Armoury  of  the  invincible  knights  of  old," 

but  we  see  the  beaver  closed,  and  the  spear  in  rest : — under  those 
cuirasses  are  hearts  knocking  against  the  steel  with  almost  more 
than  mortal  rage ; — ^the  banners  wave,  the  trumpet  sounds — heralds 
and  marshals  are  ready  to  salute  the  victor — but  the  absolute  king 
casts  down  his  warder,  and  the  anticipated  triumph  of  one  proud 
champion  must  end  in  the  unmerited  disgrace  of  both.  The  transi- 
tion is  easy  from  the  tourney  to  the  battle-field.  A  nation  must 
bleed  that  a  subject  may  be  avenged.  "A  crown  is  to  be  played  for, 
though 

"  Tumultuous  wars 
Shall  k!n  with  kin  and  kind  with  kind  confound." 

The  luxurious  lord, 

•'  That  every  day  under  his  household  roof 
Did  keep  ten  thousand  men,'' 

perishes  in  a  dungeon  ; — the  crafty  usurper  sits  upon  his  throne, 
but  it  is  undermined  by  the  hatreds  even  of  those  who  placed  him 
on  it.  Here  is,  indeed,  "  a  kingdom  for  a  stage."  And  has  the 
greatest  of  poets  dealt  with  such  a  subject  without  afi"ecting  the 
passions  or  enlarging  the  understanding  ?  No.  No.  Away  with 
this.     We  xciil  trust  our  own  admiration. 

It  is  a  sincere  pleasure  to  us  to  introduce  our  remarks  upon  the 
'  Richard  II.'  by  some  acute  and  just  observations  upon  Shakspere's 
historical  plays  in  general  from  a  French  source.  The  following 
passage  is  from  the  forty-ninth  volume  of  the  '  Dictionnaire  de  la 
Conversation  et  de  la  Lecture.'  (Paris,  1838.)  The  article  bears 
the  signature  of  Philar^te  Chasles  : — 

"  This  poet,  so  often  sneered  at  as  a  frantic  and  barbarous  writer, 
is,  above  all,  remarkable  for  a  judgment  so  high,  so  firm,  so  un- 
compromising, that  one  is  almost  tempted  to  impeach  his  coldness, 
and  to  find  in  this  impassable  observer  something  that  may  be 
almost  called  cruel  towards  the  human  race.  In  the  historical 
pieces  of  Shakspere,  the  picturesque,  rapid,  and  vehement  genius 
which  has  produced  them  seems  to  bow  before  the  superior  law  of 
a  judgment  almost  ironical  in  its  clear-sightedness.  Sensibility  to 
impressions,  the  ardent   force   of  imagination,  the   eloquence  of 

2K  2 


500  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

passion — these  brilliant  gifts  of  nature,  which  would  seem  destined 
to  draw  a  poet  beyond  all  limits,  are  subordinated  in  this  extraordi- 
nary intelligence  to  a  calm  and  almost  deriding  sagacity,  which 
pardons  nothing  and  forgets  nothing.  Thus,  the  dramas  of  which 
we  speak  are  painful  as  real  history.  iEschylus  exhibits  to  us  Fate 
hovering  over  the  world ;  Calderon  opens  to  us  heaven  and  hell  as 
the  last  words  of  the  enigma  of  life ;  Voltaire  renders  his  drama  an 
instrument  for  asserting  his  own  peculiar  doctrines ; — but  Shakspere 
seeks  his  Fate  in  the  hearts  of  men,  and  when  he  makes  us  see  them 
so  capricious,  so  bewildered,  so  irresolute,  he  teaches  us  to  con- 
template, without  surprise,  the  untoward  events  and  sudden  changes 
of  fortune.  In  the  purely  poetical  dramas  to  which  this  great 
poet  has  given  so  much  verisimilitude,  we  console  ourselves  in 
believing  that  the  evils  which  he  paints  are  imaginary,  and  that 
their  truth  is  but  general.  But  the  dramatic  chronicles  which 
Shakspere  has  sketched  are  altogether  real.  There  we  behold  irre- 
vocable evils — we  see  the  scenes  that  the  world  has  seen,  and  the 
horrors  that  it  has  suffered.  The  more  the  details  that  accompany 
these  events  are  irresistible  in  their  truth,  the  more  they  grieve  us. 
The  more  the  author  is  impartial,  the  more  he  wounds  and  over- 
powers us.  This  employment  of  his  marvellous  talent  is  in  reality 
a  profound  satire  upon  what  we  are,  upon  what  we  shall  be,  upon 
what  we  were." 

It  is  this  wonderful  subjection  of  the  poetical  power  to  the  higher 
law  of  truth — to  the  poetical  truth,  which  is  the  highest  truth,  com- 
prehending and  expounding  the  historical  truth — which  must  fur- 
nish the  clue  to  the  proper  understanding  of  the  drama  of '  Richard 
II.'     It  appears  to  us  that,  when  the  poet  first  undertook 

"  to  ope 
The  purple  testament  of  bleeding  war," — 

to  unfold  the  roll  of  the  causes  and  consequences  of  that  usurpation 
of  the  house  of  Lancaster  which  plunged  three  or  four  generations 
of  Englishmen  in  bloodshed  and  misery — he  approached  the  subject 
with  an  inflexibility  of  purpose  as  totally  removed  as  it  was  possible 
to  be  from  the  levity  of  a  partisan.  There  were  to  be  weighed  in 
one  scale  the  follies,  the  weaknesses,  the  crimes  of  Richard — the 
injuries  of  Bolingbroke — the  insults  which  the  capricious  despotism 
of  the  king  had  heaped  upon  his  nobles — the  exactions  under  which 
the  people  groaned — the  real  merits  and  the  popular  attributes  of 
him  who  came  to  redress  and  to  repair.  In  the  other  scale  were  to 
be   placed  the   afflictions   of   fallen   greatness — the  revenge  and 


KING  RICHARD  II.  501 

treachery  by  which  the  fall  was  produced — the  heartburnings  and 
suspicions  which  accompany  every  great  revolution — the  struggles 
for  power  which  ensue  when  the  established  and  legitimate  authority 
is  thrust  from  its  seat. — All  these  phases,  personal  and  political,  of 
a  deposition  and  an  usurpation,  Shakspere  has  exhibited  with  that 
marvellous  impartiality  which  the  French  writer  whom  we  have 
quoted  has  well  described.  The  political  impartiality  is  so  remark- 
able, that,  during  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  the  deposition  scene  was 
neither  acted  nor  printed,  lest  it  should  give  occasion  to  the  enemies 
of  legitimate  succession  to  find  examples  for  the  deposing  of  a 
monarch.  Going  forward  into  the  spirit  of  another  age,  during  the 
administration  of  Walpole,  the  play,  in  1738,  had  an  unusual  suc- 
cess, principally  because  it  contained  many  passages  which  seemed 
to  point  to  the  then  supposed  corruption  of  the  court ;  and  on  this 
occasion,  a  letter  published  in  '  The  Craftsman,'  in  which  many 
lines  of  the  play  were  thus  applied  to  the  political  topics  of  the 
times,  was  the  subject  of  state  prosecution.  The  statesmen  of 
Elizabeth  and  of  George  II.  were  thus  equally  in  fear  of  the  popu- 
lar tendencies  of  this  history.  On  the  other  hand,  when  Richard, 
speaking  dramatically  in  his  own  person,  says, — 

"  Not  all  the  water  in  the  rough  rude  sea 
Can  wash  the  balm  from  an  anointed  king ; 
The  breath  of  worldly  men  cannot  depose 
The  deputy  elected  by  the  Lord," — 

Dr.  Johnson  rejoicingly  says, — "  Here  is  the  doctrine  of  indefeasible 
right  expressed  in  the  strongest  terms ;  but  our  poet  did  not  learn 
it  in  the  reign  of  James,  to  which  it  is  now  the  practice  of  all  writers 
whose  opinions  are  regulated  by  fashion  or  interest  to  impute  the 
original  of  every  tenet  which  they  have  been  taught  to  think  false 
or  foolish."  Again,  when  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  in  the  deposition 
scene,  exclaims, 

"  And  shall  the  figure  of  God's  majesty, 
His  captain,  steward,  deputy  elect, 
Anointed,  crowned,  planted  many  years. 
Be  judg'd  by  subject  and  inferior  breath, 
And  he  himself  not  present?'' — 

Johnson  remarks,  "  Here  is  another  proof  that  our  author  did  not 
learn  in  King  James's  court  his  elevated  notions  of  the  right  of 
kings.  I  know  not  any  flatterer  of  the  Stuarts  who  has  expressed 
this  doctrine  in  much  stronger  terms."  Steevens  adds  that  Shak- 
spere found  the  speech  in  Holinshed,  and  that  "  the  politics  of  the 
historian  were  the  politics  of  the  poet."    The  contrary  aspects  which 


502  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

this  play  has  thus  presented  to  those  who  were  political  partisans  is 
a  most  remarkable  testimony  to  Shakspere's  political  impartiality. 
He  appears  to  us  as  if  he,  "  apart,  sat  on  a  hill  retired,"  elevated  far 
above  the  temporary  opinions  of  his  own  age,  or  of  succeeding  ages. 
His  business  is  with  universal  humanity,  and  not  with  a  fragment 
of  it.  He  is,  indeed,  the  poet  of  a  nation  in  his  glowing  and  genial 
patriotism,  but  never  the  poet  of  a  party.  Perhaps,  the  most  elo- 
quent speech  in  this  play  is  that  of  Gaunt,  beginning — 
"  This  royAl  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd  isle." 

It  is  full  of  such  praise  of  our  country  as,  taken  apart  from  the 
conclusion,  might  too  much  pamper  the  pride  of  a  proud  nation. 
But  the  profound  impartiality  of  the  master-mind  comes  in  at  the 
close  of  this  splendid  description,  to  show  us  that  all  these  glories 
must  be  founded  upon  just  government. 

It  is  in  the  same  lofty  spirit  of  impartiality  which  governs  the 
general  sentiments  of  this  drama  that  Shakspere  has  conceived  the 
mixed  character  of  Richard.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  in  his  admirable 
*  Discourses '  (a  series  of  compositions  which  present  the  example 
of  high  criticism  upon  the  art  of  painting,  when  the  true  principles 
of  criticism  upon  poetry  were  neglected  or  misunderstood),  has 
properly  reprobated  "  the  diflSculty  as  well  as  danger  in  an  endea- 
vour to  concentrate  in  a  single  subject  those  various  powers,  which, 
rising  from  different  points,  naturally  move  in  different  directions." 
He  says,  with  reference  to  this  subject,  "  Art  has  its  boundaries, 
though  imagination  has  none."  Here  is  the  great  line  of  distinction 
between  poetry  and  painting.  Painting  must  concentrate  all  its 
power  upon  the  representation  of  one  action,  one  expression,  in  the 
same  person.  The  range  of  poetry  is  as  boundless  as  the  diversities 
of  character  in  the  same  individual.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  has, 
however,  properly  laughed  at  those  principles  of  criticism  which 
would  even  limit  the  narrow  range  of  pictorial  expression  to  con- 
ventional, and  therefore  hackneyed,  forms.  He  quotes  a  passage 
from  Du  Piles,  as  an  example  of  the  attempt  of  a  false  school  of 
criticism  to  substitute  the  "  pompous  and  laboured  insolence  of 
grandeur  "  for  that  dignity  which,  "  seeming  to  be  natural  and  in- 
herent, draws  spontaneous  reverence."  "  If  you  draw  persons  of 
high  character  and  dignity  "  (says  Du  Piles),  "  they  ought  to  be 
drawn  in  such  an  attitude  that  the  portraits  must  seem  to  speak  to 
us  of  themselves,  and  as  it  were  to  say  to  us,  '  Stop,  take  notice  of 
me ;  I  am  that  invincible  king,  surrounded  by  majesty :'  '  I  am 
that  valiant  commander  who  struck  terror  everywhere :'  'I  am  that 


KING  RICHARD  II.  503 

great  minister  who  knew  all  the  springs  of  politics:'  '  I  am  that 
magistrate  of  consummate  wisdom  and  probity.' "  Now,  this  is 
absurd  enough  as  regards  the  painter ;  but,  absurd  as  it  is,  in  its 
limited  application,  it  is  precisely  the  same  sort  of  reasoning  that 
the  French  critics  in  the  time  of  Voltaire,  and  the  English  who 
caught  the  infection  of  their  school,  applied  to  the  higher  range 
of  the  art  of  Shakspere.  The  criticism  of  Dr.  Johnson,  for  ex- 
ample, upon  the  character  of  Richard  II.  is,  for  the  most  part,  a 
series  of  such  mistakes.  He  misinterprets  Shakspere's  delineation 
of  Richard,  upon  a  preconceived  theory  of  his  own.  Thus  he  says, 
in  a  note  to  the  second  scene  in  the  third  act,  where  Richard  for  a 
moment  appears  resigned 

"  To  bear  the  tidings  of  calamity,". 

"  It  seems  to  be  the  design  of  the  poet  to  raise  Richard  to  esteem  in 
his  fall,  and,  consequently,  to  interest  the  reader  in  his  favour.  He 
gives  him  only  passive  fortitude,  the  virtue  of  a  confessor  rather 
than  of  a  king.  In  his  prosperity  we  saw  him  imperious  and  op- 
pressive; but  in  his  distress  he  is  wise,  patient,  and  pious."  Now 
this  is  precisely  the  reverse  of  Shakspere's  representation  of  Richard. 
Instead  of  passive  fortitude,  we  have  passionate  weakness ;  and  it  is 
that  very  weakness  upon  which  our  pity  is  founded.  Having  mis- 
taken Shakspere's  purpose  in  the  delineation  of  Richard  in  his  fall, 
this  able  but  sometimes  prejudiced  writer  flounders  on  in  a  series 
of  carping  objections  to  the  language  which  Richard  uses.  After 
Richard  has  said, 

"  Or  I  '11  be  buried  in  the  king's  highway, 
Some  way  of  common  trade,  where  subjects'  feet 
May  hourly  trample  on  their  sovereign's  head," 

he  flies  off  into  a  series  of  pretty  imaginings,  and  ends  thus, — 

«  Well,  well,  I  see 
I  talk  but  idly,  and  you  mock  at  me." 

Now  in  nothing  is  the  exquisite  tact  of  the  poet  more  shown  than  in 
these  riots  of  the  imagination  in  the  unhappy  king,  whose  mind  was 
altogether  prostrate  before  the  cool  and  calculating  intellect  of 
Bolingbroke.  But  Johnson,  quite  in  Du  Piles'  style,  here  says, 
"  Shakspere  is  very  apt  to  deviate  from  the  pathetic  to  the  ridicu- 
lous. Had  the  speech  of  Richard  ended  at  this  line  ('  May  hourly 
trample  on  their  sovereign's  head '),  it  had  exhibited  the  natural 
language  of  submissive  misery,  conforming  its  intention  to  the  pre- 
sent fortune,  and  calmly  ending  its  purposes  in  death."  Now,  it  is 
most  certain  that  Shakspere  had  no  intention  to  exhibit  "  the  natu- 


504  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

ral  language  of  submissive  misery."  Such  a  purpose  would  have 
been  utterly  foreign  to  the  great  ideal  truth  of  his  conception  of 
Richard's  character.  Again,  in  the  interview  with  the  queen,  when 
Richard  says, — 

"  Tell  thou  the  lamentable  fall  of  me, 
And  send  the  hearers  weeping  to  their  beds. 
For  why,  the  senseless  brands  will  sympathize,"  &c. — 

Johnson  observes,  "  The  poet  should  have  ended  this  speech  with 
the  foregoing  line,  and  have  spared  his  childish  prattle  about  the 
fire."  Mr.  Monck  Mason  very  innocently  remarks  upon  this  com- 
ment of  Johnson,  "  This  is  certainly  childish  prattle,  but  it  is  of  the 
same  stamp  with  the  other  speeches  of  Richard  after  the  landing  of 
Bolingbroke,  which  are  a  strange  medley  of  sense  and  puerility." 
Of  course  they  are  so.  There  are  probably  no  passages  of  criticism 
upon  Shakspere  that  more  forcibly  point  out  to  us,  than  these  of 
Johnson  and  his  followers  do,  the  absurdity  of  trying  a  poet  by  laws 
which  he  had  of  purpose  cast  off  and  spurned.  Had  Johnson  been 
applying  his  test  of  excellence  to  the  conventional  kings  and  heroes 
of  the  French  stage,  and  of  the  English  stage  of  his  own  day,  he 
might  have  been  nearer  the  truth.  But  Shakspere  undertook  to 
show  us,  not  only  a  fallen  king,  but  a  fallen  man.  Richard  stands 
before  us  in  the  nakedness  of  humanity,  stripped  of  the  artificial 
power  which  made  his  strength.  The  props  are  cut  away  upon 
which  he  leaned.     He  is, 

"  in  shape  and  mind, 
Transform'd  and  weaken'd," — 

humbled  to  the  lot  of  the  commonest  slave,  to 
"  feel  want,  taste  grief, 
Need  friends.'' 

This  is  the  Richard  of  our  poet.  Is  it  not  the  Richard  of  history  ? 
"We  must  trespass  upon  the  patience  of  the  reader  while  we  run 
through  the  play,  that  we  may  properly  note  the  dependence  of  its 
events  upon  its  characters. 

Froissart  has  given  us  the  key  to  two  of  the  most  remarkable 
and  seemingly  opposite  traits  of  Richard's  mind, — cunning  and 
credulity.  Speaking  of  his  devising  the  death  of  his  uncle  of 
Gloster,  Froissart  says,  "  King  Richard  of  England  noted  well 
these  said  words,  the  which  was  showed  him  in  secretness ;  and,  like 
an  imaginative  frince  as  he  was,  within  a  season  after  that  his  uncles 
of  Lancaster  and  of  York  were  departed  out  of  the  court,  then  the 
king  took  more  hardiness  on  him."  Lord  Berners,  the  translator 
of  Froissart,  always  uses  "  imaginative  "  in  the  sense  of  deviceful. 


KING  RICHARD  II.  505 

crafty, — following  his  original.  As  to  the  king's  credulity,  the 
same  accurate  observer,  who  knew  the  characters  of  his  own  days 
well,  thus  speaks  : — "  King  Richard  of  England  had  a  condition 
that,  if  he  loved  a  man,  he  would  make  him  so  great,  and  so  near 
him,  that  it  was  marvel  to  consider,  and  no  man  durst  speak  to  the 
contrary;  and  also  he  xcovM  lightly  believe  sooner  than  any  other 
king  of  remembrance  before  him."  Upon  these  historical  truths  is 
Shakspere's  Richard,  in  the  first  scenes  of  this  drama, — the  absolute 
Richard, — founded.  But  with  what  skill  has  Shakspere  indicated 
the  evil  parts  of  Richard's  character — ^just  as  much  as,  and  no  more 
than,  is  sufficient  to  qualify  our  pity  for  his  fall.  We  learn  from 
Gaunt  that  Richard  was  the  real  cause  of  Gloster's  death ; — the 
matter  is  once  mentioned,  and  there  an  end.  We  ourselves  see  his 
arbitrary  bearing  in  the  banishment  of  Bolingbroke  and  Norfolk ; 
his  moral  cowardice  in  requiring  an  oath  for  his  own  safety  from 
the  two  enemies  that  he  was  at  that  moment  oppressing  ;  his  mean- 
ness in  taunting  Gaunt  with  his  "  party-verdict"  as  to  his  son's 
banishment ;  his  levity  in  mitigating  the  sentence  after  it  had  been 
solemnly  delivered.  After  this  scene  we  have  an  exhibition  of  his 
cold-hearted  rapacity  in  wishing  for  the  death  of  Gaunt : — 

"  Now  put  it.  Heaven,  in  his  physician's  mind 
To  help  him  to  his  grave  immediately  ! 
The  lining  of  his  coffers  shall  make  coats 
To  deck  our  soldiers  for  these  Irish  wars." 

This  prepares  us  for  the  just  reproaches  of  his  dying  uncle  in  the 
next  act ; — when  the  dissembling  king  is  moved  from  his  craft  to 
an  exhibition  of  childish  passion  toward  the  stern  but  now  powerless 
Gaunt,  before  whom  he  had  trembled  till  he  saw  him  on  a  death- 
bed.    The 

"  make  pale  our  cheek  " 

was  not  a  random  expression.  The  king  again  speaks  in  this  way 
when  he  hears  of  the  defection  of  the  Welsh  under  Salisbury  :— 

"  Have  I  not  reason  to  look  pale  and  dead?" 

Richard,  who  was  of  a  ruddy  complexion,  exhibited  in  his  cheeks 
the  internal  workings  of  fear  or  rage.  This  was  a  part  of  his  weak- 
ness of  character.  The  writer  of  the  '  Metrical  History '  twice 
notices  the  peculiarity.  When  the  king  received  a  defying  message 
from  the  Irish  chieftain,  the  French  knight,  who  was  present,  says, 
"  This  speech  was  not  agreeable  to  the  king ;  it  appeared  to  me 
that  his  face  grew  pale  with  anger."  When  he  heard  of  the  landing 
of  Bolingbroke,  the  writer  again  says,  "  It  seemed  to  me  that  the 


506  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

king's  face  at  this  turned  pale  with  anger."  Richard's  indignation 
at  the  reproaches  of  Gaunt  is,  at  once,  brutal  and  childish : — 

"  And  let  them  die  that  age  and  suUens  have." 
Then  comes  the  final  act  of  despotism,  which  was  to  be  his  ruin : — 

"  We  do  seize  to  us 
The  plate,  coin,  revenues,  and  moveables, 
Whereof  our  uncle  Gaunt  did  stand  possess 'd." 

He  is  amazed  that  York  is  indignant  at  this  outrtige.     He  is  deaf  to 

the  prophetic  denunciation, 

"  You  pluck  a  thousand  dangers  on  your  head." 

Still,  Shakspere  keeps  us  from  the  point  to  which  he  might  have 
led  us,  of  unmitigated  contempt  towards  Richard ; — to  make  us 
hate  him  was  no  part  of  his  purpose.  We  know  that  the  charges 
of  the  discontented  nobles  against  him  are  just ; — ^we  almost  wish 
success  to  their  enterprise ;  but  we  are  most  skilfully  held  back 
from  discovering  so  much  of  Richard's  character  as  would  have 
disqualified  us  from  sympathising  in  his  fall.  It  is  highly  probable, 
too,  that  Shakspere  abstained  from  painting  the  actual  king  as  an 
object  to  be  despised,  while  he  stood  as  "  the  symbolic,  or  repre- 
sentative, on  which  all  genial  law,  no  less  than  patriotism,  de- 
pends."* The  poet  does  not  hesitate,  when  the  time  is  past  for 
reverencing  the  king  or  compassionating  the  man,  to  speak  of 
Richard,  by  the  mouth  of  Henry  IV.,  with  that  contempt  which  his 
weakness  and  his  frivolities  would  naturally  excite : — 

.         "  The  skipping  king,  he  ambled  up  and  down 
With  shallow  jesters,  and  rash  bavin  wits, 
Soon  kindled  and  soon  bum'd :  carded  his  state ; 
Mingled  his  royalty  with  capering  fools ; 
Had  his  great  name  profaned  with  their  sconis; 
And  gave  his  countenance,  against  his  name, 
To  laugh  at  gibing  boys,"  &c. — ('  Henry  IV.'  Part  I.) 

There  is  nothing  of  this  bitter  satire  put  in  the  mouths  of  any  of 
the  speakers '  in  Richard  II. ;'  and  the  poetical  reason  for  this  appears 
obvious.  Yet  it  is  perfectly  true,  historically,  that  Richard  "  carded 
his  state"  by  indiscriminately  mixing  with  all  sorts  of  favourites, 
who  used  the  most  degrading  freedoms  towards  him. 

Bolingbroke  (then   Henry  IV.)   thus   describes   himself  to  his 
son : — 

"  And  then  I  stole  all  courtesy  from  heaven. 

And  dress'd  myself  in  such  humility, 

That  I  did  pluck  allegiance  from  men's  hearts, 

*  Coleridge. 


KING  RICHARD  II.  507 

Loud  shouts  and  salutations  from  their  moutlis, 
Even  in  the  presence  of  the  crowned  king." 

The  Bolingbroke  who,  in '  Henry  IV.,'  is  thus  retrospectively  painted, 
is  the  Bolingbroke  in  action  in  '  Richard  II.'     The  king 

"  Observ'd  his  courtship  to  the  common  people." 
When  he  returns  from  banishment,  in  arms  against  his  unjust  lord, 
he  wins  Northumberland  by  his  powers  of  pleasing : — 

"  And  yet  our  fair  discourse  hatii  been  as  sugar." 

Mark,  too,  his  professions  to  the  "  gentle  Percy  :" — 

"  I  count  myself  in  nothing  else  so  happy, 
As  in  a  soul  remembering  my  good  friends." 

When  York  accuses  him  of 

"  Gross  rebellion  and  detested  treason," 

how  temperate,  and  yet  how  convincing,  is  his  defence.  York  re- 
mains with  him — he  *'  cannot  mend  it."  But  Bolingbroke,  with 
all  his  humility  to  his  uncle,  and  all  his  courtesy  to  his  friends, 
abates  not  a  jot  of  his  determination  to  be  supreme.  He  announces 
this  in  no  under-tones — he  has  no  confidences  about  his  ultimate 
intentions ; — but  we  feel  that  he  has  determined  to  sit  on  the  throne, 
even  while  he  says, 

"  I  am  a  subject, 
And  challenge  law." 

He  is,  in  fact,  the  king,  when  he  consigns  Bushy  and  Green  to  the 
scaffold.  He  speaks  not  as  one  of  a  council — he  neither  vindicates 
nor  alludes  to  his  authority.  He  addresses  the  victims  as  the  one 
interpreter  of  the  law;  and  he  especially  dwells  upon  his  own  per- 
sonal wrongs  : — 

"  See  them  deliver'd  over 
To  execution  and  the  hand  of  death." 

Most  skilfully  does  this  violent  and  uncompromising  exertion  of 
authority  prepare  us  for  what  is  to  come. 

We  are  arrived  at  those  wonderful  scenes  which,  to  our  minds, 
may  be  classed  amongst  the  very  highest  creations  of  art — even  of 
the  art  of  Shakspere.  "  Barkloughly  Castle  "  is  "  at  hand." — 
Richard  stands  upon  his  "  kingdom  once  again."  Around  him  are 
armed  bands  ready  to  strip  him  of  his  crown  and  life.  Does  he  step 
upon  his  "  earth  "  with  the  self-confiding  port  of  one  who  will  hold 
it  against  all  foes  ?  The  conventional  dignity  of  the  king  cannot 
conceal  the  intellectual  weakness  of  the  man ;  and  we  see  that  he 
must  lose  his  "  gentle  earth  "  for  ever.  His  sensibility — his  plastic 
imagination — ^his   effeminacy,  even  when  strongly  moved  to  love 


508  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

or  to  hatred — ^his  reliance  upon  his  oflSce  more  than  his  own  head 
and  heart — doom  him  to  an  overthrow.  How  surpassingly  charac- 
teristic are  the  lines  in  which  he  addresses  his  "  earth"  as  if  it  were 
a  thing  of  life — a  favourite  that  he  could  honour  and  cherish — a 
friend  that  would  adopt  and  cling  to  his  cause — a  partisan  that 
could  throw  a  shield  over  him,  and  defend  him  from  his  enemies : — 

"  So,  weeping,  smiling,  greet  I  thee,  my  earth, 
^nd  do  thee  favour  with  my  royal  hands. — 
Feed  not  thy  sovereign's  foe,  my  gentle  earth,"  &c. 

He  feels  that  this  is  a  "  senseless  conjuration ;"  but  when  Aumerle 
ventures  to  say,  "  we  are  too  remiss,"  he  reproaches  his  "  discom- 
fortable  cousin,"  by  pointing  out  to  him  the  heavenly  aid  that  a 
king  might  expect.  His  is  not  the  holy  confidence  of  a  high- 
minded  chieftain,  nor  the  pious  submission  of  a  humble  believer. 
He,  indeed,  says,^ — 

"  For  every  man  that  Bolingbroke  hath  press'd 

To  lift  shrewd  steel  against  our  golden  crown, 

God,  for  his  Richard,  hath  in  heavenly  pay 

A  glorious  angel." 

But  when  Salisbury  announces  that  the  "  Welshmen  "  are  dispersed, 
Richard,  in  a  moment,  forgets  the  "  angels  "  who  will  guard  the 
right.  His  cheek  pales  at  the  evil  tidings.  After  a  pause,  and 
upon  the  exhortation  of  his  friends,  liis  "sluggard  majesty"  awakes; 
the  man  still  sleeps.  How  artificial  and  externally -sustained  is  his 
confidence : — 

"  Arm,  arm,  my  name  !  a  puny  subject  strikes 
At  thy  great  glory.  Look  not  to  the  ground, 
Ye  favourites  of  a  king." 

Scroop  arrives ;  and  Richard  avows  that  he  is  prepared  for  the  worst. 
His  fortitude  is  but  a  passing  support.  He  dissimulates  with  him- 
self; for,  in  an  instant,  he  flies  oiF  into  a  burst  of  terrific  passion  at 
the  supposed  treachery  of  his  minions.  Aumerle,  when  their  un- 
happy end  is  explained,  like  a  man  of  sense  casts  about  for  other 
resources  : — 

"  Where  is  the  duke  my  father  with  his  power?" 

But  Richard  abandons  himself  to  his  despair,  in  that  most  solemn 
speech,  which  is  at  once  so  touching  with  reference  to  the  speaker, 
and  so  profoundly  true  in  its  general  application  : — 

"  No  matter  where ;  of  comfort  no  man  speak." 
His  grief  has  now  evaporated  in  words  : — 

"  This  ague-fit  of  fear  is  over-blown  ; 
An  easy  task  it  is  to  win  our  own. 
Say,  Scroop,  where  lies  our  uncle  with  his  power?" 


KING  RICHARD  II.  509 

Scroop's  reply  is  decisive : — 

"  Your  uncle  York  hath  join'd  with  Bolingbroke." 

Richard  is  positively  relieved  by  knowing  the  climax  of  his  mis- 
fortunes. The  alternations  of  hope  and  fear  were  too  much  for  his 
indecision.  He  is  forced  upon  a  course,  and  he  is  almost  happy  in 
his  weakness : — 

"  Beshrew  thee,  cousin,  which  didst  lead  me  forth 
Of  that  su<eel  way  I  was  in  to  despair ! 
What  say  you  now  ?     What  comfort  have  we  now  ? 
By  heaven,  I  11  hate  him  everlastingly 
That  bids  me  be  of  comfort  any  more." 

Shakspere  has  painted  indecision  of  character  in  Hamlet — but  what 
a  diflference  is  there  between  the  indecision  of  Hamlet  and  of 
Richard !  The  depth  of  Hamlet's  philosophy  engulfs  his  powers 
of  action;  the  reflective  strength  of  his  intellect  destroys  the 
energy  of  his  will : — Richard  is  irresolute  and  inert,  abandoning 
himself  to  every  new  impression,  because  his  faculties,  though 
beautiful  in  parts,  have  no  principle  of  cohesion ; — ^judgment,  the 
key-stone  of  the  arch,  is  wanting. 

Bolingbroke  is  arrived  before  Flint  Castle.  Mr.  Courtenay  says, 
"  By  placing  the  negotiation  with  Northumberland  at  Flint,  Shak- 
spere loses  the  opportunity  of  describing  the  disappointment  of  the 
king,  when  he  found  himself,  on  his  progress  to  join  Henry  at  Flint, 
a  prisoner  to  Northumberland,  who  had  concealed  the  force  by 
which  he  was  accompanied."*  A  Mr.  Goodhall,  of  Manchester,  in 
1772,  gave  us  a  new  '  Richard  H.,'  "  altered  from  Shakspeare,  and 
the  style  imitated."  We  are  constrained  to  say  that  such  criticism 
as  we  have  extracted,  and  such  imitations  of  style  as  that  of  Mr. 
Goodhall,  are  entirely  on  a  par.  Shakspere  wanted  not  the  addi- 
tional scene  of  Northumberland's  treachery  to  eke  out  the  story  of 
Richard's  fall.  He  was  too  sagacious  to  make  an  audience  think 
that  Richard  might  have  surmounted  his  difficulties  but  for  an 
accident.  It  was  his  business  to  show  what  was  essentially  true 
(though  one  episode  of  the  truth  might  be  wanting),  that  Boling- 
broke was  coming  upon  him  with  steps  as  certain  as  that  of  a  rising 
tide  towards  the  shivering  tenant  of  a  naked  sea-rock.  What  was 
still  more  important,  it  was  his  aim  to  exhibit  the  overthrow  of 
Richard,  and  the  upraising  of  Bolingbroke,  as  the  natural  result  of  the 
collision  of  two  such  minds  meeting  in  mortal  conflict.  The  mighty 
physical  force  which  Bolingbroke  subdued  to  his  purpose  was  called 

*  Shakspeare's  Historical  Plays  considered  Historically. 


510  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

forth  by  his  astute  and  foreseeing  intellect :  every  movement  of  this 
wary  chief — perhaps  even  from  the  hour  when  he  resolved  to  appeal 
Norfolk — was  a  consequence  from  a  calculated  cause.  On  the 
other  hand,  Richard  threw  away  every  instrument  of  defence; 
the  "  one  day  too  late,"  with  which  Salisbury  reproaches  him — 
which  delay  was  the  fruit  of  his  personal  weakness  and  vacillation — 
shows  that  it  was  impossible  to  save  him.  Had  he  escaped  from 
Conway,  after  being  reduced  to  the  extremities  of  poverty  and  suf- 
fering, in  company  with  a  few  wretched  followers,  he  must  have 
rushed,  from  his  utter  want  of  the  ability  to  carry  through  a  con- 
sistent plan,  into  the  toils  of  Bolingbroke.  Shakspere,  as  we  must 
repeat,  painted  events  whilst  he  painted  characters.  Look  at 
Bolingbroke's  bearing  when  York  reproaches  Northumberland  for 
not  saying,  "  King  Richard ;" — look  at  his  decision  when  he  learns 
the  king  is  at  Flint ; — look  at  his  subtlety  in  the  message  to  the 
king:— 

"  Harry  Bolingbroke 
On  both  his  knees  cloth  kiss  king  Richard's  hand." 

Compare  the  affected  humility  of  his  professions  with  the  real,  though 
subdued,  haughtiness  of  his  threats — 

"  If  not,  I  '11  use  the  advantage  of  my  power.'' 
He  marches  "  without  the  noise  of  threat'ning  drum ;"  but  he 
marches  as  a  conqueror  upon  an  undefended  citadel.  On  the  one 
hand,  we  have  power  without  menaces;  on  the  other,  menaces 
without  power.  How  loftily  Richard  asserts  to  Northumberland 
the  terrors  which  are  in  store — the  "  armies  of  pestilence  "  which 
are  to  defend  his  "  precious  crown !"  But  how  submissively  he 
replies  to  the  message  of  Bolingbroke  ! — 

"  Thus  the  king  returns: — 
His  noble  cousin  is  right  welcome  hither. — 
Speak  to  his  gentle  hearing  kind  commends." 

Marvellously  is  the  picture  of  the  struggles  of  irresolution  still 
coloured : — 

"  Shall  we  call  back  Northumberland,  and  send 
DeBance  to  the  traitor,  and  so  die  I" 

Beautiful  is  the  transition  to  his  habitual  weakness — to  his  extreme 
sensibility  to  evils,  and  the  shadows  of  evils — to  the  consolation  which 
finds  relief  in  the  exaggeration  of  its  own  sufferings,  and  in  the 
bewilderments  of  imagination  which  carry  even  the  sense  of  suffer- 
ing into  the  regions  of  fancy.  We  have  already  seen  that  this  has 
been  thought  "  deviating  from  the  pathetic  to  the  ridiculous."     Be 


KING  RICHARD  11. 


511 


it  so.  We  are  content  to  accept  this  and  similar  passages  in  the 
character  of  Richard  as  exponents  of  that  feeling  which  made  him 
lie  at  the  feet  of  Bolingbroke,  fascinated  as  the  bird  at  the  eye  of 
the  serpent : — 

"  For  do  we  must  what  force  will  have  u«  do." 

This  is  the  destiny  of  tragedy ; — but  it  is  a  destiny  with  foregoing 
causes — its  seeds  are  sown  in  the  varying  constitution  of  the  human 
mind :  and  thus  it  may  be  said,  even  without  a  contradiction,  that  a 
Bolingbroke  governs  destiny,  a  Richard  yields  to  it. 

We  pass  over  the  charming  repose-scene  of  the  garden — in 
which  the  poet,  who  in  this  drama  has  avoided  all  dialogues  of  man- 
ners, brings  in  "  old  Adam's  likeness,"  to  show  us  how  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  a^te  are  felt  and  understood  by  the  practical  philosophy 
of  the  humblest  of  the  people.  We  pass  over,  too,  the  details  of 
the  quarrel  scene  in  Westminster  Hall,  merely  remarking  that 
those  who  say,  as  Johnson  has  said,  "  This  play  is  extracted  from 
the  '  Chronicle '  of  Holinshed,  in  which  many  passages  may  be 
found  which  Shakspere  has,  with  very  little  alteration,  trans- 
planted into  his  scenes," — that  they  would  have  done  well  to  have 
printed  the  passages  of  the  '  Chronicle '  and  of  the  parallel  scenes 
side  by  side.  This  scene  is  one  to  which  the  remark  refers.  Will 
our  readers  excuse  us  giving  them  half-a-dozen  lines,  as  a  specimen 
of  this  "  very  little  alteration  ?" — 


Holinshed. 
"  The  Lord  Fitzwater  herewith  rose  up, 
and  said  to  the  king,  that,  where  the  Duke  of 
Aumerle  excuseth  himself  of  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester's  death,  I  say  (quoth  he)  that  he 
was  the  very  cause  of  his  death ;  and  so  he 
appealed  hira  of  treason,  offering,  by  throw- 
ing down  his  hood  as  a  gage,  to  prove  it 
with  his  body." 


Shakspere. 
"  If  that  thy  valour  stand  on  sympathies. 
There  is  my  gage,  Aumerle,  in  gage  to  thine  : 
By  that  fair  sun  which  shows  me  where  thou 

stand'st, 
I  heard  thee  say,  and  vauntingly  thou  spak'st 

it. 
That  thou  wert  cause  of  noble  Glostar's  death. 
If  thou  deniest  it,  twenty  times  thou  liest; 
And  I  will  turn  thy  falsehood  to  thy  heart. 
Where  it  was  forged,  with  my  rapier's  point." 

We  have  long  borne  with  these  misrepresentations  of  what  Shak- 
spere took  from  the  '  Chronicles,'  and  what  Shakspere  took  from 
Plutarch.  The  sculptor  who  gives  us  the  highest  conception  of 
an  individual,  idealized  into  something  higher  than  the  actual  man 
— (Roubiliac,  for  example,  when  he  figured  that  sublime  image  of 
Newton,  in  which  the  upward  eye,  and  the  finger  upon  the  prism, 
tell  us  of  the  great  discoverer  of  the  laws  of  gravity  and  of  light) — 
the  sculptor  has  to  collect  something  from  authentic  records  of 
the  features  and  of  the  character  of  the  subject  he  has  to  represent. 
The  'Chronicles'   might,  in  the  same  way,  give  Shakspere  the 


512  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

general  idea  of  his  historical  Englishmen,  as  Plutarch  of  his 
Romans.  But  it  was  for  the  poet  to  mould  and  fashion  these  outlines 
into  the  vital  and  imperishable  shapes  in  which  we  find  them. 
This  is  creation — not  alteration. 

Richard  is  again  on  the  stage.  Is  there  a  jot  in  the  deposition 
scene  that  is  not  perfectly  true  to  his  previous  character  ?  As  to 
Bolingbroke's  consistency,  there  cannot  be  a  doubt,  even  with  the 
most  hasty  reader.  The  king's  dallying  with  the  resignation  of  the 
crown — the  prolonged  talk,  to  parry,  as  it  were,  the  inevitable  act, 
— the  "  ay,  no;  no,  ay;" — the  natural  indignation  at  Northumber- 
land's unnecessary  harshness ; — the  exquisite  tenderness  of  self- 
shrinking  abasement,    running  oflF  into   poetry,    "  too   deep    for 

tears  " — 

"  O,  that  I  were  a  mockery  king  of  snow, 
Standing  before  the  sun  of  Bolingbroke, 
To  melt  myself  away  in  water  drops  ;" — 

and,  lastly,  the  calling  for  the  mirror,  and  the  real  explanation  of 
all  his  apparent  affectation  of  disquietude  ; — 

"  These  external  manners  of  lament 
Are  merely  shadows  to  the  unseen  grief 
That  swells  with  silence  in  the  tortur'd  soul :" — 

who  but  Shakspere  could  have  given  us  these  wonderful  tints  of  one 
human  mind — so  varying  and  yet  so  harmonious — so  forcible  and 
yet  so  delicate — without  being  betrayed  into  something  different 
from  his  own  unity  of  conception  ?  In  the  parting  scene  with  the 
queen  we  have  still  the  same  unerring  consistency.  We  are  told 
that  "the  interview  of  separation  between  her  and  her  wretched 
husband  is  remarkable  for  its  poverty  and  tameness."*  The  poet 
who  wrote  the  parting  scene  between  Juliet  and  her  Montague  had, 
we  presume,  the  command  of  his  instruments ;  and  though,  taken 
separately  from  what  is  around  them,  there  may  be  differences  in 
the  degree  of  beauty  in  these  parting  scenes,  they  are  each  clra- 
maticaliy  beautiful,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  term.  Shakspere 
never  went  from  his  proper  path  to  produce  a  beauty  that  was  out 
of  place.  And  yet  who  can  read-  these  lines,  and  dare  to  talk  of 
"  poverty  and  tameness  ?" — 

"  In  winter's  tedious  nights,  sit  by  the  fire 
With  good  old  folks,  and  let  them  tell  thee  tales 
Of  woeful  ages  long  ago  betid; 
And,  ere  thou  bid  good  night,  to  quit  their  griefs, 
Tell  thou  the  lamentable  fall  of  me, 
And  send  the  hearers  weeping  to  their  beds." 

*  Skottowe's  '  Life  of  Sbakspeare,'  vol.  i.  p.  141. 


KING  RICHARD  II.  513 

We  are  told,  as  we  have  already  noticed,  that  this  speech  ends  with 
"  childish  prattle."  Remember,  Richard  II.  is  speaking. — Lastly, 
we  come  to  the  prison  scene.  The  soliloquy  is  Richard  all  over. 
There  is  not  a  sentence  in  it  that  does  not  tell  of  a  mind  deeply  re- 
flective in  its  misfortunes,  but  wanting  the  guide  to  all  sound  re- 
flection,— the  power  of  going  out  of  himself,  under  the  conduct  of 
a  loftier  reason  than  could  endure  to  dwell  upon  the  merely  per- 
sonal. His  self-consciousness  (to  use  the  word  in  a  German  sense) 
intensifies,  but  lowers,  every  thought.  And  then  the  beautiful  little 
episode  of  "  Roan  Barbary,"  and  Richard's  all-absorbing  application 
to  himself  of  the  story  of  the  "  poor  groom  of  the  stable."  Frois- 
sart  tells  a  tale,  how  Richard  was  "  forsaken  by  his  favourite  grey- 
hound, which  fawns  on  the  earl."  The  quaint  historian,  as  well  as 
the  great  dramatist  who  transfused  the  incident,  knew  the  avenues 
to  the  human  heart.  Steevens  thinks  the  story  of  Roan  Barbary 
might  have  been  of  Shakspere's  own  invention,  but  informs  us  that 
"  Froissart  relates  a  yet  more  silly  tale  !  "  Even  to  the  death,  Richard 
is  historically  as  well  as  poetically  true.  His  sudden  valour  is  shown 
as  the  consequence  of  passionate  excitement.  The  prose  manuscript 
in  the  library  of  the  King  of  France,  to  which  we  have  alluded  in 
the  Historical  Illustrations,  exhibits  a  somewhat  similar  scene,  when 
Lancaster,  York,  Aumerle,  and  others,  went  to  him  in  the  Tower, 
to  confer  upon  his  resignation : — "  The  king,  in  great  wrath,  walked 
about  the  room ;  and  at  length  broke  out  into  passionate  exclama- 
tions and  appeals  to  heaven  ;  called  them  false  traitors,  and  offered 
to  fight  any  four  of  them."  The  Chronicles  which  Shakspere 
might  consult  were  somewhat  meagre,  and  might  gain  much  by  the 
addition  of  the  records  of  this  eventful  reign  which  modern  re- 
searches have  discovered.  If  we  compare  every  account,  we  must 
say  that  the  Richard  II.  of  Shakspere  is  rigidly  the  true  Richard. 
The  -poet  is  the  truest  historian  in  all  that  belongs  to  the  higher  at- 
tributes of  history. 

But  with  this  surpassing  dramatic  truth  in  the  '  Richard  II.,'  per- 
haps, after  all,  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  whole  play — that 
which  makes  it  so  exclusively  and  entirely  Shaksperian — is  the 
evolveraent  of  the  truth  imder  the  poetical  form.  The  character  of 
Richard,  especially,  is  entirely  subordinated  to  the  poetical  concep- 
tion of  it — to  something  higher  than  the  historical  propriety,  yet 
including  all  that  historical  propriety,  and  calling  it  forth  under  the 
most  striking  aspects.  All  the  vacillations  and  weaknesses  of  the 
king,  in  the  hands  of  an  artist  like  Shakspere,  are  reproduced  with 
the  most  natural  and  vivid  colours ;  so  as  to  display  their  own  cha- 

VoL.  IV.  2  L 


514  SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

racteristic   effects,  in  combination  with  the  principle  of  poetical 
beauty,  which  carries  them  into  a  higher  region  than  the  perfect 
command  over  the  elements  of  strong  individualization  could  alone 
produce.     For  example,  when  Richard  says — 
"  O,  that  I  were  a  mockery  king  of  snow, 
Standing  before  the  sun  of  Bolingbroke !"' — 

we  see  in  a  moment  how  this  speech  belongs  to  the  shrinking  and 
overpowered  mind  of  the  timid  voluptuary,  who  could  form  no 
notion  of  power  apart  from  its  external  supports.  But  then,  se- 
parated from  the  character,  how  exquisitely  beautiful  is  it  in  itself! 
Byron,  in  his  finest  drama  of '  Sardanapalus,'  has  given  us  an  entirely 
different  conception  of  a  voluptuary  cverpowercd  by  misfortune ; 
and  though  he  has  said,  speaking  of  his  ideal  of  his  own  dramatic 
poem,  "  You  will  find  all  this  very  unlike  Shakspere,  and  so  much 
the  better  in  one  sense,  for  I  look  upon  him  to  be  the  worst  of 
models,  though  the  most  extraordinary  of  writers" — it  is  to  us  very 
doubtful  if  '  Sardanapalus '  would  have  been  written,  had  not   the 

*  Richard  II.'  of  Shakspere  offered  the  temptation  to  pull  the  bow  of 
Ulysses  in  the  direction  of  another  mark.  The  characters  exhibit 
very  remarkable  contrasts.  Sardanapalus  becomes  a  hero  when  the 
king  is  in  danger ; — Richard,  when  the  sceptre  is  struck  out  of  his 
hands,  forgets  that  his  ancestors  won  the  sceptre  by  the  sword.  The 
one  is  the  sensualist  of  misdirected  native  energy,  who  casts  off  his 
sensuality  when  the  passion  for  enjoyment  is  swallowed  up  in  the 
higher  excitement  of  rash  and  sudden  daring ; — the  other  is  the  sen- 
sualist of  artificial  power,  whose  luxury  consists  in  pomp  without 
enjoyment,  and  who  loses  the  sense  of  gratification  when  the  fac- 
titious supports  of  his  pride  are  cut  away  from  him.  Richard,  who 
should  have  been  a  troubadour,  has  become  a  weak  and  irresolute 
voluptuary  through  the  corruptions  of  a  throne; — Sardanapalus, 
who  might  have  been  a  conqueror,  retains  a  natural  heroism  that  a 
throne  cannot  wholly  corrupt.  But  here  we  stop.  '  Sardanapalus'  is 
a  beautiful  poem,  but  the  characters,  and  especially  the  chief  cha- 
racter, come  before  us  as  something  shadowy,  and  not  of  earth. 

•  Richard  II.'  possesses  all  the  higher  attributes  of  poetry, — but  the 
characters,  and  especially  the  leading  character,  are  of  flesh  and 
blood  like  ourselves. 

And  why  is  it,  when  we  have  looked  beneath  the  surface  at  this 
matchless  poetical  delineation  of  Richard,  and  find  the  absolute  king 
capricious,  rapacious,  cunning, — and  the  fallen  king  irresolute,  ef- 
feminate, intellectually  prostrate, — why  is  it,  when  we  see  that  our 
Shakspere  herein  never  intended  to  present  to  us  the  image  of  "  a 


KING  RICHARD  II.  515 

good  man  struggling  with  adversity,"  and  conceived  a  being  the 
farthest  removed  from  the  ideal  that  another  mighty  poet  proposed 
to  himself  as  an  example  of  heroism  when  he  described  his  own 
fortitude — 

"  I  argue  not 
Against  heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a  jot 
Of  heart  or  hope,  but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Right  onward," — 

why  is  it  that  Richard  II.  still  commands  our  tears — even  our 
sympathies  ?  It  is  this : — His  very  infirmities  make  him  creep  into 
our  affections ;  for  they  are  so  nearly  allied  to  the  beautiful  parts 
of  his  character,  that,  if  the  little  leaven  had  been  absent,  he  might 
have  been  a  ruler  to  kneel  before,  and  a  man  to  love.  We  see, 
then,  how  thin  is  the  partition  between  the  highest  and  the  lowliest 
parts  of  our  nature — and  we  love  Richard  even  for  his  faults,  for 
they  are  those  of  our  common  humanity.  Inferior  poets  might 
have  given  us  Bolingbroke  the  lordly  tyrant,  and  Richard  the  fallen 
hero.  We  might  have  had  the  struggle  for  the  kingdom  painted 
with  all  the  glowing  colours  with  which,  according  to  the  autho- 
rities which  once  governed  opinion,  a  poet  was  bound  to  represent 
the  crimes  of  an  usurper  and  the  virtues  of  a  legitimate  king ;  or, 
if  the  poet  had  despised  the  usual  current  of  authority,  he  might 
have  made  the  usurper  one  who  had  cast  aside  all  selfish  and  un- 
patriotic principles,  and  the  legitimate  king  an  unmitigated  oppres- 
sor, whose  fall  WDuld  have  been  hailed  as  the  triumph  of  injured 
humanity.  Impartial  Shakspere !  How  many  of  the  deepest  les- 
sons of  toleration  and  justice  have  we  not  learned  from  thy  wisdom, 
in  combination  with  thy  power  !  If  the  power  of  thy  poetry  could 
have  been  separated  from  the  truth  of  thy  philosophy,  how  much 
would  the  world  have  still  wanted  to  help  it  forward  in  the  course 
of  gentleness  and  peace  ! 


END    0¥   VOLUME    IV. 


LONDON : 

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